The Invasion of 1950 (18 page)

They opened fire and the soldiers returned fire, cutting two of the Germans down before they reached cover and kept firing at the British line. They had a sniper up somewhere in one of the buildings; he hit two of Simmons’ men before one of the armoured cars swept the building with machine gun fire and killed the German. The entire battle was starting to turn into one of the counter-insurgency fights Simmons had seen in Northern Ireland; the thought gave him a moment of confidence. They’d won the few fights when the IRA came out to do battle in open fields – or, more often, in civilian areas with civilian lives caught in the middle. Simmons hoped that most of the civilians would be out of the area by now, but he’d heard that some SS units were fond of keeping civilians around to make life unpleasant for insurgents in Russia, and if they did that in the middle of London…

He ground his teeth as the soldiers slowly pushed their way into the park, cutting off one German unit from the other, assuming that they hadn’t abandoned one of their targets. The noise of gunfire was growing louder, most of it coming from the direction of Downing Street, so he assumed that the majority of the Germans were there. He didn’t relish a house-to-house fight through Downing Street, but if there was no other choice, he would have to deal with it. He detailed a unit to head towards Buckingham Palace when ten soldiers appeared out of nowhere; they didn't know just how lucky they’d been not to get shot.

“Captain Pagan,” the leader said, saluting. His weapons were British, Simmons realised, and allowed himself to relax. “We managed to clear the bastards out of Buckingham Palace, but the King was wounded and the barracks have been effectively destroyed.”

Simmons nodded. The Household Cavalry Mounted Regiment was dedicated to preserving the lives of the Royal Family, whatever it took; they had headed directly to the Palace and counter-attacked the Germans. He hoped that one of them might be a senior officer, but instead, they were all junior to him.

“We’re going to have to dig the Germans out of the area,” he said, shortly. It was the only responsible decision he could have made. He’d already started deploying his men in position for the assault; once the experienced men were ready, they would advance and dig out the Germans. He wasn't sure if he had the time to get all his ducks in a row, but in the absence of orders from higher up the chain, he intended to make sure it was all done properly. “Join your men to mine and prepare to advance.”

***

Skorzeny hadn
’t been wasting his time; after the first organised counter-attack, he’d ordered his men to fall back in their units, leaving a trail of traps and mines behind them. The British had been hampered by his snipers, but now that they were organising their forces, they would be able to rapidly hunt down his remaining soldiers and kill or capture them all. The din of combat was coming closer and he knew that time was about to run out.

He’d deployed nearly two hundred men in the assault; a third of them were now dead or seriously injured, unable to escape. Two of his
Strumscharfuhrers
had been giving them what aid they could, but now their time was up and they held their silenced pistols to their heads. The injured soldiers couldn’t be taken with the commandos and they couldn’t even defend themselves; those who could still fire a weapon had been given the best positions Skorzeny could find and ordered to hold for as long as they could.

“Now,” he said, into his radio. A handful of German bombers had loitered overhead, without dropping their bombs, until he gave the order. Their bombs fell and struck at British positions, bombing at random to allow his men a chance to escape. All too aware, of the tightening noose, Skorzeny barked a command and the remaining uninjured commandos scattered, a handful following him and others spreading out across the city. Many of them would be caught, but those who survived would go to ground until the Panzers reached their hiding places.

More firing broke out behind him as the injured men died to defend their comrades’ backs. The British had probably sealed off the bridge, but they hadn’t been able to prevent Skorzeny and his men from getting down to the river and jumping into the river and swimming downstream. Each man had a small straw in his possession and used it to breath, remaining underwater until they had drifted well away from the firing, before sticking their heads out of the water and checking their location. Skorzeny ordered them all out of the water and they broke into a warehouse, using it as a place to dry their uniforms and dump most of their weapons. The handful they kept were British-issue; they’d recovered them from Atlee’s bunker.

“Good,” Skorzeny said. They all spoke perfect English; they should be mistaken for English soldiers, rather than German soldiers, if they were seen. Flames and smoke were still rising up over London as the commandos walked through the streets, ignoring the panic and the handful of other military officers they met, merely exchanging salutes and walking onwards. Skorzeny led them through streets he had memorised, hunting for a particular address; he finally found it in a well-kept little set of streets, where the British upper middle-class would live.

He glanced at his men for a long moment. He hadn’t had time to brief them on where they were going; technically, he shouldn’t have brought them at all, but they were going to be needed. Their target lived alone, well away from anyone who might have revealed his activities to the world; Skorzeny and his men would be able to secure him without much in the way of bother, provided that they were unnoticed. The British weren’t the Germans; according to his briefing, where a German household would be awed to see soldiers, the British would be more likely to call the police and make a complaint. If they did that and someone worked out that there shouldn’t have been an army unit there…

Skorzeny pushed his doubts aside and knocked on the door. There was a long pause before he finally heard the footsteps of a man walking towards the door. When it opened, the man’s eyes blinked at the sight of armed soldiers. Skorzeny didn’t give him time to react. He stepped forward, pushed the door wide open, and urged his men inside. Two of them went off to search the house, the other three remained, holding their contact in their hands. He wouldn’t be able to escape.

“Good morning, Mr Philby,” Skorzeny said, very calmly. Philby would know who he was. “I am Contact Zero.”

Philby’s eyes went very wide. A moment later, he fell to the ground in a faint.

