THE FORESIGHT WAR

by Anthony G Williams

  Don shuddered. ‘I don’t even like to think about that. Atom bombs dropped in Europe! That isn’t what I’ve been struggling to achieve.’

  ‘We might not have much option. After all, Hitler has your equivalent to advise him. Germany’s research in your time was way off target. That might not be the case now. Who knows how close they are to their own atom bomb? We’re doing our best to find out, but their security is tight.’

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ said Harold, ‘despite all of the problems, our army and navy are steadily building up and Stalin is demanding that we find somewhere to use them in order to take the pressure off him. Churchill hates seeing them idle, as well. He thinks it suggests that we’re not trying hard enough. Something’s going to happen, sooner or later.’

  The mother listened anxiously to the news as Berlin radio gave a running commentary of the progress of the approaching British bombers. All of the most obvious targets on the coast and in the Ruhr had already been passed, and it was beginning to look as if they were heading for Berlin. Still, she consoled herself, Berlin was a huge city covering hundreds of square kilometres. It had been bombed before and she had never even been aware of it. They would probably be all right, but to be on the safe side, would spend the night in the basement. She went to look for her daughter, who she found awake in her room, peering out of the window.

  Outside, the night was carved up by the probing searchlights, which cast huge circles of light on the base of the clouds far above. She could see and hear nothing of any attack, but decided it was time to leave anyway. She gently took her daughter by the shoulders to pull her away from the window, looking down at her with a smile. Suddenly, her young face was illuminated by an unearthly reddish glow. ‘Look, Mama!’ She cried, ‘the lights! Look at the Christbaüme!’

  The Christmas tree, she thought numbly. Time froze. The mother looked at her daughter’s radiant face then, with a tumbling fall of dread, lifted her eyes to the sky. Her breath was punched from her body in a scream of utter horror and despair, as the coloured flares of the Target Indicator fell gently to earth, all around them.

  The crew of the modified Avro Manchester sat in virtual darkness relieved only by the faint glow of the instruments. They had been hard at work since crossing the coast, and the tension was palpable. They were not only defenceless, but they could not even attack. Theirs was an ECM – electronic counter-measures – plane which was packed with instruments of deceit to mislead, confuse, misdirect and jam the German defences.

  Flying just ahead of the bomber stream, they had covered the approach by dropping ‘Window’ – strips of aluminium foil a foot long and just over half an inch wide – to blanket the defence radars. Two thousand strips were contained in a bundle and one bundle was remotely ejected from the aircraft every minute. As the bombers approached, they activated ‘Carpet’: an electronic jammer transmitting on the same frequency as the German radars.

  Not only the radar was attacked. The ‘Tinsel’ device broadcast noise on the fighter control radio channels which were constantly monitored to catch shifts in frequency. As an alternative, from time to time the ECM planes carried a German-speaking crewman who tuned in to the fighter channel to mimic their broadcasts in the hope of leading the defenders astray.

  Despite all of these measures, the German defences succeeded every night in locating and destroying several of their tormentors. And the favourite targets of the night-fighters seemed to be the ECM planes whose task required them to transmit at high power across many frequencies: a beacon to any defenders who could penetrate their veils of confusion and secrecy.

  The Heinkel droned through the night; the Oberstleutnant’s headphones and vision were alive with the confused sounds and sights of the battle: shouted commands of the FCO trying to penetrate the jamming, occasional responses from the other Nachtjäger pilots, once a flare of light a dozen kilometers away as an aircraft went down – whose he could not say.

  Far below, he knew the radar operators would be struggling to defeat the jamming; picking out the aircraft at the edge of the bomber stream, coaxing the new Würz-Laus switch on the Würzburg radar to highlight the moving targets from the clouds of slowly falling Düppel.

  Meanwhile, his crew had their own tasks. His radio operator muttered to himself as he strugged with the counter-measures, trying to trap and locate the transmissions from the elusive Eloka plane.

