“Once the army goes, the town becomes impossible to defend,” Monty said.
“We must launch a counter-attack at once,” Churchill said, suddenly. “If we cannot beat the Germans on the water, we must defeat them on the land before they have a chance to build up and break out of their lodgement…”
Monty took the plunge. “Prime Minister, that will be impossible at the moment,” he said. “Perhaps I could brief you…?” Churchill nodded irritably. “The Germans have damaged a great deal of our transport network, which means that it will take us days, at least, to move heavy forces into Suffolk to reinforce General Barron. The armoured forces can be moved fairly quickly, but the Germans will break out before we can build up enough to stop them, although I am sure that General Barron will bleed them badly.”
“So, you think that we will lose Ipswich?” Churchill asked. “Do you expect us to win the war?”
Monty didn’t rise to the bait. “I believe that Ipswich is currently impossible to defend successfully,” he said, after a moment. “We need to focus our efforts on first stopping, then defeating, the German army, but our contingency plans concentrated on a defence of the Dover region. By landing in Felixstowe, the Germans have outmanoeuvred us in the first blow, outflanking most of the defences until they reach the GHQ line around London. Their success presents us with a serious problem.”
His hand traced a line on the map. “I propose that we concentrate the defence line here, here, and here; a line running from Colchester to Cambridge to Peterborough. If we have to, we’ll focus part of the line at Chelmsford, which will present us with some reserves when — if — the Germans break through the early line. I propose, furthermore, that we concentrate our own mobility forces behind this line, in preparation for an early assault if the Germans somehow fail to take advantage of their own mobility and attack the defence line. It should be possible, within a week, to have enough men and fire-power in the area to give the Germans pause.”
Churchill studied the map. “And if they decide to strike out in a different direction?”
“I am hopeful, Prime Minister, that that is what they will do,” Monty said. He tapped the map thoughtfully. “There’s very little point in trying to strike north in the direction of Edinburgh, or even as far as Newcastle, as there’s much less there to attract their attention. They must know that as long as the British Army remains in being, their conquests will be anything, but stable — therefore, destroying our army is their top priority.
“Ideally, we would want to lure them into ground of our own choosing, as Wavell did in Egypt during 1st Alamein,” he continued. “We have large Home Guard forces massing to the north of London, and up in the direction of Manchester and Liverpool; given time, we’ll out-mass them, so they will want to crush us as quickly as possible. It is my intention, Prime Minister, to meet that assault and defeat it.”
Churchill leaned forwards, his eyes afire. “Can you defeat it?”
“It depends on how much time we have to make preparations,” Monty said. “We may have to rely on our underground forces to delay the Germans enough to build a defence line that will hold them and break them.”
Churchill looked over at Major General Colin Gubbins. “One simple question,” he said, “can the Auxiliaries distract the Germans?”
“For a short period of time,” Gubbins admitted. “Unfortunately, by the very nature of the units, it is difficult to assign them any orders, specific or otherwise. The orders we did give them were to go to ground during the early stages of the invasion, but to commence attacks as soon as possible. We do not, however, have any specific locations for their targets.”
“I understand,” Churchill said. “What about the cells overseas?”
The master of the Special Operations Executive sighed. “There has always been a reliability problem with the cells we attempted to form over in France and most of Western Europe; they may hate the Nazis, but they don’t want to risk themselves when there’s no hope of freedom. Our ability to encourage them to do things has always been limited, mainly restricted to providing weapons in exchange for intelligence and some other support, but now… well, they’re not going to want to risk themselves for us.”
He shook his head. “I will attempt to encourage them, Prime Minister, but setting Europe ablaze will probably be well outside their capabilities,” he said. “I have higher hopes for our own units on the ground, but we have very little in the way of communications with them, mainly carrier pigeons and some buried cables.”
“I see,” Churchill said. He looked over at Monty. “I am appointing you overall commander of British forces in the field,” he said. “I want you to bring victory, understand?”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Monty said. If it occurred to him that he’d just pledged to defeat an army that had beaten every other army in Europe and defeated the British Army in several bitter engagements, it didn’t show on his face. DeRiemer hoped, for Britain’s sake, that he knew what he was doing. “I shall see to it at once.”
“Good,” Churchill said. “Admiral, Air Chief, I expect you to bend every effort in getting as much help as possible to the troops, understand?” They both nodded. “Good; meeting adjourned DeRiemer, stay here one moment.”
DeRiemer waited until the room was clear. “Prime Minister, I…”
Churchill shook his head. “Jack,” he said, addressing one of the guards, “please send in Professor Anderson.”
Professor Anderson proved to be the kind of man who made DeRiemer want to stay a safe distance from him; he combined an air of scientific genius with a distinct air of being willing to experiment with anything, anywhere, even to the point of blowing up a cup of coffee just to see what would happen. He had short hair, a face that suggested that he had managed to singe his goatee off numerous times, and wore a suit that somehow managed to appear like a lab coat.
“Thank you for coming,” Churchill said. Anderson didn’t look awed at being addressed by the Prime Minister; he looked more irritated at being dragged away from his work than anything else. “I need a complete briefing on the Omega Project, right now.”
