The Invasion of 1950 (10 page)

Himmler understood; Keitel was speaking the
Fuehrer’s
own words. The Americans had been worried about the Japanese back in 1941, but when the Japanese had gone north into Soviet-held Russia, the American public had slipped back into apathy and the American Navy rebuilding program had been allowed to slip to a halt. The Americans barely had an army, nothing like the millions of men Hitler could send into battle, and in the time it would take for them to build one, the battle for Britain would have been decided, one way or the other.

“And so the American interest in the war will fade to an end,” the
Fuhrer
said. The confidence in his voice made Himmler smile. “Heinrich, what about Skorzeny and his commandos?”

Himmler smiled at Kesselring in triumph. Skorzeny was an SS man…and if his stunt worked, he would have ensured that the SS got a fair share of the credit for the invasion and its success. Himmler had read all the reports about the exercises carefully as the paratroopers went through their preparations, jumping out of planes at what seemed to be a ridiculously low altitude, then attacking the dummy target that had been prepared for them. The rate of training injuries shocked Himmler, who didn’t even like the sight of blood, but Skorzeny's men were ready for their operation.

“The unit went into lockdown after being transported to an airbase in northern France,” Himmler said, and enjoyed the look on his opponents' faces. “In” – he glanced at his watch – “less than an hour, they will take off and fly directly to London.”

“I have faith that Skorzeny will pull the operation off and succeed in decapitating the British,” Hitler said, his voice rising again. “Without their head of government, they will be unable to react in time to our advance, and we will rip the heart out of their island if they are so foolish as not to come to terms with us and take their place in the New Order.”

“Of course,
Mein Fuhrer
,” Himmler agreed. It was easy to praise the
Fuhrer
.  It was much harder to talk him out of anything. “The operation is a master-work”

Hitler looked up, around the war room, before finally looking down at Goebbels. “You have prepared the news?”

“Yes,
Mein Fuhrer
,” Goebbels said. His eager gaze met Himmler’s for a moment, and then he flinched away. He wasn't a candidate for true power in the
Reich
despite being one of the more intelligent of Hitler’s sycophants, and he knew it. It had made him bitter. “I have prepared the news release for the people, informing them that the British have been attacking us and finally we took pre-emptive measures to prevent a catastrophe.”

Himmler smiled at some of the reactions. Keitel and Speer looked as if they believed every word of it, although he doubted that Speer would accept such obvious nonsense. Manstein looked as if he didn’t care what excuse Hitler used to justify the invasion. Canaris, Kesselring and Joachim von Ribbentrop – who would have to present the news of the invasion to the remainder of the world – looked slightly disgusted, although Himmler wouldn’t have bet good money on Ribbentrop doing anything successfully for the
Fuhrer
. The man was an incompetent jumped-up wine salesman; his only real successes had come when he was dictating terms or when the other side had been eager for a deal.

Hitler straightened up, the Iron Cross he wore on his jacket flashing in the light. “I approve this operation,” he said, formally. Himmler felt the tension in the room rising as the
Reich
prepared another gamble, this one on dangerously uncertain territory. If the operation failed, it would shatter the one thing the
Reich
had in abundance; a reputation for being invincible. “Inform all of the troops; the operation is to commence immediately.”

Scapa Flow, Orkneys

As the sun slipped below the horizon, Benjamin Matthews glanced down once at his compass and then up at the darkening sky. It was only an hour to complete darknes
s. The little fishing boat was well away from the islands where Matthews and his wife lived, but they were used to fishing far to the east of the Orkney Islands. The little community had more fish than they knew what to do with, but fishermen could earn more money through catching extra, salting it, and shipping it to the mainland. So, Matthews had found himself and his small crew heading out to sea on a regular basis.

The war had never touched his community, apart from a handful of German bombing raids, one of which had killed a rabbit, and a German submarine that had sneaked into one of the Royal Navy slips and sunk a battleship.

Matthews himself was too old and too important to be drafted into the Royal Navy or one of the other services, but his three sons had all been sent south to join the army. Matthews regretted that, somewhat. He might make some money by selling to the Royal Navy, but what did the quarrel with Germany have to do with the islanders? By and large, they ignored the mainlanders, asking only that the mainlanders ignored them in return.

“Start hauling the netting in now,” he called over to Morag, his daughter and first mate. He had never had any time for the suggestion that a woman shouldn’t be sailing with a man, particularly when his sons had been taken away from him. Besides, it kept Morag away from the sailors. He knew what sailors were like; he’d been one himself. “Let’s see what we’ve caught.”

It was the quiet that awed him more than anything else about sailing. They hadn’t seen a single ship or aircraft since they’d passed the destroyer that had been patrolling around the islands, well away from the main fleet base. He’d seen the great ships before, massive ugly brutes on the surface of the sea, but he preferred sailing ships to boats with engines. His fishing boat might have been primitive, but it was reliable and he could fix every part of the boat without needing to take it to a mechanic. His sons might change their minds and place their faith in massive fishing boats, but Matthews knew where he belonged, and what he gained from fishing alone.

“Yes, dad,” Morag said. At fourteen, she was lovely; she looked so much like his wife that it chilled him. He’d have to see about introducing her to some of the young men from the other island settlements before too long; that would ensure that she married a good man who would take care of her. Matthews was already feeling older and older each day and knew that one day, not too far away, he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. He was just looking at her when he saw her head start up. “Dad, what’s that?”

