London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  It was obvious to Monty that Churchill was still on a fishing expedition. The old boy was looking for something to get his teeth into, and Monty still needed to be very careful in his replies. The secret of successfully fighting one’s own corner was anticipating where the next attack would come from, and then robustly parrying the blow. And Churchill thought the sun shone out of Alexander’s arsehole.

  It was very easy to like dear ‘Alex’, as Monty called him. However, Monty, while very much admiring the Supreme Commander in the Med, was well aware that for all his tact, charm and diplomacy, Alex was completely out of his depth at this elevated level of command. He was a good friend, a dear and charming person. They had spent several years together at Camberley Staff Training College, as instructors before the war. But Monty was not blind to his former student and friend’s deficiencies in the art of higher command. The Americans loved his easy charm and social skills, none of which Monty possessed, but would not be so enamoured if they found out what Alex really thought of them.

  ‘I would not necessarily agree with that, Prime Minister.’ Monty replied softly. ‘Alex saw them in Tunisia, after the defeat at Kasserine. They needed a swift kick in the pants to sort themselves out. Bradley and George Patton sent home quite a few senior officers who were not fit for role and the American performance dramatically improved in a very short period. I saw them fight in Sicily and Italy. Yes, they have a few rough edges, but they learn quickly and you certainly can’t fault their enthusiasm and determination to succeed. I am more than happy to have Bradley beside us, commanding First US Army. There’s no possibility of defeating the Germans without their help.’

  It was another rebuff. The older man was still looking for a fight. Churchill still wanted to dominate him, to impose his own will on the single minded, ultra-professional general. Where would the next shot come from?

  ‘There’s something else that’s on my mind, something much closer to home,’ Churchill rambled on. ‘I’ve been reading reports about the amount of men required to man the supply and administrative sections of our expeditionary army to France, and the amount of vehicles they will require transporting across the invasion beaches - particularly in the first few days after the landings. CIGS has given me a breakdown. The figures seem inordinately high. This reminds me of Anzio, and the last thing we want is another repeat of that mishap. I feel that I should come and inspect this problem for myself, and ensure that we are not wasting men in the wrong branch of the services. After all, we need to make certain that we have adequate replacements for the struggle that lies ahead.’

  Montgomery was instantly on red alert. This was the crux of the matter then, the ultimate focus of all the preceding preambles. The other comments had been part of a scattergun technique to throw him off the scent. Now the Prime Minister was proposing to interfere in his own affairs, and in particular the detail of the invasion plan. This could be just the tip of the iceberg. Where would it all end? He had a sudden, ghastly vision of the Prime Minister tinkering with the tactical disposition of the invasion forces. That would never do! Monty abhorred such meddling, and he knew full well that the worst meddler of all was Churchill. He needed to pre-empt the Prime Minister, once and for all. Now was the time to take a firm stand.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, without a hint of regret in his voice, ‘but I simply cannot allow you to do so. I take advice from my staff, and once I have heard what they have to say, I make my decision and then give out the orders. These are based on their specialist opinions, and they have all done a first rate job in getting everything prepared for the invasion. And the decisions and orders have now gone out, on my specific instruction.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’m afraid it’s far too late to change them. Everything is moving- all the divisions are in their embarkation areas, awaiting final orders to board and set sail to the far shore. All we’re waiting for now is the extra shipping and landing craft, and those additional units arriving from America. The final preparations have an inexorable momentum of their own. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with it.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Churchill’s tone was sharp, hostile. His face darkened. ‘Nothing? Are you sure that we haven’t missed anything? Are your preparations so complete that victory is guaranteed? Or are we so inflexible that necessary changes cannot be made, even at this late stage?

