by Scott Palter
The Italian general commanding the corps the Blackshirts were in, was an old colonial and Spanish War veteran nicknamed “Electric Whiskers”. He had been ecstatic when told Lothar had engineering troops. This led to today’s meeting between Electric Whiskers, the division commander, the Oberst commanding the Legion, Lothar, and the engineering officer, a former Major in the Kaiser’s service who had then served the Poles against the Reds. The Italian Obserst, called a Consul for some reason, had a major problem breaching the British mine fields, and saw these engineers as the answer to his prayers. “The British have mined and wired this entire front, then gone and done the same company strongpoint by company strongpoint. There’s little artillery and no real depth to the position, but that leaves the damned mines. Our entire corps lacks enough engineering assets. Major, how good are your lads?”
The major was missing one arm at the elbow, and two fingers on the remaining hand. “Rough as a unit. Not enough training time. Fairly good individually. I screened the new intakes for people with pioneer experience. Problem is that it’s from all over. I’ve got Kaiser veterans, Freikorps guys, ex-Polish Army, ex-Ukrainians, ex’s from the three Baltic armies, ex-Czechs, ex- Red Army. I even have half a dozen who fought for the French in the last war. So yes, they can clear mines, but as they speak two dozen languages and know a dozen or more different techniques … ”He paused to survey the others. He was proud of his men, but knew their limits. “ … they will get you lanes. The lanes will be imperfect. Warn your men that odds say there will be one or two mines they have missed. So it’s fast lanes, but they will take losses.”
The division general was curious, “Fast?”
“As I said, these are veterans. I’ve divided them into squads based more on similarity of Yiddish dialects than anything else. Galicians and Lithuanians can barely understand each other. Think of a company with random speakers of every Latin language from Church Latin to Romanian. They can sort of all understand each other if they are speaking slowly in the mess hall. Under fire on a battlefield, not so much. Exercises we ran up in Poland on the minefields at the Auschwitz Camp complex, we could manage 100 meters or so an hour.”
“Auschwitz?” Lothar was now confused. “I thought you people were out of the Palestine camps?”
“We are. Our Palestine camps are really a mix of barracks and workshops. We have a little wire as boundary markers, but no minefields or electrified wire. Our camp complex is a low-rise blob of new construction that starts at the west fringes of Cracow and growing west. Auschwitz is to our northwest, west, and spilling southeast. There are maybe 30 kilometers separating our fringes. By New Year’s I doubt we will be five kilometers apart. Auschwitz is a strict regime camp for disciplinary problems, mostly Poles. Commandant there was more than happy to leave mine laying to our training program. His men kept injuring themselves.” The major paused. He knew he was stepping out of line, but he also knew his craft. His wounds were from artillery fire, not mistakes with explosives. “How flexible is everyone on plan alterations?” He looked around but no one said anything, which he took as approval. “Let my lads get started tonight. We won’t put the flags up till the Big Push starts. We’ve got little markers, look like stones, we can use for now. But the more mines we get up early, the faster we can cut through at H-Hour.” No one disagreed. Some things higher command didn’t need to know.
1400 hours local; 1300 hours CET
29 October 1940
Street in front of Barclay’s Bank military branch, Cairo
The line stretched for two blocks and kept growing. It seemed that every British officer and attached civilian high potentate in Lower Egypt suddenly wished their money in banknotes on their person. Commander Ian Fleming had a battalion under his personal command keeping order and providing perimeter security. His brother Peter had a second battalion escorting parties of paid-off officers back to their offices and bringing new parties to the line. To keep the bank supplied with pound notes, a third battalion had spent the day convoying in more funds from outlying branches. In several cases the money transfers had been too late. Mobs of Egyptian ‘patriots’ led by Muslim Brotherhood and Wafd Party agitators had stormed the banks, stripping the cash drawers. In one case they had paused to dynamite the vault before torching the building. The others were just blazing wrecks. When the ashes cooled someone could try to recover funds from the vaults. The fire brigade, like other Egyptian services, had refused to intervene.
