Should England Fall

by M L Maki

  The sergeant looks over the group. Most are over fifty, others are obviously still in school, and there are a few women, but they are all armed. Most of the older men have the look of veterans. He shakes his head, “Look, I can’t authorize it. You know you all are marching to your death?”

  “Aye, lad, but we’ll be bringing more than few with us, and lad, we ain’t asking permission.” He turns, “Highland volunteers, at the ready! Harch.”

  A bag pipe begins to play and they move out, mostly in step, each person wearing their own tartan. The sergeant comes to attention and salutes. Cuddles returns the salute, smiling.

  ARTHUR FLIGHT, 35,000 FEET OVER THE BIGHT

  1423, 29 September, 1942

  “All units, Whiskey Tango 7, new raid. 4 fast movers on the deck over Lockerbie. They are west bound.”

  Spike, “Too far away, Lizard.”

  Then, “Whiskey Tango 7, Texas, we’re out of position.”

  “Arthur flight, Fighter Control, you’re the furthest north. Come to 275 at full military. Hit them on the return.”

  Spike, “Got it,” and on radio, “Fighter Control, Arthur concurs. Yankee, launch alert 5 to replace us.” She brings her plane to full military and smoothly turns to 275.

  Lizard, “Dixie’s still on our wing.”

  “Okay, Lizard. We know they have countermeasures, so when we’re at about 50 miles, volley both of our Long Bows.”

  “Roger, Boss.”

  USS JAMES HOLTZ, RADAR PICKET OUTSIDE OF BELFAST

  Commander John Dallas walks into Combat. “What do we have?”

  The TAO says, “We were warned by a radar plane that a four-jet strike is inbound at 120.”

  Dallas, “Come to 005. Ahead 1/3rd. Load and prepare for sustained volley.”

  On radio, “Naval units in Belfast, Arthur 1. The raid is ten minutes out.”

  Dallas picks up the mic, “Arthur 1, Holtz acknowledges.”

  He’s been frantically training his green crew and finishing the fitting out of the Holtz as they crossed the Atlantic. They’re still fixing issues, but the missile systems are ready.

  Six seconds after the jets are sighted, the first missile leaves the rail. It hits and a jet tumbles out of the sky. The second missile gets spoofed by chaff, and the remaining jets drop early and pull out south.

  ARTHUR FLIGHT, 25,000 FEET OVER THE IRISH SEA

  Spike lights her afterburners, “How far?”

  “Sixty, and they’re south bound.”

  “Let’s hit them before they enter Irish air space.”

  Lizard, “Volley Fox 3.” She fires all four of the AIM-1s.”

  Packs, “Volley Fox 3,” and Dixie fires all four of his AIM-1s.

  Eight AIM-1s streak after the three jets. They all fire off chaff, but they are so low, the chaff is of little help. One plane ducks behind a hill, but the other two are hit. The pilots eject.

  Spike, “Dixie, take lead.”

  Packs, “Roger, lead.”

  The remaining jet turns away, trying to find cover in the low hills, but the Tomcats are closing at Mach 2. It’s only a matter of time. Spike, “Lizard, where’s the border.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Spike, on radio, “The border is close.”

  Packs, “Fox 1, Fox 1.” The missiles fly straight and hit the enemy jet. Parts shed into the slip stream, the jet tumbles once, then hits, tail first in a field north east of Castleblayney in the Republic of Ireland.

  Lizard, “Break right. Come to 080.”

  GRUMMAN FACTORY, BETHPAGE, NEW YORK

  0944, 29 September, 1942 (1444 GMT)

  LCDR Cassidy waits for the C-47 to roll to a stop in front of a hanger. Twenty-four officers get off the plane with their gear. First is Major Greg ‘Pappy’ Boyington. The last is Lieutenant Phil ‘Rascal’ Tyler, still nursing his injured leg. Cassidy says, “Please fall in right here,” and nods to Rascal as he joins him. Cassidy looks over the student pilots and shakes his head, “Each of you graduated top in your class. Now you must qualify on the F/A-14B. We’ll be pairing you up into flight teams. The best of you will be reporting to England as soon as you demonstrate competence in the Tomcat. I don’t think I need to explain what is going on over there.” He motions and the hanger door rumbles open. “That said, allow me to introduce you to the new love of your life: The F/A-14B Tomcat strike fighter.”

