“I have gunfire on the ground, Green-Leader… estimate at least squad-level engagement on the road near the crash site, approximately three hundred metres south of Lifford, but I have no clear vision due to smoke…”
“Then you need to get over there and have a bloody look, Red-Three!” Schmidt snarled angrily in return.
“Green-Leader, you’re asking me to violate Irish airspace…” the chopper pilot replied after a pause of bare seconds.
“One of our Mixgerät just demolished half a bloody borough over there, Red-Three: we’ve already violated their fucking airspace, don’t you think?” The major bellowed back with rage. “There are wounded Germans over there, Red-Three, and I need aerial recon! I’m not asking you, untersturmführer, I’m bloody-well ordering you! Give me a status report on the situation over there immediately, Red-Three: that is a direct order!”
“Understood, Green-Leader… will comply… Red-Three, out…”
The SH-6E veered instantly away from its course, heading south along the eastern bank of the River Finn, and then turned sharply westward, crossing the border not far from where Kransky, Lowenstein and the others had crossed by boat some time earlier. Coming back around to the north from the other side of the Castlefin Road, the pilot brought Red-Three into a slow, coasting hover two hundred feet above the road, inching forward and tilting his nose slightly to one side to provide a far better view of what was happening below.
Both pilot and gunner could clearly see the firefight that was developing, with muzzle flashes and the occasional streak of tracer pinpointing the positions of both sides perfectly. One thing the chopper’s crew also noted with some surprise was that although most of the Waffen-SS troopers were confined to cover in or around the crashed Mixgerät, there also appeared to be a small group of SS officers trapped and tending to another wounded colleague in the front yard of a house that was ostensibly behind the lines of the green-clad opposition.
“Green-Leader, I have clear sight of the area,” the pilot reported in as he powered away again, circling around to the west in a wide loop. “Our men are engaged with squad-sized units at the crash site. I also have two children – a boy and girl, I think – and three unidentified SS officers – one wounded – who appear to be trapped behind enemy lines…” His voice trailed off momentarily as the gunship continued to loop around, heading back toward the crash, and the pilot suddenly picked up further activity below.
Moving in lines toward Lifford from the west along Letterkenny Road were hundreds of armed Irish Defence Force troops, all carrying combat packs and supported by a trio of Landsverk armoured cars and two Stridsvagn L-60 light tanks, the only two the Republic currently possessed.
“New contact… new contact…!” He called urgently into headset, recognising that he was looking at Irish regular army troops below and coming to completely the wrong conclusion. “Green-Leader, I have Irish national army units in battalion strength advancing on the town from the west, ETA less than five minutes. I repeat, confirmed Irish Defence Forces advancing on Lifford with armour in support… requesting instructions immediately... over…”
“‘Armour in support’…?” Schmidt repeated with more than a little incredulity. “Those bastards are only supposed to have two panzers in the entire bloody country…!”
“Mein Herr,” his communications officer called up from within the hull of the Puma. “We have the Commander of the Irish 2nd Division broadcasting on our open channels at the moment, claiming we’ve violated their neutrality and demanding we withdraw immediately from Irish soil.” There was a pause as the lieutenant waited to hear more of the broadcast. “He’s demanding to know what’s going on…”
“Anton, tell me what’s bloody going on right now and I’ll be happy to pass it on to that arschloch across the river,” he growled back with a sigh of nervous frustration. “Get onto Schlageter and request further instructions – there’s no way I’m going to start a bloody war here without proper orders.”
As his communications officer immediately jumped on the radio to headquarters, the Fennec carrying Bauer and Stahl arrived at the rear of the group, pulling up short a few feet behind Schmidt’s Puma.
“What’s happening…?” Stahl demanded as he leaped from the slowing Fennec and jogged across the intervening distance to Schmidt’s vehicle, Bauer following at a more relaxed pace with a walkie-talkie grasped in one hand. “What the hell is going on here?”