Matthews blinked. Her hearing was sharper than his, but he could hear it too, now, a dull thrumming, echoing through the air. He looked around, wondering what could be causing such a noise…and then he saw them, moving through the air like a swarm of angry wasps. They took on shape and form rapidly as they flew west; aircraft, a massive flight of aircraft. Matthews tried to count them, even to estimate their numbers, but it seemed as if the sky was filled by thousands of black aircraft. He stared at them, trying to understand, and then it all made sense.

“Get the radio,” he cried, as he raced into the small cabin. He’d had a government-issue radio, like every other fisherman, just on the off-chance that they might spot something worth reporting to the military. He’d kept it charged because some of the fishermen used them to communicate between themselves, but he’d never used it himself to call the Royal Navy.

Morag didn’t understand, but he ignored her questions, struck suddenly by a sense of imminent doom.  There seemed to be no end to the stream of aircraft flying overhead, but he knew where they were going; they were making a direct beeline for the Royal Navy harbour. He picked up the radio, flicked switches until the radio was warming up, and then tried to make a broadcast.”

“This is Matthews, ID ORK3473,” he called. He’d been given a crash course on how to use the radio, but he’d forgotten most of it. “There’s a massive flight of German aircraft heading west, I repeat…”

“Dad,” Morag said. Matthews looked up to see a smaller black aircraft flying lower than any other, heading right towards the fishing boat. He knew exactly what it’s pilot had in mind; he’d heard from sailors who had been strafed by German planes, down towards the south. “Dad, I think…”

“I know,” Matthews said. He reached out and took his daughter in his arms. “I love you…”

The German plane opened fire, strafing the water and shattering the boat with explosive shells.  Moments later, the fishing boat blew apart and left nothing but wreckage drifting on the surface of the sea.

***

Admiral Fraser settled down in his bunk for the night, closing his eyes and trying to relax; it had been a long two weeks. His appointment as the commanding officer of H
ome Fleet – and hence the senior British Admiral actually on active duty – had been a pleasant surprise, but after nearly a year of commanding the fleet, he was starting to wish that he’d been left in command of the Gibraltar or Singapore fleet bases. He’d had up-to-date experience, or at least as much experience as anyone else in the Royal Navy, of modern battleship combat. He’d served on-board
King George V
as a Vice Admiral during the short but bloody combat with Italian battleships during 1943. They’d sunk two Italian ships there, losing no British battleships in exchange, although
Nelson
and
Queen Elizabeth
had been badly mauled by the Italians.

Fraser firmly believed that new technology would determine the shape of future war. In that, he was in full agreement with the Germans, who were pouring more and more resources into their
Kriegsmarine
and
Luftwaffe
. The Home Fleet had sunk the
Bismarck
nine years ago, but it had been a close-run thing. The
Bismarck
had been stopped by a fluke, a lucky hit, more than anything else – and once that hit had disabled the ship, the Germans had been doomed. If the ship had broken out into the Atlantic, it would have had a disastrous effect on the Royal Navy’s attempts to keep the convoy system going. The Germans had actually risked the
Tirpitz
in 1943, but in that case Hitler’s fears had prevented the German battleship from being more than a worrying problem for the Royal Navy. Fraser didn’t want to think about what would have happened if the ship had been given to an aggressive commander – a German Nelson – who had the guts to ignore the bleating of the
Fuhrer
and move in for the kill.

And now, he fretted, the
Fuhrer
might have bad intentions towards Britain. Fraser had read the message from the War Office with a mixture of incredulity and disbelief before turning to the one from the Admiralty, which had been a bit clearer. Fraser was experienced enough to read between the lines and guess that someone expected the Germans to make trouble. But they didn’t want to make a major fuss in case it was a false alarm. Fraser had wanted clarification. However, Churchill had been direct but unhelpful and the War Office had dithered. Scapa Flow was not a popular place among the crewmen, even though the Royal Navy had done its best to provide facilities for the crews; Fraser’s orders to keep some of the fleet in readiness might keep some crewmen busy, but it wouldn’t be popular. He’d strengthened the defences as best as he could…

It felt like only moments before there was a banging at his cabin door. “Come in,” he called, pulling himself to his feet. His orderly should have prevented any disturbance unless it was urgent; he grabbed his jacket and pulled it on before the inner door opened, revealing a nervous-looking Midshipman. “Yes?”

The Midshipman looked as if he was going to faint at the mere thought of addressing an Admiral. “Sir, there has been a disturbing radio transmission, and Captain Abernathy would like to see you in the CIC at once,” he gasped out. “Sir…”

“Very good,” Fraser said, wryly certain that the young man expected to be thrown to the dogs at any moment for
daring
to address an Admiral. “I’ll be there directly.”

It was only a minute later when he entered the CIC of the battleship. His quarters had been placed right next to the CIC. He’d spent weeks of training ensuring that everyone knew how to use the systems they had developed for coordinating the fleet and using it in a battleship duel; he honestly felt that if they had had the system back in 1943, the Italian fleet would have been wiped out. Captain Abernathy straightened up at once and saluted; Fraser returned it without much irritation. He’d served with Captain Abernathy long enough to know that he never panicked over nothing.

“Sir,” Captain Abernathy said. His face looked grim in the red light of the radar screens. “Ten minutes ago, we picked up a radio transmission from one of the fishing boats, a transmission warning of enemy aircraft. We lost contact almost immediately afterwards and have been unable to raise them since.”