Finally, Rommel separated himself from the admiring soldiers and led the way over to the command building. It was a school before the Germans had arrived to discover that almost all of the population had fled before them. They had taken it over, using the school as a makeshift command post. Rommel had set up his maps, communications equipment and a cot in the basement; his personal autogyro was parked under one of the bike sheds, hidden from the sight of any prowling British aircraft. The Luftwaffe swore that any British aircraft that stuck it’s nose into occupied airspace would have it shot off, but Rommel tended to assume that there would be British recon missions that might succeed. He’d seen the value of the Luftwaffe’s promises before, and that hadn’t always ended well.
He scrutinized the map for a long moment before looking up. The task was daunting for him. The further south they probed, the more built up the area became. Street-fighting on such a scale would decimate the German infantry as well as level most of the buildings, and Rommel didn’t want that. He wanted to present the country to Hitler as intact as possible, and if there was a war through British streets, it would cause untold devastation. It was another worry for Baeck as well; the British would regret the damage to their cities, but they would certainly want to lure the Germans into brutal house-to-house fighting in order to slaughter as many young German soldiers as possible.
“So,” Rommel said, finally. “What do you think of the preparations?”
Baeck forced himself to compose his words carefully. “I think that the different units are as ready as they will ever be,” he said after a moment. He wanted to express himself, but given all the pressure on Rommel, he might not understand or be able to share Baeck’s own feelings. “I think, however, that we will have significant problems with our logistics.”
Rommel frowned. “That depends,” he said. “If we crush the British Army here, and part of the reason for this battle is to lure them onto grounds of our choosing, the long-term supply situation won’t matter. If we destroy their ability to take the offensive, we will win once we have repaired our own damage and push on. If we fail to do so, we will fall back into the lodgement and hold until we are reinforced.”
It sounded good, Baeck admitted, but he still had his doubts. “What happens if our own armoured spearheads are broken?”
“If it’s like Tobruk, we’ll seal off the enemy positions and carry on around them,” he said. Baeck remembered Tobruk and grimaced. The tough Australians there had held on to the fortress for nearly three years before it had finally fallen and surrendered. It was the largest black mark on Rommel’s record. “If not, we’ll have to adapt and improvise, which is our advantage over the British or the Russians.”
Baeck wondered, grimly, just how long that advantage would last. He’d seen the SS training methods and not all of them encouraged initiative. The SS much preferred robotic obedience to orders, something that was fine in a rear-area unit, but downright dangerous in a front-line unit facing the enemy. The commander on the ground knew much more about what was happening than the commander at the rear; it hadn’t been unknown, during the Russian campaign, for Russian tanks to just keep charging at the German lines despite the fact it was suicide. The handful of prisoners had known that, but they’d been more frightened of their own leaders than they had been of the Germans. Would that happen to Germany?
Night fell slowly, broken only by the sound of hundreds of muffled engines and barked orders; the armoured columns were preparing to advance. The engineers were already out, clearing minefields and traps they’d laid only a few days ago, and ensuring that the Panzers could move up to their jump points in time for the offensive. There was a pregnant moment of anticipation… and then the guns opened fire, this time augmented by rocket launchers in an attempt to hammer the British and clear the way for the Panzer units.
Baeck stared into the distance as the horizon began to glow and said a silent prayer under his breath. The noise of shellfire and explosions was growing louder as more and more guns opened fire. The decisive battle was about to begin.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Near Colchester, England
The ground shook violently as German shells erupted and struck the ground some miles to the north. They were out of harm’s way, unless the Germans decided to expand their bombardment, but even so, Captain Harry Jackson could feel the ground trembling under the impact of the German shells. The Germans knew how to put on a bombardment, all right; the noise of the shells was deafening even at this distance, and as for the noise of the little rockets…
He shuddered. He’d seen young soldiers shocked by the noise of the rockets when the British had used them in exercises and the howl of the German rockets was even worse. The Germans had designed them to make a terrible shriek while on their way to their targets, and what they lacked in accuracy, they made up for in sheer intimidation. He’d thought he’d known what they were facing, but the Germans had started to hammer the lines… and as he looked to the north, even in the darkness, he could see flashes of light that indicated that shells had detonated. The British troops were dug in and well-prepared for war, but if the Germans kept shelling at their current rate, Jackson feared that they would crush the British forces before the Germans entered engagement range.
I should be there, he thought, as the noise of the bombardment grew louder. They were several miles back from the lines, guarding Handyman Hall… although against what, General Barron had been unable to tell them. He thought highly of Jackson’s ability to create a new Company from scraps of old military formations — or, rather, the handful of survivors from previous battles — and after the guerrilla raid on the German-controlled railway line, he’d been sent back to the Hall with orders to train up a new unit. He’d dedicated himself to the task as best as he could, but he had wanted to be back up with the lines and join the defence.
