England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  For all that, Nelson was in the company of some fine veterans. Of the other capital ships present, only Hood had been completed too late to see service in the Great War, and both Warspite and Malaya had served twenty-four years before at Jutland (a battle the Germans knew as Skaggerak). In that greatest of naval battles of the First War, Admiral Jellicoe had mustered no less than two dozen battleships to face the High Seas Fleet in an engagement that saw both sides proclaim themselves to be the victors once the smoke had cleared. At Jutland, Jellicoe’s Grand Fleet had intended to trap and destroy their German counterparts, and thereby ensure British dominance of the waves and freedom of the sea lanes between the Britain, the United States and the rest of the Empire.

  The end result of the engagement had been a source of debate ever since. Although on paper, Germany could in some ways claim victory in terms of outright losses, the Royal Navy had held the ‘field’ of battle at the end of the day and was ready to continue the fight, whereas their enemy was not. It could be reasonably argued that victory at Jutland had gone to the British as a result, at least in spirit if not in actual fact, and many certainly believed that as armistice loomed two years later in 1918, the memory of Jutland alone had been enough for the crews of the German High Seas Fleet to threaten mutiny rather than engage the Royal Navy again in battle, as some of their officers had desired.

  Harwood remembered it all well enough. Royal Sovereign hadn’t been commissioned in time to participate in the battle, but Jutland was ‘required reading’ as far as naval warfare was concerned, and was also famous within naval circles as the most successful ‘crossing the T’ manoeuvre in history, as all of Jellicoe’s capital ships were at one stage able to concentrate their entire broadside fire on the van of the German fleet in a terrifying bombardment that spanned the entire horizon. But Harwood, Tovey and the others also knew there’d be no repeat of Jutland in the hours to come. Aircraft hadn’t been a potent force at the time of the Great War, but there was no denying the power of the Luftwaffe in the present one… and even without the added danger of aerial attack, the Home Fleet didn’t have twenty-four battleships to throw at the Kriegsmarine, or anything even remotely close to that number of capital ships.

  There were warships of various sizes and classes, from patrol boats to some older battleships, moored in ports right around Southern England, but individual ships engaged in single actions weren’t going to stop an invasion force — assuming of course the Luftwaffe let them to survive long enough to put to sea, which was in any case unlikely. The next closest RN fleet of any real strength, ‘Force H’, had indeed also mobilised and was heading north from Gibraltar at full speed, but the truth was they were too far away to be of any immediate assistance, and the rest of the navy was spread around the world, guarding the British colonies, territories and protectorates of an empire that spanned the globe. The Home Fleet was the only force that had any hope of disrupting German shipping across the Channel, and he, his fellow ships’ captains, and every man on the vessels they commanded were well aware of that fact.

  The entire Hindsight group had crammed themselves into their usual briefing room within twenty minutes of the alert being raised around the base. Thorne allowed the group a few minutes of hushed but active discussion before climbing onto a chair in a far corner of the room and clearing his throat. All eyes turned to him in that moment and the room fell silent, all watching expectantly as he prepared to speak.

  “Approximately fifty minutes ago,” he began slowly, visibly unsettled and shaking faintly in reaction to the ramifications of what was happening, “a general alert was broadcast throughout the British isles following confirmation of massed landings of enemy parachute troops all over Kent, Sussex and Hampshire.” The statement sent a collective gasp rippling through the crowd: despite having feared exactly such news, the reality of it was no less dramatic. “There’s been a general mobilisation right across the Southern Defensive Zone, but it’s far too early to determine how any of the engagements are progressing. There have been no confirmations of any seaborne landings as yet, however Whitehall’s certain these are the opening moves of Operation Sealion… the opening moves we’ve been both fearing and expecting since our arrival here.” He took a deep breath.