Ian’s attempt to juggle the mess was now interrupted by the arrival of the Tory member of the London triumvirate, escorted by an understrength company from 1st Battalion, 9th Gurkha Rifles. The short Nepalese fellows were down to 50 or so effectives. But a third of these had Bren guns. Fleming had heard the massed fire they had used to force their way in, while they were still blocks away. The Tory member of Commons seemed none the worse for wear. “Hullo, Fleming. Situation here under control?”
Fleming was an inveterate networker. He had already sized up all three men and found social connections they had in common. “For now. There won’t be a functional bank left in this city by dawn tomorrow, unless we are prepared to leave a company garrisoning each one. What is higher command playing at? How is 8th Army to fight a battle with this mess in its rear?”
“Jolly good question. London seems not to have an answer. PM wants to do a preemptive withdrawal. War Cabinet is dithering. Something about a seat in Commons for Bombay. Protocol questions about Nazi letters to the 1922 Committee. Giant row about Nazi proposals on restrictions of naval war. Some dustup with the London Polish government. Been told there is talk in Commons of naming Bevin Lord Protector, and just letting him actually do something without a cabinet.”
“Lord Protector? Ernie Bevin as Cromwell the Third? Not sure he’s the man for it. Too decent. Issue at hand is simpler. Does London want order restored here? It would take mass murder. Has Britain the stomach for a hundred thousand dead colonials?”
“No. Come war’s end there will be harsh words from the usual suspects, on whether what is happening now was too severe. It’s just hard to get sensible British opinion to accept that many things have no middle course that avoids unpleasantness.” He saw a disgusted look on Fleming’s face. “Not to worry. There will be a crown proclamation of general amnesty sometime next month, covering anything and everything. So we are just talking the usual clucking in the London press, ‘concerned citizens’; et cetera. No, I’m here on something more mundane. Message we just decoded. When this all falls apart, you are to retreat through Sinai. I’m to accompany you. We’ll be London’s eyes for Palestine and Iraq. My two associates will go up the Nile.” Fleming was again looking at him peculiarly. “Your friends from 54 Broadway said you were a cautious one. Said to tell you 5 clubs, redoubled and not vulnerable.”
Fleming relaxed. It was a one-time code from SIS, what others called MI-6. A disastrous bridge hand that Fleming had both misbid and misplayed. The sort of code that only makes sense to the people involved. “Keep your Gurkhas with you,” he said in clipped tones. “Indeed, latch onto whatever stray bits you can. We are frozen in this city for now. Need an order or a complete collapse to cut loose. Then it’s going to be a replay of the retreat from Kabul in ’42. We are going to need vehicles, machine-guns, and lots of ammunition. There’s also the question of Empire civilians. We simply won’t be able to save everyone. Too many civilians, with our fighting men spread too thin. The civvies will get mixed into the retreating columns, reducing military effectiveness to near zero, you mark my words.”
“Not to worry. I’ll resign my seat in Commons when this mess is over. I’m the designated goat. I’ve got a nephew who can stand at the by-election, keep the seat in the family as it were. RAF fighter pilot, made ace in the fighting this year. Invalided out after being shot down defending London. You need two legs to fly. Only need one and a walker to campaign. He’s a good lad. A bit of a Red Tory from where I sit, but the young are always radical.” The discussion was broken by sni
per fire. Took the Gurkhas a few minutes to put the three fools out of action. Fleming noted with pride that they made no attempt to avoid hitting ‘civilians’. There weren’t any at this point. Just targets.
2100 hours Eastern daylight Time; 1500 hours CET
29 October 1940
Shibe Park, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The crowd went crazy as Willkie hit the stage. He was the last speaker at a three-hour rally for the entire Republican ticket from President down to the state legislature. Willkie found the lesser office seekers to be peas in a pod at this point. After similar rallies in over twenty states, the lower rungs of the ticket seemed stamped out by a machine – thirty- to forty-something, WASP, clean cut, usually blond, of athletic build, and definitely fraternity men at college. They were mostly all married, with equally photogenic wives and parents. Assemble them all for a photo and it could be a stand-in for a fraternal order like the Elks or the local Chamber of Commerce. Still, they saw to the basics. They were all against FDR’s re-imposition of Wilson’s old Daylight Savings Time scheme, and in favor of God, personal hygiene, and a healthy outdoorsy life.
