THE FORESIGHT WAR (43 page)
Authors: Anthony G Williams
The drone of the engines was soporific, providing almost the only sensory input as the aircraft drifted through the dark of the night.
The crew struggled between trance and tension, the taste of fear like iron in their mouths.
They had been cruising steadily, interminably, slowly approaching their destination.
They listened to the brief exchanges on the radio as damaged bombers fought to make it back to base.
The navigator sat hunched over his instruments, calculating distance to run, time to the nearest airfield.
‘Damaged plane making emergency landing ahead.
Airfield landing lights will be on briefly.’
The pilot acknowledged the radio operator’s report and maintained his course.
A few minutes later, a row of dim lights gleamed ahead and to port.
The pilot banked the aircraft, turning to line up with the lights.
Ahead, a dark shape momentarily obscured the lights as the damaged bomber went in ahead of them.
The pilot lined up carefully behind it until he could make out its shape,
then
flicked on the illumination to the gunsight.
A moment later, the four Mauser MG 151/20 cannon in the belly of the Junkers Ju 188 roared into the night, their shells sparkling as they exploded all over the stricken Manchester.
The bomber flew steadily for a few seconds,
then
fire blossomed from one of the engines.
For a little longer it flew on as the Junkers hammered it, then slowly, wearily, a wing dropped and the plane gracefully slid downwards until an eruption of fire ended its fall.
The German intruder raced away from the burning wreckage, from the avenging British night-fighters who also
cruised
the dark like hungry predators in an endless, nerve-racking contest of electronics, skill and luck.
The fire chief gazed wearily at the rubble which filled the streets, and which was covered with a grey shroud of ash.
They had been able to do nothing about the firestorm.
The massive bombs dropped first had crushed the water supply to the fire hoses as well as blowing the roofs off all the buildings, opening them up for the incendiaries which followed.
The intensity of the fire had sucked in air from the surrounding area at gale force, fanning the flames further.
Only when there was nothing left to burn did the flames die down sufficiently for the hard-pressed fire-fighters to tackle.
Now they picked their way through the ruins, peering through the gloom caused by the vast cloud of smoke hanging over the area.
One of his men called from the ruins of a nearby building.
The tone of voice told him all he needed to know.
He walked over resignedly.
The building had once been an apartment block, but was now an empty shell.
‘Down there,’ the fireman said grimly, indicating some steps leading into a basement.
The fire chief switched on his torch and clambered down.
There was little structural damage; the building had burned but had not been hit by high explosive.
In the basement, he shone the torch over the huddled bodies.
It was the usual story.
The firestorm had sucked all of the oxygen out of the air, leaving its victims nothing to breathe.
His arm drooped, the torch beam sliding down to illuminate the face of a young woman.
In her arms was the body of a young girl.
He stared at them for a moment and wondered what had happened to the world.
Then he turned and headed back up the stairs.
There was plenty to do, in trying to help the living.
There was always plenty to do.
The Kapitan conned his Type X carefully into its assigned berth in one of the massive U-boat pens at the
Lorient
base.
As he watched his crew and the shore party tying up the vessel, he was surprised to see a senior intelligence officer standing by the berth, evidently waiting to see him.
The officer stepped on board as soon as the gangplank was in place and climbed up to the conning tower.
The Kapitan briefly spoke to his crew members who promptly vacated the tower.
‘You will be receiving my report shortly,’ the Kapitan said with mild curiosity.
‘The mission was executed as planned.’
The officer grimaced.
‘Oh, yes, and don’t we know it.
That ship you sank was carrying nine hundred young women; American nurses who had volunteered to help care for the victims of the German bombing raids on England.
Hardly any survived.’
The Kapitan was shaken.
‘That’s not what we were told!’ He protested.
‘There was supposed to be some important cargo or people on board!’
‘I know, but this time the xB-Dienst got it wrong, and badly.
The Americans are screaming for revenge.
It’s not impossible that we might end up at war with them over this.’
As if on cue, the wailing sound of air-raid sirens permeated through the open gates of the pen.
The gates began to close.
The two men looked at each other in amazement, a single thought in their minds:
an air attack, in daylight?
Konrad Herrman sat in silence, shocked by the news Stadler had just given him.
‘The Americans bombed Lorient?’ he asked, still trying to absorb the enormity of what had happened.
‘They did indeed.
It seems that they flew three squadrons of B-17s from America to a base in England and launched their attack from there, escorted by British long-range fighters.
They didn’t cause much damage and they lost several planes, but that’s not really the point.