The Germans would either punch through or be defeated, but either way, he wouldn’t be there to take part in the fighting. The sounds of combat faded for a moment before returning, louder than ever. A star-shell exploded high above, bathing the area in an unholy glow. He saw, briefly, the dark shapes of German bombers heading south before the explosions began to echo out again, some of them closer to home.
He turned as Sergeant Wilt came up behind him. “The men are in position, sir,” he said. Jackson was, as senior officer, de facto commander of the defences, even though there were only four companies of soldiers near Handyman Hall. “They’re also ready for a quick retreat if that should be required.”
Jackson nodded. He’d learnt the value of having a quick line of retreat beforehand, and it had stuck with him. It wasn’t likely that the enemy would break through the defence lines and hit them before they were warned, but it was quite possible that the Germans would try to slip an assault force through the lines or even launch a parachute raid on his position. What had happened at London had convinced him of just how dangerous the German paratroopers could be. They could catch him with his pants down at any time.
“Good,” he acknowledged. “I’ll be along in a moment.”
He looked up at the massive shape of Handyman Hall. The caretaker had told him that it had been designed by a member of the family who had been terrified, not without reason, of the French. Later, he had been gently relieved of his responsibilities and placed in an asylum, but by then Handyman Hall was large, ugly, and very difficult to attack. The family had apparently wanted to destroy it or rebuild it, but had been deterred by the cost and the War Office’s interest in the building as a possible redoubt for an invasion. They were making a pretty penny charging the War Office and the Army for the use of the building; personally, Jackson would have volunteered to do the demolition for free. He’d seen much nicer-looking buildings in India.
The thought made him smile as the explosions of the bombardment grew louder. The building was solid stone with ugly gargoyles looking down from every floor, and the caretaker had sworn blind that there was a secret passage somewhere w
ithin the building. The only ones the soldiers had been able to find was a passage leading from the main house to a summer house out in the woods, and a second one leading to the servants’ building. It hadn’t surprised him to discover that the soldiers had been billeted there; General Barron, at least, shared their discomforts. The main building was being used by his staff.
He strode across the lawn and down towards the bunker. It had been dug during the large war, but one of the conditions of the retainer the War Office had paid the family was that they kept the bomb shelter up to date and large enough to house a large staff for a commanding officer. The caretaker had thought that the War Office had gone mad or someone had used a great deal of influence to convince them to invest in a house they didn’t want, but that foresight was beginning to pay off. He slipped inside, covering his eyes slightly to shield them from the glare of the electric lights, and walked over to General Barron.
“Yes, we have at least four major areas of shelling,” the General said, talking through a telephone. It didn’t take much imagination to know who he was talking to; only one man could talk to a General in the middle of the fighting. “No, we don’t know yet which one is the real thrust and which ones are decoys. We’re just holding the line for the moment. The men are under cover and…”
He listened as the Prime Minister spoke. “Air cover, a splendid idea, sir,” he said. “Tell the RAF that this is it; I need the German attacks broken up, and we’ll tell them where to send their ground attack aircraft, in fact…”
He put down the phone after a long discussion. “The Prime Minister wants to know what’s going on when I don’t know myself,” he said, to no one in particular. “Monty is supposed to be taking command personally, but there’s no sign of him at the other command post and…”
Jackson followed his gaze to the map as it was updated again. The Germans were concentrating their bombardment on four separate sections of the line, as well as shelling some of the heavier sections of the line that ran through more populated areas. Jackson knew enough to guess that the Germans would be focusing their main effort on one of the bombarded areas, but which one? Advancing the reserves too quickly could mean the difference between victory or defeat.
Another telephone rang and the general picked it up. “I see,” he said after a long moment. “I’ll take care of it personally.”
“That was Monty,” he said after he put the phone back down. “He’s with the 1st Armoured; he’ll direct that part of the battle from there.” He shook his head. “Did you want to say something, Captain?”
“We’re all dug in and ready,” Jackson said. He’d asked Barron for a combat command, but Barron had refused, citing the need to keep his company refreshed rather than either sending them up to the front lines or transferring Jackson to another company. “If the Germans attack here, we’re ready for them.”
Barron nodded. “Good work,” he said. “In fact…”
He was cut off by one of the operators. “Radar has detected enemy aircraft heading towards this location,” he said, sharply. “The RAF is moving to intercept.”
Jackson locked eyes with Barron, and they shared the same thought; paratroopers.
“I’ll be with my men,” Jackson said and ran out of the bunker. He’d deployed half of his men into Handyman Hall itself, using it as a position for them to pour fire down onto anyone trying to assault the building on the ground, but he expected more of a bombing raid than a paratrooper assault. The Germans loved paratroopers. Ever since Skorzeny had captured Zhukov, they had embraced the potential of the paratrooper raid. If they could kill General Barron, the British forces along the line would be cut off from higher command, and confusion would start to set in, costing the British the battle.
