The Invasion of 1950

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “At the same time, we will launch major air strikes against every British RAF base and radar station,” Manstein continued. “The British will have to get into the air as quickly as they can, just to drive our aircraft away, while in the meantime we will be hitting their bases as hard as we can. That particular wave of attacks will have a secondary objective; dummy parachutes will be unloaded over the Dover region, ensuring that the British will be wasting their time looking for the parachutists. In the confusion, we will launch the first part of the invasion plan itself.”

  He nodded over to Admiral Wilhelm Franz Canaris, the head of the Abwehr, the military intelligence department. Himmler detested Canaris, whose loyalty to Hitler was suspect, but there was no denying the fact that he knew his job very well. Canaris was charged with gathering intelligence from Britain, particularly on British military deployments, but Himmler knew how hard that could be… unless, of course, there was an ace in the hole. His particular ace, something he had even concealed from Hitler, gave him a private, but very advantageous, look into British politics. It was an advantage he had used ruthlessly.

  “The British have been preparing for an invasion ever since the first rumours of war,” Canaris said. He’d been in his post for over ten years; Himmler had watched him almost as long. “They spent most of 1940 scrambling to prepare a basic defence, and then they just kept preparing, with the net result that the Dover region is the most heavily defended area in Britain. As the obvious place for us to land, they have fortified the area beyond reason, backed up by ten divisions of their army and heavy armoured units. We were able to get a look at their latest tank during the insurgency in Iraq” — Himmler smiled; the Shah of Iran had supplied that insurgency, with a little push from his German friends — “and while we believe that it’s a good design, they have massed most of them in the Dover region. If we were to attack Dover, the invasion would fail.”

  He paused. “So, naturally, we’re not going to attack Dover.”

  Manstein nodded. “The British defences there would make an attack far too costly for us to sustain,” he said. “Accordingly, we intend to target the assault on Felixstowe, a British port that has actually been taking some ships from the continent over the last few years. Felixstowe has been built up recently by the British, moving from a small base for motor torpedo boats to housing a small group of destroyers and also some civilian ships. It’s not the largest harbour in the world, or even in Britain, but it’s one that we believe we can take intact. Once we have secured it, the first of the main invasion transports will land and start unloading before we form the units up and advance towards London.”

  He drew a line on the map. “The British will have to destroy our forces on the ground,” he said. “We anticipate that they will be able to move the equivalent of one armoured division and five infantry divisions into the area within a few days, although we will be hammering their rail and road communications as much as we can. Once that force is ready, they will advance to attack us — they will have no choice. If they allow us to continue to reinforce at will, eventually we will be able to defeat them on the ground. The destruction of that force, will allow us a chance to expand our grip and advance towards London, burning the heart out of Britain as we move.”

  Himmler coughed. “What do you think the British will do with their other fleet units?”

  Manstein tapped the map. “I expect that they will concentrate their forces and advance towards us, attempting to cut the sea lanes,” he said. “If they succeed too soon, they will defeat the invasion force, but once we have enough supplies in place, we will still have a chance at victory. The Italians and Japanese may take advantage of their absence to strike; the only problem remains the reaction of the Americans.”

  Hitler erupted. “The Americans couldn’t prevent us from doing anything,” he barked sharply. “They have their own problems with their mongrel races and won’t be concerned with our actions!”

  Joachim von Ribbentrop, the Reich’s Foreign Minister, looked nervous. The man was believed to be a fool by everyone, including Hitler. “The American President has been focused on internal problems and the Japanese threat,” he said. “I do not feel that the Americans would get involved unless we offered them some huge provocation.”

  Himmler smiled. The power play was obvious now; if Kesselring and Speer won the invasion of Britain between them, they would have a chance to oust him from the centre of power in the Reich. It was what he would have done; indeed, he had done it to Goring, among others. When Hitler died, and that wouldn’t be long now, the next Fuhrer would be one of the three most prominent Nazis…

  “There is a way of preventing the British from asking for help,” he said, and outlined it. The idea was simple and he even had a unit on hand that could handle it. “The British might not even be able to issue orders for a while if the plan succeeds.”

  Hitler loved it. “A splendid idea,” he said, his face growing flushed. “See that it is carried out perfectly.”

  “Of course, Mein Fuhrer,” Himmler said.

  “I want to have Britain as part of the Reich within two months from today,” Hitler said. His sight faded for a long moment. “Go now… and bring Britain into the Reich.”

  The assembled senior commanders and cabinet members left quickly, but Himmler lingered just long enough to meet Hitler’s eyes. His body was shaking slightly, breaking apart, and failing him; it wouldn’t be long before he died. Hitler knew that he had, at best, only a few more years to live. The longer he lasted, the more his body would degrade and humiliate him still further. Himmler couldn’t bear it any longer and fled the room…

  Trapped in a dying shell, Adolph Hitler was in hell.

  Chapter Three

  Wewelsburg Castle, Germany

  “Heil Hitler!”

  Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler returned the salute as he clambered out of his car, looking up at the towering heights of Wewelsburg Castle, a building that he had purchased and developed for the exclusive use of the SS. His elaborate plans had been impeded by the demands of war, but he resumed construction once the Soviet Union had collapsed and no serious enemies remained to threaten the Reich. Himmler had personally organised the establishment of Niederhagen concentration camp, near the Castle, and the thousands of slaves from the east had been used ruthlessly to build Himmler’s dream. Seven years later, it had become one of the most impressive sites in Germany, a fitting tribute to the New Order.

  He shook his head as he proceeded up towards his private office. The existence of the Castle, as well as the secrets and rituals at the heart of the SS, had been kept from the remainder of the German people, many of whom would never approve what was being done in their name. Himmler remembered with a flush of embarrassment the German women who had demanded the return of their Jewish husbands; ever since then, he had become determined to keep many secrets to himself, safe from the interfering gaze of many Germans who didn’t want to know what was being done in their name. The Church was a particular problem for Himmler; his program to establish massive SS families and legitimise bastard children faced massive opposition, even though the Pope had been pressured into providing reluctant support. The final battle between Church and State hadn’t been fought yet, Himmler knew; one day, the Waffen-SS would march into the Vatican and put the Pope and his Cardinals to the sword. One day… and, if Himmler became Fuhrer, that day would be very soon.

  “Herr Reichsfuhrer,” one of his secretaries called. “I have the latest figures on the use of Untermensch workers for your perusal.”

  “Please hold them for the moment,” Himmler said. He made a point to be polite to all of his subordinates, knowing that if they were scared of him, they would start lying to him, rather than face his displeasure. “I will study them later.”

  He walked into his private office and smiled to himself. There were literally millions of Untermensch — sub-humans — within the vast territories that the Reich had occupied, and they were all at the disposa
l of their German masters. The SS had spent the last seven years registering the Untermensch and using them for whatever purpose suited them, from slave labour to working on massive concentrated farms to feed the German people. The East was dotted by plantations now, each one run by the SS to grow food; in time, the serfs would all die, to be replaced by men of good German stock and tractors of good German manufacture.

  The East was also rife with insurgency, but as the SS systematically restricted the movements of the population, even the insurgency was dying down. It would be years before it was all gone — Himmler suspected that Beria was supplying them despite the terms of the treaty — but there was no way that the insurgents could defeat the Reich.

  There was a single knock on the door and Himmler barked a command, without looking up, until Skorzeny had reported. “Heil Hitler,” he said, and saluted. It made him envious, in a way; no matter how many blonde-haired, blue-eyed Aryans he surrounded himself with, it wouldn’t change his own appearance one iota. Himmler wasn’t a perfect SS man and never would be, but the man facing him lived up to the legends.

  “Heil Hitler,” Gruppenfuhrer Otto Skorzeny said. “You wanted to see me, Herr Reichsfuhrer?”

  Himmler took a moment to study Skorzeny. At forty-two years old, the famous commando, who had been involved in raids and attacks on the Soviet Union and the insurgents that had replaced them, still looked like a young man. He had planned and executed a daring raid on the Soviets just before the end of the war, and Hitler had been impressed enough to order Skorzeny promoted and given his own unique unit of soldiers. Skorzeny hadn’t wasted his time, either; the unit of commandos had proven themselves in covert operations against a dozen sensitive targets.

  “I need a readiness report on your unit,” Himmler said, allowing Skorzeny to draw his own conclusions. The Reichsfuhrer wouldn’t have summoned him for a report unless there had been a failing so great as to justify him being thrown out of the SS — or if there was a prospect of action. “How ready are you for immediate deployment?”

  Skorzeny’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of action. “The unit is in peak condition at the moment,” he said. Himmler had given him a thousand men back at the start; now, with reserves, new recruits, and even hundreds of SS men clamouring to join, Skorzeny could have tens of thousands of men under him. Instead, he had his core group and several thousand reserve soldiers, just in case they were needed. “The men are ready as they’ll ever be to launch an operation against any enemy.”

  He stopped and waited. “Within a month, perhaps less, we will launch an attack against Britain,” Himmler said, calmly. Skorzeny looked delighted. “Your unit has a vital role to play in the assault.”

  Skorzeny considered it. “The Tommy is a good soldier, but often unprepared for surprise,” he said, after a moment. “There is no one better at holding a piece of ground, but they don’t always react well when they are hit really hard. The best of their commanding officers match our own, but they don’t often have the same grasp of tactics that we do.” His grin grew wider. “And they have a unit to match ours; this should be fun.”

  Himmler stood up and paced over to the map. It didn’t show unit positions; instead, it showed SS locations and personnel throughout Europe. He also knew that there was plenty it didn’t show, such as the fatality rates from Skorzeny’s unit; the parachute-testing program had claimed over a hundred lives since Skorzeny had demanded that a new parachute design be put into production. It also didn’t show the exact details of their target…

  He turned back to face Skorzeny. Skorzeny was Hitler’s man, through and through; he didn’t have much time for the mystique that Himmler was trying to create around the SS, his Knights of the Black Cross. Where Himmler was fussy and precise, Skorzeny was impetuous and random. Skorzeny might be an excellent soldier — he was an excellent soldier — but he wouldn’t fit into the Order of the SS, or at least as Himmler envisioned it.