  They turn to look at a large plane painted in Black Knight colors. Rascal says, “This plane will belong to two of you. I want to be clear, all of you are good at your jobs. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here. What we need from you now is cooperation, not competition. Five aircrews will replace aircrew of the Black Knights. Seven will replace pilots with the Tomcatters. Later students will replace those lost from the Redcocks, Knightriders, and stand up new squadrons. As fighter pilots, all of you are competitive. That is good. Here, you are competing against yourself and building a team. Questions?”

  Boyington asks, “Why haven’t we been assigned RIOs yet?”

  Rascal smiles, “The pilot-RIO relationship is critical. The pilots will fly with a number of RIOs and you’ll pair up after that. Permanent assignment will be at your new squadron.”

  Boyington, puzzled, “As the first Marine jet pilot, won’t I be assigned to a new squadron?”

  Rascal’s smile gets bigger, “Actually, you are not the first Marine jet pilot. Major Mossberg serves with the Black Knights right now. We want you to gain some experience with an existing squadron first.”

  “I see.”

  “Any other questions?”

  Cochran asks, “When can we start flying?”

  “Once you’ve completed ground school, which starts in a moment. Anything else? Okay, let’s get started.”

  HETHERSGILL, 8 MILES NORHEAST OF CARLYLE, UK

  1603, 29 September, 1942

  Ian McCloud silently gathers his men behind a stone wall. Using the brambles for concealment, he peeks again at the German garrison. It seems company strength and though there are pickets, the men are amusing themselves and ignoring their perimeter to the north. An old man is standing nude in front of a group of soldiers. They are throwing bits of food at him and laughing.

  Ian comes down, “Lieutenant Grant, they’re infantry. We shan’t bother the attack planes. Now remember lads, pick your targets carefully. Joseph, Connor, you get the radio. After the first volley, the pipes start. Are we clear?” His men nod.

  “Let’s be at it then.” Ian sights on the fellow that seems to be in charge and squeezes the trigger. He fought in the last war and he knows his business. The round hits the man in the head. A ragged volley follows and the pipes start playing ‘Blue Bonnets Over the Border.’

  The Germans scramble for their weapons, but man after man is brought down. Every man trying to get to the radio dies. A few men high tail it south. “First platoon!” and Grant stands with a line of thirty men and goes over the wall. When a German attempts to fire his weapon, he’s hit by fire from the wall. A Scotsman falls. The Scots keep marching in, firing as they go.

  The few Germans that are left, break and run, and the volunteers have the field. Ian, “Third platoon, form a defensive line. Second platoon tend the wounded and police this place.” He walks up to the old man, “Where are your clothes, sir?”

  He points to a tent, then, “You…your men, they saved me for certain. They were hunting the lasses, but I hid them away.”

  “Get dressed, sir. It would be best if you and the women head north. There’s an army post at Roadhead or Carwinley. They’ll tend to you.”

  One of his men runs up, “Sir, they’ve a lorry in the barn.”

  Ian smiles, “Good, we needn’t carry our own food, then. Let’s clean up and head south.”

  INFIRMARY, RAF KENLEY

  1636, 29 September, 1942

  Sam walks in and an orderly stands, “This way, Commodore.”

  The orderly knocks at a door, “The Commodore,” and opens it.

  LCDR Michael �
��Too Tall’ Mohr sits on the end of a bed, stripped to the waist and being treated for a grazing gunshot wound across his left ribs and another at the base of his neck. He’s covered in blood. The nurse is focusing on cleaning off the blood and looking for any other wounds.

  Sam says, “That’s a lot of blood, Mike.”

  He replies, his voice flat, “It’s Sweet’s blood.” He looks up at her, the anguish in his eyes a physical thing, “She’s dead.”

  Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, “God, I’m sorry.”

  He breaks eye contact, “It’s my fault. I killed her.”

  “The Germans killed her.”

  “It was my decisions.”

  Sam takes a deep breath, “Right now, I’m going to let you wallow in your guilt. But, Commander, when you leave this room, you will put it behind you and do your duty.”

  “I…I don’t think I can.”

