England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  “My father’s connections with Churchill…” Trumbull deduced the link immediately, and the reasons behind the orders he’d received from HQ the preceding day to stand down suddenly became clear. Trumbull’s father was a high-ranking MP on good terms with Chamberlain and also, quite conveniently, a personal friend of Winston Churchill.

  “Got it in one, squadron leader,” Thorne grinned. “Your brother was also happy to provide us with a personal video for your father, Richard, but one of the requirements for that assistance was that we have you removed from front-line combat and transferred to active duty within our unit. Of course, the final decision’s yours, but after viewing your service record and abilities I had no problem with agreeing to that…”

  As Trumbull deflected the compliment with a sideways nod of the head and humble half-smile, Thorne continued. “Nick’s been able to get a few things organised already, but if we want to do something important for this world, we’re gonna need all the help we can get. What happened at Dunkirk has left Britain practically defenceless and with the inside information Reuters will give Hitler and the High Command, they’ll be certain to invade England now: the only real question is when. Because we’ve now arrived after the New Eagles, the plan has changed somewhat and we now need to somehow find out exactly when they did arrive in the past.

  “We know they arrived in the past somewhere over the forests of Tunguska in Siberia, as the TDUs only permit travel in time, not in space, but the amount of change to history Nick’s observed already in the last year is a real concern. We know now that they’ve been here for years, but we need to know exactly when they arrived to be able to intercept them. Until we’re able to get hold of that information, we’ll try our damnedest to help the Allies recoup the technological lag they’re going to inevitably face. If they give us enough time, we may just save England yet.”

  “I don’t suppose you fellows brought along any of those ‘atomic bombs’?” Trumbull asked hopefully, and there was a moment’s silence as Thorne considered his answer carefully.

  “That was a question that we argued over long and hard in the twelve months we had to prepare, prior to coming come here ourselves. Ultimately it was thought that if the United Kingdom could threaten Germany with nuclear retaliation, it might ultimately be the only way to prevent an invasion. To that end we have brought with us three free-fall thermonuclear devices — atomic bombs.”

  “Well that’s all right then, isn’t it?” Trumbull asked hopefully. “If these bombs can each destroy an entire city, then surely Hitler will reconsider an invasion. We could threaten Berlin!”

  “Yes, we could threaten Berlin,” Thorne agreed, however the tone indicated there was a ‘but’ coming. “Bomber Command has set aside a special Halifax bomber for just that task should the need arise. With in-flight refuelling from the Extender I could even hit Berlin myself in the F-35 and probably make it back without any trouble at all, although I’d rather not risk the aircraft on that kind of deep strike unless absolutely necessary…” he paused and gave a grimace. “But this is where we get back to what I said about the will of the enemy. We’ve got these bomb and they’re extremely powerful — far more powerful than those that obliterated Hiroshima and Nagasaki — but we only have three. Also, this isn’t just a matter of stopping an invasion of Great Britain, as nuclear weapons are a strategic weapon rather than a tactical one. The Germans couldn’t just back down from an invasion and then continue on with the rest of the war with ‘business as usual’ — it’d mean a requirement to end the war altogether, because any aggressive action on their part from then on might be enough to elicit a nuclear response from the UK, if you see what I mean…” Trumbull thought about what he’d just said, taking time to assimilate the information before nodding, thinking he did indeed understand.

  “We’d have to use at least one of the weapons to prove that we could back up any threat — Hitler would be certain to call our bluff — and that’d leave us just two devices. Say we do hit Berlin…perhaps Hitler is killed and perhaps he isn’t — we take that risk either way. If the attack strengthens their resolve rather than weakens it, what then? Use the second and third weapons to try and further dissuade the enemy, or save them for use in the case of an actual invasion? Just one of those bombs could devastate an invasion force — possibly to the point of halting it altogether — but again, if that fails…what then? We do possess nuclear weapons for use as a last resort against the Germans, but exactly where and when isn’t as simple an issue as it seems on the surface. Either way, we still have to be prepared to evacuate to somewhere safer should an invasion come: even if we can’t stop an invasion of the UK, we’re sure as hell going to make sure they’ve have a bloody hard fight on their hands.” Thorne paused once more, giving the pilot more time to absorb what he’d said and deciding it was time to change the subject. “What I’ve just said is about as ‘Top Secret’ as it gets by the way, so I’d appreciate it if the information wasn’t mentioned to anyone. Is that clear…?”