“What the bloody hell do you think is going on here?” The reply was fired back with all the exasperated sarcasm it deserved. “That fucking bonfire over there,” Schmidt added with a snarl, making no consideration for rank as he threw out an accusing finger, “used to be one of our hubschrauber! We’ve got men on the ground over there under fire and a battalion of those fucking leprechauns moving up from the west with ‘armour in support’…” He was unable to keep an almost childishly derisive tone out of his voice as he finished that last phrase, mocking the gunship pilot’s report as his own tension continued to grow. “…And the good news…? I think we’ve found those two bloody kids you’ve been after, at least… I’ll let you guess where…”
“And we’re doing what about it?” Stahl shot back, focussed on other issues and completely ignoring the obvious disrespect.
“Are you deaf, Mein Herr? They’ve crashed over the other side of the river, and I’m not about to start a war with the Republic of Ireland because of some bloody accident!”
“It’s you who’s gone deaf if you can’t hear that gunfire, sturmbannführer,” Franz Bauer observed sardonically as he ambled up to stand beside the fuming Stahl. “I would suggest that it appears we may already be at war here: one in which we are about to be handed our first defeat if we don’t do something to save what’s left of our men from those advancing Irish troops.”
“Asking a hubschrauber pilot to make an over-flight is one thing, Mein Herr, but with all due respect, there is no way I am going to order my men to engage the forces of a neutral country without explicit orders from someone much higher than a standartenführer.”
“I have Gruppenführer Barkmann on the line right now waiting to speak to you,” Bauer asked with a smug, superior grin as he stepped in close and offered the radio he was holding to Schmidt. “With Freiherr von Neurath currently in Berlin, I believe Herr Barkmann is the highest ranking officer in the country… would that be sufficient authority for you, Herr Major…?”
With all the reluctance of a naughty child called to the principal’s office, Schmidt accepted the offered radio and lifted it to ear, pushing aside his own headset in the process.
“Herr Gruppenführer…?” He ventured cautiously, mostly hiding the grimace his face wanted to display at that point. “Mein Herr, there’s been an accident: one of our troop hubschrauber has crashed on the other side of the border. There will certainly be Germans casualties, and it’s very likely there will also be civilian deaths also: the aircraft has destroyed and set afire several homes on impact. We currently have a low-level engagement at the crash site, but this may be nothing more than a misunderstanding at this point. I am reluctant to commit my forces and risk escalating the situation further.”
There was a long pause as the reply came back to him, all of it unintelligible to anyone else but nevertheless quite audible in volume, the major’s face hardening with suppressed anger as the tirade continued.
“Yes, Herr Gruppenführer, I am aware of the other attacks made against us this morning and the gravity of this situation… We do have reports of two children at the scene of the engagement, but I have no information at this stage regarding their identity – they could be local children caught in the exchange…” Another long pause ensued, with Schmidt continuing to stare directly ahead with a stony expression that defied any attempt to show the man’s true feelings regarding the orders he was receiving. “Jawohl, Herr Gruppenführer… at once, Herr Gruppenführer…!” He signed off finally, swallowing once with distaste before slowly reaching down and ha
nding the radio back to Bauer.
“All units, this is Green-Leader,” he began slowly once he’d taken a deep breath and composed his own fury. “Order are to relieve survivors of the crash across the river. Troop-One is to take the lead across the bridge with Troop-Two in support. Troop-Three and our Wirbelwind will provide covering fire from this side of the river. All units are to advance with caution…” He paused for a moment as he considered once more the ramifications of what they were doing. “Their panzers and armoured cars mount two-centimetre cannon at best and should present little threat. Due to the danger of civilian casualties, you are not – I repeat – not to engage Irish forces unless presented with a direct and immediate danger. Green-Leader out…”
“Berndt…” That single, soft word of warning and concern crackled in his headset over the unit’s private channel a moment later, and Schmidt recognised the voice immediately.
“I’m not happy about it either, Milo,” he replied after a long pause, resignation in his tone, “but I have my orders and so do you… please proceed as directed…” another pause “…and be careful…!”
