by M L Maki
“Huh, well, son-of-a-bitch. It’s simple and really smart. What are you going to do with it? You do have a plan, right?”
“I outfitted a British destroyer with a directional beam of the same frequency as the one from Brittany. The beam is adjustable if the Germans change frequency. They Royal Navy is parking it in the channel. When the radar bird picks up a missile attack, the destroyer will illuminate. All the buzz bombs will crash into the channel.”
Spike starts laughing, “Oh, my God. I’m glad you’re on our side.”
“It’s a good idea then?”
“Yes, Mike. It’s brilliant. It will work. It’ll look like the missiles hit a wall. They’ll waste time, money, and resources building weapons that no longer work.”
“I just wish I could have finished it before the last attack. I’m sorry.”
“Mike, you can’t dwell on it. It will destroy you. We win every battle we can, and learn from our losses. You figured it out. That’s what’s important.”
“I don’t know. Thousands of people died because I was too slow. If I can’t save them, how can I be a leader?”
She motions him to a chair and puts her head out the door, “May we have tea and some cookies? Thank you.” She sits down. “You know, I asked Dixie that once. He told me that no one is ever ready for leadership. When we look up at the wise leaders above us, we all count on their experience, wisdom, and nobility of purpose. He told me the truth. They’re a bunch of terrified old guys hoping and praying they don’t screw things up. It’s how it has always been. No one is ready. What counts in the end is character, and you have that.”
He looks up and meets her gaze, “Thank you, Spike.”
“We need to finalize the plans to take back Ouston. We go tomorrow morning.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thank you, Mike.” She smiles as he walks out the door just at the tea tray is being carried in. She nods as the aid pours her a cup and sets two cookies on the saucer. “Thank you.” She takes a deep breath and picks up the top paper in her in box.
There’s a knock and Squadron Leader George ‘Johnny’ Johnson, commander of the RAF Griffin, Texas squadron, walks in, “How’s it going, Spike?”
She looks up and smiles, “A hell of a night.”
“Yes, it was. I have an official question, then a personal question. What order would you prefer?”
“Right now, professional first.”
“Righty-o. We have the Merry Men at Biggin Hill. With all the Yanks showing up, do you want us to transfer them back to the RAF?”
“I’m perfectly happy with that. Would you allow me to write up awards for them? They were indispensable.”
“American or British awards?”
“American, if I can. I would rather not delve into the arcane magic of the British award system.”
“Okay, I’ll pass it up the chain, but I don’t see a problem. Now to the personal.”
“Sure.”
“If things settle a bit, are you still willing to honor your promise of a date?”
She’s silent, then, “Oh, I remember. Of course, when we can find the time. You’re not making a big deal out of this, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m looking forward to it though. An island of normality in a river of chaos.”
“Any idea what you would like to do?”
He smiles, “I was thinking of dinner, a walk, and the theater, if there’s any left. Now, do you have any idea how we may finish this nasty business?”
“I do, and I’ll need your help.”
CHAPTER 28
RUSSIAN AIRFIELD, WESTERN BELERUS
1820, 6 October, 1942 (1720 GMT)
Major Nadezhda Popova completes the engine start-up procedure for her War Eagle fighter. It’s so familiar, she doesn’t need to consult the check list, yet, drilled by habit, she does anyway. Her canopy is closed to block out the bitter cold. Under her wings are four AIM-9 heat seeking missiles and two radar guided missiles of Russian manufacture. She completes the pre-taxi check list and looks down the line of jets in her squadron. On radio, “Tower, Witch 1. Witch squadron ready to taxi.”
“Witch 1, Tower, you are cleared to taxi to runway 17 north.”
She trips her brakes and leads her five jets to the runway.
ROMMEL’S HEADQUARTERS NORTH OF LONDON
1741, 6 October, 1942
Rommel picks up the radio phone, “Yes, sir?”
Goering says, “Have you taken London?”
“We prepare for the push. It will fall in three to four days.”
“You do not have three days. You must take it now. We suffered defeat in the air last night. The Fuhrer will no longer countenance delay.”
“Understood.”
“Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler.” Rommel sets the radio phone in its cradle and stares at it. He abruptly about faces and walks out of the farmhouse he’s using as a headquarters. He walks down to the river and looks south.
His chief of staff joins him, “Sir, what is the word from Berlin?”
“Twenty-five miles away, beyond the hills and trees, the British, Canadian, and American armies are entrenched. They have at least 14,000 soldiers and over 800 artillery tubes dug in using crossed fires zones and pre-planned artillery fire. We have 145 Tiger tanks, 264 Panzer 4s, and 17,000 troops. We attack tonight. We must.” He turns back, taking a deep breath, “We must.”
WITCH 1, 10,000 FEET OVER NORTH EASTERN POLAND
1850, 6 October, 1942 (1750 GMT)
Major Nadezhda Popova watches as her Sidewinder zig-zags and hits a German ‘262. “Splash 1.” To herself, “That’s four. The American training is good.”
Below her, the Second Tank Army streams west over the border. Using her radar, she makes slow sweeps right and left, searching for targets.
‘A’ SABRE SQUADRON, 1ST BATTALION WELSH GUARDS, 32ND GUARDS BRIGADE, GUARDS DIVISION, NORTH OF LONDON
1930, 6 October, 1942
The German artillery barrage takes on a life of its own. It becomes less a noise, than a pounding physical presence. Sergeant Andrew Seymour is buttoned up in his Churchill tank, well camouflaged in the trees and bushes. It is war scarred and battered, but it’s taken him from north of York to here. He peers through the view slits looking for Germans. In the flash of an artillery round, he sees them. Dark, foreboding hulks moving closer, A near miss shakes the Churchill and rattles his view, but it settles again. He sees infantry with the tanks. On radio, “Sabre 1, Dagger 2, Tigers, 800 meters at my front supported by infantry.”
“Dagger, Sabre, hold fire. Report when 500.”
“Wilco.” Off radio, “Bloody hell, right I’ll hold fire. Tell the fucking Germans to hold fire and we could mop this up.”
A tank to his left opens up at 700 yards and its rounds ricochet upward off the Tiger’s hull. Counterfire takes the tank out. Seymour, “Damn it. You can’t hurt them that way.”
An A-10 swoops down, its gun breathing fire. A German tank explodes and the A-10 pulls up, “Boys, we got a dragon out there breathing fire all over the Hun.”
Then, another A-10 comes in. Before he can fire, a German tank explodes. The A-10 pilot corrects and hits another tank.
“Sabre, Dagger, they’re in the minefield.”
“Roger, Dagger. Hold position.” Another Tiger hits a mine. The German line stops.
Seymour, “Sabre, Dagger, they’ve stopped at 500 yards.”
“Roger, Dagger, inform your infantry to take cover.”
“Sabre, Dagger, “We’re under full German artillery bombardment. If they aren’t holed up, they’re dead.”
“Roger.” And artillery falls upon the German line.
Seymour watches, “Give ‘em bloody hell. We’re dropping the world on them fellas. They’ll fall back for certain.”
But they don’t fall back. They move forward into the minefield, pushing a dead tank to clear the mines. Seymour, “Will, load AP. When I call fire, bloody well fire as fast a
s you can.”
“Can do, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Seymour deliberately lets the Tigers come on. Two more British tanks get hit, then the Tigers roll past his position. “Richie, back hard on the left track. Turn us.” The tank jerks back. “Left turret. Move out,” and they jerk forward and left.
Seymour, “Target tank, 10 o’clock.”
The gunner, Corporal Keith Thatcher says, “Away.” He fires his gun. The nearly point-blank shot hits the rear of the turret and the turret flies off the Tiger as its ammo goes up.
Seymour, “Good kill. Target tank, 11 o’clock.”
“Up.”
“Away.” He fires, hitting another Tiger in the rear of its turret, and the ammo detonates.
“Good kill. Right track. Target tank, 10 o’clock.”
Thatcher fires and a third tank explodes.
Seymour, “Richie, turn right.” They turn down a lane, destroying a fence and a tank round shrieks past them. “Target tank, 6 o’clock. Hard right. Hull shot, AP.”
