The Fall of the Father Land

by D. N. J. Greaves

  ‘Good God,’ he muttered to himself. What the hell was that? A bomb, or maybe one of those new rockets the Germans were desperately flinging around? He read the reports in the Telegraph about how the Nazis were using them to bombard London and Antwerp, but here? What could be of importance in this part of the world? Did they have rockets that could travel as far as this part of England?

  He quickly made his mind up and turned back towards his house. The Air Raid people would need to know about this as soon as possible. So would the Fire Brigade and Police. The bomb was right where Jarvis had his farm and where some his workers had cottages. Although the farmer was sometimes a miserable old bastard, the least he could do was help. As he hurried back over the field he did not notice a cloud of vapour rise and slowly appear over the brow of the hill.

  The Skies over Nordhausen 2345

  This time the RAF had better luck. A Mosquito on patrol duty caught a glimpse of the rocket launch through a gap in the clouds and the pilot brought the aircraft over onto a direct intercept course. The crew was able to track the slower, heavier missile as it reached the cloud layer, and squeezed off a burst of cannon fire just before the rocket accelerated away and out of range. A chance in a million, or maybe even worse odds than that, but it was the closest anybody got that night to hitting let alone downing a rocket. Two shells clipped a rudder on one of the tail fins. There was no visual telltale of what had happened, no explosion or flying debris, and as the rocket shot away the pilot cursed his luck, unaware of what he had achieved. The damage was relatively minor, not enough to spin the rocket out of control or deviate it sufficiently to miss a target at short ranges, but it would still prove critical to the success of the mission. The shells caused just enough deformation over the steering surfaces to disrupt airflow and create a small amount of additional drag. Unknown to the pilot, the missile’s target was Manhattan in downtown New York, a distance of nearly four thousand miles. And at that range the damage could make all the difference in the world.

  Off Long Island, New York 1815 Eastern Standard Time

  Captain Jack Bridges was beginning to feel tired. It had been a long day, endlessly flying anti-submarine patrol circuits. The loop he was allocated to patrol stretched from the Ambrose Channel that marked the entrance into the Hudson River, up along the length of Long Island, past Block Island, Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket Island and out into Massachusetts Bay. Then he would turn back again, retracing his path as far as South Amboy before repeating the pattern. There was little to see to keep him focused on the job, just the familiar shoreline and the usual navigation points. The crew was equally tired - tired and bored. The last time a U-Boat had ventured anywhere near his patrol route had been months ago, as far as he knew. No, there were simply too many watchful eyes out there, too many aerial patrols and anti-submarine nets to risk, and the Navy had the area sewn up tight. The Brooklyn docks might be a highly tempting target, with all the convoys and troop ships that regularly left the harbour for England, but the dangers for U-Boat commanders were too great. It was better to chance your arm further out in the expanses of the North Atlantic, he reckoned, than risk a decision closer in.

  The four-engined PB4Y-1 Liberator’s engines droned on, throttled right back for maximum endurance, never missing a beat. They were flying almost due west, heading back towards Newark and home. Visibility was excellent, just as it had been all day, not a cloud in the sky. But now the sun was sinking quickly into the west, and it was high time to go home. Over across the starboard wing he could just make out the southern coastline of Long Island. Jones Beach State Park receded to his right as the Liberator flew on, with Long Beach swiftly coming into view. A few lights were on, but little else showed at this point of the island’s expanse. The sea was calm, with only a few lines of breakers close to the shore. In a few minutes he would begin his final navigation checks, but that was just for form’s sake, rather than any specific flying need. He knew the area like the back of his hand, and the approach would be as routine as ever.

  His co-pilot, Bill Kowalski, was browsing through a flight manual for entertainment. Bridges gave him a quick nudge.

  ‘Time to earn your greenbacks, Bill. Take over the controls. I’m going to do a crew check and grab a coffee. Want one?’

  ‘No thank you sir,’ Kowalski smiled and put the manual down. ‘If I have any more to drink I’ll burst. It’ll be good to get home soon.’ Kowalski scanned the instruments, then leaned forward to hold his joystick. ‘Okay, sir, the controls are mine.’

