“And the IRA…? They think we’re only after materiel support: arms and ammunition. How d’you think they’ll react when they find out they’ve been taken for as much of a ride as the bloody Germans?”
“I’ve not a care in the world what they think of all this! Before Britain fell, bloody Hayes – and Russell before him – both pushed for the Nazis to invade Northern Ireland. They pleaded with those jackbooted bastards out there…” he snarled, throwing out an arm for emphasis and pointing in the general direction of the rooms in which their German visitors still waited “… pleaded with ‘em to defile Irish soil with their vile presence! To hell with them, and to hell with Berlin too…!”
With his anger partially spent, Warnock sagged visibly and lowered himself into his chair, gesturing for O’Connell to do the same on the other side of the desk.
“Before the Brits fell, we had an agreement in place with ‘em for assistance in exactly this kind of emergency – a German attack or invasion of Ireland. We’re still runnin’ the same race here – all we’ve done is change horses.” He shook his head slowly, reassuring himself as much as the officer before him. “All we need to do is keep those buggers in there waiting long enough for it to all go down as planned. This will work, and once it’s all done with, there’s not a one of ‘em, right up to the bloody Führer himself who’ll be game to do a single damned thing about it…!”
St Mary's Training College
Falls Road, Belfast
Reich-Protektorat Nordirland
SS-Gruppenführer Ernst Barkmann wasn’t overly fond of being woken up early either. As Chief-of-Intelligence for the whole of Northern Ireland, his duties were normally restricted to regular office hours, generally-speaking, and as such the idea of being dragged from the warmth of his hotel suite just before dawn on that chilly Sunday morning came as something of a rude and rather infuriating shock.
Almost fifty years of age, his hair was still mostly dark. Blessed with clear eyes and pinched, almost hawk-like features, he was a man of barely average height whose small frame usually looked almost lost within the folds of his SD major-general’s uniform. Currently the commanding officer of the Sicherheitsdienst Amt-I (Nordirland) – the Northern Ireland office of the Reich Security Service – he was also the second-highest ranking officer in the country, and by default also therefore acted as Deputy to the current Reichsprotektor Nordirland, Konstantin Freiherr von Neurath.
Barkmann had therefore rather inconveniently been left in charge of the entire Six Counties due to the Reichsprotektor’s present absence. Von Neurath was currently in Berlin at Reichsmarschall Reuters’ request to attend, quite ironically, a scheduled meeting with the Chargé d'Affaires of the Legation of the Republic of Ireland to answer questions regarding alleged brutality and human rights abuses committed against the people of Northern Ireland.
‘Human rights’… Barkmann had scoffed to himself upon hearing the new and in his opinion, very bourgeois terminology. Such a weak, pathetic phrase to describe a similarly pathetic weakness within our enemies!
As hard as it might have been to believe outside the hierarchy of the NSDAP, von Neurath, who’d previously held the same post for Bohemia-Moravia (the Nazi-occupied nation previously known as Czechoslovakia), had actually been considered by the Führer to have been too lenient in the performance of his duties during his posting there. In 1941 he’d been replaced by the far more zealous and far more brutal Reinhard Heydrich as a result.
Northern Ireland was an entirely different matter however. With the eyes of the world looking on – particularly those of the United States – the control of occupied Britain had been considered a far more sensitive matter in the years following the 1940 invasion, and it had been decided that somewhat ‘gentler’ hands were required in its administration.
Give me a free hand and I’d show them some ‘human rights’ abuses, he growled angrily to himself, unable to remove the sneer even from his own thoughts as his driver turned the canvas-topped Austin 16 tourer off Falls Road and drove into the main compound of the Schutzstaffeln’s regional headquarters in Northern Ireland. In a week, I’d have these rebellious degenerates screaming for mercy from Derry to Dundalk…!
