Should England Fall

by M L Maki

  Leonard asks, “Do you still fly?”

  “I just landed a few minutes ago.”

  Leonard continues, “When do you sleep?”

  “When I can.”

  Parks, “Why do your flights have knights of the round table call signs?”

  “To confuse the Germans when they were listening to our communications. Our new radios have better encryption now, but we haven’t changed the call signs.”

  Parks again, “Do you need us to change our call signs?”

  “No, but I do need a list of your flight and personal call signs, so I can put them out to my pilots.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Spike smiles, “Gentlemen, please call me Spike, or Hunt, or Commodore. I hate ma’am.”

  Leonard, “Can I ask why?”

  “Ma’ams are old with too many cats.”

  The two men chuckle. Parks, “Roger that, Spike. I’ll let my guys know, but they might slip up.”

  “No problem. What’s your call sign.”

  “Sparks. Landed on a metal mat field in training and forgot my tail hook was down.”

  “Leonard, what’s yours?”

  “Book, Commodore. I kept threatening the guys that I would read them from the book and that’s what I got.”

  Spike starts, then locks it down. Then, from an operator at the board, “Raid warning north. 10 plus, 100 miles east of Scapa Flow.”

  Spike, “Steer Lancelot. Launch the alert 5. Direct them to orbit over Dover in the dark.”

  She studies the map. “You can go if you wish, gentlemen. Thank you.”

  Leonard, “May we watch?”

  “Of course, this can be your watch time.” The phone rings, “Yankee 1.”

  “Dowding, Commodore, could you launch a bird to orbit London?”

  “Launching Percival now. I was going to put them over Dover. They’re pounding our infrastructure down there. With the fleet withdrawing, port facilities need to move to pri 2.”

  “Yes, I agree and that would work fine. Are you getting ground forces locations yet?”

  “It’s spotty.”

  “We’re scrambling everything to face the Hun. It’s hard to know where they are until we face them.”

  “Could we at least know where the friendlies are?”

  “That should be possible.”

  “The hardest part for our attack birds is knowing where our friendly forces are. We very much want to avoid blue on blue.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. I’ll get you what you need.”

  “Thank you, Air Marshal.”

  FIELD SOUTH OF DURHAM

  2250, 24 September, 1942

  The corpsman finishes cleaning and dressing Wingnut’s wounds. “Sir, most of these wounds are superficial, but there’s nothing I can do about your left shoulder. Some say immobilize it. I’m worried that will lock it up.”

  “It hurts like hell. What did I do to it?”

  “It looks like you dislocated it, then it popped back in. You have torn muscles, at least two. It requires a surgeon.”

  “What happens if I wait?”

  “The torn muscles atrophy and you may lose full range of motion and a lot of strength in that arm.”

  The company commander stands over Urland. “We need to medivac you out, sir.”

  Tommy looks up at him, “No. There’s no time. You guys need a forward air observer who knows what pilots need. When they’ve trained guys in the field, I’ll get fixed. If I can’t fly. I can’t fly.”

  The Captain says, “I’ve seen what the new planes can do. Point taken. You’ll need a couple of squads to protect you.”

  SGT Tully stiffens, “We’ve done pretty well by him so far, sir.”

  “You have. I’m thinking your four men, with eight of mine. Sergeant Rodriguez, you’ve shown initiative and good sense. Swap your 1919 for a BAR and pick seven men.”

  “Sergeant, sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Rodriguez, the war isn’t giving us time for a party, so here,” and hands Johnny his new stripes. “Make sure you get those on sooner rather than later.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Pick seven.”

  “Yes, sir,” and Sergeant Johnny Rodriguez goes out to picks the best guys he knows.

  The captain turns back to Wingnut, “Twelve should be enough to protect you and carry what you need. There is no way you can handle a pack.”

  Tully asks, “Captain, who’s in charge?”

  “Sorry, the Lieutenant’s in charge.”

  GRUMMAN AIRCRAFT FACTORY, LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK

  2348, 24 September, 1942 (0048, 25 September GMT)

  Lee sits in a conference room listening to the engineers go down the list. “Is the testing complete?”