Schmidt’s trio of Panther tanks reached the entrance to the Lifford Bridge within moments and waited just a few seconds more for the guards to draw back the steel gates blocking their path. In line ahead formation, with Wisch’s Panther-211 in the lead, the trio rumbled slowly onto the bridge itself, making inexorably for the other side as a pair of Marder infantry fighting vehicles followed on behind.
“Mein Herr, the Irish commander is still demanding to know what we are doing…” the communications officer advised nervously, drawing the headset away from his ear in anticipation of a reply.
“Anton…” Schmidt began sharply, halting abruptly as he fought his first, irrational instinct to vent the entirety of his frustrations on his hapless subordinate. “…Anton,” he continued in a far calmer tone, having taken a quick breath, “please advise the commanding officer opposite that we are only interested in retrieving our men and withdrawing back across the river. Make it clear to him we will not engage unless provoked…”
There was a moment’s pause as Anton relayed the message back across the open radio channel.
“He’s not listening, sir… he keeps insisting that we’re already engaged in combat with his troops and that any further movement across the border on our part will constitute an act of war. He’s saying he has orders to repulse any advance…”
Schmidt releasing a long, deep sigh of dark resignation that was also now tainted by a faint sense of anger over the fact that regardless of the circumstances, a poorly-armed enemy now dared to threaten his men; the elite of the Waffen-SS.
“Anton, in that case my response is that he has his orders and I have mine… Please reiterate that we will not engage unless provoked, however any attempt to hinder the recovery of our men will result in an appropriate response… and tell him that if he thinks he can ‘repulse’ us…” he added after a moment’s pause, his temper beginning to get the better of him, “then he’s more than welcome to bloody-well try …!
“I suggest you men either take cover or take up a weapon,” Schmidt called down to Stahl and Bauer, the pair having listened with great interest to the one-sided exchange with Barkmann. “Either way, I shouldn’t be hanging about here in the open if I were you. Driver…!” He added suddenly as he lowered himself back down inside the turret without giving the pair of officers another thought. “Forward to the bridge: advance under cover of our grenadiers. Button up, Meine Herren: life is about to become very interesting.”
The P-7E powered away with a spray of earth from beneath its wheels, quickly catching up with the procession of armoured vehicles now pushing slowly across the bridge.
“Where do you think you’re going, you bloody fool…?” Bauer shouted as Pieter Stahl suddenly bolted past him, holding an assault rifle and set of combat webbing he’d taken from the rear of the Fennec.
“Where do you think?” Stahl shouted back, pausing just long enough to shrug the webbing over his shoulders. “I know that Schmidt from France, and he’s no stomach for dirty work: if you think I’m leaving him in charge of rounding up those filthy Juden, you’re crazier that I thought…!”
“Scheisse…!” Bauer muttered excitedly, knowing full well his partner was acting irrationally but quickly losing any ability to care as the momentum and intensity of the situation swept him along with it all. “I suppose that I’ll have to go along too and keep an eye on the fellow, then…”
And with that final thought, he too turned and raced back toward the Fennec, intending to join the show.
4.Bloody Sunday
St Mary's Training College
Falls Road, Belfast
Three storeys high, the brick tower by the entrance to the SS HQ at St Mary’s College stood as tall as the high roofs of the main building. The ubiquitous swastika flag flew above the battlements of the turret that capped the top of that tower, and from that vantage point it was possible to see most of the surrounding areas of Belfast. As Gruppenführer Ernst Barkmann stood atop that turret at that moment, with field glasses in hand, he could clearly see smoke rising from at least a half-dozen major fires, all burning across just a few residential city blocks that were less than two miles from where he stood. At four major intersections that enclosed the burning suburbs, the far thinner trails of red smoke grenades rose in wisps into the air, mingling quickly with the pall now hanging over that area of the city.