  ‘Acknowledged. Hold the fort. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  Bridges slipped his throat mike off, slid out of his seat and clambered back to where his navigator was hidden away, behind the bulkhead that separated the cockpit from the rest of the aircraft. He slid around where Hanks, the top gunner, was manning the dorsal machine gun.

  ‘Everybody OK?’ He shouted.

  A chorus of ‘yessirs’ greeted him. He braced himself and sat down by the navigator, a recently promoted Lieutenant by the name of Harry Bell. He was just out of flying school.

  ‘How are you doing, Harry?’ Bridges smiled at him. Bell was very young.

  ‘Fine, sir. I-‘

  Suddenly the Liberator pitched violently up and down and then slammed to the left, almost as if a giant hand had picked the aircraft up and tossed it aside. The impact threw Bridges across into the navigator, squeezing them together into the confined space. Bridges’ head collided with the bulkhead, temporarily disabling him with a sharp blow to his skull. He saw stars for a moment, and the pain was like a blinding sheet of white light that seared across his vision. And then it was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving in its wake a pounding throb.

  The Liberator had veered violently to the left and was now in a dive. Dimly he was aware that the engines were roaring at full speed. Kowalski must have instinctively reacted, driving the throttles forward and losing height to try to regain control. He needed to get back to the cockpit now, find out what had happened and report in.

  With Bell’s hel, he managed to disentangle himself, turn around and make his way back towards the front of the aircraft. Something warm was trickling down the side of his face but he ignored it, struggling forward to grab a handhold and lever himself into his flying seat. Kowalski had both hands on the control stick, his feet kicking hard to force the rudder over and straighten the Liberator. A quick glance at the altimeter told him they were passing three thousand feet rapidly, and the ocean began to fill the view forward. The air-frame creaked and groaned as the plane struggled to straighten. He leaned forward, grabbed his control stick and pulled back with all the strength he could muster, grunting with the effort. Slowly the plane began to pitch up and the altimeter needle slowed its crazy descent. They finally leveled out at three hundred feet. Kowalski slumped forward in relief, sweat pouring off his face.

  ‘Christ, that was close!’ He muttered.

  Bridges had the controls. A rapid check of the instruments revealed nothing out of order. He glanced at his co-pilot. ‘What the hell was that? Bill, did you see anything?’

  Kowalski looked up, his face white. ‘I’m not sure. I think something flashed across the canopy …It must have created the shock wave that threw us right out of our normal flight path.’ He drew a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead. ‘Whatever it was, it was sure moving at one hell of a speed…’

  Bridges felt the back of his head. His fingers came away red, sticky with a congealing ooze. He must have cut his scalp when the aircraft span out of control. ‘Bill, you did well to keep us from spinning out of control.’ He slipped his throat mike back on to speak to the rest of the crew. ‘Report in. Anybody seen what just gave us a couple of heart-attacks?’

  ‘Sir!’ It was Becker, the rear gunner. ‘Behind us…there’s a big impact in the sea, about a thousand yards off the shoreline. I can see some wreckage there as well, sir.’

  ‘OK. Bill, get on to the airfield. Have the Navy to check out t
he area.’ He checked his instruments, especially the fuel gauges. ‘We’ll do a single pass over the crash site before heading back to base.’ That was more than enough excitement for one day. Bridges let out a long, heartfelt sigh of relief. He no longer felt in need of another cup of coffee to keep him awake.

  Downing Street, London 1930 1/4/45

  The car turned off Horse Guards Road and pulled up to the barrier, the early evening sunlight glinting off the bonnet. Menzies leaned forward and spoke to the driver. ‘Thanks Ted. Wait for me here, please.’ He opened the passenger door and slid out of the Alvis. It was only a short walk from MI6’s headquarters along Birdcage Walk, but it would be more appropriate to arrive composed and calm, as befitting the occasion. After all, it wasn’t every day of the week that the Prime Minister himself wanted to see you and he wanted to look his best. The chauffeur was all part of the occasion.