Felixstowe, England

Dawn was breaking, but there was little respite for the workers as the first of the large convoys came into port and began to unload. The night had been a nerve-wracking
one for
Oberst
Frank-Michael Baeck, even though he was certain that as the Germans expanded their control, he would have more warning of a second counter-attack A handful of infantry units had taken up positions surrounding Felixstowe itself and had reported a handful of skirmishes with Home Guardsmen, but there was no sign of a counter-attack

Baeck watched the frantic activity through tired eyes. The larger ships had been built to serve as invasion transports, despite their civilian appearance, and soldiers were marching off them in a seemingly endless line directed by NCOs to rallying points where they would be tasked with their missions and sent out to expand the beachhead. A stream of panzers had joined them, formed up to provide some additional heavy fire-power; the longer the British waited, the more confident Baeck was of beating off the expected counter-attack The
Hans Bader
had returned to the nearest French port for reloading; once it returned, Baeck expected that the lodgement could be expanded still further. The British would be working desperately to establish a defensive line to the west; once the German forces were strong enough, he suspected that Rommel would want to advance at once towards Ipswich. The larger town served as the GHQ for British forces in the area and the British commander would probably be based there.

He straightened to attention as Rommel himself entered, snapping a salute. Rommel looked tired but happy; Baeck felt a moment of resentment at how Rommel had remained with the main convoy, even though that had been at the Führer’s
direct orders. Rommel wouldn’t want to take the credit, and he was a little surprised that Rommel hadn’t simply jumped in and started issuing orders already, but Baeck felt as if he owned the lodgement. He’d commanded the force that had taken it.

His yawn surprised him. “I’m sorry,
Herr Feldmarschall
,” he said, quickly. Baeck hadn’t realised just how tired he was until he’d yawned. “It’s been a long night.”

“And you will get some sleep once this is over,” Rommel said, waving away Baeck’s concern. Rommel, a real soldier, wouldn’t worry about decorum during a time of struggle. “I have had a message from the
Fuhrer
himself, who has ordered you to be given the
Ritterkreuz des Eisernen Kreuzes
” - Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross – “as a reward for your service, which has not gone unremarked in Berlin.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple box, revealing an older medal, which he pinned quickly onto Baeck’s uniform. “You did very well…”

“This is your medal,” Baeck realised suddenly. Rommel had earned it for his campaigns in North Africa. “I can’t accept that.”

“Yes, you can,” Rommel said, firmly. Baeck felt a moment of pure pride as he gazed into Rommel’s eyes and saw the confidence and determination there. “It is my pleasure to give it to you.” He slapped Baeck on the back before proceeding to the next order of business. “Now, I need a report from you on what’s happened so far.”

Baeck pointed a hand at the map he’d hastily pinned up in the harbourmaster’s office; the harbour-master himself was currently under guard in one of the warehouses. He had protested the use of British labour in no uncertain terms, claiming that the workers were soldiers, until Baeck pointed out that if that were true, they were without uniforms and could be shot at once.

“We have roughly ten thousand troops and two hundred vehicles on the ground now, with more arriving all the time,” Baeck said, without hesitation. The shipping routes had been well planned, but a single British ship in the wrong place could have ruined their day, and shattered the plan. “I have sent patrols up towards Ipswich in the east, and have surrounded most of Felixstowe itself, with the intention of taking the town formally within the next few hours. So far, apart from one counter-attack, resistance has been light, but sometimes very determined. We caught them with their pants down.”

“Best way,” Rommel said. “What about the civilian population?”

“They are staying largely out of the way,” Baeck said, simply. “We sealed the town and hope to avoid any major confrontation with the civilians, simply ordering them to return to their homes and await orders. I expect that some of the young men will seek to try our mettle fairly soon, but until then, we’re keeping our grip as light as possible, consummate with our own security.”

Rommel nodded, his mind clearly following similar paths. Neither man wanted to be responsible for a massacre, and that was what would happen if British civilians ran into their formations with older weapons, but if it was a choice between keeping the roads open and opening fire, or allowing the British to slow their progress, they would have to open fire and hope that the
Fuhrer
was in a forgiving mood when he heard about it. Britain wasn't Russia.

“We have three hundred prisoners in the warehouses now, guarded by my people,” Baeck continued. “Most of them were either administrators for the docks or Home Guardsmen who cannot technically be used as labour; we’ve kept them prisoner until we can decide what to do with them permanently. A handful are women who were apparently plying their trade with the crewmen who stayed here and don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Leave them for the moment,” Rommel said, twisting his lips dryly. “That leads us with one important issue; what are we going to do next?”

A test
, Baeck thought.  He indicated the map with one hand. “According to aerial reconnaissance reports, the British have been forming a defence line here with the remains of the Home Guard and the regular army forces that were in the area,” he said. “We believe that they intend to fight to hold Ipswich and keep us penned in here while they bring up their heavy forces to crush us. I was under the impression that we intended to seek battle with them at once, and towards that extent I ordered the airfield just west of Felixstowe held and secured as a base for further operations.”

Rommel nodded once.  “Good thinking.”

Baeck allowed himself a moment of relief; holder of the Knight’s Cross or not, a word from Rommel in the Führer’s
ear would have resulted in him being unceremoniously transferred back to Russia or somewhere else where the women were ugly, the beer was terrible, and the locals were trying to kill him.