  “What intelligence we do have suggests the Wehrmacht won’t have sufficient reserves to support an effective beachhead across the Channel and make a concurrent move against us here with any kind of credible force. That means that we should — emphasis on the word ‘should’ — be relatively safe here at Scapa Flow for the time being. They’ll be throwing everything into this invasion… they can’t allow any chance of defeat, no matter how unlikely that might seem on paper.” He shrugged, as much for his own benefit as theirs. “That being said, we’re not taking anything for granted… from now on, we remain on a five-minute-warning status at all times and will be prepared for immediate take off, should any enemy force indeed makes a move toward us.

  “Regardless of the appearance of any threat, we will be taking off no later than first light tomorrow morning and setting course for Bolthole with all available aircraft.” He took another breath. “Everyone should be crystal clear that Hindsight will be in the air at dawn, and there will be no waiting for any stragglers, so I suggest everyone ensure they’re waiting at Alternate and prepared to leave well before time. We’ve had plenty of tents and bedding set up over there, so there should be space for everyone.” Another pause, this time for impact rather than any need for air.

  “This is one of the contingencies we’ve had planned for a long time… even before arriving here. This is going to be hard for all of us, but we need to accept the fact that we can’t remain in Britain and stay safe. Should the invasion be turned back or defeated outright, we can return within days, but the truth is it’s unlikely we’ll ever set foot in the United Kingdom again. The next twenty-four hours are going to be difficult for everyone, but there’s going to be plenty to do to keep everyone busy, and I’m asking you all to hang in there and bear with us.” There was another pause.

  “That’s pretty much all I have for you right now… normally I’d throw it open for questions right now, but time is against us and I’ll instead ask you to direct any questions to your respective unit commanders, who’ve all been fully briefed. I’ll be off base today on field ops, and Commander Donelson will be in command during my absence. That’s about it… thanks for your time… dismissed…”

  Their equipment was already waiting as Thorne, Ritter and Kransky arrived five minutes later at the open grassed area near the ruins of the Hindsight base that the Mustang fighters had been using as a landing strip. It was still quite dark and exceptionally cold in the open, exposed to the gusting winds and a misting rain, and all three men wore thick flying jackets over their flight suits. Eileen and Trumbull were present also, standing nearby and wearing parkas over their own uniforms. None of the five were particularly reassured by the appearance of the aircraft before them on the flight line.

  The Fairey Swordfish Mark I had first entering service in 1934, and was the foremost torpedo bomber of the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm. In Realtime, it had given sterling service in that role throughout the war, operating from British aircraft carriers in every theatre in which they served. Nevertheless, the fact remained that the Swordfish, affectionately nicknamed the ‘Stringbag’ by those who flew it, was an obsolescent biplane of a largely bygone era. That being said, the aircraft had also developed a reputation for ruggedness and versatility that belied its antiquated appearance, and its nickname had been earned as a result of its ability to perform a wide variety of duties: like a string bag, it could carry a substantial amount of stores and ‘conform’ itself to suit whatever the situation at hand required.

  The aircraft’s fuselage sides and upper surfaces were painted in broad, irregular stripes of grey and dark green — the Fleet Air Arm’s standard Temperate Sea Scheme camouflage — and it mounted just two machine guns as armament over and above the torpedo normal
ly slung beneath the fuselage between its main undercarriage legs. One fixed .303 Browning in the nose fired forward, while a single Lewis gun of similar calibre was mounted on a flexible mount in the rearmost of the three cockpits… cockpits that were completely open to the elements. There was no torpedo carried by this particular aircraft, and an external fuel tank had been fixed in its place to provide added range.

  The Swordfish was an exemplary platform for launching torpedoes at enemy shipping because of its slow speed and excellent flying characteristics, but Thorne and Eileen, with the benefit of historical hindsight, also knew how vulnerable the aircraft might prove if thrown into combat areas where effective enemy fighter cover and flak were present. With such a slow speed — no better than 160km/hr — the aircraft would be flying in daylight for most of the five-hour trip south, and would therefore be exposed to the danger of interception during the entire time. As ground crew finished last-minute checks on the aircraft, Thorne drew Ritter aside somewhat, knowing Eileen would want a few moments to say farewell to Kransky — a ‘farewell’ that might well be forever.