“My fellow Americans, I stand before you in this time of peril. With the nation on the brink of war, Franklin Roosevelt has gutted the top ranks of our Navy, our first line of continental defense. Admirals Stark and Richardson have been sacked to cover errors of Roosevelt and his clique of radicals.” This whole line of argument was transparently stupid. A week ago the entire Republican Party had been baying that these same admirals were traitors and dunces, over the torpedo scandal. Lindy refused to be seen as a fool in public parroting this partisan tripe; so by default, declaiming it was Willkie’s job. He did it but refused to dwell on it. There was only so much partisan bile he could spew, and still retain a glimmer of self-respect. “The same set of lefties are keeping Congress from passing the Lend-Lease Act to send desperately needed assistance to our Japanese allies. The noble Japanese who so quickly responded to the perfidious Soviet attack on our heroic Navy in Far Eastern waters.” The same Lend-Lease Act that a week ago Republican Isolationists had refused to act on, pushing the consideration back to the post-election Lame Duck session. “These internal enemies of everything decent in our God-blessed land, who were balking at declaring war on the Soviet swine who torpedoed our ships. Who try to insist on accepting the fiend Stalin’s transparent lies that this was all the work of pirate submarines. Pirates? Who could believe such childish … ”
The shots came from three directions. It all happened so quickly that Willkie couldn’t even react. One round creased his cheek. At least one more hit one of the interchangeable men on the podium behind him. The man keeled over as if poleaxed. There were screams from the audience. “Kill the Kike bastards!” Sounds of thuds, of bones breaking, of a crowd in a frenzy. Someone ran up to Willkie, trying to wipe the blood off his face. The presidential candidate waved the man aside. “This is what we face. Ungodly followers of an alien regime in Moscow. Who is with me to reclaim this great land of ours? Who will lift the banner if I fall? I am prepared to give my life for my country. Who else stands beside us?” None of this was in the prepared speech. It was what the moment demanded. Willkie would prefer a more cerebral politics. The age demanded a rhetoric of blood and passion!
0700 hours local; 0100 hours CET
30 October 1940
Docks of Batavia, Java, formerly Netherlands East Indies; now under Japanese ‘protection’
The troops of the Japanese 38th Infantry Division were lined up on the dock preparing to embark. Their equipment and vehicles had been loaded during the preceding 48 hours. Waiting to see them off was an honor guard from the newly-formed Indonesian-Japanese Joint Force Local Defense Division, as well as military bands from the Indonesian and Netherland East Indies armies. At the podium, the provisional president of the Indonesian Republic, Sukarno, gave a send-off in quite cultured Japanese. “Noble elder brothers, we wish you success in your defense of the Son of Heaven, of the Japanese Empire and of the Greater East Asia co-Prosperity Sphere. Your Indonesian younger brothers will maintain order in your absence. Our oil, tin, lumber, rubber, rice, and fish will continue to flow to the Home Islands to sustain the Children of the Sun Goddess in their struggle against the godless Bolshevik barbarians and their International and Chinese lackeys. Victory to Japan! Ten Thousand Years of Glory to the Emperor!” And for all ten thousand a quasi-independent Indonesia which, with Japanese and British help, would rid itself of the cancerous chokehold of Holland. Sukarno was proud he had come so far in a few short months.
0300 hours local; 0200 hours CET
30 October 1940
Minefields in front of 1st Blackshirt Division
Lothar Engels had no experience being a battalion commander. He’d been a hands-on working man all his life. In his Kaiser Army, Freikorps, and SA days he had made Feldwebel several times. And lost his stripes each one of them, due to his temper; until late 1932 when he’d gotten them back for the last time. He’d risen to Company command based on three quick promotions, between the Führer coming to power and the Blood Purge, as the SA had swelled with ‘Spring Violets’, the eager new adherents who had joined Party and SA in the heady first spring months of victory. His armored car company command was more a matter of no one in the Hessian SA wanting the post, when the NL was opening up so many more interesting possibilities.