  ‘We have another Kurier for you!’ The FCO’s voice broke through, gave quick directions. The Heinkel turned sharply, forcing the crew into their seats. As their speeding fighter banked steeply onto the new heading, they could see patches of brighter light glowing and fading through the Leichentuch. Bombs were falling.

  ‘T.I. visible, straight ahead.’

  ‘Navigator to skipper. Three minutes to go.’

  ‘OK. Keep alert everyone.’ A long period of tense silence. The voice of the replacement Master Bomber could be heard, calmly directing the incoming Manchesters, trying to minimise the ‘creep-back’ as the terrified bomb-aimers dropped their bombs a few seconds early in their attempt to get away as quickly as possible from the killing zone over Berlin.

  ‘Hello bomb-aimer. Bomb doors open.’

  ‘OK. A little to the left – steady – steady – bombs going – bombs gone.’ The plane lurched upwards as ten thousand pounds of destruction plunged from the bomb bay: the drum-shaped 4,000 lb ‘cookie’ surrounded by a swarm of tiny incendiaries. The crew waited, the tension was almost unbearable.

  ‘OK, photoflash gone off’. Relieved of his duty to prove that the bombs had been dropped over the target, the pilot instantly banked and accelerated the Manchester to clear the target area, to get away from the deadly, glowing clouds.

  ‘Boozer warning!’ The voice was urgent. Their electronic defences had picked up the trace of a radar pulse; they were being hunted. The crew stared frantically from every observation port, eyes straining to spot the incoming night-fighter. Above them the stars gleamed, cold and unwinking in the cold, high air. Behind and above the bomber, some of the stars flickered, briefly.

  ‘Fighter! Dead astern, high’ the observer screamed. The Manchester suddenly lurched, throwing the crew into stomach-churning chaos, as the pilot slammed the port throttles wide open and the starboard closed, kicked the rudder pedals and hauled desperately on the control column. The huge plane corkscrewed violently away, dropping like a stone, as the shadow of Death swept overhead. All throttles fully open, the bomber recovered and strained for height and distance, desperate to get away from the revealing, glowing clouds. No-one spoke for a long time.

  The drone of the engines was soporific, providing almost the only sensory input as the aircraft drifted through the dark of the night. The crew struggled between trance and tension, the taste of fear like iron in their mouths. They had been cruising steadily, interminably, slowly approaching their destination. They listened to the brief exchanges on the radio as damaged bombers fought to make it back to base. The navigator sat hunched over his instruments, calculating distance to run, time to the nearest airfield.

  ‘Damaged plane making emergency landing ahead. Airfield landing lights will be on briefly.’ The pilot acknowledged the radio operator’s report and maintained his course. A few minutes later, a row of dim lights gleamed ahead and to port. The pilot banked the aircraft, turning to line up with the lights. Ahead, a dark shape momentarily obscured the lights as the damaged bomber went in ahead of them. The pilot lined up carefully behind it until he could make out its shape, then flicked on the illumination to the gunsight. A moment later, the four Mauser MG 151/20 cannon in the belly of the Junkers Ju 188 roared into the night, their shells sparkling as they exploded all over the stricken Manchester. The bomber flew steadily for a few seconds, then fire blossomed from one of the engines. For a little longer it flew on as the Junkers hammered it, then slowly, wearily, a wing dropped and the plane gracefully slid downwards until an eruption of fire ended its fall.

  The German intruder
raced away from the burning wreckage, from the avenging British night-fighters who also cruised the dark like hungry predators in an endless, nerve-racking contest of electronics, skill and luck.

  The fire chief gazed wearily at the rubble which filled the streets, and which was covered with a grey shroud of ash. They had been able to do nothing about the firestorm. The massive bombs dropped first had crushed the water supply to the fire hoses as well as blowing the roofs off all the buildings, opening them up for the incendiaries which followed. The intensity of the fire had sucked in air from the surrounding area at gale force, fanning the flames further. Only when there was nothing left to burn did the flames die down sufficiently for the hard-pressed fire-fighters to tackle. Now they picked their way through the ruins, peering through the gloom caused by the vast cloud of smoke hanging over the area.

