A battleship of Nelson’s size might well have shrugged off a single strike from one of those missiles, but the simultaneous impact of six such weapons was more than any vessel could hope to endure. No one had seen it coming: the trio of launch aircraft had remained completely out of visual range, and with an approach that was almost supersonic, the Tridents had been far too quick for anyone to spot in time to raise a warning. Nelson slowed to a halt, dead in the water and mortally wounded as another six missiles smashed into the ruined ship. The end wasn’t long in coming, and although a number of life rafts managed to get away, most of her crew ended up trapped inside her hull as the valiant old ship capsized. She turned over with incredible speed as her entire port side filled with sea water that poured in through twelve huge, jagged holes in her hull. One more Trident smashed into her exposed keel as her stern finally rose slowly into the air, and Nelson slipped slowly beneath the waves of the North Sea while another missile suddenly found itself devoid of a target and smashed itself to pieces on the water’s surface a few hundred metres beyond where Nelson had disappeared.
The whole time that battle had raged, an exceptionally fierce smaller engagement had played out between them in ‘no man’s land’ as escorting destroyers of both fleets met at closer range and tried to fight their way past each other to press home torpedo attacks on the enemy capital ships. In this smaller skirmish, the British outnumbered the German destroyers by fully two to one, and had won a resounding victory which had allowed the destroyers Lance and Punjabi to break through and finish off Scharnhorst with torpedoes. Their success was short-lived however, as single Trident missiles smashed each vessel to pieces moments later, and still more of the guided weapons slammed into the already stricken Warspite and Queen Elizabeth, both of them also sinking almost immediately. Many kilometres to the north, only Ark Royal and the torpedo-damaged Malaya were able to avoid destruction as the pair of ships formed up with their remaining destroyer escorts and retreated to the north at best possible speed, seeking the relative safety of Scapa Flow.
At the Battle of The Dogger Bank in 1915, neither the Royal Navy nor the German High Seas Fleet had been able to capitalise on their opportunities, and the engagement had ended in little more than a costly ‘draw’ as a result. The Second Battle of The Dogger Bank of 11th September, 1940 would soon be overshadowed by the rest of the momentous events unfolding that day, but within naval circles the world over it would be discussed for decades to come, and as was the case with the First World War engagement, that debate would be as much over missed opportunities as for what did come to pass. One thing that was certain was that the name of HMS Nelson and the story of her final, unforgettable last stand against the overpowering might of those Kriegsmarine superbattleships would become symbolic in its representation of what had been lost to the entirety of The British Empire in that moment she heeled over and capsized. With her passing, as with that of the ironclad Thunder Child in Wells’ novel of a different, Martian invasion, Britain’s last hope of halting the onslaught also vanished into history.
Hindsight emergency airstrip ‘Alternate’
Eday, Orkney Islands
The flight deck of the Galaxy was well-insulated and was also relatively soundproof as a result, and Davies managed to keep Eileen distracted long enough for her not to notice the sound of the Lightning’s engine spooling up until it was far too late to do anything about it. The F-35E was already starting to taxi along the concrete runway as she dived past him and down the access ladder to the main cargo deck, and Trumbull had executed a perfect short take-off by the time she’d bolted down the forward loading ramp.
“Where in the name of God is that silly bugger going?” She howled at Davies as the man joined her a moment later on the runway, and the Lightning disappeared through the low cloud cover above.
“Training exercise…?” Davies offered hopefully.
“‘Training exercise’ my bloody arse, Jack…!” Eileen snarled, drawing in close to him and standing face to face, blasting him with her words in a fashion he’d never before experienced. “I know where the bastard’s going, and I know you were in on the whole thing!” He’d never seen the woman lose her temper in a position of command, and it was a side of her that unnerved him… he found he didn’t care for it one little bit.
“I don’t know what upsets me more,” she continued, walking away from him again now, hands on her hips in exasperation and clutching at the waist of her combat jacket. “The fact that you’re disobeying orders in the stupidest possible way… or that you didn’t think to come to me first if you were working on a plan to try and find Max.”