  “We’re going to go ahead as planned this evening and release you as close to the front lines in Kent as we can get,” Thorne explained quickly, “assuming of course the invasion isn’t repulsed.”

  “And if it is…?”

  “It won’t be,” Thorne stated with unhappy certainty, but if it is, we can work something out.”

  “That’s assuming we actually make it, Max,” Ritter observed dubiously, unable to shift his concerned gaze from the aircraft itself and thinking exactly how long it might last under fire from a J-4 fighter, or even one of his own S-2Ds… the answer that entered his mind being ‘…not long at all…’

  “It may look rough, but it’s the only three-seater they could spare us!” Thorne growled, no happier. “I originally requested two fighter aircraft, with the idea of letting you fly one of them, but the CO here wouldn’t be in it for some strange reason…” he grinned “…they’re just not all that trusting, these days…”

  “I hardly blame them,” Ritter conceded with a wry smile, “although if I were to fly away on my own, it’d merely serve to get me where you want me anyway… and a good deal faster at that!”

  “Might be a bit hard to explain how you got hold of the plane, matey,” Thorne observed with a chuckle, “if you managed to make it somewhere safe without getting your arse shot off along the way.” He gave the German a pat on the shoulder. “Come on… let’s get this crap loaded while we’re waiting for Richard there…”

  “Anything I say’s going to sound really stupid, I think,” Eileen began slowly, outright sadness in her eyes as she and Kransky stood close together on their own, a few metres away from Thorne and Ritter.

  “Same here,” Kransky added lamely after a long pause. There was no way for him to explain the feelings within him at that moment… they were feelings he’d never before experienced, and were well beyond his ability to fully understand in such a short time.

  “I know what you’re going to be doing,” she said softly, reaching out and taking his hand in hers, “and I know the truth is this’ll probably be the last time we see each other… ever…” The last word was unnecessary, but she somehow felt it needed to be said.

  “I always knew I’d be going back into the field,” Kransky began, struggling with sentiments that were alien to his world, “and since I’ve known you, I’ve been thinking hard about what I was gonna say when this moment arrived.” He swallowed hard and took a breath, his eyes unable to meet hers for a few moments and searching the dark skies above for the right words. “There are a lot of things I could say, but the most important of them is ‘thank you’.”

  “You’re thanking me?” That was something Eileen hadn’t expected at all, considering their circumstances and her inability to fully reciprocate the feelings she knew he felt for her. “What on earth for…?”

  “For showing me that the journalist I used to be ain’t dead… that he still exists somewhere in this killer’s body.” She began to protest his self-criticism but he pushed on, cutting her off. “What I do, I do well, Eileen…” The way he made that statement, while devoid of pride, nevertheless left no doubt as to exactly how very well he did his work. “For a long time now, it’s felt like what I do is all I am… but you showed me that wasn’t true… that there is some of the man I was left. Things haven’t worked out the way I’d have liked,” he shrugged, “but they can’t work out that way… it’s just not possible. What you said about it never getting easier was right… it never does… but at least you’ve given me hope that maybe — just maybe — there’ll be a time somewhere in the future when I can stop being the person I am now… now I know I can still be something else.”

  Eileen embraced him then and they hugged tightly for a few moments, enjoying the sensation of proximity before separating once more. She lifted her head and kissed him once on the lips as they parted, running a hand along his shoulder.

  “You stay lucky, ‘Jimmy’… you hear…!” She breathed softly, the hint of tears at the corners of her eyes. “There’s always a tomorrow…!”

  He grinned faintly. “Like that Miss Scarlett says: ‘Tomorrow is another day!’”

  “Would it be inappropriate at this moment,” Thorne interrupted from a metre or two away, standing expectantly beside the biplane with hands on hips, “to say ‘Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!’?” He gave a broader grin. “We do need to get a wriggle on!”

  “You’ve no sentimentality, Maxwell Peter Thorne!” Eileen snapped back, but there’d been no real offence. Kransky, snapping automatically back into ‘business mode’, simply nodded as he grabbed the gear and weapons at his feet and walked across to load them into the rear cockpit of the Swordfish.

