England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  “The RSM said ah was too much of a cunt to stay a fookin’ private,” came the innocent, matter-of-fact reply, and all of them suddenly burst into fits of laughter, save for a bewildered LCPL Connolly himself. Laughing so hard he almost fell off the Matilda’s glacis plate, Davids was glad of the humour: any such moments were few and far between, and went a long way toward lightening a mood that over the last weeks had gradually but steadily turned distinctly sour.

  Port of Boulogne-sur-Mer

  Pas-de-Calais, Northern France

  Thursday,

  August 22, 1940

  Berndt Schmidt, Milo Wisch and the rest of his men watched as the 2nd SS Shock Division reversed their tanks and armoured vehicles each in turn into the hold of the assault ship Dresden. Fifty brand new P-4A Panther tanks were being loaded into the large assault ship via the tall, clamshell doors in its bow. Five more identical LSTs were lined up within Boulogne-Sur-Mer’s Bassin Loubet, a section of docks separated from and to the west of the main harbour, while fourteen more were also in the process of loading in the rest of the port area or waiting at the harbour entrance for clearance to come in. These final preparations for invasion were going on in ports all the way along the French and Dutch Channel Coast, and although no one had given the troops a confirmed date as yet, all knew that it must be soon.

  Their own part in the preparations had been completed weeks ago, and Berndt and the rest of the SS tankers of the 3rd Div had been temporarily reassigned to help load thousands of tonnes of stores onto those same LSTs that were soon to make their all-important trip across the Channel. As a junior officer, Obersturmführer Schmidt wasn’t required to take part in manual labour of that kind, but he preferred the company of his troops, and his presence working among his own men raised their respect for him greatly.

  Bare to the waist in the bright sunshine and sweaty from the exertion, they took a smoke break that afternoon and were puffing thoughtfully on cigarettes as the hustle and bustle of the ship-filled port went on about them. Forklifts had deposited pallets stacked high with wooden crates of ammunition, stores, food and other supplies, and men had been forming a human chain to transport those crates up the relatively narrow gangplank leading into a small freighter’s side hatch, where another work crew stacked them into the hold.

  The whole of the division’s vehicles and support equipment was being loaded onto those vessels in preparation for the impending invasion. Tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, assault guns, mobile flak, self-propelled gun- and rocket-artillery… all were being stowed aboard the huge ships along with dozens of lesser support vehicles: enough vehicles to arm and support the five thousand men of the 2nd SS Shock Division.

  Much like the division they were assisting that day, the entirety of their own division had handed in their older P-3 tanks, half tracks and other armoured vehicles in exchange for models straight off the production lines at Henschel, MAN and Daimler-Benz. Most of the new vehicles had been derived from the same basic tank chassis — a completely new design with the RWM ordnance inventory designation of Sd.Kfz.161 that was known to the troops as the P-4A Panther.

  Weighing more than forty tonnes, the new Panther was much larger than the P-3C it replaced, but its advanced diesel engine nevertheless gave it a far higher top road speed of 65km/hr and also a far greater unrefuelled range There was also the facility to allow the attachment of a pair of standard 200-litre fuel drums to the rear hull of the vehicle that could extend its range even further by linking directly to the fuel system, yet remained able to be jettisoned at any time should the tank need to enter combat.

  A wide, low-set and almost hemispherical turret sat upon a long and equally low hull that carried no bow machine gun and just the driver forward. Main armament was the 8.8cm KWK49, an improved variant of the well-known and lethal 88mm Flak-36 that had already proven itself against enemy armour as a towed anti-aircraft gun in France and the Low Countries. A single 7.92mm MG3C machine gun was mounted co-axially with the main armament, and a single 13mm heavy machine gun was also carried above the loaders hatch for AA defence.

  Although the turret was a little cramped compared to the old P-3C, the tank itself had quickly proven its capabilities on the training ground and at the firing range. The main gun could hit targets out to 2,000 metres with reasonable accuracy, and all of the anti-tank shell types it could fire were lethal at that range, with eighty rounds in total carried within the turret and hull. The armour was also substantially improved and was as thick as 150mm on the turret front and hull glacis plate. That hull glacis plate was heavily sloped to help deflect any enemy fire, the same intention behind the rounded shape of the turret.

