* * *
SS Standartenfuhrer Ludwig Stahl marched into the room, snapped a perfect Hitler salute, and waited for the Reichsführer-SS to give him leave to relax — slightly. Stahl had been surprised by the urgent summons back to the Castle from his previous post as SS Commander in what remained of Norway but he expected that the Reichsführer-SS had a task for him personally. He had committed no major blunders and, indeed, had been commended for his work in Norway, separating out the Aryans from the undesirables that had infested the ancient homeland. His command was charged with hunting down resistance fighters in the mountains, although, as he ruefully acknowledged, it was likely to take years to kill them all.
“Herr Reichsfuhrer,” he barked, as Himmler acknowledged him finally. “SS Standartenfuhrer Ludwig Stahl, reporting as ordered!”
“Heil Hitler,” Himmler said, shortly. “Your successes in Norway have been noted.”
Stahl allowed himself a slight smile. His force had worked hard to ensure that Aryan Norwegians were brought up to believe in their own supremacy over everyone else, which meant — naturally — separating them from their inferiors. The large number of German servicemen stationed in Norway had actually resulted in hundreds of marriages, which would strengthen the quality of blood in the area and ensure that Norway would be permanently bound to the Reich. He’d also used thousands of slave labourers to build new ports, roads, and facilities in the country; the Reich intended to use the country as a permanent naval base.
“Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer,” he said. “I believe that my men, also, deserve some credit.”
Himmler nodded. “We have a new task for you,” he said, simply. “The Fuhrer has commanded that Great Britain be brought into the Reich, which represents a new opportunity for us and particularly for you. We have four priorities; we must secure the country, prevent any insurgency, eliminate all the undesirables from the country, and bring the British into the Reich as Aryans.”
Stahl nodded. The Reich regarded France and Italy as degenerate and their inhabitants as subhumans, but Norway, Denmark and other ‘Aryans’ were regarded as potential equals. The Führer’s ruling would mean that the British wouldn’t be enslaved as a nation, unlike the Slavs, but they would have to be broken to the concept of being part of a greater Aryan community. Their independence would come to an end, they would be expected to inter-marry with the Germans who would settle in their land and they would be expected to fight for the Fuhrer. First, however, they would have to be cleared of Jews; Stahl remembered hunting down Jews in Norway and felt nothing but loathing for them.
“The day-to-day occupation of the country will be in your hands,” Himmler said, and Stahl felt a moment of pure excitement. “The Fuhrer will select a Governor-General, but under the right circumstances, you will be able to act without referring to him, all towards the overall aim of winning the peace and ensuring that Britain becomes part of the Greater German Reich. Your men — an experienced unit from Denmark or France is being prepared for you — will have the task of carrying out your orders.”
Stahl nodded. The Reich had created the world’s largest and most precise bureaucracy to ensure that the Führer’s orders were carried out, one that included a list of everyone within the Reich, from the youngest child to the oldest and most useless slave worker. The citizens of Britain would all be registered as well, the first part of a well practised scheme that would bring them all into the Reich as obedient servants, and eventually willing allies for the long-term task of controlling the world. The English had an Empire; that Empire, too, would become part of the Reich.
“I will not fail you, Herr Reichsfuhrer,” he said, standing up in salute.
“I trust that you won’t,” Himmler said, in his maddeningly calm voice. Stahl remembered some of the acts that Himmler had ordered carried out, including the near-complete destruction of several Soviet cities to prevent them from being used to foster the insurgency, and shuddered inside. Himmler had offered him a chance to prove himself on a much larger scale, something that would catapult him to higher rank, but if he failed… the blame would be his and his alone. “The British have had ample opportunity to create a stay-behind movement, so remember; rooting that force out and destroying it, will be the first priority.”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer,” Stahl said. He had had experience in hunting down the handful of insurgency-supporting networks in Norway; without those networks, the insurgents might as well be bandits, robbing their own people as much as they raided German outpost. “They won’t last long enough to be a problem.”
