“You heard me!” The leader yelled. “Where the bloody hell is your captain? Gone out to harpoon another whale while you lot try to render one down in secret on my own beaches? Not even bothering to do it on one of the other islands anymore, eh? You tell that puss-rotted fool, I’ll—”
Lieutenant Marshall stood up, clear in the early morning light. The silver of his collar devices glinted nicely. If the rest of him was rumpled from a night scrambling around with a stained coverall overtop everything, he still stood like an officer.
The man stared.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the honor, sir.” Lieutenant Marshall made a short bow, one gentleman to another. “Lieutenant Marshall of the United States Navy. Your islands are under attack.”
“Uh, governor?” One of the four aging militia men with Governor Allardyce leaned in and mumbled in a quavering voice not quiet enough to avoid reaching us. “Shouldn’t we be hurrying after the boys?”
Governor Allardyce puffed out his chest again. “We’re most certainly not under attack! The sheep girls haven’t reported seeing a German ship in nearly a year. After Coronel, of course we were concerned, but then there was Port Doula and von Spee’s squadron has been up and down the African coast ever since. There’s only been that American flagged vessel lurking about.”
“I knew it!” Williams whispered at my side, “There must have been people watching those sheep.”
“Hush,” I growled, keeping my voice down. I’d thought we’d be shooting at somebody and then running away by now. I motioned for everyone to keep their heads down while waiting for the lieutenant to give us some kind of order.
Lieutenant Marshall pointed over his shoulder at the smoke still rising from our sabotage.
Governor Allardyce squinted at it. An older man, who seemed to be some sort of advisor stepped up.
“That’s not whale flensing, Gov,” he said. “You be able to smell the reek of it from here if’n it was, and besides, the color of the smoke’s all wrong too.”
“I believe we’ve already established that I’m not a whaler captain,” Lieutenant Marshall said.
Or at all likely to make captain of anything if he singlehandedly starts a war with England, I kept behind my teeth and did not add.
“So.” The lieutenant pointed over his shoulder at the still rising smoke. “A stretch of your coastline is burning. We could sack the town and just leave you with wreckage. Or you could surrender the island.”
“But the United States is neutral!” Governor Allardyce protested.
Lieutenant Marshall shrugged. “I have my orders.”
“To attack Britain? Here?” The governor’s advisor’s skeptical expression did not look properly receptive for a man with twenty people pointing rifles at him.
I turned the barrel of mine to get ready to turn him into a leaking former advisor. The man saw my motion and jerked to the side to stand in front of the governor. Damn brave idiots.
The other three tried to point their own pistols in all directions, not too sure of where all Lieutenant Marshall’s men were. They’d have heard American voices from both sides of the track and more tellingly, not heard anything from the three youngsters who’d run on ahead.
Governor Allardyce waved his hat from behind the man. “A truce while we talk?” he called out.
“Ah well, I’ve got four captives already,” Lieutenant Marshall replied. “You might just go ahead and surrender and then we can discuss terms.”
Yelps from behind had me jump almost out of my skin.
“Ten!” yelled Petty Officer Wicklow. “Make that an even ten captives now, Lieutenant. The governor had another six of these boys try to sneak up on us.”
Another scuffle erupted, and Wicklow’s voice dropped to a growl. “Lieutenant, how many of these brats can we shoot?”
The governor paled. “We surrender,” he said.
The older gentlemen around him lowered their rifles and a pack of bruised young boys, with their weapons taken away from them, scurried up over the ridge into the arms of their grandfathers.
“Do you suppose the Americans might lower the whaling quotas back to ten as part of the terms?” One of the older men asked the governor while looking hopefully at Lieutenant Marshall.
Governor Allardyce cocked his eyebrow at my boss.
I expected something like, ‘That’ll be for Washington and London to discuss.’ but this was the Vice President’s nephew. He said, “Of course, gentlemen. The United States must ensure the freedoms and prosperity of its territories.”
* * *
“Lieutenant!” The young local scamp bounced on his toes eager to make his report. “Sir, the lookouts have spotted H.M.S. Invincible!”
“Oh really?” A broad grin spread across Marshall’s face. “What an unfortunate name for a warship.”
“Do you think we ought to test the harbor guns, sir?” I suggested. “Just to make sure they are in proper working order, of course.”
“But this is ridiculous.” Governor Allardyce turned to me to plead, “You don’t really want to fire on British vessels. We aren’t at war with you!”
“Don’t worry,” Marshall patted the man on the shoulder. “We’ll reimburse the King for the islands. And the ships,” he added.
“God help us.” Governor Allardyce raised his hands in defeat. “And supposing His Majesty suggests these islands aren’t for sale?”
“Funny you should put it that way.” Lieutenant Marshall nodded. “Neither were the sixteen American cargos taken in the last month by the Royal Navy in the North Sea, but that seemed to make no difference to anyone. This is only the natural extension.” He gave the governor a perfect court bow.
Petty Officer Wicklow looked over at me. “Are the history books going to say the United States entered the Great War today?”
“Could be,” I said.
The shore guns boomed a warning shot.
“Do you suppose it’ll be called the Battle of the Falkland Islands?” Davis asked me.