DeRiemer listened in growing disbelief as Anderson outlined progress, much of which was well above his head, his comprehension dwindling as Anderson’s explanation became more and more complicated. Churchill listened as if he heard speeches like that every day, which was actually quite possible. When Anderson finished, DeRiemer was left feeling completely puzzled, and bemused. Why had Churchill wanted him to hear that?
“I don’t want to hear more science at the moment,” Churchill said, curtly. “I just need the answer to two questions; how long until you can produce a working device?”
Anderson considered it. “The funding for the project was cut back sharply in 1944,” he said. “We have much of the theory, but not the equipment to test the theories and build the device. It would take at least six months with an unlimited budget; once the Americans discontinued their interest in the project, we lost access to their research as well.”
He hesitated. “It has been suggested that the Americans actually completed the project,” he admitted. “They just never shared anything after Dewey took office.”
“I need you to complete a device as soon as possible,” Churchill said. “The country is under attack, Professor, and your country needs you.” He smiled grimly. “There’s one other point… do the Germans have an atomic bomb themselves?”
Chapter Twenty
Near Ipswich, England
It had been sheer luck that they’d been in the area, although Captain Thomas Bashford would not have used the term luck, not when it meant that their tiny force of tanks was right in the middle of the German advance. Bashford’s small unit of eleven Centurion tanks had been running a small exercise in the fields to the north when they’d been surprised to hear the sound of firing in the distance, coming from the east, just as they lost all of their communications. Bashford had waited, sending runners back to the GHQ to find out what was
going on, and finally a Jeep from General Barron had found them. The Germans had invaded Britain!
Bashford’s orders were simple enough; his unit, which had been armed for a live-fire exercise, was to delay the Germans as much as possible. It hadn’t been easy sneaking the tanks into position to the east of Ipswich and they’d lost two tanks to the Germans before they’d taken up their positions overlooking the road towards Felixstowe. If the Germans wanted to advance quickly, Bashford knew, they’d have to use the road… and he would get at least one good shot at them before they returned fire. As the sun rose higher in the sky, Bashford found himself tensing; the presence of German aircraft in the sky proved that the Germans were closing in on his position.
His radio buzzed suddenly. “Attention, Tommy Boy, Mother has gone to market,” it buzzed, the signal wavering in and out of coherence as German jamming systems fought to confuse the British still further. The speaker was positioned on a hill watching for signs of advance; the code words warned that the first Germans were on their way. “Mother wants ten eggs and two loaves of bread.”
She’ll be lucky, Bashford thought, mentally translating the signal into ten enemy panzers and two companies of infantry. The Germans would try to push their panzers as far west as they could and break through the defence lines; his force would have to delay the Germans long enough for defensive lines to be constructed to the south-west, towards London, but he knew that he couldn’t hold them for long. The Germans would advance their infantry as fast as possible, probably armed with portable antitank rockets or German PIAT weapons.
He leaned down into the tank’s turret. “Load HEAT round,” he said, as if they hadn’t been preparing for the fight even before they had suddenly been pitched into a very real war. “Bob, move us as soon as we fire.”
The tension rose as the radio buzzed a second warning, followed by a flight of German aircraft passing overhead, heading towards Ipswich to launch attacks on targets within the town. Bashford tensed as a second flight flew overhead, following up on the earlier mission; if the Germans knew where they were, they would prefer to send a rocket-armed fighter after his tank rather than send one of their panzers. He would be able to shoot back at a panzer. They’d camouflaged the tank as best as they could, but the planes had a bird’s eye view of the surrounding territory and might just see them from above. If that happened…
Something was moving in the distance. He lifted his binoculars to his eyes and peered towards the newcomers, drawing in a breath as he made out the shape of Panzer V tanks. The Germans called them Panthers, if he recalled correctly; they’d built them for service in Russia after encountering the Russian T-34 tank. The Russians might have been lousy soldiers, but they’d been good engineers, and the T-34 had actually proven itself to be better than anything the Germans had had. If they hadn’t had a megalomaniac with a well-developed sense of paranoia commanding their forces, the Soviets might actually have won and defeated the Germans.
If that had happened, we’d probably be standing off a Soviet invasion, he thought, as the next set of German vehicles advanced. They had motorcycle scouts out, and they were advancing fast enough to ensure that they would trip any ambushes the British might have set. Bashford pushed ‘what might have beens’ out of his mind as the gunner loaded the round and carefully brought the Centurion’s massive gun to bear on the lead German panzer. It was one of the command vehicles, Bashford saw. There were dozens of aerials sticking out of its hull, while it was protected by a smaller force of German infantry. The infantry would be a problem; Germans were trained to react quickly to surprises and would advance as quickly as possible against his position when that happened.
“Fire,” he commanded. The tank shook violently as it fired the first shell; the remainder of his unit fired seconds later, their shells racing through the air and striking their targets. Bashford saw a German panzer explode into a ball of flame as the first shell struck it, then a second and a third, and then the driver yanked the tank back just as the German turrets traversed with frightening speed. He cursed as a shell exploded only meters from their position. The Germans were firing back and trying to hit his units before they could escape. He barked an order to the driver and the tank spun around, briefly shielded from enemy fire by the ridge, heading for their second planned firing position. “Reload; antitank round!”