By all rights, working through British minefields by dim moonlight should have been left to his new pioneer company. Lothar didn’t know how to deactivate mines. But he was an immensely strong man who could carry tools forward, drag deactivated mines back. This let him observe. He prided himself on his dexterity. If he watched long enough, he was sure he would learn. This would be a good skill to have on a battlefield, as this stupid war showed no sign of ending – no matter what the damned Kikes had told him.
So he was upfront with the one-armed pioneer officer when the voice came out of the dark. “Don’t shoot!” The German was clear. It was followed with something in Italian. Probably the same thing. What the fuck?
Lothar rose on one knee with his MP-38 pointed where he thought the sound came from. “Show yourself! Stand up and let me see your hands!” A man rose from twenty meters away with his hands empty and over his head. He stood quite still. “Forward to me, now!”
“I’ll have to weave a bit, sir. I need to walk around where the mines are.” The man took slow, mincing steps. He kept pausing to reorient himself. Finally he arrived. By now half a dozen Betar had clustered around. Before Lothar could do anything, one grabbed the enemy’s arms and another did an expert pat-down. Called out that he was a police veteran from Vilnus, in clumsy but clear German. Announced the man was clean except for a sheaf of papers.
“Careful with those, good sirs. They are the maps for the minefields.”
Lothar grabbed the man by the shirt front. “You’re a deserter. Why?”
“This sector was built for three brigades. We have two understrength battalions covering it. We’re Jews from Palestine. We signed up to fight the Nazis. To fight beside the British. Not to die for the damned Limeys while they run away. Flee with most of our trucks and heavy weapons, with all of our artillery and reserve ammunition.” Man paused for breath. He was sweating, probably from fear. “Rumor has it there were Jewish troops fighting with you Germans. My guys and I talked it over. I speak German and Italian. Said I’d take the chance and go forward. If I heard Yiddish, the story was true. Can we join you?”
“They all want to switch sides?”
“It’s complicated. Some would rather be prisoners if they can be captives of the Italians. One of us did a year in Dachau back in ’34. One of the other guys did six months in Buchenwald after Kristallnacht. No one we know was sent to an Italian camp for being a Jew. They may not like us, but the dislike is less violent. Have we a deal?”
“Deal for what?”
“Some of us you enlist. The rest go into an Italian prisoner cage. I’ll walk you into ou
r strongpoint. The maps for the rest of the minefields on this brigade sector are there. We’ve talked to some of the others. One bunker to our right and two to our left are in. You make a breach that big, and whoever won’t surrender will just drive away. Why should you have to die here? Why should we?”
Lothar now had to make a decision as a field officer, his first. He went forward with a squad while sending back three runners to the Italian consul whose sector this was. A fourth runner was detailed to his number 2 at the battalion to bring the vehicles forward. You don’t let chances like this go to waste.
0600 hours local; 0500 hours CET
30 October 1940
Formerly British bunker, now being used as Lothar’s headquarters
Dawn was up. There were marked lanes in the minefields. Lothar’s battalion was through the minefields and fanning out in the rear of the Palestinian positions to the south. Many surrendered. Many others fled after brief skirmishes.
Lothar would have liked to have been dealing with this. Instead he had been gifted with a visit from the SA Oberführer commanding the Kampfgruppe. The man saw everything Lothar had done, as stemming from his cowardly soul. In the Oberführer’s eyes, a true SA man would have rejected offers of surrender, refused enlisting the turncoats, and bulled his way through the positions like proper storm troopers. The Oberführer was demanding that Lothar’s men be pulled back and ‘brought under proper discipline’ while his own Battalions took over the combat mission from the cowards, queers, and Kikes. Lothar had point-blank refused, his temper once again getting the best of him. The two had been shrieking at each other for several minutes, with Lothar daring his superior to fight him man to man, unless the Oberführer wished to prove he was one of Röhm’s old butt-boys. The two were all but pawing the ground like two bulls in a field.
