England Expects el-1

by Charles S. Jackson

  Von Rundstedt had allowed Rommel’s 7th Panzer and a number of other mechanised units to push forward the moment they’d broken through the British defences ringing Dover, forcing a spearhead with armoured units that had landed at the Dover ports within an hour of its capture and had advanced immediately into battle. Those units were still equipped with the older P-2 and P-3 tanks and half-tracks, rather than the newer infantry-fighting vehicles, but their training and experience were second to none and they threw themselves at the enemy with enthusiasm, supported around the Dover area by gunships from SHG1.

  Reinforcements pouring into to the Ashford area to prop up the weakening lines were draining troops and resources from throughout Kent and Sussex, and the focal point of the entire invasion was quickly centring on that relatively small section of the A20 as advancing heavy SS units smashed all before them. Guderian, Rommel, Hoth, Pieper and the rest of the armoured commanders were blasting huge holes in the British lines and making such strong advances that Army Group HQs were allowing them free reign, while using conventional infantry divisions to secure the areas already taken and move forward in their wake. London was just seventy-five kilometres from Ashford, and the speed of the advance on that first day was great enough to make the OKW very optimistic about capturing the enemy capital within days rather than weeks.

  Thorne had been rather rudely forced during that period following the bombardment and storming of the British lines to realise how great the gulf was between theoretical knowledge and being an actual combat commander… a gulf so large that it now threatened to swallow him whole. All three of them were swept along as they were absorbed into a mass of routed infantry, tank crews and gunners retreating westward ahead of the Wehrmacht advance. Self-propelled assault guns had also begin to drop high-explosives into the British rear, and the random shelling was taking a severe toll on the unprotected men.

  The wave of shattered men was nearing the outskirts of Smeeth now, Thorne and the others running with them, but as they reached the tree line at the western end of the wood and prepared to venture out into the open, several cries of warning rose through the ranks. A pair of attack helicopters appeared out of the clouds seconds later and howled in toward the retreating men, spraying rockets from their wing pods and blasting away with the cannon and machine guns in their chin-mounted turrets.

  “Need pictures of them too…?” Kransky inquired tersely, breathing heavily and operating on pure adrenaline as the trio took cover behind a low stone wall at the edge of the trees and the gunships roared overhead.

  “Pictures my fucking arse…!” Thorne swore in hysterical frustration, raising the Kalashnikov in his hands and emptying the magazine at one of the retreating choppers. The burst caused absolutely no damage, but the helicopter pilot took note in any case and entered into a sharp, banking turn back around as rifle bullets whined off its armoured hide, the reaction causing a marked increase in Thorne’s swearing as his tone changed from anger to fear.

  Kransky managed to retain a great deal more calm, although he nevertheless cast an exasperated glance sideways at his commander as he lifted his own rifle and dropped the magazine from beneath its receiver. Allowing it to fall to the ground, he thrust his free hand into one of his coat pockets and came out with a second large clip, which he slammed into the slot beneath the weapon’s breech. Snapping back the cocking handle, he rose to his feet and quickly raised the M107 rifle to his shoulder. The high magnification of the scope mounted above its receiver was no use against such a fast-moving target, but Kransky had practiced long and hard with the weapon during his time at Hindsight, and the aircraft was far too big for him to miss. The rifle bucked savagely against his shoulder as he fired round after round at the approaching helicopter, the glinting brass of spent cases spiralling into the air as the weapon ran through its semi-automatic cycle.

