Don looked up, interested. ‘Oh? Where?’
‘Anywhere but Casablanca!’ They all groaned. ‘One of these days,’ said Geoffrey, ‘we’ll do exactly what was done before; then that will really fool them!’
Mary was pensive. ‘What decisions are they likely to take?’
‘Depends who they choose to listen to. My betting is on an invasion in the later spring or early summer of next year.’
‘Several months away. In that case, we’ll just have to hope that the Russians can hold out until we land.’
Peter grinned wryly. ‘If not, it won’t be for want of trying.’
‘Target zone in sight. Lots of smoke about. We’ll approach from upwind – it’ll give us a better chance of seeing what we’re shooting at. Keep a sharp eye out for bogeys.’
The Flight Sergeant acknowledged his Squadron Leader and banked his aircraft to follow the rest of the formation. The big Herefords skimmed low over the flat north Russian plain, the gleam of the Severnaya River was visible to port. Above them cruised the protective umbrella of Brigands. Ahead of them, battle raged.
His headphones crackled with a three-way conversation between his Squadron Leader, the observer in the little Auster flitting above the scene, and the Forward Air Controller in the thick of the fighting. The Canadian armoured unit had disembarked at Archangelsk only three weeks before and had immediately been rushed to the front to block the Wehrmacht’s determined thrust northwards. If the Germans succeeded in their aim to cut the Allied supply line before the harsh winter set in, resistance in this area would almost certainly collapse.
‘Red flares going up mark our front line. Attack the formations due south. One pass with rockets. Circle to starboard. Repeat with guns, as often as you can.’
The squadron acknowledged and settled into their attack run, spreading slightly as each pilot selected his target. The Flight Sergeant checked the armament selector switch, adjusted the reflector sight and armed the guns. He eased the throttles open, the sound of the twin Hercules engines rising to a howl as the speed built up. The view to either side of straight ahead was a blur; directly in front of him the unmistakable shapes of armoured vehicles and running men suddenly snapped into focus. He thumbed the firing switch and a salvo of sixteen rockets flowed in a rapid stream from the underwing launchers. He hauled the Hereford up and to the right as the ground in front of him erupted in smoke and flame. The shape of a tank turret suddenly emerged, somersaulting slowly as it flew through the air. Then he was clear and circling round, memorising where other tanks had been, watching out for the other aircraft in his formation. He flicked the armament switch and settled down to the second run, aiming a short distance from his previous target. More movement ahead as men ran for cover. He thumbed the firing button and the six Vickers-Brownings blared, their tracer bullets walking across a field towards the enemy. Just before they reached the tanks, he pressed the second button and the plane shook at the deep hammering of the twin 40 mm cannon, lightweight Bofors guns firing super-velocity, tungsten-cored ammunition. The tracers streaked towards the tanks, the flash of impact clearly visible. He dragged the plane round again and felt it judder. Flak! He scarcely noticed the roar of his dorsal turret gunner returning fire as he kicked the rudder controls and pulled the Hereford into a violent corkscrew, going right to the deck to escape the gunners. Suddenly he was clear, skimming the ground, no sign of battle. Instruments looked OK, controls felt OK. He had a brief word with his gunner then returned to the fray. His CO had left him in no doubt: the Germans had to be stopped.
The Meteor engine roared as the massive Churchill tank lumbered forwards, the squealing tracks crushing the concealing undergrowth with the weight of forty tons. The long barrel of the high-velocity, seventeen-pounder gun quested as if sniffing the air for a scent of the enemy. The tank crawled slowly past a wrecked Humber, the crater of a hollow-charge warhead clearly visible on the side of the turret.
The Sergeant peered through the episcopes which gave him a restricted view all round the Churchill. He hated fighting ‘buttoned down’, but the German snipers were too close and very good, as several of his fellow commanders could have testified had they still been able to. He strained his eyes to see ahead, perversely cursing the dust and smoke thrown up by the Herefords’ devastating attack. Movement caught his eye two hundred yards away and his gunner was firing the co-ax Browning even as he gave the order.