  ‘No, Prime Minister,’ Monty sighed. ‘I cannot guarantee victory. But I am sure that we have done everything possible to achieve success, and that our plan is robust enough to see us through. The men are confident.If we started to change things now, it would shake their confidence in me and jeopardize the success of the invasion.’ He paused, and looked narrowly at his adversary. ‘Are you willing to take this risk?’The atmosphere in the room could not have been more charged, more full of unspoken tension.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Churchill admitted grumpily, after a long silence. ‘Still, I can’t help wishing that this waiting was all over- it plays hell on my nerves.’ Montgomery suddenly noted that the older man’s eyes were full of tears. ‘I have this vision that sometimes wakes me up in the middle of the night, that the Channel will run red with the blood of all these brave young men who are going to get slaughtered on the shores of Hitler’s Atlantic Wall.’ He shook his head, trying vainly to hide the emotions that troubled him.

  To his considerable surprise, Montgomery realized that he suddenly felt a degree of sympathy with the great man’s concerns. Up until this point, he had never before appreciated that Churchill too was under enormous pressure to deliver final victory to a tired nation that had suffered so much in the grip of total war. Was it similar to the pressures he sometimes felt and the responsibilities that weighed him down in the dark passages of the night when ghosts came to haunt him? All those subordinates who had died in the cause - some of them were friends, but most of them unknown. It was his burden to ensure that as few men died unnecessary deaths as possible. Britain could ill afford a repeat of the horrific bloodletting of places like the Somme, and the hellish quagmires of Passchendaele and Ypres. He was sure that Churchill felt the same burden, a terrible weight that had to be borne alone. A leader could not afford to let it be seen in public that he was just as fragile and human as everyone else was.

  He leaned forward. ‘I don’t think it will, Prime Minister,’ Monty said softly but firmly. ‘The Germans will not be expecting us where we’ve decided to land. The shock of our assault and the strength of our endeavour will carry us through.’

  Churchill nodded. He was overcome temporarily and unable to speak. He turned away, attempting to hide his distress by clearing his voice and looking for another bottle of Pol Roger.

  Monty quietly breathed a sigh of relief. It looked as if he had managed to avoid backing Churchill into a corner, forcing the PM into a vote of confidence on Monty’s abilities. Hopefully there would be no more little chats, no more opportunities for Churchill to stick his oar in. Only four or so weeks to go, depending on the moon, tides and the weather. And once he was ashore in France, the visits by dignitaries and other busybodies would be blessed by their infrequence - after all, he would have a large-scale battle to fight after the most complex of all military operations, an amphibious invasion against opposition. Rommel was in charge over on the other side of the Channel, his old adversary from Africa. But he had beaten Rommel at Alam Halfa and Mareth, and he would beat him again - of that he was sure. And the less interference from on high, the better it would be.

  All he needed was a clear head, his master plan and a decent night’s sleep.

  The South Midlands 0215

  The night air was still and warm. He sat on the dry ground, carefully checking the contents of his shoulder bag. The black edge of a wood behind him obscured the view to the east, but the full moonlight lit up the field that fell away to his front. He could just make out the houses of a tiny darkened hamlet, no more than half a mile away off to his right. So far, it seemed that nobody had observed him. Simon had a reasonable idea of wh
ere he was - somewhere to the south of Stratford-upon-Avon, Sommer reckoned, at the final position check. He remembered the details at Schubert’s last briefing. The plan was simple: head southeasterly across country to hit the A34, then walk to the nearest village where there was a bus stop. The next step was to make his way towards Oxford, and then by train on to London. But that depended on the state of his left ankle - he’d managed to tweak it in the landing. His fingers massaged the tender area, trying to ease away the swelling he knew would come. There was a bandage in the first aid pack that Schubert had insisted on him carrying. He pulled it out and, slipping off his shoe and sock, wound it tightly around the ankle joint.

  The parachute was already gathered in and stored in a small hollow inside the wood, covered by a drift of last year’s leaves. His Luftwaffe camouflage jumpsuit was also hidden there alongside. It should remain undetected for long enough for him to get well away from the scene of his illegal entry. He was dressed in civilian clothes - a dark blue suit, white shirt and blue tie, silk scarf, with a hat and black leather shoes. It was time to put a considerable distance between where he was and his objective. He slipped his right shoe off, and rotated the heel. A tiny compass dropped out, and he used this to get his bearings. He put the shoe back on, and gingerly got up. The strapped left ankle wasn’t too bad. He shouldered his travel bag, and headed southeast.