  The SH-6C gunship was proof against normal smallarms fire, and the pilot had been confident in his own safety as the aircraft howled past above the retreating enemy infantry, generally ignoring the random fire than occasionally ricocheted from its tough fuselage. Those feelings of safety dissipated in an instant however as he came about and caught sight of the lone rifleman standing firm at the tree line before him, an impossibly-large rifle at his shoulder. The helicopter was suddenly shuddering under impact after impact, as fifty-calibre, tungsten-cored rounds capable of punching a hole through an engine block found no difficulty at all in penetrating the gunship’s armoured fuselage and windshield. The first slug smashed through the aircraft’s tail boom for little damage, but the second and third struck along the fuselage, smashing vital equipment and puncturing fuel tanks. The fourth shattered and starred the front plates of the cockpit canopy, literally exploding the gunner’s head inside his flight helmet before passing right on through and slamming into the belly of the pilot in the raised seat behind him.

  Kransky was sensible enough to dive for the cover behind the wall once more as the out of control chopper reeled sideways and slid into the ground a few hundred metres away near a small pond, exploding in a massive fireball and spraying debris in every direction.

  “Nice shootin’, Tex…!” Thorne complimented nervously, peering over the wall at the flaming wreckage with eyes widened by fear and tension but nevertheless a little calmer now he’d had a moment to think.

  “Those armour-piercing slugs sure as hell work,” the American observed, deadpan but inwardly impressed all the same, while Ritter remained utterly speechless and regarded the sniper with a stare that was teetering between awe and abject fear.

  “Good as they are, I think we’re gonna need something a bit bigger!” Thorne’s tone suddenly turned sour as he stared beyond the burning wreck and caught sight of four Panther tanks advancing across the fields from the east, followed by more armoured vehicles of various types. “We’ve got some company… come on!”

  They rose to their feet once more, vaulting the wall and heading for the town, the nearest buildings less than two hundred metres away. Several of the tanks and Nashorn assault guns spotted the fleeing men still running past around them, and opened up with their main armament, landing 88mm and 150mm high explosive shells nearby and spraying the area with machine gun fire.

  Two shells fell close as they ran on, forcing them to duck instinctively and swerve from their original path, and a few precious and important seconds passed before Thorne, almost at the cover of the nearest houses, glanced over his shoulder and realised Ritter was no longer following. He called a warning to Kransky, who was barely in the lead, and both men halted for a few seconds as they caught sight of the pilot rolling around on the ground a hundred metres back, obviously in some difficulty. Thorne realised he needed to make a decision, and he did so instantly.

  “Keep going!” He shouted, turning back to Kransky. “Get out of here and find somewhere safe… I’ll take care of Carl!” He could see indecision in the American’s eyes as he hesitated for several seconds, and Thorne screamed “Go…!” The bellowed order finally broke the man from his stasis, and with a single, meaningful nod, Richard Kransky turned and continued running, quickly disappearing from sight as shells kept falling and smoke swept across the fields ahead of a light breeze.

  “Not very bad, Max,” Carl Ritter hissed through clenched teeth as the Australian reached him and dropped to his knees in the middle of the field, “but I fear it’s bad enough.” He gasped in outright agony as Thorne examined the wound in his right thigh, the pants leg of the man’s flying suit soaked in blood.

  “Looks like rifle calibre… machine gun probably,” the Hindsight CO ventured with a grimace, feeling his stomach lurch at the sight of his friend’s leg. “In one side and out the other at least…” The point of entry was little more than a tiny hole beneath the blood-stained material of Ritter’s pants, however the exit wound was large and ragged, and the man was losing a lot of blood. Thorne reached inside his coat and pulled out the white flag he’d been saving, tearing off a large section of it for use
as a tourniquet. “Lucky it wasn’t a fifty-cal I guess… there’d be no bloody leg left then…”

  “Very… reassuring… Mein Herr…” Ritter gasped, gripping at Thorne’s arm as the man started to wrap the fabric firmly around his leg above the wound. “This will be of much comfort for me when I’m regaling the new recruits with my exploits as a British spy!”

  “I don’t know that things required quite so much sarcasm,” Thorne shot back, the attempt at humour as much to steel his own nerves as to relax Ritter.

  “I should be happy to exchange places, if you think me so ‘fortunate’…” The pilot countered, managing a strained laugh despite the severity of the situation. “Scheisse…! I’d clearly forgotten how painful it is to be shot! I think I shan’t forget a second time!”