  One of his men called from the ruins of a nearby building. The tone of voice told him all he needed to know. He walked over resignedly. The building had once been an apartment block, but was now an empty shell.

  ‘Down there,’ the fireman said grimly, indicating some steps leading into a basement. The fire chief switched on his torch and clambered down. There was little structural damage; the building had burned but had not been hit by high explosive.

  In the basement, he shone the torch over the huddled bodies. It was the usual story. The firestorm had sucked all of the oxygen out of the air, leaving its victims nothing to breathe. His arm drooped, the torch beam sliding down to illuminate the face of a young woman. In her arms was the body of a young girl. He stared at them for a moment and wondered what had happened to the world. Then he turned and headed back up the stairs. There was plenty to do, in trying to help the living. There was always plenty to do.

  Summer 1942

  The Kapitan conned his Type X carefully into its assigned berth in one of the massive U-boat pens at the Lorient base. As he watched his crew and the shore party tying up the vessel, he was surprised to see a senior intelligence officer standing by the berth, evidently waiting to see him. The officer stepped on board as soon as the gangplank was in place and climbed up to the conning tower. The Kapitan briefly spoke to his crew members who promptly vacated the tower.

  ‘You will be receiving my report shortly,’ the Kapitan said with mild curiosity. ‘The mission was executed as planned.’

  The officer grimaced. ‘Oh, yes, and don’t we know it. That ship you sank was carrying nine hundred young women; American nurses who had volunteered to help care for the victims of the German bombing raids on England. Hardly any survived.’

  The Kapitan was shaken. ‘That’s not what we were told!’ He protested. ‘There was supposed to be some important cargo or people on board!’

  ‘I know, but this time the xB-Dienst got it wrong, and badly. The Americans are screaming for revenge. It’s not impossible that we might end up at war with them over this.’ As if on cue, the wailing sound of air-raid sirens permeated through the open gates of the pen. The gates began to close. The two men looked at each other in amazement, a single thought in their minds: an air attack, in daylight?

  Konrad Herrman sat in silence, shocked by the news Stadler had just given him. ‘The Americans bombed Lorient?’ he asked, still trying to absorb the enormity of what had happened.

  ‘They did indeed. It seems that they flew three squadrons of B-17s from America to a base in England and launched their attack from there, escorted by British long-range fighters. They didn’t cause much damage and they lost several planes, but that’s not really the point. Dönitz threatened to resign if he couldn’t take the war to the Americans, but he needn’t have bothered; Hitler was as furious as he was. So there you have it. Despite your best efforts, Hitler has just declared war on the United States of America.’

  Herrman put his head in his hands. ‘Then God save us all!’

  Autumn 1942

  ‘Now the Americans are with us, we must invade Europe soon – otherwise it will be too late!’ Harold Johnson was unusually emphatic, his face creased with intensity. ‘The Russians haven’t just got their backs to the wall, they’re practically plastered onto it!’

  ‘So Molotov said, with some emphasis, on his recent visit,’ added Charles, ‘what’s more the Americans are already putting pressure onto us to do something as soon as possible; not to mention the Canadians, whose troops have been hanging around here for ages.’

  ‘But where in Europe?’ countered Geoffrey. ‘The Germans are still terribly strong in France and more experienced than our troops. Even under equal conditions, a defender has a much better chance than an attacker, given the advantage of firing from cover, over known ground prepared with defensive positions, minefields and barbed wire. You need about three times as many attackers as defenders to make up for that. Then consider the disadvantage of launching a seaborne attack and keeping it supplied from the sea thereafter. We would need immense local superiority to stand any chance of survival, let alone winning.’

  ‘There’s no doubt that we have to land somewhere or the Russians are finished,’ interposed Charles. ‘Furthermore, since the US has launched their massive transport effort with high-speed liners, their troop levels are building up too. Everybody wants action.’

