England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  As Kransky had suggested to Thorne earlier that morning, he’d have MI5 looking into the backgrounds of every member of 1940s personnel that’d been assigned since Hindsight’s arrival at the end of June. Kransky was obviously clear of any suspicion, and he knew that Thorne was no traitor. He also sincerely doubted any of the other Hindsight members from the future could possibly be an enemy agent, but that still left a great deal of men who’d been stationed there that it could be, and investigation of every individual would take more time and manpower than they actually had available. As Judy Garland had said in that Wizard of Oz film he’d seen while back in New York earlier in the year (and as Thorne himself was frequently fond of misquoting), he thought silently: “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore…”

  SS Special Heavy Battery 672(E)

  Near Sangatte, Pas-de-Calais

  With most of the major construction work now completed, the POWs and forced labourers were now mostly concerned with cleaning up and general maintenance, something unlikely to warrant the presence of a large work group for much longer. Whittaker’s group of officers had noticed there’d already been an appreciable thinning of the workforce over the last week, and another very welcome change to the daily routine was an increase in rest breaks and periods spent sitting around — under guard, of course — awaiting new work orders.

  Stahl, the SS officer they’d started work under, had transferred back to his infantry unit — something for which all of them were heartily glad. They’d lost four more of their number to his temper and sidearm on in two separate incidents — both trivial situations — and by overall comparison, the last couple of weeks without him had been almost comfortable. Their new commanding officer, a young and far more agreeable SS Untersturmführer (second-lieutenant), was a welcome change. Also recovering from injuries — in this case a left arm wrapped in a cast and suspended by a sling — the officer was from a rear echelon unit rather than frontline infantry, and was also possessed of a far more even and forgiving temperament. There’d been no deaths within the group since his arrival, and the change in mood and general feeling of relief and lack of tension as a result meant the prisoners were generally more predisposed to obey orders with alacrity.

  Drills and alerts had commenced within thirty minutes of the brief appearance of the RAF recon aircraft the previous day, and had continued on throughout that day and into the next morning. There’d been no other obvious outward indications of anything difference among the SS artillery and flak units present, but there was nevertheless the feeling within the POW officer group that something was afoot… that there was a sense of tension about the base that hadn’t been there before.

  Near the perimeter fence at the very northern end of the compound, sitting in the shade of a guard tower, a group of ten or so including Whittaker were experiencing another short period of inaction that afternoon. They stood about or sat upon a tight cluster of discarded crates, most smoking quietly as a single SS guard patrolled nearby in a rather desultory and uninterested manner, his assault rifle slung carelessly at one shoulder.

  “Have you noticed how empty is the Channel, these two weeks last?” Major Alois Dupont, formerly of a French artillery unit, observed quietly beside Whittaker, sitting on the same long, wooden crate. His English was a little broken. but more than clear enough for the rest to understand.

  “Hardly any activity at all, save for the occasional destroyer sweep or MTB patrol,” Whittaker agreed, nodding in reply, “yet the port at Boulogne-sur-Mer is always full of shipping each day as we go out and come back in.”

  “Always the same ships,” a cigarette smoking RN sub-lieutenant standing on the opposite side of the group observed. “Same ships always there in the same place… have been the whole week.”

  “This is not a good thing,” Dupont stated with feeling, voicing the unease all felt.

  “Trains carrying tanks, half-tracks and artillery have been coming into the port all week as well,” Whittaker pointed out, voicing the unpleasant conclusion they’d all reached. “They’re preparing for invasion.”

  “We need to get out of here!” Dupont snarled angrily. “Escape these filthy Bosche and head south!”

  “And do what, Alois…?” Whittaker groaned, shaking his head. The argument was an old one that came up frequently. “Even if we could escape, there’s no safety to be had anywhere in France, and by the look of it there’s every chance getting back to England won’t do us much good either! Spain’s the only real alternative, and d’you really think we’d make it that far across Occupied France?”