  “You think you can move, mate?” Thorne queried darkly, glancing quickly around and realising they were now almost alone in that open field, and that the enemy was now much closer. The German shelling had swept past them at pace with the general retreat, and they were in a relatively ‘safe’ zone in the middle ground between the two groups, although shells and bullets were constantly howling overhead, almost exclusively in a westerly direction. Ritter made one attempt at rising and collapsed instantly, crying out in agony again.

  “It seems the answer is ‘no’,” he managed, finally. “Perhaps not a bad thing in any case… I’m expected to get back to my own lines, after all. Leave me here, and they’ll pick me up as they advance.”

  “They way things are right now, there’s a better than average chance they’ll just shoot you and roll on past…” Thorne shook his head emphatically. “There’s no way I’m going to leave you like this… no fucking way!”

  “It’s much more important you get to safety!” Ritter argued in return, fumbling with the zip of his combat jacket before shrugging it awkwardly off and letting it fall, exposing his Luftwaffe flying suit and insignia. “Leave me that white flag and get out of here!”

  “This isn’t bloody right,” the Australian said lamely, and Ritter could clearly see that stress was beginning to cloud Thorne’s reason and logic. “This is not bloody right!”

  “Go… go now!” The pilot snarled angrily, in German this time, with the tone of an enraged commanding officer. “Get your arse out of here!” The strategy worked as he’d hoped: the attempt at ‘pulling rank’ was convincing enough in his native tongue to shake the man from his mental block and bring him back to reality.

  “You take bloody care of yourself, Carl,” Thorne stated finally, stuffing the ragged, white material into the man’s left fist before reaching out with his own and grasping Ritter’s right hand firmly. “You be bloody careful! I was never that religious, mate,” he continued, and Ritter thought he almost saw tears in the man’s eyes, “but I hope God goes with you in this… if he is up there, you’ll need his help.”

  “You also, Max Thorne… God be with you also!”

  And with that the Australian was gone, once more keeping low and heading for the outskirts of the village and something resembling decent cover. Ritter dug his battered flying helmet from the folds of the discarded combat jacket, wincing in agony throughout, and jammed it tightly on his head. He lifted the flap of the holster at his belt, but didn’t draw the Luger… he didn’t wish to give a jumpy tank gunner or grenadier any excuse to shoot him before he’d identified himself. The nearest tanks were just a hundred metres away now, advancing at a steady pace with walking infantry on either side: it appeared the armoured push had slowed somewhat and had perhaps become a little overextended, although firing was still going on further south. He clutched the white rag Thorne had given him and prepared to wave it high and clear, getting his story straight in his head as the panzers rolled toward him.

  Smeeth was a small parish that lay on the northern side of the Hythe Road, just eight kilometres south-east of Ashford. With a population of no more than a thousand, the village comprised less than two dozen actual homes and other buildings that were all congregated about the Church of St Mary the Virgin on the Church Road. A small, single-storey structure of grey flint, with two isles and two chancels, the church carried a high, pointed roof and a tower at one end. First built during Twelfth Century Norman times, sections including the chapel and porch had been added between the Thirteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and a restoration during the early 1880s had also seen the original, crumbling tower replaced.

  Like the rest of the village, the church had been left deserted as the inhabitants had joined the westward civilian exodus out of Kent ahead of the invasion. The south door was locked securely, and although Thorne could probably have smashed it open, he ultimately decided against it. The building was quite small, with little likelihood of anywhere to hide or to make any kind of creditable stand, and the cannon of the approaching tanks and assault guns would reduce it to rubble with just a few shots anyway… he had no desire to leave himself trapped somewhere with no way of escape.

