The Invasion of 1950

by Nuttall, Christopher

  For a long moment, he was gripped by a cold sinking terror, and then he forced it to the back of his mind. The strange glow was allowing him a chance to view the sea and he could make out the shape of a handful of German ships. They were moving out to sea, heading towards France on a least-time course, relying on their powerful engines to keep them stable in the currents and tides of the area. The Germans had it easy compared to some other invaders in the past; unlike Caesar, or the Armada, they didn’t have to worry about transient conditions on the part of the weather. They could sail backwards and forwards until they had built up enough of a force to take the remainder of the country.

  No, he thought, as he peered through his own night-vision goggles. The Germans had a small escorting force waiting for the three freighters, but while he was tempted to try to sink a German destroyer, or even one of their pocket battleships, he knew that he should concentrate on German shipping. If the Royal Navy sunk enough of their transports, the war would come to an end once the German forces on the shore ran out of supplies. If the Germans managed to keep control of the channel…

  Molesworth's radar-man hissed a warning as he picked up signs of a German radar sweep; Molesworth winced as the MTB came silently around, preparing for a high-speed charge at the German ships. No gunfire came their way, and no shells splashed into the water; he concluded, hopefully, that the Germans hadn’t detected them. It wasn't easy to detect an MTB in darkness; the boat had been put through a rigorous blackout drill even before the Germans launched their invasion. He still didn’t understand how the Germans even managed to land on the shore and wreck so much of the Royal Navy, but he would do his piece to throw them back into the sea.

  “One minute,” he whispered, as softly as he could. Whispers could carry a surprising distance over the waters. The crewman nodded as Molesworth took the helm for himself. He was younger than any of his crewmen, each of whom had forgotten more than he had ever learned about sailing. They were going to need his young man's reflexes. “Get the weapons ready.”

  The crewman nodded as Molesworth carefully took them after the German ships. He tensed as he braced himself for the first incoming fire from the Germans; this was the most dangerous part of their mission. The engine had been tuned and muffled to make it as quiet as possible, but that presented an additional problem; if the Germans built up their own speed too fast, they would be unable to give chase without revealing their presence. He would have preferred to engage them in the open sea, but the Admiralty were determined that the ships be engaged as near to British soil as possible, warning the Germans that they wouldn’t have it all their own way. There was another reason…

  “Pearson?”

  “I got as much of the information as I could, I think,” Pearson said, his own voice a whisper. The Royal Navy Intelligence officer frowned. “They’re not worried about showing off what they’re doing, either. They even made small landings on the other side of Felixstowe, near Harwich. If they continue to do that, they’ll be able to ramp up their reinforcements quicker than we believed possible…”

  A roar split the air as a line of German aircraft flew overhead, heading right for Felixstowe; Molesworth took advantage of the noise to gun the engine and send them flying right towards their target. The engine sounded terrifyingly loud in their ears, but the Germans didn’t react until a destroyer snapped on a searchlight, scanning the water for the boat. Molesworth swept the craft from side to side as the Germans tried to draw a bead on them. He saw a flash on one of the German ships. Moments later, a shell splashed down in the water, extremely close to his boat.

  The Germans had been caught out of position, but it wouldn’t take them long to place the destroyers between the freighters and the oncoming threat. They would also bunch up. He would be forced to dodge them physically rather than evading from a safe distance once he had launched his torpedoes. That would make escape more complicated. He counted to ten under his breath. “Fire!”

  The torpedo was almost invisible in the water, a streak of water moving rapidly towards one of the freighters, targeted perfectly. Molesworth altered course sharply so he could blow right through the German formation as the torpedo struck its target and exploded, sending one of the freighters heaving over. It was a large ship and it would take time, maybe even hours with a competent crew, to sink. Even so, it was no longer useful. The Germans kept firing at the MTB as he raced through them. He cursed as he saw a destroyer, turning to block their path.

  “Fire two,” Molesworth ordered, as he yanked the MTB around in a desperate course alteration. If they rammed the German ship broadside, the Germans would probably be unharmed, but the MTB would be smashed to smithereens. More gunfire rang out, some of it striking the hull of his boat, but it no longer mattered; the torpedo was in the water, aimed directly at the German destroyer.

  Pearson flinched as the smaller gun opened fire, spraying shells towards the German ship and raking its decks with fire. The MTB didn’t carry anything heavy enough to make the Germans regret meeting it – apart from the torpedoes – but the gunfire would force the German shooters on the deck to keep their heads down, just as the torpedo struck the German ship broadside. There was an explosion… shattering the destroyer and sending a tidal wave of water towards the MTB. Molesworth swore under his breath and altered course sharply, racing right towards the wave and shouting a warning moments before the wave struck and washed over the hull. The water shook the boat, but Molesworth kept it under control and raced out into the ocean away from the Germans. A final hail of shellfire came after them, and then nothing; they had made it clear away.

  “Safe,” Molesworth said after a quick radar sweep of his own. The German freighter was burning in the distance, but the MTB was alone in the waters, otherwise. The Germans would probably seek to adapt somehow but for the moment, they’d just blooded the German nose and gotten away with it. “Did you learn anything interesting?”