  Two policemen were manning the road block in front of him that stopped further access to the government buildings that lay beyond. Menzies flashed his pass at them. The one in plain clothes carefully studied his paperwork, issued him with a temporary pass and nodded curtly. ‘This way sir’. Menzies followed him up the passage that led between the Foreign Office and Treasury buildings, and then left through an alley, shielded by high grey walls and on into a small courtyard. The policeman knocked at a door set into the wall. It opened silently to reveal a small, immaculately maintained garden backing up to the rear of an imposing Georgian house. ‘Walk up the path to the back door, sir.’ He indicated politely. ‘They’re expecting you.’

  Menzies nodded as the policeman turned away and walked back to his post. The rear door closed again, revealing a uniformed officer wearing a shoulder holster. There was another at the back door, who checked his papers again, pressed a buzzer and let him into the large kitchen. The sound of hurried footsteps could be heard rapidly approaching. The door flew open, and a short, distinguished looking man in a grey pinstripe suit hurried up to him and grasped him by the hand.

  ‘Stuart, thank God you’re here!’ It was Sir John Colville, the PM’s private secretary and personal assistant.

  ‘I came as quick as I could, Sir John’, Menzies smiled, returning Colville’s handshake. ‘How is the old boy?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ Colville groaned, putting his hand on his forehead and shaking his head in dismay. ‘It’s been one of those days I’d rather forget. Winston’s had a tough day in the House of Commons, thanks to Attlee and all those Labour lefties in the Cabinet. They’ve been demanding all sorts of social reform once the war’s over, and threatening to withdraw support if something’s not done now to ease the plight of the lower classes.’ He sighed. ‘They don’t seem to realise that the war’s still not finished. One thing at a time.’ He groaned again. ‘As for the Japs, well…I don’t know. They’re still fighting tooth and nail, and Winston is worried about Burma and what’s going on in China. He sees Reds everywhere. You know what he’s like.’

  Menzies nodded. Not that he disapproved of the Prime Minister’s intolerance of Communists, but he knew that Winston was tired, very tired. So were they all. The last six years had been a grueling slog, from the desperate days of the fall of France and the Battle of Britain until now. And even though they were winning, there were still so many unknowns to face up to and decide the best course of action. The Nazis were down and nearly out, but they could still cause tremendous damage even in their present state. That was why he was here.

  ‘The final straw was your report late this afternoon,’ Colville continued, looking more anxious than ever. ‘At first I thought it was April Fool’s Day, somebody with a poor sense of humour having us on. But I know you don’t tolerate fools gladly, and the summaries from Lockhart at the JIC have confirmed our worst fears. I don’t suppose there’s anything you can tell me before you go in?’ Colville looked anxious, surprisingly so for so senior a figure in the PM’s office.

  ‘Sorry, Sir John, you know the drill. Mum’s the word for now, but I’m sure Winston will enlighten you soon enough.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand, Stuart.’ Colville wrung his hands, the picture of worry. ‘You see, it’s just that I have a sister who lives just outside Lichfield. Too close for comfort, I think.’

  Menzies could say little.

  ‘Well…’ Colville swallowed and cleared his throat, keen to change the subject and avoid further embarrassment. ‘I see you’ve come prepared.’ He glanced at the leather slip case tucked under Menzies’ left arm. ‘The PM wants to hear about the latest developments immediately. He’s spoken to Eisenhower in Paris not so long ago, and the air’s been thick with telegrams from Washington. Looks like there’s been some untoward activity over there as well.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Menzies raised an eyebrow. Despite the secret intelligence emanating from Germany, he still found it hard to believe that the Germans could reach across the Atlantic and strike at America. It was just so far away. Did the Nazis have such a superior technological lead that they could really do this? And if so, what else could they do?

  They walked back into the main part of the house. Colville led the way upstairs, past the portraits of previous holders of the keys to 10 Downing Street and into a small anteroom on the first floor. “I should tell you that the CIGS is in with him,’ Colville said quietly before knocking on the ornate wooden door that led into the Prime Minister’s private conference room and study.