“Good,” Himmler said. His eyes narrowed slightly in warning. “Remember, you represent the SS and we will all be judged by your performance. Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler,” Stahl echoed.
He snapped to attention and marched out of the room.
Chapter Four
Near Bergen, Occupied Norway
Gruppenkommandeur Albrecht Schmidt, Jagdgeschwader 2 Richthofen, stood to attention with the remainder of the senior officers as General Adolf Galland entered the room. Galland had been one of the heroes of the service, flying against England and Russia before being promoted and given command of Luftwaffe 2, one of the Luftwaffe’s main air groups. Luftwaffe 2 had been deployed to the massive base in Norway, built through slave labour, weeks ago; now, it seemed that the senior officers were about to find out why they had been exiled to Norway. The Norwegians weren’t very friendly, and while there were brothels and some girlfriends, the main body of the air group had been confined to the base.
Schmidt watched as Galland waved them to their seats. His assistant had hung a map on the wall, but had covered it up; with a smooth motion, Galland pulled the cover away, to reveal a set of islands and harbours. Schmidt recognised it from his basic briefings; the British naval base at Scapa Flow, due west of Norway. It was perfectly positioned for intercepting any sortie from the Baltic Sea and larger than the massive bases the Kriegsmarine had been building in Norway. It had been discussed as a possible target for years now.
“The British have been causing us problems recently,” Galland said, giving what every man there knew was the official line. Schmidt knew, as did the other pilots and commanders, that asking questions at the wrong time could be fatal to their careers, if not their health. He knew, unlike many civilians, the true cost of German expansion. “The Fuhrer has decided that it is time to settle accounts with them permanently, before they launch an invasion of Europe and attempt to overthrow the regime.”
He paused, expecting no comments. Schmidt said nothing; the idea of the British overthrowing the Fuhrer and his government on their own was ridiculous. They might have been able to do it if they had developed their empire like the Reich had developed and exploited its empire, but, instead, they were on the verge of granting independence to chunks of the empire, even the jewel in the crown itself. They weren’t a threat to the Reich; they even couldn’t get at the Reich.
“This unit has been marked down for the most important part of Operation Sunset,” Galland continued, his voice calm and firmly in control. “The British Home Fleet at Scapa Flow has to be destroyed, or at the very least severely crippled, and that task has fallen on your heads. Failure to take out the fleet will almost certainly result in a disaster for the invasion force, so we must take out the fleet… we will take out the fleet.”
Schmidt ran through it in his head. The force was a mixed one, consisting of the latest aircraft in the German Luftwaffe; it prided itself on being the most powerful unit in the world. The British had nothing to match it in the air, but attacking a stationary target like a harbour was very different from fighting it out in the air with British jets.
Schmidt had seen enough of the Gloster Meteor to know that it might not be as good as the German aircraft, but in the hands of a skilled pilot, that wouldn’t matter so much. It could come down to being an even fight…
He had only seen limited service during the war itself, but he’d seen the briefings
and assimilated as much as his older fellows could teach him, particularly what had happened during the last air campaign against Britain. The Luftwaffe hadn’t been properly prepared for the war, with the result that they hadn’t been able to force the British to surrender. Richthofen — the unit had been named for the pilot from the Great War — had been training under the belief that they would go to war with Britain again, maybe against the Americans as well. The Americans were a huge question mark as far as the Reich was concerned. Although the official line was that Americans were a mongrel race of mixed blood, Schmidt didn’t have much time for the SS’s version of eugenics.
“The entire unit will be used in the assault, deploying a mass wave of the newer weapons,” Galland continued. Schmidt thought about some of the weapons that had been tested over the past two years and felt his teeth moving into a grimace; the British would never know what had hit them. “When the Fuhrer issues the order, the unit will go into lock-down and prepare for immediate launch; when the second order is issued, Richthofen will take off and proceed with the attack, regardless of what else happens. The wing will engage the British ships while the fighters keep the British fighters off their backs; once the bombs are launched, we will fall back and leave the British to clean up the mess.”