‘Load HE!’ He heard the clang as the long round was slammed into the breech. ‘Fire!’ The tank rocked as the main armament fired, a concussion of sound which was felt rather than heard. At that range the trajectory was flat, the explosion of the shell almost instantaneous. The Sergeant paused, waiting. Nothing moved. He flicked the transmit switch on the R/T, spoke briefly to his troop commander.
A few minutes later he noticed stealthy movement around him as the infantry moved forward with bayonets fixed to their Besals, the ‘winklepickers’ whose job it was to seek out any lurking Panzerfaust men, to protect the precious tanks just as the tanks protected the infantry when the enemy armour rolled.
Later still the Churchill grumbled forwards again, a massive, sleek shadow in the haze, tracks crumbling the burnt earth as the tank manoeuvred through the blackened ruins.
‘Götterdämmerung,’ muttered the Sergeant, who in a previous existence had enjoyed more intellectual pursuits.
‘What was that, Sarge?’
‘Never mind,’ he said drily, ‘just swearing.’ As the tank rumbled on, he surveyed the devastated landscape, strewn with the wreckage of the German Panzer Regiment. This time they had been lucky. Next time, the Luftwaffe might be there first.
The Intelligence Corps Captain walked beside the Wing Commander as they inspected the aircraft. Many of the Herefords bore the scars of small-arms fire, of no great consequence given their comprehensive armouring. The large hole in the tail fin of one of them was a different matter.
‘Looks like the work of the new thirty millimetre flak gun,’ the Captain commented. ‘Uses the same weapon as the MK one-oh-three aircraft cannon, in a powered twin mounting. Total rate of fire of over eight hundred rounds per minute. Not nice.’
The Wing Commander grunted sourly. Three of his aircraft had failed to return from the last mission. Ground fire around the German units was intense and a new danger was emerging. ‘The Brigand pilots reported mixing it with some of those new jets we were warned about.’
The Captain looked up in interest. ‘Really? How did they get on?’
‘The survivors did quite well. Kept low and kept turning. Gave the jets the least chance to use their superior speed. One of them even claimed a possible.’
‘The survivors?’
‘Four of them didn’t make it back.’
The Captain whistled thoughtfully.
The Wing Commander continued. ‘The Focke-Wulf 190s aren’t too bad: the Brigand is a close match for them. These new jets need dealing with in a different way.
The Captain nodded. ‘We have some ideas about that.’ He nodded at the sleek form of a Reaper parked under camouflage netting to one side of the airfield. ‘Those PR boys have located their base. Not too difficult, they need better runways than the prop jobs, and the jet exhausts leave scorch marks. These jets are very vulnerable on take off and landing; their only real asset is top speed. We’re organising a little surprise for them the next time they prepare for a mission. Some fighter Reapers will be waiting for them, right over their airfield.’
The Wing Commander smiled grimly. ‘That will be much appreciated. How’s the ground fighting going?’
‘We’re holding them, just about. We have one Canadian and two British armoured divisions in place now with more on the way. Only just in time. The Russians really didn’t want to accept our help – they just wanted us to send them the equipment. The fact that they agreed at last shows the desperate straits Stalin is in. It isn’t a comfortable thought, but what happens here could well decide the outcome of the whole war.’
Winter 1942-43
‘Sorry I’m late, had a last minute briefing.’ Charles took off his coat, shaking off the snow which had been falling all morning, swirling in the fitful wind around the grey canyons of Whitehall. He rubbed his hands together, eyes briefly scanning the room until they located the refreshments. ‘Any tea left? It’s a little fresh out there.’
‘Tell all,’ commanded Mary as she poured a cup, ‘how went the summit?’
