The Invasion of 1950 (66 page)

Davall lifted his German-made assault rifle and opened fire. The others followed suit. Caught by surprise, the Germans were hacked down quickly and efficiently. The guards at the gate, expecting a British raid from the outside, turned too late. Two of Davall’s men gunned them down before running to the gates and closing them completely. The Germans on the outside would know that something had gone badly wrong, but it would take them time to realise what had happened and by then, Davall hoped to have completed their task and vanished into the side streets.

“Move,” he ordered as he gunned down a German officer. They left bloody foot prints on the pavement, with dead or wounded Germans everywhere, but there was no time to finish off the wounded. The Germans on the inside should know that they were under attack and couldn’t be allowed to regroup, or the attack would fail before it had even begun. He unhooked a fragmentation grenade from his belt and tossed it into the lobby, before following in and shooting down a pair of German clerks who had been sheltered by their desks. The files that had recorded every detail of every person who lived in Felixstowe were caught and slowly burned to ash. Davall laughed aloud as he threw more grenades into the barracks, hearing the screams of Germans who were caught by surprise before they even had a chance to react and escape, let alone counter-attack

Their target would be on the second floor. He led the way up the stairs as quickly as possible. It would be just like the
Standartenfuhrer
to manage a quick escape and leave his men in the lurch. He had to be found before that happened.

***

Standartenfuhrer
Ludwig Stahl had lost control and knew it. The British offensive had been augmented by an entire series of insurgent attacks, and he’d given up ordering reprisals because he no longer had the men to do it. Rommel’s demands for men had weakened him to the point where he was trying to control a vast area with only a few hundred men. Although he hated to admit it, he had lost his grip over almost all of the countryside. The only place that was reasonably ruled was Ipswich and that, he knew, was because there were thousands of German soldiers in the city. It was all he could do to hold on to the vital targets and keep the roads to the port open…not that it mattered any more The supply ships had been held back as the naval war raged, by the time a winner emerged, Stahl was starting to suspect that it would be too late for the lodgement.

He glared across at the French whore on his bed. She was holding one of her hands to her jaw where he had punched her in a fit of anger. She hadn’t deserved his rage, but the cold knowledge that he was losing control of everything and that his career was in flaming ruins had driven him into a frenzy. What could he do to reverse the trend? He couldn’t think of anything, short of mass slaughter, and he didn’t even have the manpower to do that; the most he could do was kill everyone in the detention camps…and violate Rommel’s orders in the process. The SS would get the blame for the loss of the lodgement, and Himmler would be furious. Stahl had considered trying to find a way back to Germany, but without a major wound, that was impossible. The transport aircraft were reserved for wounded men and officers.

“Damn you,” he said, wondering if there was any way to convince Rommel to return his men. Without them, it wouldn’t be long before he lost control over the vital areas as well, and then the failure would be impossible to reverse. “I need the…”

The shooting broke out, so close to Stahl’s hearing that he almost fainted, and he snatched his personal weapon out of his belt. It sounded as if the British were attacking his barracks…and, oddly enough, it made him smile. Everything had just boiled down to the simple matter of staying alive, rather than trying to control and contain an impossible situation. He laughed and turned to the French whore, hoping to share his new understanding, only to see her flying at him, knife in hand. Sheer surprise kept him motionless for a long chilling moment…and then Janine buried her knife in his throat, sending him falling to the ground and into darkness. He was barely aware of her final kick to his groin before he died.

***

“
Janine,” Davall cried as they broke into the office. Janine was standing over a very familiar SS officer, clothed in an oversized shirt that would have been white except for the blood covering her. She pulled her knife out of the monster's throat. Davall felt conflicted. He had wanted to break him with his own hands, but he was also relieved  that Janine was safe. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better,” Janine said, managing a weak smile. Davall’s eyes tracked the bruises on her body and lifted a questioning eyebrow. Her voice hardened into a steely tone. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I see,” Davall said. Whatever Janine had gone though in her final days as a whore, it wasn't something she wanted to talk about. Davall didn’t want to think about what her captor might have done to her. “We have to get out of here!”

Janine picked up a robe, covered herself more appropriately, and followed Davall and his men into the next room. A handful of blonde typists sat there crying. Davall allowed himself a moment of disgust as he saw how the women trembled while Janine had killed her tormentor. He saw the blonde woman who had taken down their details, long ago, and shot her through the head, leaving the others to remain behind in the burning barracks. The Germans would be trying to organise a counter-attack, but as long as they didn’t know what was happening for certain, there was still a chance to escape.

He caught Janine’s eye and winked at her. One way or another, the
Reich’s
occupation of Felixstowe would never recover from what they’d done and maybe they would be able to escape completely before it was too late. They ran down the stairs, hearing shooting and explosions from all over the town, and escaped out the back gates as the Germans attacked the front, trying to recapture the barracks.

“Run,” he ordered shortly and caught Janine’s hand. It would be unsafe in the extreme to be caught out in the open in German uniforms; they’d have both sides out for their blood. “Keep running and don’t look back!”