  “You launched an attack on General Zhukov’s headquarters,” Himmler said, remembering that incident with some private amusement. The USSR had never really recovered from the loss of Moscow; by the time Beria had succeeded in bringing the Red Army back into a fighting force, their long-term advantages had been reduced sharply and, whatever else he was, Beria was no Stalin. He had no choice but to trust Zhukov to hold together the Red Army and the defence line… and, one day, Skorzeny and a hundred of his men had landed in a Red Army aircraft, slaughtered the General’s defenders, and kidnapped the General himself. It had been the turning point in the 1942 campaign against the remaining body of the Red Army and Stalingrad itself.

  Skorzeny smiled lazily. “I remember,” he said. “Do we know where the commanding officer of the British Army is currently based?”

  “Your target is a little higher up the scale than that,” Himmler said. “Your orders are to land in London, seize or kill the Prime Minister of Britain and his Cabinet - and then escape.”

  Skorzeny shook his head. “London isn’t an isolated airbase in the middle of nowhere,” he said, remembering his mission against Zhukov. “It’s a colossal city. Unless there is a gaping hole in the British defences, we won’t be able to land aircraft and hold the area long enough to snatch the targets and escape. The minute there’s a threat, they’ll bring up reinforcements and trap us.”

  Himmler frowned. “What does that mean for your mission?”

  “We can’t take them alive,” Skorzeny said, with as much dispassion as if he were ordering dinner. “They will have to be killed, and then we will have to extract ourselves from the scene as quickly as possible.” He paused. “What sort of information do you have on the British defences?”

  “Not as much as I would like,” Himmler admitted, wondering if he should let Skorzeny in on the secret. “I have been working to collect information, but there are… limits to what my source can gather and transmit to us without giving away his existence, and the minute the British suspect that they have a leak, they will start tearing their departments apart to find it.”

  He watched as Skorzeny went through the information that one of his secretaries had prepared. The big man’s face twitched and twisted as he studied line after line, peering down at the map of London and mentally comparing it to the maps that he had studied, back in 1940. Skorzeny had been one of the finest soldiers in the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler back then, and he would have seen plans of Britain, but the information that Himmler had gathered was updated to 1950.

  He looked up finally. “What sort of assets do we have on the ground?”

  “A handful of agents, several of whom may be under surveillance,” Himmler said. “They still have Sillitoe in command of their counter-espionage service and he’d a determined man, always pushing the limits of what he can do with his people. We have some links with the British fascists, but they’re definitely being watched and have almost no military capability…”

  “That wasn’t what I was thinking about,” Skorzeny said. “They have three barracks in London, four counting the one for the Palace Guards; that gives them, at most, several thousand soldiers who could react to us landing. They’re going to react, which means…”

  He broke off. “I have been training people for possible operations against Britain,” he said. “If we had some support from the air, we might be able to hit the barracks first, just enough to confuse them and let us land, launch the attack, and then beat it before the British catch us.”

  Himmler nodded. “So it can be done?”

  “The cost will be very heavy,” Skorzeny said, flatly. He didn’t flinch, but Himmler did; he rarely visited the camps where the slaves were held, just because he hated the sight of blood. “We can get around five hundred commandos into the area, but the British will still have time to react and counter-attack; I estimate that we will have twenty minutes before they start organising a response. Once we have completed the mission, we can fall back and escape, but it won’t be easy.”

  Himmler looked at him. “Could your peopl
e go to ground until our soldiers get there?”

  “Possibility,” Skorzeny said. “We would need some contacts on the far side and… we’ll need British uniforms. The British would shoot us at once if they caught us like that, but it might just allow us a chance to escape in the confusion. Once that’s completed, we will have a chance to escape, particularly in the wake of an invasion. They’re going to be moving units around like crazy and we’ll just blend in with the crowd.”

  Himmler nodded. “I take it that I can trust you to handle the mission and brief a commander?”

  “I’m going myself,” Skorzeny said, shortly. Himmler lifted an eyebrow. “I said I wouldn’t send anyone on a mission I refused to do myself, so I have to go, and I have the best training and grasp of the situation. The information will have to be shared around the team — if my aircraft gets shot down, Hans or Johan will have to take over — but I think they can be trusted to keep it to themselves.”

  He paused. “What is the source of this information?”

  Himmler’s lips wanted to twitch into a smile. “Classified,” he said, flatly. “The information is, however, totally reliable.”

  Skorzeny held his gaze. “I need to know how to verify it,” he said. “Who is supplying us with information?”

  Himmler answered, reluctantly. “A very strange Englishman,” he said, wishing that he could tell Skorzeny the full story. They’d only stumbled upon the connection by accident and — as far as the SS knew — their target knew nothing of who was reading his reports. He thought that he was still filing reports to Beria and his agents. “His name is Philby, Kim Philby.”