Charles prolonged the moment while he savoured the tea, warming his hands on the cup while he mischievously enjoying their impatient curiosity. He seemed in an unusually good mood. ‘Most interesting, I gather. Much of it consisted of a battle between the military men, but it wasn’t just us and them – there was some infighting among the Americans.’ He settled down into a chair next to the clanking radiator. ‘It went pretty much as Don predicted: Admiral King and General MacArthur wanted to focus on Japan, but if it had to be Europe, their navy preferred the Med. Spaatz was there for their Air Force; he didn’t think any invasion was necessary – just more bombing. But General Marshall was worried about US forces being ‘locked up’ in the Med if Germany marched through Spain to seize Gibraltar, so he favoured a landing in Northern France. And, what’s more, he was supported by Roosevelt.’
‘Did Brooke behave himself?’ Don’s expression was wry. The Chief of the Imperial General Staff’s aversion to the gamble of a cross-Channel invasion was well-known.
‘Pretty well. Churchill is still emotionally attached to Mediterranean adventures, but he’s taken on board your lessons, however reluctantly. He’s also genuinely alarmed that Russia might fold at any moment. God only knows how they’ve managed to hang on for so long.’
‘So, what do we have to deal with then?’
Charles grinned at Mary. ‘Quite a detailed programme, actually. Winnie wants us to slog through it, then he’ll join us this evening for a full discussion.’ Mock groans echoed round the room.
‘Not another all-nighter!’ They settled down to listen.
Hours later, Churchill arrived in his usual expansive mood and settled in his chair, accompanied by his post-prandial brandy and cigar. ‘Very well then, give me your summary!’
Don cleared his throat and commenced. ‘First and foremost, the logistics issue. The primary concern is the impact of the U-boats on trans-Atlantic shipping. We need about thirty million tons of cargo to arrive in Britain each year just to keep us going. We also need to ensure that we, or rather the Americans, are building more merchant ships than we are losing. On top of that, we need considerable extra capacity to bring over all the equipment and supplies needed by the American element of the invasion force. Until the past few months, we have only just about been breaking even. More recently, we have begun to edge ahead of the game. We have virtually continuous air patrols over the convoys, except in the very worst weather, long-range patrol planes also covering the routes the U-boats take to and from France, and more destroyers assigned to form hunter-killer groups operating around the convoys. In conjunction with the new higher-frequency radar which can pick up their schnorkels, as long as the sea isn’t too rough, plus better intelligence from Enigma decrypts, we are enjoying increasing success in taking out the electroboats before they can damage the convoys. That battle isn’t won yet, but we can just about meet the shipping demands. ‘Repeated bombing of the U-boat assembly yards in Germany is cutting down on the number of new electroboats being completed, as well,’ interjected Peter, ‘and so is the patrolling of the routes they have to take to get from Germany to France.’
Churchill nodded. ‘And the secondary concern?’
‘The number of landing craft we need to transport the invasion force to France. That’s the other blockage in the pipeline. It’s particularly a problem because the French beaches we’re looking at have a very shallow gradient, so ordinary ships would run aground while still a long way offshore. We need plenty of vessels which can carry heavy loads while having a very shallow draft. These are now in production, and we should have enough by next summer to land five divisions in the first wave.’
‘So far so good. What comes next on your list?’
‘Men and equipment. We are reasonably well off for both, this time. The rapid conquest of North Africa has meant that we don’t need to keep large forces tied up in the Med’. He raised his hand to forestall a comment from Churchill – ‘I’ll come on to that – although our success in throwing back the initial Japanese invasion of Burma and Malaya has ironically meant that we’re more heavily engaged there. Still, the Aussies, Kiwis and Indians are doing much of that fighting, which takes a lot of the pressure off. More serious is the diversion of some our best armoured divisions to Russia. Still, given the limited numbers we can carry across to France, we will have enough troops and equipment for the invasion.’
Mary smothered a smile at Don’s confident handling of the formidable Prime Minister. He was a very different man from the displaced and bewildered person she had met eight years before.
‘Our equipment is now first rate. Of course, the German kit is better than in my time too, but we had more room for improvement. The new Churchill Two tank, with thicker armour and the seventeen-pounder gun ‘necked out’ to a thirty-five pounder, is fully the match of the Panzer Four ‘Panther’. The American equipment is generally OK but I’m worried about their tanks.’