“Attack aircraft from TG901 inbound now, Mein Herr,” Lukas Hauer advised from directly behind Barkmann, the handset of a backpack radio raised to his ear. “ETA approximately sixty seconds… they are requesting targets…”
“The targets are exactly as discussed, Lukas…” Barkmann replied archly with the faintest hint of a raised eyebrow. “Those smoke markers were set up for a reason: anything within them is to be considered a legitimate target.” He lowered his binoculars just for a moment and turned his head to stare intently at his 2IC. “I’ll teach these bastards to respect our authority! I want to see the whole area levelled!”
The combat air group of the Albert Schlageter included six each of J-4E fighters and S-2F attack aircraft, all twelve of which were now approaching from the west at high speed and extremely low level. Primarily an air-superiority fighter, the J-4E Würger nevertheless possessed a secondary offensive capacity, over and above the power of its trio of 23mm cannon, to carry a single bomb beneath its fuselage of up to 500 kilograms. With the danger of likely aerial opposition quite reasonably expected to be nil over Northern Ireland, the fighters of TG901 were equipped in exactly that fashion, and they swooped in now ahead of their slower colleagues, releasing their single pieces of ordnance and powering away skyward at full throttle.
The standard SCS500 weapon was a long, narrow ‘low-drag’ bomb that had been designed as an all-purpose weapon suited for use with the next generation of much faster jet-powered aircraft currently coming into service. With a nominal weight of 1,100lbs (500kg), it was a powerful weapon with a large blast radius that could conceivably damage the delivering aircraft when dropped from such a low level. To negate this danger, the weapons the aircraft of the Schlageter carried were fitted with a simple yet extremely effective retarding system.
Upon release from beneath each aircraft, four flat, paddle-like petals automatically opened up between the bombs’ tail fins, immediately producing extra wind drag that quite effectively retarded the fall of the weapon. As the each J-4E pulled sharply upward after release, the long, streamlined bombs fell away and detonated far behind, allowing the pilots enough time to reach a safe distance.
The same could not be said for the residents of Belfast as the powerful weapons detonated amid the rows of multi-storey tenements below along the Shankill Road. With a blast radius of close to 200 yards, each was quite capable of levelling entire buildings, and this they quite violently did upon impact as huge clouds of earth, smoke and debris were thrown skyward, and part of an entire
city block began to collapse, killing and/or maiming dozens of residents and rebels alike.
The damage inflicted by the retreating fighter pilots was minor however in comparison to what was about to be unleashed by the attack aircraft following in their wake. More than twice the weight of their faster colleagues at full load, the S-2F Seelöwe was a naval variant of the Luftwaffe’s standard attack aircraft. The largest single-engined, propeller-driven aircraft flying, it mounted four 20mm cannon and could carry almost 9,000lbs of ordnance below its wings and fuselage on no less than fifteen separate hardpoints.
Each aircraft was currently carrying twelve weapons beneath their wings, six smaller but otherwise identical SCS250 (550lb) low-drag bombs, interspersed evenly with six similarly long and thin, tailless canisters of napalm. In another reality, the same combined use of incendiaries and wind-retarded high-explosives during the Vietnam War would acquire the American nickname of ‘Snake & Nape’, and falling from the skies over Nazi-Occupied Belfast, it was just as deadly, shattering and immolating entire city blocks as the weapons fell from the wings of the passing S-2Fs four at a time, in pairs of each.
Watching from the safety of the battlements, Barkmann almost laughed with glee at the sight as billowing clouds of red flame and black smoke burst upward from the nearby suburbs in great swathes, each one punctuated by the upheaval of earth and debris as the SCS500s exploded in their midst.
“The Freiherr thinks we can win this country over with openness and a soft hand…” he growled with disgust, his eyes alight over the death and destruction being meted out by his order. “One look at the history of these savages and any fool could see that the only thing they respect or respond to is violence! What are their pathetic guns and their bombs against the power of Grossdeutschland…?” He paused for a moment, giving a small grimace as if conceding some small point of contention, then added: “What a shame we’ve no battleships available to make a proper job of it!”
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 16