  An infantry fighting vehicle, assault gun, rocket launcher, two types of medium artillery and a self-propelled flak vehicle had also been developed from that basic hull layout and powerplant, and were all now part of a vastly improved armoured force that formed the core of all of the newly-equipped SS shock divisions.

  Wisch was as impressed as any of the others by the new equipment and was certain they’d make a huge impact on the enemy wherever they were encountered, albeit in moderate numbers, as production was yet to catch up with demand, and only SS units had been equipped so far. The medium-velocity 75mm gun of the P-2 and P-3 tanks they’d replaced had been able to defeat the armour of the British Matilda II, but only at ranges close enough to allow the enemy tanks’ two-pounders some chance of inflicting damage in return, and the tankers were now looking forward to getting the opportunity to hit the enemy at ranges well beyond the Brit’s capability to strike back.

  The sounds of air raid sirens rose about the harbour at that moment, although no one within sight seemed to take all that much notice. The threat of attack by RAF was all but non-existent now, and of the three warnings raised since they’d arrived the week before, all so far had been false alarms over the mistaken identity of returning Luftwaffe bombers. In this case, the alert was in fact due to the approach of a British aircraft, and all were surprised by the sight of an RAF Mustang reconnaissance aircraft as it howled past high overhead at top speed, disappearing off to the east as quickly as it had appeared. The PR variant of the Mustang was still the only aircraft the British possessed that was too fast to be caught by Luftwaffe fighters, but losses had nevertheless been comparatively high to ground fire, and the remaining aircraft were now used only sparingly.

  Most of the men of the 3rd SS Shock Division suspected it mattered little now anyway if the enemy knew what was going on in the Channel Ports… the invasion seemed inevitable now, and none expected the British to have much hope of stopping it either before or after the Wehrmacht landed on English soil.

  “We’re coming, Tommy,” Schmidt muttered mostly to himself, echoing the thoughts of the men around him. He turned to stare off to the west once more, as if the buildings of the docks and the towering shapes of the LSTs moored there were no hindrance to him actually casting his eyes across the distant enemy coast.

  “Soon now, sir,” Wisch observed beside him, drawing deeply on a cigarette and blowing smoke rings into the calm air.

  “Very soon,” Schmidt nodded in agreement. “A week or two now, maybe three… can’t keep fighting men inactive for much more than that or they start becoming more trouble than we’re worth. They’d prefer us to expend our energy on the enemy rather than falling foul of the ‘Chain-Dogs’,” he continued, referring in a less than complimentary manner to the Wehrmacht’s own feldgendarmerie — the military police — who wore polished gorgettes on chains around their necks as identification. “Get the chance for you to put a few more stripes on that barrel, now they’ve given us one with a bit more length to work with!”

  “He’s always been obsessed with ‘length’, Milo!” One of the other men observed with a lewd grin. “You want to watch yourself there…”

  “Some of us at least have something worth firing, Gunther,” Schmidt shot back instantly without missing a beat. “At least, that’s what your mother tells me!”
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  “Sounds like my ma… I’d get yourself checked out at the infirmary if you’ve been playing about with her…!” Gunther pulled a face, but made no effort to disagree as the rest of the group laughed.

  “They know we’re coming,” Wisch said softly, still thinking about the RAF fighter as he puffed on the cigarette once more.

  “Oh they know all right,” Schmidt nodded, “but they don’t know exactly when, and there’s no need to give ‘em any more warning than we have to.”

  “Won’t make any difference,” another of the crewmen grinned, youthful pride in his voice. “Our new Panthers won’t stop ‘til we get to London…!”

  “Think like that, and you’ll be coming back from London in a box!” Schmidt shot back with a laugh, standing behind the young man and playfully cuffing him on the back of the head. “Any panzer can be killed… if you’re stupid or careless.”