“I doubt it,” I said. “I don’t think anyone much cares what happens down here. How important can one little southern patch of islands be?”
* * * * *
Joelle Presby Bio
Joelle Presby is a former U.S. naval officer who was born in France but not while it was occupied by Germany. She also did not serve during the Great War. She cowrote The Road to Hell, in the Multiverse series, with David Weber. She has also published short stories in universes of her own creation, Charles E. Gannon’s Terran Republic, and David Weber’s Honor Harrington universe. Updates and releases are shared on her website, joellepresby.com, and on social media through MeWe, Facebook, LinkedIn, and Twitter.
https://www.mewe.com/i/joellepresby
https://www.facebook.com/joelle.presby
https://www.linkedin.com/in/joellepresby/
https://twitter.com/JoellePresby
* * *
Patrick Doyle Bio
Patrick Doyle graduated from the University of Minnesota in 1993 with a degree in History, a commission as an Ensign in the U.S. Navy, a love of flying, and no pilot slot. Pat’s desire to be a pilot won out, and he left active duty back when peace was breaking out in the mid-90s to eventually become a commercial airline captain at a large regional airline. As a member of the Navy Reserve, and with the downturn in the airline industry in the 2000s, he resumed his Navy career, serving in various active duty assignments. He recently returned to the airlines as a Captain and simulator instructor teaching the next generation of commercial pilots how to throw themselves at the Earth and miss. In his spare time, he writes, travels, and designs games. He currently lives in Minnesota with his wife, Linda, and son, Matthew.
# # # # #
Drang nach Osten (Drive to the East)
by Christopher G. Nuttall
All the rest was merely the proper application of overwhelming force.
-Winston S. Churchill
Germany, 1919
It was a bitterly
cold day.
Hauptmann Hans Lehmann dug his shovel into the half-frozen ground, produced a lump of earth and dumped it in the pile behind the makeshift trench. It was hard, so hard, to keep himself warm, no matter how strenuously he worked. The cold seemed ommipresent, working its way through the layers of clothing he’d pulled on that morning, into his skin, and seemingly into his very soul. The days when the army had been given everything it needed were long gone. The men under his command could only keep themselves warm—barely—by lighting fires all along the trenches.
Which tells the Tommy aircraft precisely where to drop their bombs, he thought, as he straightened up and looked along the trenchline. It won’t be long now before we find out if they’re bluffing or not.
He allowed his eyes to wander over his men, the scratch unit that had been hastily put together and thrown into the trenches. There were men from a dozen different units, ranging from grizzled army sergeants who’d been fighting since 1914 to a handful of sailors and students who’d been press-ganged into the ranks when the provisional government had started funnelling men and material back to the trenches. The motley crew included a former dispatch rider who’d been badly wounded during a gas attack and only just made it back to the front. Hans scowled as he saw the man lecturing his comrades on the importance of protecting the Fatherland from the British and French hordes. Adolf…if he hadn’t been so desperate for manpower, he would have sent Adolf back to the hospital. There was no doubting the man’s bravery—dispatch riders had a particularly dangerous task—but there was something about the man that bothered Hans. It was as if Adolf never wanted the war to end.
Sergeant Keitel came up behind him. “We were meant to be in Paris by now, weren’t we?”
Hans gave him a sharp look. Discipline had been fragmenting since 1918, when the army had been driven out of France by overwhelming firepower. Men who were once trustworthy were now openly spreading defeatism or simply voting with their feet and heading home. Hans had dared to hope, once upon a time, that peace talks would lead to actual peace, but…it was starting to look as though the war would continue until everyone was dead. The Allies—the British, French and, despite their protestations, even the Americans—wanted to break Germany into its component pieces, ensuring the Reich would never rise again. Or so he’d been told.
“Right now, I’ll settle for keeping them out of Germany,” he said, harshly. He’d heard horror stories about colonial troops from Africa and India. The thought of his mother or sister being…he swallowed hard, unable to even consider the prospect. “If we can…”
He looked along the line, trying to keep his face utterly blank. A civilian would see it as an impressive trench, he supposed. A soldier knew it wouldn’t last more than a few minutes, when—if—the enemy sent in tanks. They didn’t have the concrete or barbed wire or anything they needed to make the network impregnable, if that were even possible. The concept of impregnable trenches had died at Cambrai, when the British tanks and artillery has smashed through the lines and crushed the defenders in their trenches. Hans had been there, watching helplessly as the tanks advanced. If the British themselves hadn’t been so surprised by their success…they’d learnt from that, hadn’t they? The Hindenburg Line had been smashed the following year, leaving the road to the Fatherland open. And he knew, all too well, that his trenchline was flimsy by comparison.
We have to make a stand, he told himself, as he heard an airplane bussing high overhead. Probably British. Or French, or American…it hardly mattered. He hadn’t seen a friendly aircraft in the skies for weeks. Rumour had it that the pilots were living the high life in Berlin, while the soldiers sweated on the ground and waited for the grand offensive.