  There was a muffled grunt followed by a bellowed ‘enter’. Menzies slipped through into the room. The Prime Minister was dressed in his usual black waistcoat and suit, and sat slumped in a large leather recliner chair that faced away from the windows. In front of him was a large desk stacked high with files and paperwork. He looked exhausted and tense. The dark rings that circled around his eyes were silent testimony to the late nights, poor sleep and stress of his job. Across from him sat Field Marshall Sir Alan Brooke, Chief of the Imperial General Staff. The CIGS favoured him with a small smile of welcome, but he looked almost as tired as his political leader. Menzies stood to attention and saluted.

  ‘At ease, Colonel,’ the PM gruffly ordered and gestured to a chair opposite him. Menzies sat down and waited for the Prime Minister to speak.

  ‘Ahem.’ Churchill cleared his throat and looked wearily at the head of MI6. ‘Thank you for coming, Colonel. I received your report two hours ago. Field Marshall Brooke has just brought me up to date with developments in Germany. I want to hear your opinion, so please give me a summary of the events of the last few days.’

  Menzies began by summarizing the intelligence he had received from Germany about the bio-weapon offensive, the rocket factory, and the latest developments. ‘These weapons were launched on the night of the 29th. Two rockets, as far as we know. One targeted for Birmingham, the other possibly New York, but as yet I have not received any information regarding the latter. One of our Mosquitos witnessed the first launch, another possibly winged the rocket at the second but there was no visual evidence of damage. That was over the Harz area. We know the Germans are still firing other V2s from occupied Holland towards Antwerp and London, but to reach Birmingham and elsewhere from the Nordhausen area suggests these have much greater range than the normal V2 rockets.’

  ‘What about Birmingham?’ The PM leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘There’s been some more news since my report was sent, Prime Minister,’ Menzies said. ‘The preliminary bacteriological analyses have yet to bear fruit, but I spoke to a Professor Davies from the Pathology Department at Birmingham University Medical School. He’s had some experience in the field of unusual foreign diseases, and he’s quite convinced that we’re dealing with something nasty, possibly Bubonic Plague, and maybe other diseases as well. The area’s been cordoned off and quarantined. Luckily for us, the missile must have somehow strayed off course and landed in a relatively unpopulated area. It would have been much worse if it had landed in the centre of the city.’

  Churchill sank back into his chair, looking a li
ttle less anxious. ‘Yes, but what about casualties?’

  ‘Only six so far, sir, and three of them we reckon were from the impact. As for how many others, it’s hard to say. The warning from Germany helped us to concentrate local resources, and the emergency services have done a fine job. I think we can contain any spread into the surrounding areas, from what the medical men tell me.’

  The Prime Minister breathed a sigh of relief, and then got up and strode over to the large-scale map that was pinned on the far wall of the study. ‘Thank God for small mercies. It would be a disaster if this spread.’ He studied the map carefully. ‘There must be at least five hundred thousand people living in Birmingham and the surrounding areas.’ Churchill thought for a few moments, and then turned back to face Menzies, a determined look on his face. ‘We’ve got to keep a lid on what’s happened. I’ve already spoken to the Press and slapped a D Notice on this. The last thing we need is a wild panic about all sorts of nasty infectious diseases flying around the country. We’re just about to achieve a hard won and costly victory, and we certainly do not need something like this….What about security at your end?’

  ‘All taken care of sir. David Petrie from MI5 has cooked up a cover story, and the Staffordshire police are none the wiser. The local press have been warned off, and Davies and his medical teams are sworn to secrecy – I invoked the Official Secrets Act when I was up there. They’ve all signed. I think that end of the operation is reasonably secure.’

  ‘Good, good…’ Churchill sat down again. ‘So what’s your opinion about Himmler’s threat?’

  ‘The same as before Prime Minister. At first I didn’t believe any of this, but my contact in Germany has made me aware of certain truths that were undeniable. He supplied this information. We know that the Nazis are desperate, and it would seem that they would try anything to derail the course of the war. Naturally all of this is still hard to believe, especially the possibly of Nazi rockets reaching America, but we now know they can reach Birmingham. As for the other, well who knows where that’s ended up…’