  Softly, “Commander Mohr, you must. The future of Task Force Yankee depends on you. That means the future of Britain depends on you. Finally, that means the success of the entire war depends on you. It depends on me and all of our people, but you are the only person here that can wild weasel. We need you.”

  He looks up again and nods. “Yeah, I’ll get it together. It’s just…, yes, Spike.”

  “When you need to fall apart, come find me. I’ll make the time.”

  “Thank you, Spike.”

  “I got to go.” He nods and she walks out of the room. Alone in the hall, she struggles with her own tears and forces her body to stop shaking. “Fuck, this is hard.”

  CONTROL TOWER, RAF ALCONBURY

  1650, 29 September, 1942

  LTJG Hammond scans the airbase with his binoculars. A detonator is next to him and a fast car is at the foot of the tower. Slowly he scans the perimeter of the base. Then, he sees the bulk of a German tank heave into view. The tank stops, the man in a hatch studying the field carefully. Hamm says, “Come on, man. Take the bait.”

  The tank finally rolls forward and more follow. An entire battalion is soon arrayed before him; twenty-eight tanks, with infantry carriers and air defense half-tracks pulling AA guns on four-wheeled carriages. He sees exposed missiles. “Damn.” He picks up the tower radio, “Any Alpha one zero, it’s Hamm.”

  “Hamm, Dusty flight 2, go.”

  “Dusty 2, Hamm. Location is Alconbury. One battalion of German tanks. Be advised, they have air defenses.” As he watches, the air defenses are set up and the infantry start running into the hard shelters.

  “Acknowledge, Hamm. Are you under fire?”

  “Negative, Dusty 2. I’m waiting to detonate.”

  “Roger. We’re fully engaged at the moment and would just as soon stay clear of prepared AA.”

  “Understood, Dusty 2. Any chance you can cover me as I skedaddle?”

  “We will do what we can. Note, there are friendlies helping with the evacuation of Cambridge.”

  “Thank you, Dusty 2.” A lot of infantry are in the hard shelters and a truck is heading for the tower. Dusty 2, Hamm. Time to blow and go.” He pushes the detonator down and all the hangers, barracks, buildings, and the hard shelters explode, showering concrete and debris all over the base.

  He runs down the tower stairs and jumps into his Riley Racing Special and accelerates away. About 200 yards down the road, he stops, jumps out, and pushes down a final detonator. The tower goes away in a cloud of fire and smoke, collapsing onto the truck at its base.

  SS COMMAND TANK, 101ST BATTALION, RAF ALCONBURY

  SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Rolf Meier turns crimson. He slaps his tank and screams. “Regroup. Regroup. We must make them pay. His tanks and armored vehicles survive, but a good number of his infantry are gone. “We’re near Cambridge. Let’s start there. Every English from here to London will die.”

  COMMAND CENTER, RAF KENLEY

  Spike, Swede, Thud, Maugham, Parks, and Leonard study the status map. Spike, “Flooded fields and mixed up traffic signs might help, but we need to slow them further.”

  Parks, “The German tankers are getting clever at hiding their tracks. I hit one today that was using canvas to look like a truck.”

  Spike, “Yeah, and their pilots are getting better, too. Thud, if you were a German jet commander, what would you do?”

  “Hit Kenley. That and focus on the radar planes again. We really need them.”

  Swede, “They mostly focus on the A-10s. You Hog drivers have been hammering them.”

  Spike, “Let’s use that against them. We have to stop reacting.”

  Maugham, “I’ve an idea. Have my jets fly like we’re A-10s, and you guys cover us like you do the A-10s.”

  Spike, “I like it.”

  The watch officer, “Commodore, we’ve just gotten word, Lieutenant Hammond has blown Alconbury. Apparently, he did a lot of damage to a tank and infantry battalion in the process. LT Hammond is safe and returning to base.”

  Spike smiles, “Thank you. God, the hero gene.” She nods, “Okay, let’s do this.”

  NAS ANACOSTA, SOUTH OF WASHINGTON, DC

  1136, 29 September, 1942 (1836 GMT)

  A C-56 comes to a stop on the tarmac and the engines spin down. Vice Admiral Lee thanks the air crew, picks up his flight bag, and walks down the stairs to a waiting sedan. The wind is bitter and is blowing rain sideways. He hands his bag to an aid and climbs into the car.