  He ignored the potential for sanctuary within and instead continued west, weaving his way between rows of graves marked with old headstones that were weathered with age and in some cases no longer standing completely upright. Thirty metres further on, a low, ivy-covered stone wall marked the boundary of the parish grounds. On the other side, Church Road rounded a bend to the south and terminated at the A20 (Hythe Rd) just 150 metres away, while in the opposite direction it passed right through Smeeth and continued on to Brabourne Lees, a kilometre or so to the north.

  Thorne used every last ounce of strength he possessed to lift himself over the wall, collapsing to the ground on the other side in utter exhaustion. He could still hear the low rumble of panzers drawing inexorably closer, but as he laid his rifle on the ground beside him, he found he was quickly losing the energy to continue his retreat. Thorne felt as if the pressure of all the weeks they’d spent in 1940 was now crashing down on him in that moment as he leaned his back against the hard, stone wall and lifted his head back with eyes closed, struggling to regulate his laboured breathing. He couldn’t tell exactly how close the enemy were now, and they’d not overrun his position yet, but he had no doubt it was just a matter of time.

  A flat, open field lay across the other side of the Church Road, bordered by The Ridgeway to the north and the A20 to the south. Darkness had well and truly coming now, and in the failing light he couldn’t clearly make out what was growing in the pastures across the road, but something low and leafy drifted and swayed there in the shadows as a faint and distinctly chilly breeze stirred the mist that was already rising. It was a small consolation that dusk had at least brought with it a cessation of the shelling and general gunfire, although the occasional shot still broke the growing silence here and there behind him.

  Even so, Thorne didn’t like the chances of making an escape to anywhere remotely safe, and he inwardly cursed his own arrogance and foolhardiness in placing himself in that position to begin with. The Swordfish was somewhere off to the south-west, on the other side of the A20, and in any case didn’t have sufficient fuel for another flight all the way back to Scapa Flow. His mind was beginning to register the very likely possibility that he was now stranded in Southern England, and that the rest of Hindsight would be forced to leave him behind… a concept that was far from pleasant.

  Another few moments and he felt he’d regained his breath sufficiently to return to a crouch, pick up his rifle once more and cautiously lift his head just enough to peer through a gap in the top of the wall where a lost section of stone had left a narrow ‘V’ in the ivy. He ducked instinctively as the crack of a bullet split the air in the distance, and as he lifted his head once more, a second, far nearer shot seemed to indicate someone had indeed aimed in his direction. As he watched carefully, he could now see the indistinct shapes of enemy infantry moving about in unit strength beyond the trees, on the eastern side of the church grounds.

  Knowing it would be a pointless exercise, he nevertheless grasped at the shoulder-mounted microphone of his bel
t radio and made one last effort to contact a relay radio station at one of the nearby local HQs.

  “Phoenix Leader calling Dryad Foxtrot… come in please… Phoenix Leader calling Dryad Foxtrot… come in please… sending on authority code ‘Artemis’… require urgent assistance… please respond… over…” There was a soft burst of static as he waited for a moment, but no reply was forthcoming. “Phoenix Leader calling Dryad Foxtrot… come in please… Phoenix Leader calling Dryad Foxtrot… come in please… transmitting on authority code ‘Artemis’… require urgent assistance… please respond… over…” He repeated the transmission a second time, again pausing for a response.

  This time the crackle and hiss of interference did in fact make way for a human response, however his initial flash of relief quickly soured as he instantly realised that the cold and rather aggressive voice at the other end of the radio was speaking in a gruff, German accent.

  “There is no fucking ‘Dryad Foxtrot’ here now, mein liebes… why don’t you keep talking, and we’ll drop in for a visit, eh?”

  “Thanks all the same, fräulein,” Thorne snarled back softly with all the venom he could muster, “but I don’t think I’ll bother… your boyfriends might get jealous… maybe you can all go fuck yourselves instead!” He hissed those last few words with true vehemence before turning the radio off once more and resting his forehead against the wall, banging it gently as if that action might somehow jar loose a solution to the problem from his muddled mind.