“It’s all just a question of time in the end, Max,” Markowicz shrugged again, “and whether we’ll have enough of it.”
“We’re hoping we can buy some more time, Hal,” Thorne said with more seriousness than the scientist expected, and they stopped walking for a moment as the solemn expression on the Australian’s face captured all of the older man’s attention. “We need you to arm one of the ‘Three Stooges’.”
“I was afraid it would come to this,” Hal said sadly, shaking his head. “After I heard they’d hit us here at Hindsight, I was afraid.”
“It was already on due to a request from the PM, but the attack damn sure sealed the matter,” Thorne growled darkly. “I just hope it’s enough to really make them back the fuck off! That’s why I want those reports you’re bringing back with you: we need to make sure we hit something valuable enough not to need a follow up strike. With any luck, those intelligence reports will give us something to work with as an appropriate strategic military target.”
“And if a military target can’t be found…?” Hal enquired pointedly, instantly picking up on the emphasis in Thorne’s last sentence.
“I don’t want to take out Berlin unless I have to… or Munich…” The Australian answered finally after a long pause, giving the answer Markowicz had feared. In Thorne’s mind, the latter of the cities mentioned was probably a better target, as the Bavarian capital had been Hitler’s political ‘birthplace’.
“And if they strike back in kind… either here or against London…?”
“We intercepted the transport carrying Reuters’ nuclear research, tank guns and some other shit before it got out of Realtime,” Thorne pointed out, unhappy with the magnitude of the decision before him and rationalising somewhat as a result.
“And they’ve also had years here to start developing something indigenous.” Markowicz shot back. “Where does it leave is if they have a ‘Fatman’ or ‘Little Boy’ to send over with their next ‘B-29’?”
“I personally think they’d have sent one over under a fucking Flanker by now, if they did have one,” Thorne growled, “and the effort they’ve put in so far attacking us suggests we’d probably have warranted it.” He began to walk again, striding ahead as the others hurried to catch up. “Of course, we’ll all be fucked if I’m wrong…!” He muttered sourly, but it was under his breath, and none of the others heard.
Wehrmacht Western Theatre Forward HQ
Amiens, Northern France
Wednesday,
August 21, 1940
The disagreement playing out that morning was one of the more agitated ever to arise between the heads of New Eagles since their arrival in Pre-War Germany, notable not so much for volume or aggression, which were both kept well in check, but for its intensity and the polarised nature of the opposing viewpoints. The mood around the headquarters had been poor at best in the days following the loss of Ritter’s flight and most of SKG1 over Scapa Flow, with the apathetic and despondent lack of emotion generally displayed by the Reichsmarschall quickly spreading to those in his immediate vicinity, including Müller and even the usually irrepressible Schiller.
The major point of contention surrounded Reuters’ reluctance to send another reconnaissance flight over Scapa Flow, to determine once and for all whether the outcome of the disastrous raid had actually been successful. The loss of their agent on site had shut down any direct information, and there’d also been a complete cessation of reports regarding Hindsight or Scapa Flow in general from any of the other sources they had in Great Britain… something that could be taken to mean one of two things.
Reuters preferred – wanted – to believe it was an indication the raid had indeed been a success, and that there was therefore no continuing information on Hindsight or Max Thorne available to be circulated. Prior to the raid, the man’s name and the unit itself had figured quite regularly in certain areas of intelligence to which they had access, but this was no longer the case. Reuters was loathe however to seek out any real confirmation of that assumption, something the two men closest to him were uncomfortable with to say the least, and both had to admit their CO hadn’t quite been the same man following the revelation that Carl Ritter had been listed as missing over Scapa Flow.
“It’s equally likely there’s simply been an artificial blackout placed on information concerning the base Hindsight or, alternately, codenames have been changed to hide that information from prying eyes,” Müller was trying to point out as the three men sat alone in Reuters’ favourite briefing room, his tone clearly indicating the exasperation he felt. “Unless we have photographic evidence of what’s happened one way or the other, we simply can’t be certain!”