“It was a kinda ‘spur of the moment’ thing,” Davies offered with an apologetic shrug. “The boy knows his stuff, Eileen… give him some credit.”
“Knows just enough tae get himself intae trouble…!” She growled, her accent becoming more pronounced under stress. “How the hell does he think he’ll find the man with all this shite going on?”
“He knows Southern England from the air, and he knows as much as we do: that Max is in Kent, somewhere near Ashford. He also knows Max has his radio with him, and the frequency he needs to contact him. You think Max won’t respond when he hears Alec calling for him…?”
“This is not over…!” Eileen snapped back, not in the slightest bit pleased by the situation, or how it had come about. “This is far from over!” Taking into account the dark expression on her face, Davies was inclined to believe her.
20.
Prodigal Sons
Prepared defensive lines at Smeeth
South-East of Ashford, Kent
As the Home Fleet and Kriegsmarine were trading their first shots off the Dogger Bank, reports were beginning to filter back to the defences near Smeeth that enemy units were advancing in their vicinity. The consistent cloud-cover of morning had transformed after midday into a dark and brooding pall that flickered with the occasional burst of hidden lightning and threatened of rain, none of that helped by literally tonnes of smoke that had been pouring into the atmosphere all day across South-East England due to the intensity of combat. Visibility was cut severely, as was the ambient temperature to the point of almost being chilly, and there was an excellent chance of a fog or mist rising as evening drew closer; something that would certainly aid the defenders immensely.
The drop in available light due to the thickening cloud cover was enough to cut vision markedly, and that in itself would provide the tanks and guns dug in across the A20 with badly-needed assistance. There’d been reports that Dover and Folkestone had fallen already, and if that were indeed the case, masses of troops and extra materiel would soon be joining this first wave of invaders. There’d been no indication of how thing were faring in the other invasion areas to the south-west as yet, although landings in Sussex and Hampshire had also been confirmed.
Jimmy Davids and his crew were tense and as ready for their first taste of combat as they’d ever be. There was a certain amount of fear and nervousness of course, but the fact that they’d be defending their own country went a long way to balancing the scales. All had heard the sounds of battle off to the east that’d been going on since dawn, and could easily see the haze of smoke and dust that had hung across the entire eastern horizon, thick enough to taint and discolour the overcast skies across the eastern tree-lines that morning. They’d all also heard and felt the distant, booming detonations of 800mm shells as Gustav and Dora had first bombarded the beach neat St Mary’s Bay, then Dover into oblivion, and it hadn’t been difficult to guess at the origin of those far-off explosions, although there’d been no official reports. Captain Carroll was normally forthright in passing on information to his men about what was going on, and the silence they were now receiving from both their commander and 2IC, accompanied by their unsettling expressions, was as damning as any spoken words might’ve been.
Something the crew of Grosvenor hadn’t expected that afternoon was the arrival of three armed men on foot, guided by their o
wn lieutenant. The trio were dressed in a varying manner of camouflage smocks and fatigues, and carried an equally-broad variety of weaponry along with their backpacks and webbing. Amazingly, one of them proved to be a German officer, dressed in a very poorly-maintained Luftwaffe uniform beneath a long, ‘tiger-striped’ battle-jacket. Little was given by way of explanation for the men’s presence, other than orders from the CO that Davids’ crew was to ‘look after them’, although for what exact purpose was intentionally left unsaid. An Australian and American accompanied the German pilot, and it quickly became clear that the Aussie was in charge, while the Yank was carrying a ‘rifle’ on his back large enough to be more at home mounted on a split-trail gun carriage. The fact that the German was also armed, the butt of a Luger poking from the flap of his regulation, cross-draw holster, gave none of the tank crew any feelings of amity or comfort.