The Churchill spins right as Thatcher spins the turret, “Away.” The round hits a Tiger on the front glacises. The Tiger’s turret keeps tracking them.
“Back, Richie. Hard left.” The Tiger misses again.
Willy, “Up.”
Thatcher, “Away.” The AP round hits near the hull gunner, to no effect.
They back into a ditch, their nose pointing to the sky. Seymour screams, “Out! Out! Get out!” He scrambles out of his hatch. The Tiger’s next shot hits the floor pan under the driver. The crew is killed instantly and Seymour’s thrown 15 feet into the brush.
WESTMINSTER PALACE (PARLIAMENT)
0614, 7 October, 1942
Churchill looks out at the devastation to the south and east. He’s looking for those new Yank landing craft. Field Marshal Alan Brooke and Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Dudley Pound stand beside him. Churchill asks, “Admiral, have you seen these air cushion contraptions?”
“No, Prime Minister.”
An aid enters, “Prime Minister, Parliament has approved the funds for rebuilding the infrastructures destroyed.”
Churchill looks at the aid, “Thank you. Of course. Many lost their own property. Any word on the fires?”
“No, Prime Minister.”
Churchill looks at Brooke, “I would, in normal times, ask the army for aid in fighting these fires, but these…these are not normal times.”
They watch as four F/A-14s climb out of Kenley. Churchill nods, “At least, we have the Knights. It’s my thought, Admiral, to offer knighthoods to most of the air crew and some of the deserving ground crew. I have write ups from Air Marshal Dowding to that end. Do you suppose the American Navy would oppose?”
“I do not, Prime Minister. If you wish, I could ask.”
“Please do. What would you consider appropriate for Commodore Hunt?”
Brooke smiles, “I don’t know if she would or could accept it, but I would elevate her to the peerage. No one person has contributed so greatly and directly to the defense of our nation.”
Admiral Pound says, “The American Constitution forbids it.”
Churchill, “Congress just passed an exception for military awards. I do not believe a peerage would constitute a military award. Still, we must show our appreciation.”
They hear a beating roar and look out and downstream. They see several LCACs racing up the river, Sherman tanks in each craft. Clouds of water mist and shoot away from beneath the skirts as the ducted fans move to change the direction of travel. The three men are silent, watching the line of LCACs speed by.
Finally, Pound asks, “How many can we buy?”
Churchill grins, “Lend Lease. How many do you want?”
Pound, “With those, we could race to the beaches of France, at least a thousand.”
FRONT GATE, RAF KENLEY
0630, 7 October, 1942
A black Bentley pulls up to the gate and the British guard comes to the front side window. It’s rolled down, so he looks in, “Can I help you?”
GQ shows his ID, “They’re giving us a ride.”
“No problem, sir. We’re getting crowded with planes.” He motions for the gates to be opened.
As they pull onto the base, Gloria asks, “What did that mean?”
EPSOM, SOUTH WEST OF RAF KENLEY
0656, 7 October, 1942
Wingnut’s driver skids their truck to a stop and the squadron climb out, helping Wingnut. They hear the squeak-clink of tanks. Wingnut gets himself up and over a pile of debris and looks west. Smoke rises from the rubble and the only building still standing is the clock tower. He turns on his radio, “Any Hog driver, Wingnut.”
“Wingnut, Dusty 1. State location.”
Wingnut gives him the map coordinates, “I hear tanks west of us. They sound German.”
“Roger, we’re engaged north of London. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”
Then, “Wingnut, Yankee. Confirm. Where are you?”
“I’m in Epsom near the clock tower. I can now see at least four Tigers and over a hundred infantry.”
“That’s only eight miles from Kenley.”
“Affirmative. What do we have between Epsom and Kenley?”
Silence, then, “Wingnut, Spike. We have nothing between Epsom and Kenley. We’re scrambling forces. Can you delay them?”
He watches the tanks rolling closer.