  “Of course,” Trumbull reassured sincerely. “I completely understand.”

  “Anyway… the upshot of telling you all this is that I’m offering you a position here with us at Hindsight if you want it, as per your brother’s wishes. As I said, the decision’s ultimately yours, so I’m not going to demand an answer right now, but time is relatively short — no irony intended there — so I’ll ask you to have a think about it and come back to me tonight after dinner. It’s not a minor thing — it’d mean you giving up regular flying with the RAF and a huge change in direction for your career that I can’t give you any predictions on — but you will be right here with us at the cutting edge of what we’re doing, and that’s something I can guarantee. Those of us who’ve come back from the future will need some close ties with this era, and I can’t think of anyone better offhand, so have a think about it.”

  Alec Trumbull was close to making a decision right there and then but held back in the end, taking Thorne up on his offer to wait and think more on it. It was a tempting offer indeed, but having to give up his career as a fighter pilot was not something he could take lightly…after all, that’d also mean giving up a career he loved more than anything else in the world.

  “Thank you, Max…I will think about it and give you a decision tonight.”

  No worries then,” Thorne grinned broadly, extending a hand that Trumbull accepted and shook in an instant. “Until tonight…”

  Airfield at St. Omer

  Northern France

  At midday the sun was bright in the summer sky over the European continent, a light, patchy cloud cover the only variation from the day before. At St. Omer, preparations were already being made for the transfer of Staff Flight and One Gruppe to the assigned airfield north of Paris to commence their conversion to the new aircraft type. The move wasn’t something that took a great deal of time: just a day or so of packing altogether at the most. ‘Horst Wessel’ had only started operations at the St. Omer strip a month before, at a time when construction and fitting out of the base facilities had already been well on its way to completion, and all had known there was little likelihood of settling in. Front line combat units like ZG26 grew very accustomed to travelling light and being ready to move at short notice.

  Ritter was completely ready by noon, his overnight travelling bag sitting by the door to his quarters awaiting his departure and stuffed with a spare flight suit, clean underwear and toiletries. It was at least enough for a few days’ operations. His two large leather suitcases carrying his dress uniforms, other clothing and personal effects were already stacked carefully inside one of the dozen or so Brussig and Opel trucks that would follow on behind the flight, ferrying their maintenance crews and the rest of the flyers’ personal property on to the local rail head for shipment to Paris by train. The orders they’d received were unclear as to whether they’d be returning to St. Omer at all, so the pilots and ground crew made sure they packed everything.

  The afternoon fou
nd Ritter inside one of the base’s four large hangars, checking and pre-flighting his J-110 with his rear gunner and head mechanic. It was as they double-checked their flight plans at a small table beside the aircraft that the duty sergeant approached, followed at a discreet distance by Corporal Wisch.

  “NCO to see you sir, as per your orders…!” The man snapped loudly, coming to attention a few metres from the table. Ritter took a moment before glancing up, his expression instantly turning cold as he caught sight of Wisch.

  “Well…well…well…” he growled with slow sourness, standing completely upright. “You may recheck the instruments, Wolff,” he added, turning to Kohl. “I’ve some business to attend to. You also are dismissed, Herr Feldwebel.”

  “Jawohl, Mein Herr!” The duty sergeant replied crisply and saluted. Turning on his heels, he marched off with the intention of going about his normal business of the day.

  “What’s your name, boy?” Ritter asked directly, his gaze sharp and icy as he approached with slow, deliberate steps.