“And I have already made it clear I’ve no intention of risking either of the remaining Flankers on such a dubious mission,” an irritable Reuters stonewalled from his usual seat opposite the others at the large table. “The likelihood of anything useful coming out of it doesn’t measure up against the damage another loss would do to us.”
“A loss which can’t be possible if the base has already been destroyed and there’s no longer a threat, as you’re choosing to believe,” Müller shot back tartly, gaining a glare but no immediate reply from his superior.
“I understand how difficult this must be,” Schiller ventured, trying a softer tack, “but we have to know one way or the other. If we’re wrong, and Hindsight does still exist…”
“Whether we’re right or wrong is of no relevance!” Reuters growled angrily, cutting him off. “Hindsight exists no more as far as The Führer’s concerned, and he’s going to continue to believe that.”
“‘Confirming’ the base’s destruction to him was premature, Kurt… it wasn’t a good idea.”
“And if we send this recon flight, and it comes back with evidence we failed…?” Reuters’ voice was soft, but the tone was savage. “That’ll be me finished in his eyes… and the rest of you with me! Do you think that would be a ‘good idea’? That raid was a ‘success’ whatever the actual outcome.”
“We can hit them again if we know the truth… make sure of it…” Schiller tried to continue.
“We have nothing left to hit them with!” The Reichsmarschall snarled with vehemence, making Schiller flinch in surprise as he slammed his palm down on the tabletop. “Everything we have is needed for Seelöwe! Losing SKG1 alone has left gaps in our pre-invasion bombardment plans we can ill afford!” He exhaled sharply and nervously ran both hands through his short, greyed hair. “Our capital ships have taken almost everything our industry and manpower could spare over the last seven years, and what’s left has only barely been enough to provide us with the rest of the equipment we need for this invasion… that includes all the new tanks and armoured vehicles that’ve been so late in coming as a result! We have just three carrier-based surface groups, all required to support the invasion’s initial thrusts across the Channel. None of our air power can be released for exactly the same reason: I’m not going to weaken the Luftwaffe any further when we’re so close to S-Day… there’s no time to regain our strength. You two know all of this!”
“And if they have survived, and they decide when the invasion comes they have no alternative but to use one of the devices our agent believed they were guarding in the Galaxy’s hold?” Müller’s question brought up the one real problem with Reuters’ plans, and it was a question the Reichsmarschall had been avoiding.
“We’ve been through this before as well!” His tone was almost plaintive now… the pressures building up to what could be the most important moment in the history of the Twentieth Century were starting to become obvious now, greatly exacerbated by personal issues that were far from dealt with on a number of levels. “We don’t know that what they were keeping inside the aircraft were nuclear weapons… Klein never got close enough to confirm what they had in there. It they were nuclear weapons, then they were well shielded: the dosimeters he carried with him never detected any radiation whatsoever, and he was able to get
close enough for there to have surely been something detectable, even if only in tiny doses.” He sighed deeply, his face and body language clearly showing the exhaustion and tension he was feeling. “We know there are three crates in that aircraft’s hold that we’ve not been able to identify… if they are in fact nuclear weapons, and Hindsight still survives then –at worst – they only have three nuclear weapons, and that changes nothing. They can damage our plans for Seelöwe only if they use them on tactical targets during the invasion itself, or on the assembly points before they sail. If this does occur it may… may… disrupt or halt our operations, but even that isn’t necessarily inevitable. Even if Seelöwe were postponed or abandoned, we can still blockade the British Isles with sea and air power and starve the country into submission: the U-boats and aircraft we have at our disposal are far more advanced that Germany possessed in Realtime. Whatever the situation at Scapa Flow, we’ll eventually prevail regardless of any potential nuclear threat. Right now it’s what appears to be the case that’s far more important than what actually may be!”
“You’re worrying more about our own Chancellor than you are about the enemy!” Schiller growled, unimpressed with the rationalisations behind Reuters’ words and not afraid to make his displeasure known.