  “Yes,” Pearson said. “Don’t do this again!”

  Molesworth laughed as he guided the MTB back towards its harbour at Grimsby. It would take some hours to return to the port, and they needed to watch out for marauding German ships. As well as the possibility of running into a British ship that might mistake them for a German ship and open fire. It would be dawn by the time they docked. However, the further north they moved, the less likely it would be that they would have a hostile encounter.

  From time to time, they heard aircraft in the distance but saw nothing until they neared Grimsby and saw the flames licking into the sky. The Germans had been pounding away at the Royal Navy installations regularly but it was the first time he'd seen it from the waters. He found it hard to believe that the war was only three days old. He'd spent the first day of the war trying to get back to his station and the second day patrolling the waters around Grimsby, in case the Germans tried a second landing. He hadn’t considered it anything but a waste of time, but the higher-ups had been nervous, and it was difficult to blame them.

  He guided the boat into its docking slip and smiled bitterly as the next crew, already prepared for their mission, swarmed onto the ship and began to check everything, as well as loading more torpedoes and bullets onto the boat. It wasn't really safe to operate during the day, not with the German aircraft watching everything they did, but the Royal Navy was desperately needed. If that meant risking a boat and her crew…

  “I relieve you,” his counterpart formally said. Molesworth wasn't a Captain and probably would never make captaincy of a ship, but on-board the MTB, he was as much a Captain as any other junior officer. “Did you get anything?”

  Molesworth smiled. He was still very young. “One freighter and one destroyer,” he said, trying to keep the boasting out of his voice. “The enemy freighter should be sinking right now” – he was distracted briefly by the sight of a submarine heading out to sea – “and we blew the destroyer into dust.”

  “You probably hit the ammunition magazine,” his counterpart said. “Get some slee
p and we’ll see you tonight.”

  “Don’t get a bloody scratch on her,” Molesworth warned, and then turned to leave before turning back. “They’re on the alert now, so watch yourself.”

  He had been awed by the sight of the Royal Naval dockyard when he had first come to Grimsby as a young recruit. Now it was bursting with activity, thousands of men swarming everywhere, trying to repair the damage caused by the latest set of German air attacks. Grimsby served as a base for minesweepers and the occasional heavier ship. The Germans, who had been laying mines enthusiastically in the area, had a great interest in preventing the Royal Navy from sweeping them.

  Everyone knew that when the remains of the Royal Navy mustered themselves, there would be a major naval battle for command of the seas. Molesworth had heard speculation that it might be the last battleship duel in the world. No one had fought a battleship duel since Admiral Cunningham had fought the Italians in 1943. As the Germans had proven at Scapa Flow, the face of war had changed forever.

  The main office was a grand building, one that had impressed him when he had first come to the port, but now he wondered if the money that had been used to build it shouldn’t have been used on more ships instead. He heard and ignored the sounds of more air raid sirens in the distance as the German bombers swept towards their targets, just as he ignored the banging of the anti-aircraft guns closer to home. The Admiral had told him that he wanted a personal report when, if, he returned, and while Molesworth was desperately tired, he had his duty.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Nigel Molesworth, reporting,” he said, as he was invited into the Admiral’s office. He blinked and straightened up as he took in the person sharing the office and then broke out of his semi-trance. “Sir, it’s a honour…”

  “Thank you,” Winston Churchill said. “Please could you give us your report?”

  Molesworth faltered as he spoke. “We slipped down into the waters near Felixstowe and found a German convoy,” he said, slowly, trying to capture the feeling for the Prime Minister. “We engaged them under cover of a German air raid and hit a freighter with one of our torpedoes before a destroyer tried to block our path. We sunk it before we escaped.”

  “Excellent,” Churchill said “That freighter of yours; are you sure that you sank it?”

  Molesworth frowned. “We hit it, sir,” he said, trying to remember. Everything had happened so quickly; even now, it was all a blur. “It was settling low in the water when we left the area, but we never saw it actually sink under the waves.”

  “Good enough,” Churchill said. The warmth and admiration in his tone made Molesworth smile in pride. “We need heroes, young man, and the BBC will have a lot to say about your performance. What did you think of the German tactics?”

  Molesworth blinked at the sudden shift. “Well, they weren’t really prepared for us,” he said slowly. “They should have had more destroyers or E-boats escorting their ships, and perhaps had them operating closer to the harbour than they actually were, but apart from that, they just weren’t able to draw a bead on us in time. Their destroyer captain made a fatal mistake by trying to block us, which allowed us to launch an attack on him as well…”

  Churchill listened in silence until he had finished. “That does make a certain kind of sense,” he said as the wail of the air raid sirens came to a halt. “They’re bound to adapt their tactics after your success and some other hits caused by submarines, but we have to keep hitting them until they run out of freighters.”

  Molesworth hesitated. He wanted to know…and yet, he wasn't sure if he dared ask. “Sir, what happened at Ipswich?”