  Waiting for him is Admiral King, “How was your flight?”

  “Good, sir,” The car pulls out.

  “Any kills?”

  Lee meets the CNO’s eyes, “Two, sir.”

  “Your last two.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How is she?”

  “She needs new crews. She needs everything we can send. As soon as I can, I’m releasing VMA-326 and VA-16.”

  “The aircrew training at Grumman will ferry the remaining aircraft.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, the Vinson is on its way to San Diego. Can I ship the Tomcatters and Redcocks to England?”

  “The President ordered a full-on effort. Approved. Let me know an eta when you have one. Now, how is she holding up in command?”

  “Very well, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Sir, think back to when you were a commander. If we had unceremoniously dumped a battleship squadron and three destroyer squadrons on you to lead all at once, in combat with several of the units from other services and other nations, how would you have held up? Add to that, the consequences of failure? She’s getting it done. She’s meeting all her commitments, keeping he people alive and combat effective. It isn’t easy on any of them.”

  “Do you think she can hold?”

  “Sir, I’ve never bull shit you from day one and I never will. The entire effort hinges on her success. More than that, it hinges on our ability to give her every chance to succeed. Should England fall, we would have to take it back before we could take Europe. If Russia recommences hostilities with Germany, it could be Russians we meet in France, not Germans.

  “I know, we told you about the Cold War. This is why I asked for the Tomcatters and the Redcocks. It’s why I’m planning to send every combat capable squadron we can. If she fails, it’s because we failed her.”

  “When England is secure, I want that entire unit to get a prolonged break.”

  “Yes, sir. We also need to give them one hell of an award.”

  “We’ve talked about that, Rick. I don’t believe American serviceman fight for medals.”

  “I agree, sir. Thy fight for each other. It’s been proven. The medals tell them every murder they committed was in the line of duty. It tells them, us REMFs appreciate and honor what they’ve done.”

  King nods, then, “What, pray tell, is a REMF?

  Lee grins, “A rear echelon mother fucker, sir.”

  King looks startled, then smiles, “This REMF appreciates what they’re doing. Have your staff write it up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  COMMAND CENTER, OCCUPIED RAF
OUSTON

  1910, 29 September, 1942

  General Weber sits at the head of a table listening to a brief. Major Gunter, “They seem to be building new F-14 Tomcats, sir, but they’re running out of qualified pilots.”

  “How can you exploit this knowledge, Major?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “A dead pilot, is a dead pilot. We draw them north and south, then attack their home field.”

  “I thought the Fuhrer forbids it. We’re only allowed to attack the docks.”

  “I’ve submitted the plan. If we destroy their base, we destroy their resistance.”

  “Isn’t it better to kill pilots in the air?”

  “Ah, chivalrous knights of the sky. You need to read Clausewitz. There is no honor or nobility n war. You kill the enemy when you, how you can. You keep killing them until they give up, or they are eliminated entire. Save the noble stories for when you have grandchildren on your knee.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve done well, Major.”

  Gunter, “Thank you, sir. A thought, as the allies flee, we can strike their armor in the same way the Devil’s Cross does.”

  “That will draw them out. How do we take advantage of it.?”

  “We use focused attacks, sir. Why don’t we split into many two or four aircraft elements? They can’t be everywhere.”

  2nd TROOP, ‘A’ SABRE SQUADRON, 1ST BATTALION WELSH GUARDS, 32ND GUARDS BRIGADE, NORTHWEST CAMBRIDGE, UK

  1922, 29 September, 1942

  Sergeant Andrew Seymour stands in the commander’s hatch of his Churchill tank. He’s currently parked in a field next to a barn, his tank shut down. His beret is sopping, and water runs under his coat and down his back. His new troop commander, 2nd LT Barker walks up. Seymour’s last lieutenant is still in what’s left of his tank outside of York.

  The lieutenant, totally unperturbed by the rain, says, “Sergeant, the Hun was recently at Alconbury. The Division is scattered, but we’re ordered to hold Cambridge as it’s evacuated.”

  “Sir, do you suppose they might have started leaving a bit earlier?”

  “It was hoped we would hold north of here. Now, we have it to do.”