“Because the threat from that direction is far greater, and far more real than anything the British can throw at us, bomb or no bomb… you know damn well that’s true, Albert!” The continual badgering had finally worn him down however, and he raised a hand to silence his friend as Schiller began to reply. “But… as you two are so adamant; we will send a recon flight by the end of the week… just to make you both happy.”
“We all want the same thing, Kurt!” Schiller moderated, appeased by the small victory. “There’s no one happier than I when we confirm Hindsight has been destroyed.”
“There’ll be one person happier,” Reuters said sharply, his voice cold as ice.
Prepared defensive lines at Smeeth
South-East of Ashford, Kent
That Wednesday evening was much the same as it had been most nights in the last two weeks for the tankers of A Squadron, 7th Royal Tank Regiment. Their encampment was dispersed a few kilometres south-east of Ashford for safety, and hidden at the edge of a small wood to the northern side of the Hythe Road (A20) as it continued on from Ashford down to Folkestone and the Dover Strait. The evening meal had been served from the back of a mobile field kitchen converted from one of the unit’s Bren carriers, and the meal, bland and tasteless as usual, had been forgotten within minutes of its consumption.
They spent their time smoking while playing Five Hundred or Canasta and occasionally sneaking a drink from an illegal stash of rum the CO knew about but ignored. The digging of defensive earthworks had been finished for some time, and as such there was little more for them to do save what they already were doing… waiting for what now seemed to be the inevitable. Infantry, anti-tank units and some cruiser tanks of the 1st London and the 47th Divisions were dug in along the coast from Dover to Dungeness, but the heavier armoured units were being held in reserve, ready to counter-attack if required or, as might well become necessary, to stand and hold the defensive lines further inland if the initial German assault broke out from the beaches.
The crew of Grosvenor watched that evening as a convoy of Bedford trucks rumbled past, heading for the coast with an assortment of anti-tank guns and support equipment in tow. Just half a kilometre north of the road at that point, Grosvenor was one of the closer of 7RTR’s tanks, and from where they huddled around their sheltered fire by the Matilda’s bow, the precession was clearly visible despite the failing light.
“They’re pushing their luck, ain’t they?” Gerry Gawler observed over an enamel mug of warm, weak tea with a malicious grin, making a great show of stretching his arm and glancing at his watch. “Still a few minutes of daylight left… Luftwaffe might get ‘em!” Very little moved during daytime hours due to uncontested Luftwaffe air superiority, and the nights were therefore full of activity from dusk until dawn as troop movements, reinforcements, resupply convoys and the like travelled this way and that around Southern England under the cover of darkness.
“Jerry bombers would ‘ave us too if they could find us, Corp,” Steven Hodges observed with a grin of his own, mouth half full of stale bread that he’d dunked into his own tea in a vain attempt to soften it up.
“Doubt they’d ‘ave Gerry, even if they could find him…!” Davids pointed out with a mischievous grin, the minor privilege of higher rank letting him get away with using the corporal’s hated nickname. “Those Luftwaffe boyos are right fussy, I’m told.”
“Very bloody funny,” Gawler growled in return, his tone indicating he thought rather the opposite. “Fussier than the Royal Tank Regiment, I’ll warrant!”
“They’re takin’ more a’ those new 10-pounders down to the coast, I see,” Davids changed the subject with a smile, ignoring the corporal’s return shot as he huddled above his crew on Grosvenor’s glacis plate, greatcoat wrapped about him.
The passing convoy was towing a mixture of the usual 2-pounder anti-tank guns, identical to the weapon mounted in a Matilda’s turret, and a new weapon that had only begun to appear in the last month or so. The 10-pounder anti-tank gun – official army title ‘QF 10-pounder Gun HLPS Mk.1’ – was an interesting weapon, and the tankers had learned that new Matildas and Valentines coming off the production lines were also being armed with it in place of the venerable 2-pdr. It fired a shell that was basically a 3-inch mortar bomb fitted with a hollow-charge warhead, and could also fire high-explosive rounds and all the other types normally used for that same mortar. The 81mm projectile was fitted into a shortened and necked-down version of the 3.7-inch AA cartridge case, and used what the armourers called a ‘High-Low Pressure System’ that meant the weapon produced far less recoil than a normal AT gun.