  “Spain or Switzerland… not easy either way,” the naval officer shrugged, “and what then, even if we did make it? Spend our time in an internment camp instead of a prison? Don’t expect any rescue or help soon either, if England does fall…”

  “The Americans!” Dupont insisted, grasping at the same, slim hope he’d carried as a young man serving in the Great War, two decades earlier. “They saved us in 1917, and they will again!”

  “How can they help if there’s no England?” Whittaker muttered dismally. “How can anyone help?” It was a question none could answer.

  Near Boulogne-sur-Mer

  Northern France

  Ernst Barkmann liked to play golf when off duty, assuming a decent, private golf course was to be found close to wherever he was posted at the time… golf or a leisurely walk in a suitable forest, hunting game with rifle in hand. It was in a quite picturesque little wood, just a few kilometres west of Boulogne-sur-Mer, that the brigadeführer found himself that pleasant afternoon, indeed walking with gun in hand as his eyes scanned the track ahead for any movement. He wore civilian clothes that day — a tan shooting jacket over cotton trousers and shirt, with a pair of comfortable hiking boots on his feet.

  The jacket carried a thin layer of extra padding at its right shoulder to protect against soreness from recoil when firing, and over the left breast, Barkmann had personally added ten small loops of fabric, seven of which currently held .22 calibre cartridges ready for use, all fitted nose-down. The single-shot Haenel .22LR rifle he carried was a personal favourite in his collection, and even with the simple open sights fitted it was accurate out to 100 metres in the right hands. Barkmann was a deadly shot with decades of constant practice, and in his hands it was a lethal weapon regardless of the small-bore round it fired.

  Beside him, a similarly-dressed Oswald Zeigler matched the slow pace and also scanned the track ahead, his own rifle also held with the air of a man accustomed to the use of firearms. Several metres behind the pair, a trio of escorts acted as ‘gun bearers’, between them carrying spare ammunition, water and light rations. One of the men also carried at his belt the carcasses of three brown hares that’d already fallen prey to the shooters’ superior marksmanship.

  “Obergruppenführer Weiss mentioned you’ve had some ‘difficulty’ with our esteemed Reichsmarschall recently,” Zeigler broke the silence as they walked, the soft words spoken in the form of a observation rather than a question. Heinrich Weiss was the head of the SS Regional Political Department for the Pas-de-Calais. It was the same department which Barkmann was posted to as second-in-charge, which of course meant that Weiss was his commanding officer.

  “I’m not sure that I follow, Oswald,” Barkmann evaded the remark with all the skill of the professional liar he’d practiced years to become, although he cringed and cursed inwardly. Zeigler’s reputation as a high-level Party member was well known, and the revelation that his commander has revealed such information to the man was ‘awkward’ to say the least. “I’ve had cause to speak directly with the Reichsmarschall on just one occasion, and I’d have to say the meeting was an amicable one.”

  “You’re an excellent liar, Ernst,” Zeigler almost laughed at the reply, “but you really shouldn’t try to work your ‘magic’ on someone equally practiced in the art of deception. Rest assured, Kurt Reuters has no friends among the men present this afternoon and I, for one, am always plea
sed to encounter others within the upper echelons of the Wehrmacht or SS who feel similarly. I also have it on good authority that the ‘incident’ we’re speaking of came about as the direct result of Herr Reuters’ personal interference in an investigation into the actions of a Luftwaffe officer by the name of Ritter.”

  “I couldn’t say I know anything about that, Mein Herr,” Barkmann stopped walking and stared directly at Zeigler, his expression clearly showing the truth of the man’s statement despite his continued denial.

  “Well, that’s just the thing, Ernst…” Zeigler pointed out in a conspiratorial tone that was overtly insincere and quite unsettling into the bargain. “No one seems to know very much about… or, more importantly… why the highest ranking officer in the Wehrmacht has such a personal interest in the fate of some insubordinate pilot.” Both now stood motionless in the middle of the forest track, hunting momentarily forgotten. “I myself would very much like to know the background behind the man’s interest.”