St Mary’s Training College had been opened at the Falls Road site around the turn of the century as a facility for training women as teachers, the first of its kind in Belfast. A varied of mixture of historical styles, the T-shaped main building stood perhaps a few dozen yards back from the road and was surrounded by high walls of brick and vertically-mounted wrought-iron bars capped by decorative points. Following the fall of the UK and subsequent occupation of the British Isles, the Germanische-SS commandeered the property in early 1941 for use as its main headquarters and centre of intelligence operations in Northern Ireland.
Other buildings of more modern design had since been added behind the original structure, the entire campus now consuming most of a city block and home to almost a thousand military personnel including a company of Germanische-SS border guards and a troop of light armour. The original walls had been augmented by watchtowers, dragon’s tooth tanks traps and coils of jagged razor wire, and on either side of the main gates stood small pillboxes of similar design to those straddling the Lifford Road at Strabane, each of these also complete with a cannibalised Mark VI tank turret.
Barkmann’s tourer passed between those turrets without interference. The guards knew the Austin and – more importantly – were also well aware of the man’s temper and general capacity for petty vindictiveness, something that in a high-ranking SS officer could be extremely hazardous for others around him. No one was stupid enough to attempt to challenge the vehicle or even slow it down, and it was just a matter of a few more seconds before it had pulled up directly out front of the steps to the HQ’s main entrance.
“Shall I come with you, Ernst?” That faint, almost petulant question came from a pallid but otherwise vaguely handsome young man of distinctly Aryan appearance, seated beside him and wearing the uniform of an SS captain.
“You dare to address me in such a manner? Get back to your post immediately! ” Barkmann snapped with soft ferocity, well aware that every word spoken was clearly audible to the driver in front of him. “Do not make me regret offering you this ride back to headquarters: I suggest you remember your place, Hauptsturmführer…!”
With that, he threw open his door and stormed out, striding purposefully up the front steps and inside the building without waiting for either his driver or the armed escort riding in the front passenger seat. That the pair had been lovers these last few months and had spent the preceding night together at his suite in the most luxurious hotel in Belfast was completely irrelevant in that moment. Homosexuality was as illegal in Germany as it was anywhere else in the modern world, and unlike some of the more decadent, Western nations, the Reich expended a great deal of effort in enforcing those laws.
Barkmann’s position and service record counted for something, but he knew full well that the only thing really protecting him from the danger of arrest and of wearing a pink triangle on his chest was his years of friendships with the family of Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler, and several other high-ranking SS ‘dignitaries’. Even so, neither the Schutzstaffeln nor the OKW would tolerate his so-called ‘degenerate practices’ if he were to flaunt his sexuality or allow anyone else to be too obvious about it, particularly if those same people threw in the insubordination of inappropriate familiarity.
As he powered up those steps, he realised for the first time that he could quite clearly hear the sound of gunfire not all that far away, somewhere off to the north. Casting a frown in that direction without slowing down, he also noted several palls of black smoke rising above the roofs of the nearby houses.
Before he’d walked six feet past those main doors, his hand extended and immediately received a mug of steaming, black coffee. His men knew exactly what was expected and made sure an orderly was ready the moment he walked through the door of a morning.
“Lukas…!” He bellowed loudly into the open space of the entry hall, the volume and tone surprising from someone of so slight a build.
“Mein Herr…!” His 2IC, Lukas Hauer answered in an instant, immediately at the man’s right and matching his stride across the tiled floor as they headed in the direction of the main operations room. An ex-Olympic gymnast, Hauer was also a university graduate and stood at least a head taller than Barkmann, with broad shoulders and solid frame to match.
“Status report, if you would, Sturmbannführer…” He demanded with the faint hint of a wry smile as they walked. “I hear these catholic bastards have been flexing their muscles again this morning.”
“They have, Mein Herr… and have caused some significant local damage… nothing we cannot bring under control, of course…” he added quickly as he caught the raised eyebrow and loss of good humour that first statement had produced.