  Grumman frowns, “I’d like to sort out the hydraulic oil leaks.”

  Lee, “They all leak. If it isn’t leaking, then don’t fly it.”

  One of the engineers asks, “Why, sir?”

  “Because a lack of leakage indicates a lack of fluid. Are we done?”

  Grumman sighs, “Yes, sir.”

  “Paint them tonight, Black Knight markings. We fly out in the morning. A stop in Iceland, then on to England. We fly with full guns and two AIM-9s. Turn on a transport to fly us back.”

  ADMIRAL’S CONFERENCE ROOM, USS CARL VINSON, CVN-70

  1705, 25 September, 1942

  All squadron commanders are quietly listening as Admiral Halsey’s staff goes over the intel picture. Halsey says, “We’re going to San Diego to draw new planes. I’m told the Redcocks will be transitioning to the new Tomcats. The Knight Riders will also transition from the Intruder to the Tomcats.”

  Captain Van Zandt says, “Another thing to note. The Germans have invaded England. Our friends over there are having all they can handle.”

  CDR Norman ‘Oyster’ Osterman, commanding officer of the Tomcatters, raises his hand.

  Halsey, “Yes?”

  Oyster, ‘To save time, we could start transitioning the two squadrons as we transit. When we get to San Diego, we’ll be ready to go.”

  Halsey nods, smiling, “Good idea. Make it so.”

  HENDERSON FIELD, GUADALCANAL

  1314, 25 September, 1942 (0514 GMT)

  SGT John Hunt sits on the ground outside the mess tent eating a hot meal. His company commander walks up, but no one salutes. Even with the island mostly cleared, sniper checks are not allowed. Hunt says, “Sir,” and starts to stand up.

  Captain Neal Morris waves him down, “You heard we lost Captain Westland from Easy Company last night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They decided to move Lieutenant Portman to Easy, so I need a new Lieutenant for your platoon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Morris smiles, “We’ll dispense with the formalities for now. I chose you and the old man agrees. Put on your second Louie bars.” He hands Hunt a set of gold bars.

  Hunt takes them, “Me, sir? I was a PFC not so long ago.”

  “You have a level head and are cool under fire. Will you do it?”

  “Um…Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.” He turns and addresses the platoon, “Listen up, jar heads. Hunt is your new platoon officer.” They just nod their heads and keep eating. It’s the first hot meal they’ve had in days.

  “Who do you want for your platoon sergeant?”

  “Lewis.”

  “Give him your old stripes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  101 BATTALION, 1ST BRIGADE, 3RD SS PANZER DIVISION, MIDDLETON-IN TEESDALE, UK

  0710, 25 September, 1942

  SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Rolf Meier looks over the bridge crossing the Tees. It’s crowded with civilians trying to flee. “Ah, what a lovely little town. Gentlemen, let us leave our mark on this place. Machine gun anyone on the bridge and continue.”

  The guns on three of his new Tiger HII tanks open up and soon the way is clear. They run over bodies and carts as they run up the road and
cross the bridge. An old Ford truck on the bridge gets pushed over the side. When Meier’s tank is half way across the bridge, it explodes and his tank falls ten feet into the river below. On the radio he screams, “KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!”

  Shots ricochet off his tank as he climbs out and falls into the cold river. He stands upright and walks to the north bank as bullet after bullet misses him. He pauses and studies the bank. Then, he climbs out, and walks to the column. “Baumann, get out of my tank.”

  “Yes, Obersturmbannfuhrer.”

  Once in the tank, he directs them into the river and across. He sees the sparkle of rifle fire from the bell tower of the church. “Gunner, church tower at ten 0’clock. Fire.” The 125mm main gun belches fire and the entire bell tower collapses. “Driver, continue.”

  GROUP COMMANDER HOLMES RESIDENCE, CUNDERDIN AIRFIELD, WEST AUSTRALIA

  1633, 26 September, 1942 (0833 GMT)

  Abigail Holmes is doing laundry in a bucket on her back porch when she hears a knock at her front door. She walks through the house and answers the door. A young copper-haired woman is standing there. Abigail, puzzled, asks, “May I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to be a bother, ma’am, but could we speak? I don’t know what else to do?”