  “Rottenführer Milo Wisch, Herr Oberstleutnant,” the young man answered immediately, snapping to attention. Almost before he could stop himself, his right hand moved as if to fly forward and upward into the salute of the SS. At the last second he halted, the hand instead rising to provide the standard Wehrmacht version that was very much like the salute of armed forces the world over.

  “Very good, corporal…” Ritter nodded faintly, not smiling at all. “The SS can learn new tricks, I see…” He stepped forward suddenly, brushing past Wisch and heading in the direction of main hangar doors. “Join me in a stroll…” He said softly as he passed, and the SS NCO instantly turned to follow.

  “How old are you, Milo Wisch?” Ritter inquired with slightly less coldness as they ambled slowly across the open expanse of grass by the main runway a moment or two later.

  “Twenty, sir,” Wisch replied apprehensively. “…Twenty-one in September.”

  “I see… and what did you think of the incident last night, young man? You may be completely frank — no doubt you’ve gathered I’m no fan of the SS or your methods, but I’ll respect your opinion should it not concur with my own.” Wisch stopped dead in his tracks, momentarily stumped by the position Ritter’s unexpected question had placed him in. The pilot halted a metre further on and turned to stare directly at the NCO, the gaze expectant and intense.

  For a moment there was silence and Wisch wasn’t sure how to answer. His instincts of self-preservation — strong in anyone who’d spent time in the SS — instructed him to support his commanding officer: to officially sanction what’d occurred the night before. Should the Luftwaffe officer decide to lay some obscure charge against him for that, he’d be acquitted for his loyalty and esprit de corps — of that he was certain. Yet there was something in Ritter’s gaze that inspired him to tell the truth. The lieutenant-colonel possessed an expression of intensity that, although intimidating at times, also instilled trust in those with whom he interacted, and there were few who felt they couldn’t confide in the man should the need arise. In the end, Wisch’s conscience made the final decision.

  “I was horrified, sir,” he answered slowly, carefully. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.” He paused, and then added: “I only hope I never see the like again.”

  “Not something they mention in the enlistment drives, is it?” Ritter noted with a grim expression, agreeing with the young man. Another of the pilot’s abilities was his judge of character, and he believed this young fellow to be honest and direct. “You sound like an educated man — you’ve studied?”

  “Universität zu Köln, Mein Herr: I was studying social sciences, but left my course to join up.”

  “Ah; my old school also…” Ritter observed, surprised and a little impressed. “You could’ve been an officer with those credentials.” He turned and began walking once more. “Why enlist into the general ranks…?”

  “My father’s idea — he considers the SS to be the elite service,” Wisch explained as he hurried to catch up, drawing level with Ritter. “I might have had a commission in the Wehrmacht, but he convinced me to choose the Schutzstaffeln. As I wasn’t with ‘Der Jugend’ there was no way I was going to get a commission, but the opportunity did come up to join the newly-formed armoured corps.”

  “There are opportunities to attend officer training following enlistment, even in the Schutzstaffeln, yes?”

  “Yes, sir — I tried, but the RSM at my training unit rejected my application. He told me he didn’t need ‘eggheads’ with education in the SS and thought I was a ‘smartarse’, excuse my language, sir.”

  “Well, I’d say your potential’s being wasted then, Milo Wisch,” Ritter said directly, staring straight ahead. Changing tack without warning, he asked: “Was that wasted potential able to locate the boy, as I instructed?”

  “Yes sir, I believe I’ve found him.”

  “You believe you’ve found him?” Ritter locked his eyes with Wisch’s in a narrowed stare, and this time it was the officer’s turn be stopped in his tracks by the conversation.

  “Upon searching the house and surrounding area at first light, I was able to discover what appears to be a hiding place against the inside wall of the barn by the farmhouse. It was made up of old boards and a few hay bales jammed in behind an old plough in one corner.”

  “The boy was there?”

  “I can’t be certain, sir, as I made great pains to act as if I was unaware of the hideout, but I’d be surprised if he’s not there. I’d swear at one point I could hear the sounds of a child crying as I searched the barn. I made no attempt to uncover the boy: I thought that without help I might scare him away and lose him completely.”