“We’re about to be attacked,” he yelled, as he threw himself into a trench. He could still hear the noise of the bombardment, but now he could hear a second sound, the noise of German engines high above. It might still be a bombing raid, but as the aircraft passed overhead, he heard no bombs falling down, nor explosions close enough to affect the Hall. “Keep an eye out and…”
A flare burst in the sky, revealing the German paratroopers, falling out of the sky. Jackson let out a whoop as the company opened fire as one, sending bursts of bright tracer fire into the air, targeting the Germans before they had a chance to react. Several of them fell out of the air in the eerie light as their parachutes were ruined. Others managed to make it to the ground before they were engaged, some of them even landing in the trenches. A brutal fight broke out across the ground, several of the German paratroopers managing to stay low and fight. The British troops had the advantage and most of the Germans were wiped out quickly; a handful survived long enough to throw grenades before they, too, were wiped out.
Jackson cursed as a burst of fire echoed out from the west. A group of Germans had landed there, away from Handyman Hall, and were mounting an attack of their own. He peered into the gloom through his night-vision goggles, despite the eerie and fading light of the flare, and tried to count the number of Germans as they pushed forward. There was no denying their bravery as they assaulted a trench, throwing grenades into the trench and then jumping in for close-quarter combat, but he wondered just what the Germans were thinking.
The last German fell and silence fell, broken only by the sounds of the fighting in the distance and the drone of aircraft, high overhead. The Germans were funnelling every plane they had into the area, knowing how important it was to defeat the British here, and the RAF were doing the same. He’d never been that impressed with the fly-boys before, but he said a silent prayer for them as the battle raged overhead. If they failed, the battle might be lost.
“Remain at alert,” he said, into the semi-silence. His instincts warned him that they weren’t out of the woods yet. “How many of the lads were hit?”
Sergeant Wilt was ready with a quick count. “Twelve dead, sir, and Jocko and Ally were both pretty badly hurt,” he said. “I’m sending them back into the house for medical treatment.”
“Good,” Jackson said, peering into the gloom. The light faded in the distance. It would have been an oddly pretty sight if it hadn’t been so lethal. Over there, miles to the north, British soldiers were fighting and dying, trying to hold the enemy back, and he was stuck body-guarding the General. “Form a patrol and…”
“Incoming aircraft,” someone shouted as an aircraft appeared out of nowhere. Jackson threw himself to the ground, tasting mud in his mouth, as the aircraft bombed their position, causing a massive wave of heat and fire to spread rapidly. He’d heard about the possible use of napalm in a combat situation, but he hadn’t expected that the Germans would use it, not in Britain. They normally used it for clearing insurgent cities in Russia.
“Everyone out of the trenches, now,” Jackson shouted, feeling fear gripping him as he saw the lines of burning fuel. They were running along the ground, pouring into the trenches and setting fire to everything they touched. Handyman Hall might be pretty much fireproof, being built of so much stone, but everything inside the building was likely to be destroyed. It was all he could do to stand his ground and not run, but his men were depending on him. He saw a soldier enveloped by burning fuel and vanish in a ball of flame; the sight made him feel sick as he tried to push it out of his mind. “Everyone, get out and…”
He lifted his radio and selected the general channel. “General, get you and your men out of the bunker quickly,” he enjoined. They’d set up a duplicate command post in a nearby building, but there would be a break in command while they moved operations into the new building and resumed control of the battle. The Germans were masters at improvising. Would they take advantage of any command problems to strike against the British? What would happen if there was a command problem right in the middle of the battle. “I need you to…”
He saw them moving around the fires and shouted a warning. For a moment, he thought they were British soldiers, but then the leader levelled a weapon at him. Jack
son threw himself to the ground and returned fire with his assault rifle. The German fire swept the handful of surviving British soldiers and killed several who had escaped the fire, before British sniper fire from the roof began to hit them.
Jackson crawled away as quickly as he could, trying to make it to the window of the Hall, while the Germans tried to avoid the devastatingly accurate sniper fire from the roof. Eventually, one of them brought out a Panzerfaust and launched it at the roof, blasting a gargoyle down onto the ground. Jackson felt the ground shake as it hit hard enough to shatter the stone and send it flying everywhere.
“Sir,” one of his soldiers said. They’d blocked up the main door — it was too big and obvious — but they’d opened one of the windows to serve as an access point to the house itself. “What are we going to do?”
Jackson pulled himself to his feet and picked up another rifle. “We’re going to hold this place,” he said, as he glanced around for the telephone. “How many men do we have here?”
“Seventeen on this floor, seven on the roof,” the soldier said. He wore a Corporal’s rank insignia and looked as if he was taking control of himself. “I can have some of the rooftop soldiers brought down here if you want.”
“Not yet,” Jackson said while picking up the phone and dialling a number from memory. “I want ten men assembled to resist an assault here and the others distributed around the ground floor at other points of entry. If they have explosives…”
The Invasion of 1950 Page 32