“We’ve been hit badly at Aldergrove and at Lisahally,” he continued quickly. “Trucks loaded with explosives in both cases, it appears from initial reports. There was also an attempted attack at the Lisburn Barracks which was repulsed, although there were some serious casualties in this case also.”
“Improvised explosive devices…!” Barkmann snarled under his breath as a pair of large, wooden doors were opened before them and they stepped through into a large, open room filled with map tables, blackboards and communications equipment. “How many times have I pressed the Reichsprotektor to prohibit the use of nitrate-based fertilisers in this Godforsaken country? Are these all the attacks so far?”
“No sir,” Hauer replied quickly as they approached the centre of the room and by far the largest table in it, upon which was laid out a huge map of the entirety of Ireland including both the Republic and the Six Counties. “We have civil uprising in the city, north of here, which is currently spreading between the Shankill and Crumlin Roads – we’re not sure at this point whether Loyalists or the IRA are behind this – it could be either group in this area – and we’ve also lost contact with the local headquarters at Strabane as of approximately five minutes ago.”
“Strabane…?” Barkmann snapped sharply, fixing his 2IC with a burning stare. “What information on that?”
“None so far sir, other than that all communications are down. We are trying to contact other local units in the area but have been unsuccessful so far. The situation was originally reported by Obersturmbannführer Stahl: he and Standartenführer Bauer are presently enroute from Derry at best possible speed with armour and grenadiers from the Totenkopf in support. There are also SS Fliegertruppen from Schlageter on their way at Herr Bauer’s request.”
“Excellent…!” Barkmann nodded in approval, pleased two of his best officers had shown appropriate initiative. “This is all about that verdammt Amerikaner, Lukas – mark my words! All the rest,” he continued, extending an arm and swinging across the map dramatically, “is merely a distraction.”
A grim expression flashed across his features in that moment as he stared down at the map table, watching a pair of operators placing and moving various counters across the Northern Ireland section in response to reports of hostile activity.
“That is not to say that we shall ignore these rebel filth,” he added with dark thoughtfulness. “I suspect Strabane has sufficient forces allocated for the time being… what assets do we have available to combat these other uprisings? What have you been up to in my absence?”
“We have no firm estimates of casualties at Lisahally or Aldergrove as yet, but they are certain to be high. The commanding officer at the airbase is an ex-Stuka pilot, and he estimates the devices used there to each be roughly equivalent to perhaps a two thousand kilogram aerial bomb…”
“Scheisse…!” Barkmann muttered under his breath as he heard this.
“…The explosives used at Lisahally are believed to be of similar size. We’ve lost at least two frigates from the blast and several more may be lost if fires are not brought under control soon. The attackers there were cornered before they could make good their escape and were both killed.” He grimaced. “At Aldergrove we lost most of our hubschrauber, along with close to the entire security garrison there. One of the devices was detonated in the middle of their barracks huts… very few have survived. Aldergrove was the first attack… it appears the perpetrators escaped without a trace.”
“Those bastards will pay soon enough,” Barkmann declared coldly, meaning every word. “What of the civil unrest here in Belfast…?”
“Mostly simple barricades and shooting so far, Mein Herr… small arms and the occasion panzerfaust, but these have been rare …” Turning to one side, Hauer stepped across to a smaller table nearby carrying a large and detailed map of Belfast and its surroundings. “Most resistance so far has been confined to perhaps half-a-dozen major blocks of tenements and associated structures between Crumlin and Shankill,” he continued, indicating the areas with a pointed finger as Barkmann moved to join him, “running as far west as Tennent Street, here… and no further east than Agnes… here.”
“Our units…?”