Gerry Gawler, the German-hating gunner, had by his own admission almost gone into ‘conniptions’ upon discovery of a despised ‘Hun’ in their ranks, and there’d been some tense moments, along with some stern glares from the Australian and (to a lesser extent) the American, and some serious talk from Davids, before the corporal had calmed himself down enough for the Luftwaffe officer to be allowed anywhere near the tank. Although unlikely, Davids didn’t put it beyond the realms of possibility their commanding officer had purposefully volunteered his tank because of the well-known hatred Gawler harboured for the enemy: the CO’s warped sense of humour was well known, and to be honest, some light relief couldn’t hurt to boost morale.
The Australian – introduced as an Air Vice Marshal by the name of Max Thorne – was at least somewhat more forthcoming about why the trio were there. Although he quoted ‘Official Secrets’ and gave little detail, he explained they’d come along to make sure the German was returned to his side as the invaders advanced, and the rest wasn’t hard to work out: although no one was admitting it, the man was ‘obviously’ a British agent preparing to infiltrate the enemy. That was all well and good in Davids’ opinion, and the logic certainly mollified Gawler a great deal. Keeping in mind that the man might actually be an agent for MI6 or SOE helped the gunner force himself to at least try to be civil.
Within minutes of arrival, Thorne was using a small, strange-looking radio set attached to his webbing belt, its microphone mounted at his collar, and appeared to be communicating with a relaying station they all assumed was in London. He’d given their approximate location and a précis of the situation, and there’d been some relatively heated discussion that had left the man red-faced and ill-tempered for a short time, although he’d moved far enough away from the tank to keep the actual content of the conversation’s private.
It was in this fashion that the three newcomers spent an unusual hour or so in the company of the crew of Matilda II infantry tank Grosvenor of A Sqn, 7th Royal Tank Regiment. The tankers were obliging, and passed around warm tea that was gratefully received, although Connolly as usual insisted on coffee to be difficult, and was more than a little miffed when Ritter agreed with his choice of brew, requesting coffee also and spoiling the tank driver’s fun in being the only person wanting something different. Most of that time, the trio in any case preferred to keep to themselves by the rear of the Matilda, which offended no one. It also gave Davids and his boys a chance to speak about the trio in hushed whispers, and spend some free time in discussion over the group’s true purpose.
“How’re you holding up, Carl?” Thorne inquired as the three men stood together, holding tin cups filled with hot beverage. He could see the pilot was displaying signs of stress in his expressions and actions, and he didn’t envy the man’s situation. Ritter also stank to high heaven, which also must’ve been causing the man some serious discomfort, considering how much it was already offending his and Kransky’s senses of smell.
The story they’d devised for the pilot’s return to the Wehrmacht was one of having made a forced landing in Scotland following the attack on Scapa Flow, then escaping custody while being transferred to London for interrogation. Ritter’s uniform had been exposed to some rather rigorous environments in support of the pretence in order to produce the required look and, more importantly, the appropriate smell.
“This is… not easy…” The German admitted after a moment’s thought.
“Well… if it helps, the Wehrmacht was coming anyway, regardless of Hindsight, and as such you’d have ended up back home regardless in the end.”
“Back home, yes… the chance of being uncovered as a spy…‘no so much’ is the phrase I believe I’ve heard you use on occasion…”
“I can’t force you to do anything for us, Carl,” Thorne pointed out. “You know who to contact once you’re back in Germany, but no one will actively seek you out… it’s up to you whether you do anything about what you know.”
“I think I know you well enough now to know you would not expose me if I do not have the strength,” Ritter ventured, his tone holding great nervousness and fear. “But there are my wife and the boys now to think of also… I am… concerned…”
“There are a lot of things I probably could do, Carl,” Thorne agreed, nodding slowly, “and I’m a little ashamed to admit that I at least thought about some of them… you could be our only hope, and this is that important.” He shrugged. “But I like to sleep at nights too, mate,” he explained simply, hoping the man could understand that. “It’s your call on what you and your conscience can live with… I’m not going to push you into it.”