  ‘But to launch an invasion which failed would be worse than not trying at all. Far better to knock off some of the softer targets first, like Italy or even southern France. That would give us the opportunity to practise our landing techniques and give the unseasoned American troops a taste of battle.’

  Don snorted. ‘You’ve been listening to Alan Brooke. To attack away from the key objective is just a waste of resources. To land in Italy would divert so many landing craft, aircraft, men and equipment that it would put back any invasion of France by a year. It would also allow the Germans to study our techniques and tailor their defences accordingly. And it wouldn’t be any soft touch, either; nobody is better than the German soldier in mounting a dogged defence against the odds, and the mountainous terrain of Italy would suit them perfectly. Sooner or later, everyone knows that we will have to land in northern France. The only question is when; it mustn’t be too soon – we must be well prepared for it – but there shouldn’t be any undue delay either.’

  Peter Morgan frowned. ‘There’s still a lot to be done to wear them down with our bombing attacks. They’re showing no signs of weakening yet.’

  ‘Nor will they. You’re forgetting what I told you years ago. You can’t bomb people into submission. Thank God I managed to keep Harris out of the Bomber Command job, otherwise the task of refocusing them onto strategic targets would have been that much harder. All you RAF types want to do is prove that you can win the war on your own. Well, you can’t.’

  ‘We could if we had the atomic bomb,’ Peter remarked softly.

  Don groaned. ‘God help us all if that is ever used.’

  ‘Getting a bit religious, aren’t we?’ Mary teased lightly. ‘The last I heard, we were some way off that.’

  ‘What, the bomb or religion?’ Charles sardonic, as usual.

  ‘Let’s look at this objectively,’ argued Don. ‘At the moment the Wehrmacht is at full stretch fighting in Russia. The lines of supply from Germany are so long that it takes a major effort just to keep them going. What’s more, partisan resistance activity is so vigorous along much of the lines that a whole army is being tied up in protecting them. Trying to shift any substantial portion of their army back to France would pose immense logistical problems. And we know that if they tried that, the Russians would counter-attack in support of our landing, helping to pin the German troops in the East. Despite their commitments in the East, the Germans assume that we will invade at some point, but they’re probably still expecting 1944. If we attack in 1943, we’ll catch them with their defences unprepared.’

  Geoffrey looked dubious. ‘Maybe. But their armoured strength is essentially unbeaten. Furthermore, they have a habit of returning armoured divisions to France for rest, re-equipment and training. Gr
anted that most of their occupation troops are second rate, they still have some extremely dangerous units amongst them. And consider the problem from our viewpoint. We still have limited shipping capacity for landing troops and equipment on the beach – the main constraint – and the US troops in particular are very green, with no combat experience. It would be a terrible risk.’

  Don was adamant. ‘For the Russians to lose, and leave us and the Norwegians isolated in Europe, would be an even bigger risk. The size of the forces we are talking about in the West are a small fraction of those engaged in the East. With Russia beaten, Hitler would be able to turn his full force against us. We must stop that from happening, at almost any cost.’

  ‘The main problem wouldn’t be landing as such. We can pick our spot, with the advantage of surprise, and will almost certainly get ashore. The problem will be staying there once the Germans get their counter-attacks organised. We will need to maintain a massive supply effort across the Channel just to keep the army supplied.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take the landing quite so much for granted.’ Don was in lecture mode again. ‘Don’t forget what was learned in my time…’

  Howard grinned. ‘We know. Accurate intelligence; realistic training; advanced saturation bombing of transport nodes and troop concentrations; intensive naval bombardment in support of the landings; air superiority maintained over the battlefield; tanks to support the first wave of troops; and the need to land away from harbours, which will be too well defended.’ This was variously greeted with laughs, cheers and applause, and Don grinned wryly. ‘Well, I’m glad someone’s been listening. Let’s hope the planners have as well.’

  Charles sighed. ‘Well, we’ll soon find out. Churchill will be meeting Roosevelt soon.’