Churchill nodded. ‘We took the opportunity to reinforce the message about the consequences if they sent the Sherman into Northern Europe against the Panther tanks. They weren’t at all happy because a heavier tank causes shipping problems, but they understood the argument that quality rather than quantity is of paramount importance, especially in an amphibious landing when quantity is so limited, so they’ve put a top-priority programme in place to field a new heavy tank and have reserved production of their new ninety-millimetre ack-ack gun for it.’
Don nodded. ‘Good. That leaves us to consider where, when, and the diversionary programme. We’ve undertaken a thorough review of the landing sites, but the outcome is the same as in my time; no great surprise there, as the geography hasn’t changed.’
‘Go on. I’d be interested in hearing your conclusions as this was briefly discussed at the summit.’
His friends grinned surreptitiously as Don shifted even more obviously into lecturer mode and started ticking off points on his fingers.
‘First, the landing zone must be within reach of fighter cover from England. This limits us to a zone between Belgium in the east and the Cotentin Peninsula in the west. It’s also important to have some airfields not far away for us to seize, so we can forward-base some squadrons there as quickly as possible. Next, we must land on beaches large enough to allow the huge volume of continuous unloading which will be going on until we can seize enough port capacity – which although it’s a top priority won’t be easy as we know the Germans will destroy the facilities of any port they are in danger of losing. Those beaches must also be sheltered from the worst of the weather – which can be pretty savage, and was in my time – and must not be too heavily defended by overlooking gun batteries, and there must be easy ways of getting off the beaches and on to the road network. Basically, we’ve got to ensure that we can maintain our build-up of forces at a faster rate than the Germans can reinforce theirs.’
Peter cleared his throat. ‘There’s another element to that, of course. The RAF will be doing its utmost to prevent any reinforcements getting there, both by engaging them on the move with tactical units and by hitting the main transportation centres with strategic forces.’
Churchill nodded slowly. ‘So the logic still takes us to Normandy, then?’
‘Yes, it’s not ideal but it’s the best compromise. The beaches are good, Cherbourg is reasonably close and is convenient for dealing with shipping direct from America. But there’s a lot of marshy ground behind some of the beaches, especially in the west, and we know that the Germans will flood the lower-lying areas. The obvious alternative is the Pas-de-C
alais as it’s only twenty miles or so from Dover and would provide a much more direct route into Germany, but the beaches are exposed and have few exits, it’s strongly defended, and the ports in the area are inadequate. We could try the Seine area in between the Pas-de-Calais and Normandy, but it would mean clearing both banks of the river before we could use Le Havre and Rouen. This would mean a double operation, and the two halves couldn’t be mutually supporting given the width of the Seine estuary. That takes us inevitably to the sector around Caen and the Cotentin Peninsula, although we would have to expand from there fairly rapidly as even Cherbourg wouldn’t be enough by itself to meet our shipping needs.’
‘Belgium – or Denmark even, from Norway?’
‘The beaches are inadequate in Belgium and they’re strongly defended. Denmark is of course an entirely new possibility to me, but I think we should include it in our diversionary programme. If the Germans are certain where we’re going to land, they will, without any doubt, be able to concentrate their forces to push us back into the Channel. They have over forty divisions in France, and we can put five across in the first wave, with another five shortly afterwards. We need to sow as much uncertainty in their minds as possible, not just concerning where in Northern France we’re going to land but also the prospect of landings in Southern France, Sicily, and now Denmark too. We will need to commit some quite significant resources to confusing them, including actual raids in several different locations.’
Churchill nodded soberly. ‘This will be very much a throw of the dice, with a lot depending on it. From our viewpoint, it would be much better to delay the invasion until Germany has been so weakened by bombing and the battle with Russia, that there would be little opposition to a landing. Sadly, we can’t afford to wait that long: Russia’s situation has been critical for months, and it’s touch and go whether or not they can hang on, even with the support. Even so, I’m very worried, very worried indeed, especially after your graphic description of all of the things that went wrong in your time. In this case, to try and fail would be infinitely worse than not trying.’
THE FORESIGHT WAR Page 31