“I too have to sleep though, yes?” The man grimaced in return, his thoughts turning again to the exterminations his countrymen would exact on defenceless Jews and other so-called ‘undesirables’ in the next few years, the sadness of it all sweeping over him.
“What are we that we could do such a thing?” Ritter added with a hollow voice. “Is Germany a land of butchers? I’ve lived through these times, and I saw what was happening, just like everyone else…” his voice trailed off for a moment “…yet none of us have really seen what we’ve allowed to go on right under our noses.” Ritter hadn’t been one of the growing number of Germans from all over the country who’d voted for the NSDAP and Adolf Hitler in the elections that had eventually brought the Nazis to power in 1933, but thinking back now, neither could he recall anyone, himself included, being particularly active in decrying their tactics or their extremist creed. In his heart, he’d known they’d been be the major cause behind the waves of violence, disruption and civil disturbance that’d signalled the death knell of the Weimar Republic and caused the cries for order that’d swept those same Nazis to power… and he was now left wondering how he and his fellow Germans had allowed the insanity to continue without even a peep.
“There are hundreds of thousands of pages of discussions, arguments and dissertations in our time about it,” Thorne gave a sad, rueful smile of understanding sympathy. “People do PhDs on the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ of how Hitler manipulated and held the entire German population spellbound … or at least enough of it to ensure political victories and entry to the Reichstag.” He took a sip at the steaming tea and shrugged. “Hitler was – is – a freak of nature that defies complete explanation. Had he been born at any other time in history or made a home in any country other than Germany, he’d probably never have reached the heights he has. Carl, in many ways you’re not exactly a man of your time: you think too much in deeper areas than many care to venture. You’d be more at home in my time, I think, than this one, but you’re still a German for all that. The part of Europe your country occupies has been fragmented, invaded and fought over for centuries – its geographical position alone on the European continent means that there have historically only been two true states of being for what’s now the modern German nation: divided and controlled by other nations, or unified and dangerous.
“Your ancestors have historically been raised under the continual threat of invasion or other pressures, and have developed as an incredibly ordered and martial peop
le as a result. You only have to look at the histories of Arminius, right through to the Prussians and the formation of Modern Germany to see that, and that kind of heritage responds to order and direction… it respects strong figures that promise more of the same. Hitler used and abused that natural tendency as a nation.” He gave a wry grin as a thought occurred to him. “There’s an old joke in our time that claims the two greatest tricks Austria ever played on the world were convincing everyone that Hitler was German, and that Beethoven was Austrian.” He paused. “There’s all that… and then, some of it’s our fault too.”
“Your fault…?”
“Well… not my fault as such… the fault of Versailles and the Allied Powers is what I meant.”
“This is hard to understand,” Ritter countered with the hint of an exasperated smile on his lips now as Kransky listened to the conversation with great interest. “First you show me how terrible The Führer is, and what he will do to Germany and the world, and then you agree with him and his claims regarding Versailles.”
“Like I said… Hitler was in exactly the right country t exactly the right time for him to succeed. I’m speaking from the benefit of hindsight of course – no pun intended – but the vindictiveness of the Allied Powers after World War One and the imposition of ludicrous, impossible war reparations and restrictions under the Treaty of Versailles produced exactly the right conditions for the rise of the Nazi party. The economic depressions that hit the world during at the end of the 1920s weren’t restricted to Germany alone, but the unwavering insistence of the Allies over the continued payment of reparations exacerbated the problems in your country beyond belief. The arrogant occupation of the Rhineland by the French between the wars, and Germany’s subsequent loss of industrial capacity only served to make things worse again… and all of that no more than vengeance in retaliation for the First World War, vindictiveness over the German occupation of Alsace-Lorraine prior to that, and French defeats at German hands at the end of the last century. The only voice even resembling sanity at the time was that of Woodrow Wilson and the United States, and their ‘compromise’ was to reduce German reparations to the point they’d be completed in Nineteen Eighty-Eight!
England Expects (Empires Lost) Page 89