  Abigail steps back, “Please, come in. Would you like some tea?” And offers the girl a seat in the front room.

  “Actually, I think I should explain why I’m here.”

  Abigail sits, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Betty Potts. I’m your husband’s secretary. I’ve been having an affair with him for three months.”

  Abigail’s feels a chill deep in her chest and her throat tightens. “I…I…I see. And the reason you are sharing this with me now?”

  “I’m at least two months pregnant.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “The curse didn’t come, so went to the base clinic. It’s confirmed.”

  “I take it, Howard is the father?”

  “He’s the only man I’ve ever known, um, like that.”

  “I see. Would you care for some tea, now?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, dear. I’ll not say I’m not angry. I am. However, the bulk of my anger is directed at my husband.”

  “Thank you, um… tea would be nice.”

  In the kitchen, Abigail picks up the phone and dials base operations. “Yes, this is Abigail Holmes. I need my husband home immediately. Thank you.”

  Once the water boils, she makes the tea and makes up a tray. She takes the tea into the front room and sets down the tray, “Here, dear. One lump or two?”

  “One, please.”

  Abigail serves, then sits down, and they sip their tea. She asks, “Do you wish to marry him?”

  “I honestly thought he was single. He said he was. I only found out about you a few days ago.”

  “Of course. Please, do you wish to marry him?”

  “I’m so very sorry, but yes.” Betty starts to cry.

  At this point, Group Captain Howard Holmes walks into the house. “What is this?”

  Abigail stands, “Well dear, I’m getting acquainted with your paramour. You have created quite a mess.”

  Howard turns to Betty, “Get the hell out of my house!”

  Abigail raises her voice, “You will sit down and shut up, Group Captain. I’m certain Air Vice Marshal Bostock would love to learn that you’re shagging your secretary.”

  Betty rises, shocked, and Abigail says, “Sit, Betty!”

  Abigail continues, “You knocked her up and now you’re going to divorce me and marry her. Your child deserves a good father. Instead, the poor thing is stuck with you. The least you could do is make it legitimate.”

  Howard goes white, “What child?”

  “She’s up the duff, and you’re the father.”

  “I see. Why are you so calm?”

  “Because killing you would not serve me or your child in the long run. You will see a barrister today. I am moving out. Today. I’m taking my things and I’m going home. I’ll be reverting to my maiden name. You will pay for my trip and let me know when the divorce is final.”

  “I will.”

  Abigail smiles, “Good.”

  “So, you’re going to run after your Yank flyer? I know you write him.”

  “I’ve been writing Lieutenant Hoolihan. And Howard, what I do is no longer any of your concern. You’ve given up that right. So, go back to work and leave me be so I can pack. Betty, please leave as well.”

  In shock, the two walk out and Abigail closes the door behind them. She puts her fists to her head and finally lets her tears come.

  CHAPTER 8

  USS JAMES HOLTZ (DDG-1), FEDERAL SHIPBUILDING AND DRY DOCK CO, KEARNY, NEW JERSEY

  0600, 25 September, 1942 (1100 GMT)

  A destroyer sits on its slipway decked out in flags and bunting. It may have started as a Fletcher class, but now it’s so much more. Unlike previous Fletchers, it has a three-post lattice mast to the rear of the bridge and a four-post mast just ahead of the aft funnel. She may look a bit like the old boats, but she has a new weapons suite. She’s the very first guided missile destroyer built in 1942.

  After the chaplain finishes the invocation, Admiral Ren walk up to the podium, “This ship, and her sisters to come, are the vanguard of a new era. She’s the first destroyer built with guided missiles.

  “But she can’t begin her life without a crew. The men before me are the heart and soul of this vessel. Another man’s soul resides in her as well. I knew Commodore James ‘Papa’ Holtz well. I knew him when he was a brash your aviator anxious to prove himself. I knew him when he was an assured commander at the top of his game. He died in a decisive battle thousands of miles from here, but I believe his courage, tenacity, and boldness will live on in you.