“They also have a half-track missile launcher.” Wingnut looks back at his small band of men. Eight people with light arms to stop four tanks and all those Germans. He takes a deep breath and nods, “Spike, Wingnut. We’ll do what we can.” He looks at Thatcher, “Jimmy, give me your sword.” Then, “Rodriguez, what do we have for grenades?”
Sergeant Rodriguez looks up at him, “We have some. What do you want to do?”
101ST SS PANZER BATTALION, EPSOM, UK
SS-Obersturmbannfuhrer Rolf Meier is standing in his commander’s hatch and scanning the rubble. He started with sixty-eight tanks, fifty-two vehicles, and nine hundred forty-six men. All that’s left is six tanks, with two of them under tow. Of his other vehicles, he has twenty-seven. He still has six hundred and ten of his infantry and his objective is nearly at hand. His gunner is swinging the turret from side to side, checking for threats.
The battalion is spread out, picking their way through the ruin of Epsom. A figure slips through the rubble, blending in with the gray morning. The man waits until the turret is facing away from him, and jumps up onto the engine deck and tosses a grenade down the gunner’s hatch. He dives off the tank, rolls away into the rubble, and disappears.
Meier hears a muffled explosion behind him and turns to see a man crawling out of a tank. Then he hears another, and another. On radio, “Stop! Report!” Infantry are running toward the tanks, the men shouting. Then, Meier hears a huge explosion toward the north and realizes that one of his ammo trucks has just gone up.
Then, to the south, there’s another explosion, then another, and men are running into the town, some of them on fire. One of his remaining working tanks, that has a broken-down tank in tow, is trapped in the rubble. He hears a truck engine revving and see two of his truck running down the perimeter road and heading east. “Stop those trucks!” He waves his men east, but the trucks are gone and out of site before anyone reacts.
Then, silence. Meier looks around at the chaos. “Driver, forward.” His tank moves forward, skirting a debris pile. When they reach the town center, a tall blonde man stands waiting. He’s wearing a flight suit with an American flag on the shoulder. Meier looks behind the American and sees no one. He shouts, “Hold fire!” as his infantry runs up into position to cover the enemy.
HANGER, RAF KENLEY
Chief ‘Bobby’ Geller is training some of the new ground crew when they hear Chief ‘Fluffy’ Bond on the announcing circuit, “All ground crew auxiliary, muster on the flight line immediately with your weapons.” Fluffy repeats the order.
Bobby looks at his new crew, “Can any of you
shoot?”
A few raise their hands, and one asks, “What’s going on?”
“No time, you who can shoot, come with me. The rest of you sit tight and stay under cover.” He goes to his locker and gets his BAR and a bag of magazines. He leads his people out.
LT TOMMY ‘WINGNUT’ URLAND AND SS OBERSTURMBANNFUHRER ROLF MEIER, EPSOM, UK
Wingnut, waiting, observes the man in front of him; the gray and black uniform with lightning devices on the collar. Relaxed, his hands behind his back, Tommy draws on his high school German, “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”
Meier smiles, “I do. If you surrender, you and your men will not be harmed.”
Tommy nods, “I see. You know, we’ve been chasing you all over the place.” He hears F-14s taking off in the distance.
“You have?”
“Yes. You rolled south from South Shield, swung west, and hit Brancepeth. Then, you went through Middleton, Leeds, Waterloo, and Hudderfiled. Ah, was it your tank that was blown up on the debris hill?”
“It was.”
“You passed east of Coventry, and ran south, passing through the Bight-Bristol line before it could properly form. It was a good move because it caused the line to collapse. They all thought you were going to flank them. What you wanted, though, was Alconbury. I’m betting that was a surprise.”
“It was. You are very well informed.”
“I am. Next, you vented your spleen on Cambridge. A beautiful historic college town that didn’t deserve it. After Cambridge, you must have realized we’d moved to another field. You received information we were flying out of Kenley, so you took another west hook to get here. That’s your mission, right? To hit our airfield? But there is something I don’t understand in all of this, why Barton? Why kill those people in Barton? Why?”
“Your airfield is my objective. Barton? Was that its name? The English needed to be taught a lesson. You seem not to have learned that lesson. Are you going to surrender?”