  “Here’s to not being stupid or careless then,” An NCO offered as a toast, passing around a large canteen of water for all to sample.

  “Here’s to that indeed…!” Schmidt agreed, and they all raised make-believe glasses or cigarettes as proxies.

  Hindsight emergency airstrip ‘Alternate’

  Eday, Orkney Islands

  Thorne had visited Ritter at least once a day during his imprisonment at Lyness. Most of the time had been spent walking and talking around various parts of Hoy and South Walls. With the ubiquitous pair of armed guards in tow, the Australian had put a great deal of effort into getting to know the man they held captive, and at the same time he’d knowingly and intentionally allowed Carl Ritter to see a good deal of the man ‘behind’ Max Thorne.

  He’d decided on a change of scene however that Thursday afternoon, and the pair and their escorting MPs had this time boarded a motor torpedo boat that had taken them out into the Flow, past Cantick Head and South Walls, and on into the Pentland Firth. A two-hour cruise at moderate speed along the eastern coast of South Ronaldsay had followed, continuing on past Mainland and beyond into Stronsay Firth, north-east of Shapinsay. They docked at a long, stone pier on a small ‘hook’ of coastline at the south-east end of Eday Island, close to the village of Backaland. A battered old 1913-model Rover 12 sedan borrowed from one of the locals carried them west along a narrow, country lane, past Backaland and then through the village of Stenaquoy as it turned and headed north.

  As they made the five kilometre trip along the island’s north-south axis, Ritter realised that part of the long, open fields of heather drawing ever nearer ahead was actually a long, wide strip of well-designed camouflage netting. It didn’t take much effort to realise the covered strip stretching out into the distance to the north could only be a landing strip of some kind, although it occurred to Ritter than the length would possibly rival the huge concrete runway being constructed at St. Omer at the time they’d left.

  At the nearer, southern end of the strip, huge ‘mountains’ of similarly-patterned netting rose from the surface of the earth to form a series of strange, uneven peaks and plateaus that were at some points as high as twenty metres from the ground. The netting was thick and appeared to be comprised of at least two overlapped layers, and from a distance it was impossible to determine exactly what might actually be hidden underneath. Taking into account the nature of that camouflage and the excellent colouring and patterns, there was every chance in Ritter’s opinion that very little would be visible at all from anything but very low level, and the lack of flak weapons suggested the British were relying more on keeping what was beneath hidden rather than keeping sufficient defences present in the event of discovery.

  It was a situation that became clearer to the Luftwaffe pilot as his logical mind began to gather more information regarding his surroundings. There were absolutely no anti-aircraft weapons he could see, and there’d almost certainly be some tell-tale signs if any were present, no matter how well those emplacements might be hidden… assuming of course they weren’t concentrated beneath the netting itself… yet people were taking great pains to conceal whatever was beneath that camouflaged covering.

  The Rover pulled off onto the grass verge opposite a small abandoned farmhouse, at a point where the lane entered into a shallow, sweeping bend and back again as it continued north. The southern end of the landing strip was just 250 metres west of them at that point across a flat expanse of featureless heather, and as all four of them climbed from the car, Ritter couldn’t see another living soul as he looked about in every direction.

  He’d not been handcuffed or had his hands tied — something that he’d taken careful note of — and even though the pistol at Thorne’s belt was still visible beneath the open combat jacket he wore, none of them seemed to show any real concern that the Luftwaffe pilot might actually be a threat. It was the first time Ritter had met the Australian out of his official uniform, and the man seemed markedly different in a more generic and less official military dress… far more comfortable and relaxed.

  “Herr Ritter,” Thorne began he motioned for Ritter to walk with him. “I’ve got something to show you that I think you might find very interesting.” As the pair moved off across the field, Thorne held a hand behind his back that clearly indicated the two guards should remain by the car, an instruction they immediately obeyed.