  Barkmann was now very tempted to open up to Zeigler and tell him everything of what had transpired during his meeting with Reuters at St. Omer. It was only a few days earlier he’d driven over to the small hamlet of Tardinghen at Cap-Gris-Nez, where a large marshalling yard was being established for the newly-refurbished 3rd SS Shock Division. It was there he’d managed to spend a few hours with his lover, Pieter Stahl, and had become quite concerned by the continued stress the younger man seemed to be suffering under.

  Although the wound in his cheek was now healing, Stahl was still in almost constant pain from it and the injuries to his ribs, and it seemed possible there might be a hidden infection complicating the issue. It also appeared he’d carry a permanent scar from the incident, which in Barkmann’s opinion would be a terrible shame. A mark of that nature would ruin the young man’s beautiful features, and that just wouldn’t do at all.

  That in itself was reason enough to maintain a grudge against Reichsmarschall Reuters, and on top of that was of course the personal humiliation the man had inflicted upon Barkmann himself. No one should be permitted to speak to a high-ranking officer of the SS in such a manner, and nobody would speak to him that way with impunity if Barkmann could possibly help it. The reality of it all was that the brigadeführer was also a rather vindictive and petty creature — something his often-bruised and lonely young wife could attest to if she could find the courage, although she had no clue as to his true sexual tendencies.

  Barkmann was a man who had some understanding regarding the necessary concealment of secret feelings or tendencies that, if brought into the open, might see an officer disgraced — perhaps even harmed physically. Homosexuality wasn’t a tolerated ‘life choice’ in National Socialist Germany, even if it were widespread and carefully hidden by many of the middle/upper classes and the bourgeoisie, as Barkmann well knew. As such, he had his own suspicions as to why Reuters might’ve had an ‘interest’ in Oberstleutnant Carl Ritter, although he could have no clue as to how wide of the mark those suspicions were.

  “I doubt I could shed any real light on any relationship between the Reichsmarschall and the pilot, Ritter,” Barkmann answered finally after a long, thoughtful pause. “However…” he added as he noted Zeigler about to reply in protest “…one doesn’t really need to know the details of their connection to make some use of it.”

  “How might one do that?” The other man enquired carefully, the hint of a smile creeping across his features once more. “Hypothetically-speaking, of course…”

  “Of course…” Barkmann smiled also this time, more comfortable now they were playing a game he understood well. “Hypothetically-speaking, as a member of the intelligence community with some modest training and experience in such matters, I should imagine that an unscrupulous individual seeking to do harm to the Reichsmarschall could do so in an indirect manner by ensuring a misfortune befell this Oberstleutnant Ritter. Regardless of the reasons behind Reuters’ interest in the man, the fact remains that he does have an interest, and I’ve no doubt therefore that the man would suffer some emotional pain and difficulty, should this Ritter be hurt of killed, in action or otherwise.” He shrugged as if the suggestion were painfully obvious. “An event of that nature might even become the necessary catalyst for discovery of the background behind their involvement, although it’s not something that could be guaranteed…”

  “This has been a most enlightening afternoon, Ernst!” Zeigler exclaimed after a moment’s thought as he took the information in and processed it. “I must thank Herr Streibel for making our introductions… I suspect you’ll be a fine asset to the SS, and to the Reich in general in the coming years.”

  “Just a humble soldier doing my job, Mein Herr,” Barkmann demurred humbly, but the compliment had hit its mark and it was difficult to subdue the expression of pride that fought to spread across his features.

  “I think I shall have a quiet word to Generalfeldmarschall Göring tomorrow morning,” Zeigler mused softly, his mind already ticking over. “Perhaps a Luftwaffe reshuffle is in order… there are some new and resupplied units that have spent too long out of combat that may be getting a little rusty during this period of inactivity. No doubt we can find some ‘Devils Work’ for these idle hands…”

  “An excellent thought, Oswald,” Ernst Barkmann smiled openly, understanding completely what the other man was referring to.