  The jump had been disconcerting, to say the least. The hatch above his head was difficult to open, even though Sommer had slowed the Arado down to less than one hundred and eighty kilometers an hour, just above stall speed. At last he managed to lever it open. Before he knew it the plane had inverted, suddenly panicking him and launching him earthwards. He thought he could make out Sommer laughing as he shot head first out of the canopy. Simon had a vague impression of the grey-green aircraft with its black crosses and swastika emblem on the tail-plane sliding rapidly past him, before a gut-wrenching jerk violently pulled him upwards as the parachute deployed. The right side of his chest suddenly began to ache, and his breathing came in ragged, rapid gasps. Then he was floating in eerie silence down towards the dark chequer-board fields and small copses far below.

  A sudden roar above him interrupted his thoughts, making him look upwards. Simon caught a glimpse of the Arado making a high speed pass well above him. A few seconds later another dark shadow passed by him rapidly on the same heading. A staccato burst of heavy machine gun fire briefly ripped through the silence of the night, followed by a distant reply and then both aircraft disappeared from view.Sommer might be a pain in the arse but Simon hoped he would make it home safely. Schellenberg needed to know that the operation had started off satisfactorily.

  The field came to an end. In the far corner, a dilapidated wooden gate led to an opening onto a tree-lined narrow lane. Carefully he climbed over, and slowly edged his way into the lane, checking cautiously in both directions. It was deserted. There shouldn’t be anyone around at this time of the night, but that did not mean taking any unnecessary risks. And that RAF pilot may have seen his parachute, or wondered why a German aircraft was loitering over this part of England. He kept to the shadows of the trees as he walked on.

  It was much easier on his ankle keeping to the road. Two hours later the faint edge of dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. He’d made reasonable progress, generally following the country lanes south and then east, bypassing several small villages and farms and keeping a healthy distance away from any human habitation. In this way, he managed to put about six or seven miles between him and the landing site. There was little point in waking the locals by setting their guard dogs off. Only once did he have to take sudden evasive action. He heard the car long before it came racing around a bend in the road. From his viewpoint deep in the shadow of a roadside ditch he could just make out the outline of a large saloon as it sped past, with maybe four men inside. The slit headlamp covers gave just enough light to drive by. He waited until it was well out of sight before continuing. Was it a police car? There was a small unlit beacon on the roof. Had the pilot radioed a message to his base, who had then alerted the local police?

  A main road came into view, cutting directly across his path, running towards the southwest. A road sign lay buried in the long grass beside the verge, no doubt left there to confuse any stray Germans who might land in the area. The signs pointed to Stratford and Moreton-in-the-Marsh. Simon slipped the plain silk scarf out of his pocket, used a small penknife to slit open the stitching along one side, and turned the scarf inside out. On the reverse side was printed a detailed map of the South Midlands.

  Moreton was too far to the south, in Gloucestershire, and out of his way. The A34 should be up ahead. He checked the road. There was no traffic to be seen, although he knew that the local farmers would soon be up and about. Simon hurried across, following the path of the country lane as it wound up a steep incline between banked hedges. The slope soon made him feel a little short of breath, reminding him that he was still regaining his fitness. At the top he paused for breath, allowing his sweaty shirt to dry on him. The day was gradually opening up, and it promised to be a fine one. The dawn chorus of small birds was already in full song. A gap in the hedge gave him a view of where the lane led. A long, straggling village lay at the foot of a distant incline, about a mile away.Another main road appeared to run through it. Bull’s-eye.