  “Most of the things we’ve discussed over the last few days have been interesting, Mister Thorne,” Ritter countered in a friendly tone, “and I expect this meeting to be no different…” But the pilot couldn’t help but noticing an underlying nervousness in the Australian’s tone that suggested the conversation that afternoon might well be something more out of the ordinary than he’d experienced so far.

  “In a moment, we’re going to step beneath the camouflage netting you can no doubt see directly ahead,” Thorne continued, a hardened edge momentarily creeping into his voice that was also quite clear. “There are things hidden here that I and my colleagues here at Scapa Flow simply cannot afford to have damaged in any way whatsoever. If you give your word you’ll not consciously do anything to sabotage the equipment inside, I’ll trust you, however I still need to advise you as a matter of course that if you do make any attempt to cause trouble, I will shoot you dead… is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Ritter replied with serious honesty, completely convinced of the sincerity and intent behind the man’s statement.

  “Then I’ll not mention it again. Do I have your word you’ll make no effort to sabotage anything under these nets?”

  Ritter thought long and hard about his answer. These people were enemies, and as such, any promise made was meaningless and not bound by his word of honour… some might even argue — reasonably — that as a German officer it would be his duty to do whatever he could to hurt an enemy of The Reich, whenever the opportunity presented itself. But Ritter was also a man of his word and always had been, and he could tell by the tone in the Australian’s voice that, if he couldn’t give the requested promise, Thorne would have him taken back to his cell and their ‘discussion’ would proceed no further… and Ritter very much wished to see what was beneath the masses of camouflage up ahead.

  “You have my word that whatever I see within, I shall lift no hand to cause any damage or hindrance,” he said finally, and in the end it was the amount of thought and the amount of time taken before giving his answering that made it easy for Thorne to believe him.

  “Excellent!” Thorne said simply without missing a step. “Let’s get a move on then… we’ve one hell of an afternoon ahead of us!” Secretly, Max knew that if he wanted to have any chance of making use of Ritter as he planned, he had to trust the man and take him at his word. He also needed the man to see what he’d prepared beyond the netting: the rapport they’d begun to build over the last few days still needed reinforcement, and words alone weren’t going to be enough to enable Thorne to drive a wedge between Carl Ritter and his country of his birth and allegiance.

  They reached the netting within a few minutes, and during the whole approa
ch, the angle of the afternoon sun and the darkness beneath the nets made it impossible to make out any detail from the outside. As Thorne lifted the edge of those nets and they bent to step inside, Ritter could never have imagined in his wildest dreams that the huge shapes beneath were just three aircraft, two of which put the ‘Raptor’ he’d shot down the Saturday before to shame in terms of sheer, breathtaking size.

  “Mein Gott,” he breathed softly, reverting to stunned German as he stared at the gargantuan shapes of the KC-10A Extender and C-5M Galaxy; the F-35E Lightning II standing in their shadow seeming puny by comparison. They’d entered the covering beneath a ‘tent’ created as the netting sloped down to the ground from the Galaxy’s starboard wing to the ground, and there was just enough light inside to make out detail at close to medium range.

  “More than you were expecting…?” Thorne queried with a grin, also speaking in German.

  “How could I have expected this?” Ritter replied finally, roused from his stupor by the Australian’s words. “Nothing I’ve ever seen comes close to this. This aircraft,” he pointed at the Lightning as it stood in the dark shadows beside the Galaxy’s nose. “This is a fighter… I can tell by the look of it…” As Thorne nodded silently, the pilot picked out the missiles hanging beneath its wings. “This aircraft fired on my pilots… these rockets are guided somehow…!”

  “Exactly that… yes,” Thorne agreed as Ritter began to move slowly past the F-35E and on toward the Galaxy and tanker behind it.

  “Please tell me these are not bombers!” The concern in the statement was real: something of such an immense size could reasonably be assumed to carry a great many bombs.

  “Transport aircraft… like your Tante Ju.”

  “This is nothing like our Tante Ju!” Ritter corrected instantly, shaking his head as emphasis. He took in the raised nose cone on the C-5B and the open loading ramp at its rear, and made a quick connection. “More like our Gigants… on a grand scale!”