If we can win better terms…
He forced himself to walk along the trenchline, assessing progress. The men had done a remarkable job, given what little time and tools they had. A handful of guns had been carefully sited, backed up by a pair of tanks…he’d been told they were better than the latest British designs, but it hardly mattered. The British had a lot of tanks. He’d heard whispers filtering through the lines, reports brought back by scouts who’d crossed No Man’s Land and spied on the British positions. There were literally thousands of enemy tanks being positioned for the offensive. If the Allies were bluffing, as some rumours claimed, they were doing a very good job.
“This position will be held, Herr Hauptman,” Adolf assured him as Hans surveyed his section of the trench. The swinehund deserved credit for having worked at least as hard as his men. “They will not pass.”
That’s what the French general said, Hans thought. Back then, he’d thought nothing could stand in their way as they marched towards Paris. The men had already been chatting about the French girls they intended to bed.
And the Frenchman was right, Hans thought. We didn’t pass. Doubt that we will hold nearly as well as they did.
Hans heard more aircraft, high overhead, as he completed his survey. It sounded ominous, even to him. The Allies had complete freedom of the skies, thanks to the provisional government’s desperation to come to some kind of agreement, but they’d never sent so many aircraft before. It bothered him, more than he cared to admit. It felt like the calm before the storm.
“I heard a rumour,” Keitel said. “They’re stockpiling troops and ammunition behind the lines.”
“I doubt it,” Hans said. That suggested competence, something the provisional government had yet to display. And a willingness to engage in street fighting…he shuddered. Verdun had been terrible. A battle in the streets of Germany itself would be worse. “I think…”
He felt, more than heard, the sound of hundreds of guns opening fire as once. Hans, and every other experienced soldier, threw himself into the nearest trench and braced himself for the impact. The ground shook seconds later, water and mud splashing into the trench and cascading over the hapless defenders. He heard pieces of shrapnel flying through the air and prayed, desperately, that the Allies had not started firing gas shells into the trenches. Half of his men didn’t have masks, let alone full-body protections. The Allies could wipe his force out overnight if they used gas. But they’d be wary if they wanted to take the trenches for themselves.
Trenches are defensive, he thought. I doubt they’re worried about ever being on the defence again. But we can hope.
“I think the negotiations failed,” Keitel shouted, as the ground heaved time and time again. The sound of explosions was deafening. “This isn’t random shelling.”
“I think you’re right.” Hans cursed as a disembodied head landed next to him. One of the former sailors, apparently. The idiot hadn’t had the sense to get down when the shells had started to explode. He’d had a cushy billet on a ship until the fleet had sailed off to England and safety.
“Damn you, damn you all,” Hans muttered at the distant gunners, scurrying forward on his hands and knees.
He stayed low, cursing the enemy gunners under his breath. The entire trenchline was starting to collapse. They hadn’t had time to secure the trenches properly, let alone keep mud from sliding back into the trenches and driving the inhabitants out. He saw a rat rushing past, the tiny beast maddened by the impact. It would have been dinner, if his men had caught it before the offensive. They’d have had no choice. There was little else to eat, even for officers.
The shelling started to move eastwards.
Now we’re in trouble, Hans grimaced, knowing that wasn’t a good sign. The enemy would be advancing from the west. He straightened up, careful to keep his head low as he peered into the distance. He could see a handful of shapes, moving up behind a smokescreen. Tanks. British tanks. There was no mistaking the familiar shape of vehicles that had brought so much death and destruction to the army. Or, behind them, the advancing Tommies. The British might lack the gallantry of the French or the pervasive fatalism of the Russians, but they had nerve.
If the British hadn’t made their stand in 1914…wait, no point in worrying about it now,
Hans told himself. It doesn’t matter.
Looking down, Hans felt his heart sink as he drew his pistol from his belt, then braced himself and waited. It looked as if the British were hurling everything at him and his men. There were hundreds of tanks, pressing against the German lines in a frontal assault; infantrymen flanked them, ready to protect their armoured comrades from grenades and mines. The tactics were far from subtle; no gentle prodding to find a weakness before hurling in the main assault for this offensive. Just overwhelming force, aimed all along the line. There would be a hundred breakthroughs within the hour, if the defenders had the nerve to stand and fight.
Whether HQ is keeping troops back in the hopes of cutting off any breakthroughs before they could be exploited won’t matter, Hans thought bitterly. We might as well have tried to stop the tide by shouting at it.
“Take aim,” he shouted. He suspected that half his men couldn’t hear him over the din, but he knew his duty. “Fire!”
With that, he snapped off a shot at a British infantryman. The solider didn’t fall. He heard the machine guns open fire, spraying the tanks with bullets. The gunners were new, clearly unaware there was no point in wasting bullets on the tanks.
“Idiots, fire at the soldiers instead!” he screamed. He shouted curses at the men. The scared former sailors complied, and a handful of Tommies fell. The remainder ducked as the tanks aimed their machine guns and opened fire. Hans hit the ground, a second before a stream of bullets tore through the air above him. Then the sponson cannon fired, and the machine gunners were vaporized before they could even shift positions.
I need to get that gun back up, Hans thought. He started scrambling towards their guns, then realised it was useless. They’d already been disabled, and clearly there was no time to perform a hasty repair.
Trouble in the Wind Page 24