That recoil was low enough that the weapon could be mounted on quite a light and handy gun carriage, and its weight in action of just 750kg was lower than the 2-pdr it was replacing. Yet the 10-pounder still exhibited far better penetration against armour plate, and could be accurately used out to an effective range of 800 metres. A lack of recoil also meant no requirement for heavy construction in its components, and was also the reason it could be mounted on smaller turret rings such as that of the Matilda, Valentine or A-series Cruiser tanks, although there was the trade-off disadvantage of fewer rounds being carried due to their increased size. So far the new guns had worked well in practice, but were yet to be blooded in actual combat.
There were a half a dozen or so of the 10-pounders dug in along their section of the lines and around the A20 itself, intended to slow any enemy thrust toward Ashford. There was a vital rail junction that converged on the town from Sussex and Surrey in the west to join the Southern Line coming from Folkestone, continuing north-east toward Maidstone and on to London. It was an important supply and rally point, and if it wasn’t held, the defences throughout South-East England might well falter or even collapse.
“Rather put me faith in one o’ those ‘three-point-sevens’,” Angus Connolly growled from between Hodges and Gawler, sipping at a coffee he’d argued for simply because everyone else was having tea, and he wanted to be difficult. “Any bastard comes in range of them’s well fooked!”
All of them nodded in agreement at that observation. Four 3.7-inch medium AA guns were also dug in slightly behind the main line of 10-pdrs by the road. The weapons had recently been fitted with direct-fire sights and broad shields that hung over their barrels, making them look quite uncannily like the 88-mm Flak-36 that was the enemy’s direct counterpart. The shields gave extra protection against shell splinters and small arms fire, although they’d never stop a tank shell, and the new sights for the first time allowed them to be used as direct-fire anti-tank weapons. With a calibre of 94 millimetres, it had been supplied with two new and extremely potent anti-tank shells that promised to make the gun just as deadly as the f
eared German ‘88’, if not more so.
“It’ll mean fuck-all what you put yer faith in if that fuckin’ ‘supergun’ draws a bead on us,” Gawler muttered, a little unsettled as the thought occurred to him. Rumours of what had happened at Dover and at Guston Railway Tunnel the week before had spread throughout southern England and had helped morale not one whit. “We’ll all be fucked!”
“That’s all shite!” Davids snapped, far too quickly for his rebuttal to be entirely convincing. “A load o’ bloody tripe spread by fifth-columnists and fuckers like that Lord Haw Haw boyo! No such bloody thing as a Godalmighty ‘supergun’!”
“Tell that to the poor bastard I ran into in town two days ago,” Gawler retorted, his tone and expression deadly serious. “Bugger was with a field hospital unit headed back to London… Royal Marine he was… one of the crew of the railway gun that got slaughtered at Sandgate. Two shots were all it took and they was all dead… just like that!” Gawler snapped his fingers crisply for effect. “Only him and three other fellers got out with their lives, and all of them wounded… said it felt like the bloody Germans was throwin’ battleships at ‘em.”
“That’s fookin’ stupid,” Connolly grumbled after a pause, during which his mind had thought unsuccessfully through what the corporal had said. “How the fook would Jerry throw a whole fookin’ battleship…?”
“Fer Christ’s sake, Angus,” Gawler began as Davids snorted with muffled laughter and Hodges simply groaned and shook his head. “How in the name of all that’s holy did you make lance corporal?”
“The RSM said ah was too much of a cunt to stay a fookin’ private,” came the innocent, matter-of-fact reply, and all of them suddenly burst into fits of laughter, save for a bewildered LCPL Connolly himself. Laughing so hard he almost fell off the Matilda’s glacis plate, Davids was glad of the humour: any such moments were few and far between, and went a long way toward lightening a mood that over the last weeks had gradually but steadily turned distinctly sour.
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 66