There were some chuckles from the pilots. The bombers — the crews of the Junkers Ju 290 jet bomber — looked relieved. They would know that while an old British fighter couldn’t touch them, one of the British jets would have no problems engaging them and bringing them down. Fighter escort always made the bomber crews happy. Very few of them had any faith in the weapons mounted on the bomber’s hull.
“We may have to launch a second strike once we have refuelled and rearmed the aircraft,” Galland said. The surviving aircraft, Schmidt reminded himself; Richthofen was going to get hurt badly in the strike. “It is hoped that we will have inflicted enough damage to ensure that we don’t have to return there, and in that case we will be assigned to supporting the assault against Britain itself, but we know better than to always hope for success.”
He paused. “We have a small team of agents near Scapa Flow itself,” he said. “The British Home Fleet currently consists of nine battleships, six carriers and forty smaller ships; the main targets are the battleships and the carriers. To add to our problems, there are actually three older carriers that date back to the last war as well as the three modern carriers; they have to be sunk as well. The British are currently going through an exercise of their own, so we will strike once they have returned to port and are digesting the results of their exercise and thinking about what it means for the future.”
Schmidt nodded again. Luftwaffe exercises tended to work out the same way; there would be a period of frenetic activity, then a second period of rest as exhausted crewmen staggered to their beds and sleep. Meanwhile, equally tired senior officers struggled to work out the lessons of the exercise and decide how to present them to their men. His pilots had as much training and exercises as anyone else in the Luftwaffe, but even they got tired after a few weeks of all-out effort. The old hands from the war swore blind that wartime was worse, but the younger pilots found it hard to grasp; they had never flown against a serious enemy that wanted to kill them.
“The British have three squadrons of Meteors and several other aircraft on the island itself and can probably request support from RAF bases in Scotland if they have to call for help,” Galland continued. “We will fly low towards the target, but we don’t expect actual surprise, so we will have to be prepared to sweep enemy fighters out of the sky. Accordingly, the first wave of fighters will be leading the way, followed by the bombers and the remaining fighters; the first wave will have to scatter the British and keep them scattered.”
Schmidt felt a flicker of pure excitement. His Messerschmitt Me 270 jet fighter was the hottest plane in the air, and he wanted to finally test himself against a real enemy. The British pilots were spoken of with respect by the older hands, unlike the Russians, who were regarded with scorn and hatred. The Russian pilots might have been brave men, but during the later years of the war, they had been more dangerous to their own men than to their Nazi opponents. Untrained, flying inferior aircraft, they had been flung into the fray… and butchered.
“I expect that each and every one of you will give his all to get Richthofen in perfect condition before the operation begins,” Galland concluded. “I have organised a massive series of training runs and operations, to be conducted by everything from smaller sections of Richthofen to mass exercises consisting of every aircraft in the force. This is going to put a strain on us, but I believe that we can handle it… and I will personally break anyone who slacks off, even slightly.”
His gaze passed around the room. Schmidt straightened up under his eyes. “We’re the best unit in the Luftwaffe and now it’s time to prove it,” Galland said. “Your training schedules will be posted on the main board; the first exercise will begin in one hour. Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler,” the pilots echoed.
It was a dismissal. Schmidt stood up with the other senior officers and headed back to the workroom, intending to check the main board before too long. His unit was a fighter unit and he hoped — prayed — that they would have the point in the coming attack. They hadn’t really proven themselves, even though Richthofen had a long and distinguished history, and now was their chance. They would do or die.