  “You’re saying he’s still there?”

  “I believe that he was half an hour ago: I’ve three privates stationed outside the barn to discourage him from leaving.”

  “You’ve informed no one of this… no one at all?”

  “Only yourself, sir… my unit commander’s still in the infirmary, and technically-speaking I’ve no one to report to as a result.”

  “Well done!” Ritter truly smiled for the first time. Well done, man!” He clapped the NCO on the shoulder. “Come on… let’s see if we can do something to help the young fellow!”

  Trooper Evan Lloyd sat at the control console of the BRT and sipped at some strong, black coffee for his mandatory, two-hourly caffeine ‘hit’. Above the galvanised roof of the control tower in which he sat, the bulbous, white shape of a small radome had been installed with the instruments and control systems set up on a cleared space of bench at the rear of the tower’s operations deck. It wasn’t large –a little more than metre or so in diameter — and was a system normally used by battalion-sized units in the field. The Australian SAS unit of which Lloyd was part were, among other things, tasked with operating the BRT and keeping track of any potential air threats. Most usually assumed the acronym stood for ‘battalion radar transmitter’ or some such. When the troopers were feeling bored that was often how they themselves might describe the device, but at other times the men might’ve instead grinned and explained with typical, Australian irreverence that it was also a shortening of the colloquialism ‘Big Round Thing’. The radome was also often known by the nickname ‘The Golf Ball’ for equally obvious reasons.

  Lloyd would’ve preferred Coke — the soft drink was his favourite method of taking his daily caffeine requirements — but supplies of those kinds of rationed luxuries in 1940s England were scarce enough as it was, and space within the cavernous hold of the Galaxy had been at a premium. Despite what the advertising companies might like Lloyd’s modern world to believe, Coca-Cola unfortunately hadn’t been deemed a permissible luxury he’d been allowed to bring with him. One luxury he had been allowed was his iPod Classic and small, battery-powered speaker dock. An accomplished guitarist in an amateur band during his high school days, he was a great fan of all contemporary music and was that day in a relatively ‘me
llow’ mood. A shuffled compilation of songs by Green Day played softly from the unit’s speakers as he relaxed in his seat and kept his eyes on the empty screens of the radar display.

  A tall man of solid and muscular build, Evan Lloyd had spent the last two of his twenty-five years with the Australian Special Air Service Regiment. He had no family (both his parents had died almost two years before in a terrible bushfire), and he’d left no serious romance or barely even a casual relationship or two behind. Trooper Lloyd was an intelligent man despite having struggled to finish his last year of high school, and was an avid if informal student of modern history in what little spare time the SASR allowed him. The board that had initially drawn up a multi-national list of potential members for the embryonic Hindsight Task Force had rated Lloyd high on the list of Australian candidates, and he’d accepted their offer without hesitation.

  Lloyd was content with spending his four hour shift on radar duty as innocuously as possible and was more than happy for the screens before him to remain blank for the entire time for a number of reasons. That wasn’t to say he felt all that vulnerable. There were two self-propelled anti-aircraft vehicles out there at each end of the runway that could deal with a substantial number of low-level threats in the event of an air attack, not to mention the relatively heavy concentration of more conventional medium Bofors guns and heavy AA emplacements all over the naval base at Scapa Flow.

  Originally of Russian origin, the 2K22M ‘Tunguska’ anti-aircraft vehicle was an advanced weapons system that made use of both guns and missiles to defeat low- and medium-level aerial threats. Known also by the NATO reporting name of SA-19 ‘Grison’, the two units that had disembarked from the cargo bay of the Galaxy the night before were the latest model, carrying the ‘Pantsir-S1’ turret upgrade mounting a dozen guided missiles and a pair of lethal 30mm cannon. Each vehicle carried its own radar, infra-red and optical tracking systems and was also linked to the radar transmitter above Lloyd’s head. Both were more than capable of dealing with any aerial threat that strayed within a range twenty kilometres, up to an altitude of 15,000 metres. Even so, he’d prefer not test them out that afternoon in a real air attack.