***

It wasn
’t, as Monty acknowledged privately, the most organised assault the British Army had ever mounted, but once they punched through the Colchester Line, the British Army regrouped and pushed on northwards towards the Ipswich Line. The Germans were on the retreat, hounded and harried by the British as they thrust forward to trap and destroy any stragglers. As they broke though the defences, the opposition tailed off. British tanks raced to the north, rumbling through towns and villages with bemused inhabitants holding out flowers and British flags for their liberators, trying to thrust as far north as possible before the Germans could regroup. In the wake of the armour, the infantry advanced, securing vital locations, clearing minefields. Along the way they were meeting up with insurgents and commandos for the final stage of the battle.

In his headquarters, Monty watched as the German lines formed around Ipswich and braced himself for the result of the final confrontation. He had learned his art in the desert, and then through endless exercises with his forces, but now he knew the cost of the coming offensive. If he won the battle, he would win the campaign, but the cost would be horrific. He’d stopped answering Churchill’s calls. Like him, all the Prime Minister could do now was wait.

***

The radio from Berlin cut in and out, but the gist of the message was clear. No German Field
Marshal had ever surrendered before, and Rommel was absolutely forbidden to be the first. Hitler had spoken on Radio Berlin himself, warning the
Reich
of hard days of struggle ahead and inviting the people of Germany to join him in believing that the legendary Rommel could draw victory from the very jaws of defeat. Baeck watched Rommel, knowing as much as Rommel himself about their position, and saw no way out of the trap.

“No German Field Marshal has ever surrendered,” Rommel said slowly. His eyes looked down at the map, perhaps matching it to his memories of the combat zone and seeing only darkness. He understood what the situation meant. “No German Field Marshal has ever surrendered.”

“No,” Baeck agreed morosely. He was tempted to make a remark about there always being a first time, but there was little point; he needed, the
Reich
needed, Rommel to be thinking properly. “Is there any way that we can create a victory?”

Rommel shook his head slowly.

“The British are preparing to cut off Ipswich and advance on the port,” he said. “Once that happens, our defeat will become inevitable.”

His lips twitched humourlessly. “There’s little point in continuing the struggle.”

Even though Baeck had known that it was inevitable, he was still shocked to hear Rommel advocating surrender. It wasn't in his legend. The man who had danced backwards and forwards in North Africa on a shoestring wouldn’t have surrendered.

He groped for words. “Is there truly no hope?”

Rommel nodded.

“Hans, contact the British commander and inform him that I would like to discuss an armistice,” he said. “Johan, inform the
Reich
that I am surrendering and accept no further calls from Berlin.

Then pass the orders to the defenders on the line and Felixstowe. They are to surrender, hand ove
r their weapons, and comport themselves with the dignity required of German officers and men.”

He pronounced doom in a soft, almost heartbreaking voice. “The Invasion of Britain is at an end.”

Felixstowe, England

The British Army ent
ered Felixstowe as the sun slowly set in the sky.

Colonel Harry Jackson looked upon the town he’d known and served in – although he hadn’t liked it much – and felt like crying. Seeing the results of the final struggle for control, a struggle only ended by Rommel’s surrender, almost broke his heart. Buildings had been destroyed, the main street was pockmarked by bullets, and a handful of the town’s notables were hanging from trees, hung by either the Germans or the resistance fighters. It looked as if the Germans would get the blame, but he had his doubts.

The Germans had retreated or surrendered. Some had boarded the final ships and set off across the Channel, trying to escape the vengeance of the British, while others had scattered into the surrounding area, trying to escape and become guerrillas. They would all be rounded up, sooner or later, but until then Felixstowe would remain a dangerous area. Some of them, he suspected, would still be in touch with Berlin and remain underground until the war finally came to an end. Mere hours after Rommel’s surrender had been broadcast, a flight of German bombers had hammered London with impunity, a reminder that the
Reich
was still across the Channel and the lives of British citizens would be blighted by the threat of war. The Germans, deprived of most of their fleet, would be unable to mount a second invasion in a hurry, but somehow he was sure that they would find other ways to continue the war. They might expand the submarine campaign.

He shook his head. That was well above his pay grade. “Sergeant,” he said as the marching soldiers finally fell out of line. The citizens were happy to see them. Jackson had seen several soldiers kissed by girls and had turned a blind eye for once. They all deserved a treat after so long. “Fall out all the men who have family in the area and inform them that they have five hours of leave to visit them and discover how they are.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilt said, and busied himself issuing orders. “And yourself, sir?”

“Company A, follow me,” Jackson said. Company A was composed largely of regular army soldiers from Newcastle. Instead of visiting relatives, they had less pleasant task to perform. “Keep the remainder of the soldiers on a loose leash at the barracks.”

Wilt winked in understanding. “Yes, sir,” he said. The soldiers could have their celebrations at the barracks and the areas surrounding the barracks, which happened to include several pubs. “A very loose leash indeed.”

Jackson led the company of men over to the village green, composing himself as best as he could; this wasn't going to be easy. The men sitting on the green, their hands laced together on their heads, looked as if they’d been abused; it would be difficult, if not impossible, to sort out who had taken legitimate injuries from the fighting from those who had actually been abused by their captors, assuming that anyone cared to try. Jackson wasn't sure if he wanted to try, not after seeing the damage and the signs of
Das Reich’s
passing, but maybe he would have no choice. No one was certain how scrupulously the Germans had adhered to the rules of war, at least in relating to British soldiers, and it would be a mistake to give them an excuse to start abusing the British prisoners.