  “Here today to christen this fine vessel is Commodore Holtz’ widow, Lady, Audrey Holtz. Lady Holtz, thank you so much for being here.”

  Audrey, in an ankle length black dress and heavily pregnant, stands and waves, then sits down.

  Ren says, “Commander Dallas?” CDR John Dallas, previously the XO on the Jarrett FFG-33, steps up to the microphone. “Thank you, Admiral Ren, Lady Holtz. Men of the USS James Holtz, we have a proud tradition to uphold of duty, sacrifice, and honor. We are the beginning of a new era in naval warfare, and we’re going to show them how it’s done. I know that you are the best of the best and together we’ll make this the premier ship in the US Navy.

  “This ship exemplifies a melding of two worlds, the future and the past. With her, we can carry out our mission and save our present. I know that this crew and this ship are the beginning of the end of our enemies. So, let’s get it done. Thank you.”

  Audrey stands with the champagne bottle. Holding onto the railing, she swings the bottle against the stem of the ship. It breaks in a spray of foam and the James Holtz slides down the ways.

  After the ceremony, Admiral Ren helps Audrey and Donna Bond into his car and gets in beside them. “Driver, please take us to the Navy Yard.” He turns back to the women and sees Audrey leaning back, eyes closed, and Donna taking her hand. “Lady Holtz, Admiral Lee wanted nothing more than to be here. Unfortunately, he’s on urgent business right now. Sorry.”

  “We’re at war. I understand. Thank you for inviting me and Mrs. Bond.”

  He looks at her quizzically, “Of course, but you know, when we dedicate a ship to a lost hero, we try to have the family present at the christening. We needed you there.” He smiles, “You seem tired. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you, Admiral.”

  “So, given the circumstances in Britain right now, Admiral Lee has taken the liberty of arranging quarters for both you, and Mrs. Bond, at the Navy Yard in DC.”

  “We would be denying some other officer suitable quarters?”

  “He and I have been batching it. They insist that admirals need a huge house. So, he’s offered to look out after you. His girlfriend, Ashley Smith,
will be there to get you settled. He wanted me to introduce you to her.”

  Audrey, “I think we should return to England and face the Hun like our neighbors.”

  Ren reaches for her hand, “Lady Holtz…”

  “Please, call me Audrey.”

  “Audrey, there’s nothing noble in war. It’s hell, pure and simple. But something good must come of this to give meaning to all the rest. In you grows the future my friend will never know. Please stay here in America where you and your baby can be safe.”

  She nods, and looks at Donna, “Yes, and thank you.”

  PEENEMUNDE, GERMANY

  1235, 25 September, 1942 (1335 GMT)

  Hitler walks around the Vereltungswaffe 1 missile sitting on its launch rail. It’s painted in alternating black and white for easy visibility. There’s a large scoop intake on the top of the fuselage for the turbojet engine in the rear. Hitler touches the missile, “Why have you moved the engine from above the fuselage?”

  Wernher von Braun says, “We have learned much more about the jet engine and it makes sense. A turbojet does not need perfectly uninterrupted air flow. Also, by placing the engine in the rear of the fuselage, we may store and transport the missiles in smaller containers.”

  “Doctor, explain the benefit of smaller transport?”

  “Mein Fuhrer, first, a truck or train car may carry more missiles. Second, field storage may have more. Third, Mein Fuhrer, if we make the missile small enough, it can be launched from a submarine.”

  “Ah. I see. Very good, doctor. This one is to be fired, yes?”

  “Of course, Mien Fuhrer. This is an early production model and not an experimental missile.”

  “Carry on, then.”

  GENERAL EISENHOWER’S OFFICE, ETOUSA, CAMP GRIFFITH, BUSHY PARK, LONDON

  1145, 25 September, 1942

  ‘You know, General Altman, I expect initiative from my officers, and a certain amount of pride is to be expected. However, your pig-headed arrogance could have cost us everything. The war would be lost if not for the tenacious determination of a handful of Navy pilots and their superb commanders. I cannot have someone in my command who holds their own pride above the success of our entire endeavor. You sir, are dismissed from the service. Now, sign this letter of resignation.”