* * *
Oberst Frank-Michael Baeck lifted an eyebrow as he saw an older man ahead of him, clearly heading towards the same office; the older man saw him at the same time and blinked at him. Baeck wasn’t fooled; he saw real intelligence and a certain wry sense of humour in the older man’s eyes, and wondered what he made of him. The older Germans certainly were keen on the army, but Baeck’s uniform was very rare; there were only a handful of amphibious units in the Wehrmacht.
“Kapitän zur See Christian Wulff,” the older man introduced himself. His uniform was that of a Kriegsmarine reservist, rather than a serving officer; he looked as if he hadn’t worn the uniform for a long time. “You were called here along with me?”
Baeck nodded as they reached a door, tapped on it, and waited for the barked command. When it came, he opened the door and allowed Wulff to precede him, before following him into the room and straightening to attention as he recognised the man sitting on the other side of the desk. He was tall, almost unnaturally thin, with sharp penetrating eyes and a haze of brown hair on his head. Baeck would have come to attention for any senior officer, but he knew this one by reputation and meant the salute from the heart; Field Marshal Erwin Rommel himself.
“Heil Hitler,” he said, almost overcome with awe. His orders had said that he would meet a senior officer, but not Rommel himself. He would have sooner expected the Fuhrer than a man the lower ranks of the Wehrmacht idolised. “Oberst Frank-Michael Baeck of the Hans Bader reporting as ordered, Herr Feldmarschall.”
Rommel nodded. “You have been selected for a dangerous mission,” he said, and ran through the background to Operation Sunset quickly. “Your unit… how is the training level at the moment?”
“Excellent,” Baeck said, silently thanking God that he kept all of the records in his own head. He could have given Rommel a man-by-man description if he had had to, but instead, Rommel just wanted an overview. “The unit has been training hard and is at the peak of perfection.”
“Good,” Rommel said. “Kapitän zur See Wulff, how about your ship?”
Wulff hesitated. “The ship is in fine condition,” he said, puzzled. Baeck was equally puzzled; he could see how his unit might be involved with the Kriegsmarine, but he didn’t understand how it all fitted together, not yet. “We just returned from the Felixstowe run and unloaded the British goods; we’re not due to make the run again for three weeks.”
“Yes,” Rommel agreed. He stood up and unfolded a map. “This map was created by an intelligence officer who sailed with your ship, and examined the port and its surrou
nding environs carefully. The British have been building up the port over the last few years, allowing greater and greater trade with the Reich…”
Baeck spoke before realising that he had opened his mouth. “The British trade with us?”
“They send us some raw materials we cannot get for ourselves, we send them some machine tools and manufactured goods,” Rommel said, dryly. “It is not something that is widely discussed, but it forms a small, but important part of the Reich’s long term plan for dominance. This time, the Hans Bader will not be carrying machine tools, but an entire unit of German infantry, trained for operations in a port.”
“My unit,” Baeck said, understanding. He glanced over at Wulff. “How many of my men could I fit into your ship?”
“If they don’t mind being uncomfortable for a few hours, we could fit in several thousand,” Wulff said after a moment’s thought. Baeck silently took that down a few hundred; they’d have to bring in equipment and weapons as well as just the men. “The question will be when the British would want to inspect the ship.”
Baeck frowned. “When do they inspect the ship normally?”
“They normally send in a team of inspectors as soon as the ship docks,” Wulff said. His finger pointed to a docking slip on the map. “We’re a heavy ship, so we dock here for quick access and unloading, before being moved to another slip, where we are loaded up again. Once we dock here, the ship is inspected before anyone is allowed to leave, but once the ship is inspected and unloading is under way, some of the crew are allowed a brief period of shore leave.”
“It won’t matter,” Baeck said, thinking carefully. “We’ll have to move as soon as we dock and take the docks before anyone can react. What about defences?”
Wulff skimmed through the briefing notes. “They have a Home Guard barracks nearby, perhaps with at least a small regular army detachment as well, and a regular set of barracks outside the city,” he said, after a moment. “What about reinforcements Sir?”
The Invasion of 1950 Page 4