  “They took the town,” Churchill said, slowly. Molesworth shuddered; he’d listened to the BBC and heard the tale of Tommy Atkins, who had been killed by the Germans after taking a shot at one of their officers. The BBC was officially discouraging private resistance activities, but Molesworth suspected that it wouldn’t discourage everyone from trying to find a way to hurt the Germans as much as they could. “Your service today might just have made it harder for the Germans to expand their level of control.”

  He spoke on for a moment, although he was speaking more to himself than to Molesworth. “They landed there to outflank us, but if we can break their supply lines, we can crush them under the sheer weight of fire-power,” he said. Molesworth said nothing, hardly daring to breath, as Churchill spoke. “If we can hold long enough, we will win.”

  He cleared his throat. “I believe that you will get a medal for this,” he said, and winked in an uncle-like fashion. Molesworth felt himself flushing; Churchill was, very much, the person who would decide who got the medals and why. “Try not to get yourself killed before we can pin it on your chest and make a hero out of you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Over Dover, England

  “You have contacts directly ahead of you,” the controller on the radar plane warned. “Engage at will.”

  Gruppenkommandeur Albrecht Schmidt drew a breath as the British planes materialised in front of him. The first days of the invasion had been chaos personified; the British had been scattered, with the Germans hunting vainly to locate and destroy them before they regrouped, but now the British had regained their balance and were fighting in a coordinated manner. Their aircraft had been pulled back to bases in the west, ensuring that they would have plenty of warning of a renewed bombing offensive now. Since then, they had been operating against the German formations that had been pounding their country.

  Schmidt checked his cannons and his antitank rockets moments before they engaged. The RAF was actually secondary to their objective, which was to prevent the British from massing the forces required to crush the invasion lodgement. Any airman with real experience of the air knew that air superiority, if not air supremacy, was vital to any military operation.

  Goring had failed to grasp that, and because of the Iron Fatty, the Luftwaffe had been denied the military honours of having played a vital role in the conquest of Britain years ago. That planned invasion had failed because of Goring’s vainglorious boasting…and it had cost the Luftwaffe its position in Hitler’s eyes. That alone had almost broken the air force, with some of their craft being given to the Kriegsmarine, and the Wehrmacht being given control over autogyros and some close-support aircraft. Now they were back. The success at Scapa Flow had pleased Hitler and now were compelled to defeat the British in the air.

  The radar traces closed rapidly. The British aircraft had proven themselves to be doughty fighters and, of course, their survivors were gaining as much experience as the pilots of the Reich. The RAF had bombed several ports at night, but a combination of radar-guided aircraft and radar-guided guns on the ground had managed to keep them from damaging too much of the port in their attacks. He’d feared that they would concentrate everything on hammering the invasion lodgement. The chaos of the first few days had given way to cold professional organisation as the Germans and the British strove to reinforce and advance towards their targets.

  Now, he thought, and gunned his engine. His fellow pilots didn’t need any more orders; whatever kinks there had been in the unit, they’d been worked out by days of heavy fighting. The British jet he’d chosen as his target fired back, sending a line of tracer directly towards him which he evaded with ease before firing back with his own cannons. The British pilot evaded and swooped down towards Schmidt’s aircraft, firing a secondary burst that narrowly missed. Schmidt sniffed and buckled down to some hard fighting. The British pilot was good, almost as good as he was, with a slightly inferior aircraft.

  The roar of the engines grew louder as he banked and tried to draw a bead on the enemy fighter. The Brit didn’t react in time, and Schmidt was certain that he had him, but the Meteor flipped at the last possible moment and came right at him. Just for a second, Schmidt was sure that the two aircraft were going to smash into one another before the enemy pilot rolled into a dive. Schmidt pulled out and watched as the British aircraft lanced down towards the ground, just before it w
as too late, the plane levelled out and raced across the English countryside. Schmidt was tempted to dive after him and finish him while he was still stunned, but allowed him to leave; the Englishman had been a valiant foe and deserved a chance at survival.

  A second British plane appeared out of nowhere, and Schmidt gave chase. HE watched as the British aircraft jinked to and fro to avoid his fire, before he finally clipped one of the jet engines with an explosive bullet. The plane tilted and spun out of control. Flames were flaring from one wing, and the pilot barely managed to eject in time. Standing orders were to shoot at any pilots who managed to escape via parachutes, but Schmidt and the remainder of the Luftwaffe pilots had quietly agreed to ignore those orders; the British would only have started shooting Luftwaffe pilots after they fell out of the sky.

  War wasn't a gentlemanly sport but in the air, one could at least pretend. They could allow themselves the delusion that they were engaged in a joust, free from the dead bodies and devastation caused by fighting on the ground.

  He checked his radar and found, to his relief, that the sky was clear of British planes. “Independent flying,” he ordered, as he banked his aircraft and headed down towards the English countryside. It really was a beautiful place, he saw, as he levelled out and started hunting for targets; it was green and pleasant in a way that touched him deep inside. It was also deadly; the British had spent seven years getting the Dover region ready for the German landing they had anticipated. If the briefing was to be believed, the British had created a massive network of bunkers, fixed positions and guns, all dug in and tightly camouflaged against the day the Germans landed. The area was woven with canals and bridges…and all of them had been prepared, creating a death trap for German troops.