One of his tanks exploded as the Germans found their range, the noise of their shellfire deafening Bashford, even through the helmet he wore. He cursed, seeing that none of the crew had managed to escape, and said a silent prayer for them under his breath. The noise of shellfire suddenly grew louder and a volley of shells came screaming down as the German long-range guns focused in on their position. He smiled grimly as he ducked into the turret; unless the Germans got lucky and scored a direct hit, they were unlikely to actually manage to do more than churn up the ground.
The chatter of the machine gun was deafeningly loud in the confined space as the loader opened fire, aiming at a squad of German infantrymen who had just appeared on the other side of the ridge, lifting a rocket launcher and taking aim at the tank. Two of them scythed backwards in a gout of blood, the others threw themselves down to the ground and tried to aim their weapon, ignoring the danger. The rocket missed by centimetres as the tank lurched away, the main turret traversing to aim at a German panzer that was itself taking aim at them. It fired, destroying the German vehicle.
“Panzer,” the gunner cried, as a third German tank appeared. This one was quicker; they fired a shell towards the tank and barely hit their target, the shell slamming into the tracks. The tank slewed to a halt as the gunner threw a round back at the Germans, but the sudden movement had ruined his aim and put their shell somewhere into the distance.
“Abandon vehicle,” Bashford ordered, and dove for the hatches. They were a sitting duck now, and the Germans wouldn’t hesitate to kill them after they’d hit them. The crewmen followed him as the cabin began to fill with smoke; coughing and gasping, they scrambled out and immediately ran to the west. If the tank was burning, it would only be a matter of time before the flames reached the ammunition and…
The tank exploded. Bashford forced himself forwards, knowing that they would only have moments to escape back towards the British lines, but it was too late. He drew his side-arm with one hand as German bullets began to whistle past them. He threw himself into a ditch, crawling as fast as he could. The noise of shells overhead grew louder as the Germans pounded their targets, but the noise grew and grew to the point where he was wondering if he was the target, him personally. His crew had vanished. He clutched his weapon as he heard German voices and shouts behind him, preparing to make a final stand.
He heard them shouting before he saw them, icy German-accented voices barking a command, ordering him to throw down his weapon and put up his hands. He ignored it, knowing the fate of many German prisoners of war, and took aim in the direction of the voices. The bullet came out of nowhere and cut through his head, sending him down into darkness, but at the end, he was happy. The German advance had been delayed.
* * *
“Never mind the British tanks,” Hauptmann Johann Bothe barked, as the line of panzers crested the hill and pushed through the remaining British positions. They left ten wrecked panzers in the wake, all picked off by the British tanks when they had emerged from their hiding places to open fire. The ambush had been a complete surprise.
Bothe glared down at his map. Rommel had divided his forces into two prongs, one heading to the north-west and the other heading to the south-west, catching Ipswich between them and hopefully forcing the British to stand and fight. The Germans had done something similar at Moscow, he recalled, but Ipswich was much smaller than the Russian capital and probably not important enough for the British to make the linchpin of their defences. Rommel’s plan hoped to prevent the British from making more than a temporary stand, but they’d shown themselves to have teeth even if they were on the run. The lost panzers could be replaced
quickly, assuming the sea lanes remained secure, but the time spent fighting their way out of the ambush could not be recovered.
Ask me for anything but time, he thought, as he barked orders to the infantry. 7th Panzer was Rommel’s own unit. A core division that had seen action in France under him, before being moved to the Western Desert and then to Russia for the final operations against Beria. It was the best fighting unit in the Wehrmacht, armed with the latest tanks and armoured personnel carriers… and supported by some of the most advanced German technology. A small air force was devoted to covering them from the air and, they even had their own organic support units. 7th Panzer was an army in its own right, one altered and modified by Rommel until it matched his tactics.
The radio hissed in his ear as the artillery units to the east pounded the British position again. The British lines were forming up in front of Ipswich, and Rommel had altered his orders slightly; Bothe’s prong would spread out a little more, in hopes of catching British soldiers before they could escape from the trap. Bothe snapped an order into his own radio and the panzer lurched back into motion, heading towards the west… and then cutting out across the country. A fence, designed to hold horses and sheep inside a farm, provided no barrier at all to the panzers; they just crashed through and kept going, navigating by their maps and the compasses.
“Don’t stop for anything,” he spat, as the infantry advanced in their own units. They were passing through small villages, some of which would have made formidable defence strong points if the British had had a week to prepare them, but there were no signs of any defenders, apart from a handful of Home Guardsmen who opened fire from a prepared position, throwing grenades towards the panzers. Bothe took the measure of the threat at once and ordered the panzers to charge the Home Guard position, smashing through their barricade and driving right down the centre of their village. He held himself low as the Guardsmen tried to hit him, but as the German infantry advanced, they found out that they had worse problems.
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