“Security forces from the Ninth Luftwaffe Field Division, augmented by two platoons from our own garrison here and a few armoured cars covering important intersections,” Hauer replied as Barkmann nodded his silent approval. “Two squads attempted to push up Crumlin Road with a Puma in support but were forced back with heavy casualties. Fire from the roofs and higher windows has been difficult to combat, and we lost the Puma to petrol bombs. I’ve ordered up a company of light armour and grenadiers from Lisburn and they’re enroute as we speak, with more also mobilising from St Lucia Barracks. Being an urban environment, I’ve taken the precaution of ensuring at least one Wirbelwind for each troop.” For this, he received another nod of approval from his commander.
“Mein Herr…” he added slowly, sensing the next piece of information would not be received quite as pleasantly. “News has reached Berlin in your absence. Neither General von Neurath nor Reichsmarschall Reuter are currently contactable however the Reichsmarschall’s aide, Generalleutnant Schiller has been demanding an update on the situation… he wants to know when it will be brought under control.”
“The bloody OKW will be told as soon as we know what’s bloody happening,” Barkmann shot back angrily, not pleased over news High Command in Berlin was interfering. “That jumped-up little arschloch can kiss mine if he thinks I’m running to his beck and call.” He dismissed the entire idea in another moment with a flick of one hand. “We don’t need ‘The Freiherr’ here either, getting underfoot and interfering: Heydrich was the real power in Bohemia-Moravia long before he was officially given command and everyone knows it, the bloody Reichsprotektor included!
“Although admittedly somewhat stronger than expected, this is exactly the reaction I anticipated when I decided to hold this American in custody at Strabane over the last week, and it perhaps gives us a perfect opportunity to shatter these rebel forces beyond repair! Aldergrove may be down for the time being but I believe the Schlageter possesses a quite creditable complement of strike aircraft and gunships: have the captain deploy everything he has for offensive operations. I think it’s time we put paid to these Irish schwein once and for all, Lukas: we need to make an example of these bastards, and I suggest that levelling a few city blocks might be just the thing to remind them who’s in charge here…!”
Banks of the River Finn
County Donegal, south of Lifford,
Republic of Ireland
Two unremarkable young men in unmarked army fatigues helped them transit the hundred foot width of the Finn in a pair of inflatable rafts so small that the group were forced to cross in pairs, clutching the few personal belongings they owned to their chests as a cold wind whistled past them along the surface of the river. The occasional fine drop of water fell from the sky here and there, and although that was of no consequence in itself, it nevertheless drew everyone’s attention to the general levels of moisture in the a
ir and the ever-growing threat of rain.
Upon receiving the all-clear twenty minutes earlier, they’d all boarded the truck once more and left the relative safety of the barn, travelling that last 250 yards to the rendezvous point in tense silence. The vehicle had pulled off onto the narrow verge at a point where an irrigation ditch passed through a culvert beneath Urney Road that was little more than a covered, concrete half-pipe. The meagre channel of water at the culvert’s bottom curved away from the road and emptied into the Finn about eighty yards away, surrounded by a small clump of low trees. Multiple coils of barbed wire supported by thick iron stakes ran the entire length of the river bank as far as the eye could see in either direction, and carefully snipping away at each individual strand, it had taken that waiting pair of IRA volunteers quite some time to open a useable path through the wire and gain access to the river itself.
There was barbed wire running the length of the opposite bank also, but this was in far thinner strands, as if constructed only half-heartedly, and it had taken just a few minutes of work to cut a clear path through to the water. Kelly and Michaels were first across, both with German assault rifles slung at their backs, and they were greeted on the other side by third, older man in similar dress, clearly in charge and toting a small canvas rucksack over one shoulder.
“You’ll be Eoin Kelly,” he ventured quickly with a grin, extending a hand in greeting that was immediately accepted. “I recognise the hair.”
“Seán Michaels,” Michaels advised as they shook also. “You’d be Jimmy Doolan, if I remember rightly…” He added quickly, catching the man by surprise. “One o’ Russell’s right-hand men back in the day… I doubt you’d remember me, but we were in Portlaoise together for a few months, back in ‘Thirty-Eight.”
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 11