  At that moment, a large hare broke cover from the left side of the forest track, just thirty metres from where they stood, and darted away along the cleared trail. Barkmann caught the movement in his peripheral vision, and without a word he turned and raised the rifle to his shoulder, safety catch already disengaged as his index finger curled around the trigger. There was a sharp ‘crack’ as the weapon fired, and in an instant the hare was sprawled dead across the track, a .22 calibre slug buried deep within its chest.

  The whole thing was over before Zeigler could even react, and he stared in surprise and more than a little awe at the man beside him as Barkmann lowered the rifle once more. Pulling down on the trigger guard caused the weapon’s falling-block to lower and expose the breech, and as the expended cartridge ejected automatically, Barkmann used his left hand to pluck another round deftly from the store held at his left breast and slip it into the smoking breech. As he snapped the trigger mechanism back into place, the rifle was now reloaded and once more ready to fire.

  “Shall we carry on, Oswald?” He asked brightly, as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had just occurred. Zeigler could only nod and followed on silently as the SS officer walked off along the track toward his kill.

  Poplar Railway Station, East India Dock Road

  Tower Hamlets E14, London

  Loading freight at night was difficult in the dim station lighting, but it was a necessary hardship for several reasons. First and foremost, there was the ever-present danger of aerial attack. Although the Luftwaffe had generally eschewed attacks on civilian centres, preferring targets of a more military bent such as airfields, naval bases and such like, the London docks could nevertheless be considered a site of a legitimately strategic nature, and it was therefore advisable to remain cautious. There’d been significant exceptions to the rule where industrial centres such as aircraft factories at Coventry or shipyards on the Clyde near Glasgow had been heavily bombed, with significant civilian casualties as a result.

  In James Brandis’ mind, there was also the quite valid matter of security to be considered; particularly taking into account the nature of the freight they were intending to move. His guards and workers were well paid and quite trustworthy, on the whole, but trust was a very difficult concept to rely on where gold was concerned, particularly in the vast quantities Brandis was in the process of transporting.

  The cover story was that the shipment was machine parts (as labelled on the crates), and that they were destined for new armaments factories being set up in Canada to assist the war effort. There was enough detail in the story to — he hoped — keep his employees
happy and devoid of curiosity, and movement under the cover of evening darkness at least helped keep the activities away from the prying eyes of the majority of the local populace.

  Poplar Station lay on the southern side of East India Dock Road. Originally opened by the North London railway in 1866, it had served freight and passenger needs alike in the years since and was now part of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway (LMS). The twin tracks passed under the East India Dock Road on its way to Broad Street Station heading north, and had become the termination of that line since the closure of Blackwall Station in 1926.

  A pair of parallel branch lines split just south of the station and diverged into a siding on the western side of the platforms where freight might be loaded as required. It was at this siding that steam locomotive LMS Number 8233 stood waiting as the ten freight cars coupled to its tender were carefully loaded, each in turn, by men operating Brandis’ pair of forklifts. While those flatcars were being loaded, ten more similar wagons waited patiently on the next set of tracks over, having already been loaded earlier that evening. Camouflage netting had been erected around and over the stationary cars in an attempt to hide their existence from any potential Luftwaffe reconnaissance from above.

  Locomotive LMS 8233 was a ‘2-8-0’ Stanier Class 8F heavy freight model, originally built by the North British Locomotive Company of Glasgow under orders of the War Department, with the intention of sending it across The Channel. The Fall of France however had put paid to any likelihood of that happening, and instead it was taken under the control of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway, hauling freight out of their Toton, Holbeck and Westhouses yards in Northern England. For the last two weeks however, LMS 8233 had been operating a good deal further south under charter by James Brandis.