  “Sorry… I was almost expecting Bogie to come waltzing out of the fog with Ingrid Bergmann on his arm.” Thorne didn’t care that he was mixing up his movies in going for the right imagery.

  “Well you just make sure you get yourself back here before dawn tomorrow, mister!” She countered as she moved to his side, trying to keep a light mood but not quite managing.

  “I will,” he nodded, a little more solemn at the thought. “You just make sure you take off at the scheduled time regardless… got it?”

  “I’ve got it,” she reassured, but there was clearly more she wanted to say and he quickly interrupted her.

  “And if you tell me to ‘be careful’, I’ll kick your pert little ‘thirty-something’ ass up to the top of Ward Hill and back… this is all starting to sound like a bad bloody movie as it is!”

  “Don’t worry,” she reassured, chuckling a little despite her fears. “I wouldn’t dare!”

  “Two golden rules of the movies,” he continued in the same, mock-lecturing tone. “The guy that talks about what he wants to do after the war is over, or shows someone a picture of his girl always gets killed… and the girl who tells ‘The Hero’ she loves him always gets killed! That’s why Dina Meyer’s character bought it in Starship Troopers! If she’d just shagged Casper Van Dien, like Denise Richards’ character did, that bloody alien wouldn’t have done her in…!”

  “Max,” she whispered softly with a kind smile, leaning in close. “You’re rambling.”

  “I’m just trying making a point is all,” he said lamely, and the frayed nerves behind his bravado suddenly became very obvious. He was heading into a real war, and was quite reasonably scared witless by the thought.

  “Well, mister, you’re safe with me then… you know I only want you for your body! Purely physical… love’s got nought to do wi’ it!” She managed to get another grin out of him with that remark even if it was at least partly a lie.

  “Well, good… just so long as we’re clear on that point!” She’d given him an ‘out’, and he took it gladly, immediately hiding his sensitive side once more behind the usual bravado and humour.

  “Get yourself into that plane and get the hell out of here, Max… time�
�s a wastin’!” He nodded and turned toward the aircraft into which Ritter and Kransky were already climbing. “Hey…” Eileen called, catching his arm with one hand and turning him back momentarily. “…Be careful!” She added with a faint smile. The look that passed between them at that moment said a lot more than words could have, and he simply grinned as she added: “Now you’ll just have to make sure you come back and give my arse that kicking!”

  “When I come back, I will…” he replied, his voice low enough to keep it between them, but the tone in his voice was honest and caring — he had no stomach for either mock anger or mock lasciviousness.

  “‘Pert’…?” She suddenly added with a disconcerted frown, that particular piece of what Thorne had just said about her behind finally registering.

  “If the arse fits…” he grinned, shrugging almost apologetically as he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. Turning back to the aircraft, he quickly clambered into the forward cockpit and dragged the flying helmet and goggles he found there over his head. The Bristol Pegasus radial engine began to turn over, and he gave a wry smile as it caught and spluttered loudly and unevenly into life in clouds of smoky exhaust.

  “Don’t be concerned, Commander,” Ritter called loudly as Thorne gave the engine a few tentative revs. “Assuming that Max can actually fly this thing, we’ll take care of him!”

  “Just what I bloody need… a ‘rear cockpit’ driver…!” Thorne growled loudly enough for everyone to hear, drawing smiles from all of them. “I think I liked him better when he was on the other bloody side!”

  Thorne was glad of the lightness of his headgear compared to the flight helmet of the Lightning, even if it couldn’t give him a helmet-mounted sight and deadly-accurate weapons to go with it. The buffeting of the three-bladed propeller’s backwash whipped past them, adding to a wind-chill that was already making them terribly cold… what the conditions were likely to be like flying at speed in the icy morning air didn’t bear thinking about. With a final wave to Eileen that Kransky duplicated from the rearmost cockpit, he gunned the engine and signalled the ground crew to remove the chocks beneath the Swordfish’s main wheels.