  It was still too early to walk in and look for a bus stop. The last thing he wanted to do was to arouse the curiosity of the villagers, and loiter around suspiciously. Who knows when a bus would appear? The best thing to do would be to lie down, hidden behind a hedge, and catch a few hours sleep. The strain and excitement of his nocturnal mission into England had long since passed off, and he had a busy day ahead of him.

  Oranienburg airfield 0445

  Sommer taxied the Arado to a halt outside the main hangars. He was tired but past caring. At least the mission was over, and he had managed to get in and out again without too much bother. Flying at night was not all that bad. Even the antisocial hours were tolerable, once you got used to it. Now it was time for a quick mission debrief with Luttwitz over a hot breakfast, followed by a good seven hours in the sack. Hopefully that SS bigwig had cleared off to Berlin. Sommer would telephone in a brief message to wherever Schellenberg hung out, or maybe Luttwitz would take care of it, and then he would be left in peace. Another successful mission under his belt, and then he’d carry on flying more test and evaluation programs, or maybe a transfer back to a combat command if he was really unlucky.

  There was a small reception committee awaiting his arrival in the grey light of dawn. He recognized the Mercedes staff car of the SS Brigadeführer who’d set these events in motion. Bugger! There goes my breakfast. As soon as he turned off the jet engines the car moved forward to slide up by the side of the parked jet.

  He climbed up out of the cockpit, twisted around and, carefully working his way down the external grab holds, jumped the last few feet to the concrete apron. Schellenberg was waiting for him, a casual look of enquiry on his face.

  ‘Well, Maior Sommer, I’m pleased to see you’ve returned alone. How did it go?’ Amazingly, even at this hour Schellenberg looked quite refreshed. He’d even managed to shave, looking as if he’d spent the whole night fast asleep in his own bed.

  Sommer grinned tiredly and saluted, stifling a small yawn. ‘Well, General, we had a little bit of excitement, as you can see from the tail section.’ He pointed to the rear of the aircraft, where a neat line of holes stitched its way across the vertical surface where the white outline of the swastika was stencilled. ‘Luckily, no real damage, although they did get a bit close. But I managed to say hello with these’. He pointed to the rear facing machine guns tucked low under the ventral surface of the fuselage, their blackened nozzles poking out sinisterly in the early dawn light. ‘They certainly weren’t expecting a reply from that direction’.

  ‘I see.’ Schellenberg nodded. ‘And how did Simon get on?’

  ‘He got out at th
e right time, in more or less the right area.’ Sommer grinned. ‘He was a little unhappy about the slightly novel method of getting out of the aircraft, but soon came around to my way of thinking. After he jumped I could see his parachute deploying satisfactorily. But there wasn’t much time to baby-sit. Some RAF night fighters were making life interesting, and it was high time to clear off and head home. The rest was easy enough.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Luftwaffe High Command is right. The British and Americans have got nothing to rival this, unless they’re hiding something up their sleeves that we don’t know about. It was only at low altitude and slowing down for the jump that we were at risk.’

  ‘Good’. A look of relief and satisfaction passed over Schellenberg’s features. ‘Well done, Maior. I’ll expert a full breakdown of the mission later, after you’ve had a chance to report to your CO. Then get some breakfast and sleep. And I expect a decoration may well come your way, to add to those you already have.’ He smiled, looking at the Knight’s Cross that hung around Sommer’s neck. ‘Who knows, one day you might even catch up with your former passenger.’ He turned and without waiting for a salute, headed back to the waiting car. He left a puzzled-looking Sommer in his wake.

  Oxford Station 1315

  The station was much as he remembered it, less than ten years ago. Little had changed. There was not even any bomb damage to be seen. The Luftwaffe must have concentrated on larger, more important targets elsewhere, and Oxford had not featured on the priority list of areas to be attacked. Maybe the Führer had not wished to bomb such an international symbol of culture and learning early on in the war. Then, he had tried to reach a compromise with Britain, a gentlemen’s agreement that would spare further bloodshed between the two nations while leaving Germany free to expand further east. A softly-softly approach might brook an understanding between the two nations.