Dönitz threatened to resign if he couldn’t take the war to the Americans, but he needn’t have bothered; Hitler was as furious as he was.
So there you have it.
Despite your best efforts, Hitler has just declared war on the United States of America.’
Herrman put his head in his hands.
‘Then God save us all!’
Autumn 1942
‘Now the Americans are with us, we must invade Europe soon – otherwise it will be too late!’
Harold Johnson was unusually emphatic, his face creased with intensity. ‘The Russians haven’t just got their backs to the
wall,
they’re practically plastered onto it!’
‘So Molotov said, with some emphasis, on his recent visit,’ added Charles, ‘what’s more the Americans are already putting pressure onto us to do something as soon as possible; not to mention the Canadians, whose troops have been hanging around here for ages.’
‘But where in Europe?’ countered Geoffrey.
‘The Germans are still terribly strong in France and more experienced than our troops.
Even under equal conditions, a defender has a much better chance than an attacker, given the advantage of firing from cover, over known ground prepared with defensive positions, minefields and barbed wire.
You need about three times as many attackers as defenders to make up for that.
Then consider the disadvantage of launching a seaborne attack and keeping it supplied from the sea thereafter.
We would need immense local superiority to stand any chance of survival, let alone winning.’
‘There’s no doubt that we have to land somewhere or the Russians are finished,’ interposed Charles.
‘Furthermore, since the US has launched their massive transport effort with high-speed liners, their troop levels are building up too.
Everybody wants action.’
‘But to launch an invasion which failed would be worse than not trying at all.
Far better to knock off some of the softer targets first, like
Italy
or even southern
France
.
That would give us the opportunity to practise our landing techniques and give the unseasoned American troops a taste of battle.’
Don snorted.
‘You’ve been listening to Alan Brooke.
To attack away from the key objective is just a waste of resources.
To land in Italy would divert so many landing craft, aircraft, men and equipment that it would put back any invasion of France by a year.
It would also allow the Germans to study our techniques and tailor their defences accordingly.
And it wouldn’t be any soft touch, either; nobody is better than the German soldier in mounting a dogged defence against the odds, and the mountainous terrain of Italy would suit them perfectly.
Sooner or later, everyone knows that we will have to land in northern France.
The only question is when; it mustn’t be too soon – we must be well prepared for it – but there shouldn’t be any undue delay either.’
Peter Morgan frowned.
‘There’s still a lot to be done to wear them down with our bombing attacks.
They’re showing no signs of weakening yet.’
‘Nor will
they
.
You’re forgetting what I told you years ago.
You can’t bomb people into submission.
Thank God I managed to keep Harris out of the Bomber Command
job,
otherwise the task of refocusing them onto strategic targets would have been that much harder.
All you RAF types want to do is prove that you can win the war on your own.
Well, you can’t.’
‘We could if we had the atomic bomb,’ Peter remarked softly.
Don groaned.
‘God help us all if that is ever used.’
‘Getting a bit religious, aren’t we?’ Mary teased lightly.
‘The last I heard, we were some way off that.’
‘What, the bomb or religion?’
Charles sardonic, as usual.
‘Let’s look at this objectively,’ argued Don.
‘At the moment the Wehrmacht is at full stretch fighting in Russia.
The lines of supply from Germany are so long that it takes a major effort just to keep them going.
What’s more, partisan resistance activity is so vigorous along much of the lines that a whole army is being tied up in protecting them. Trying to shift any substantial portion of their army back to France would pose immense logistical problems.
And we know that if they tried that, the Russians would counter-attack in support of our landing, helping to pin the German troops in the East.
Despite their commitments in the East, the Germans assume that we will invade at some point, but they’re probably still expecting 1944.
If we attack in 1943, we’ll catch them with their defences unprepared.’
Geoffrey looked dubious.
‘Maybe.
But their armoured strength is essentially unbeaten.
Furthermore, they have a habit of returning armoured divisions to France for rest, re-equipment and training.
Granted that most of their occupation troops are second rate, they still have some extremely dangerous units amongst them.
And consider the problem from our viewpoint.
We still have limited shipping capacity for landing troops and equipment on the beach – the main constraint – and the US troops in particular are very green, with no combat experience.
It would be a terrible risk.’
Don was adamant.
‘For the Russians to lose, and leave us and the Norwegians isolated in Europe, would be an even bigger risk.
The
size
of the forces we are talking about in the West are a small fraction of those engaged in the East.
With Russia beaten, Hitler would be able to turn his full force against us.
We must stop that from happening, at almost any cost.’
‘The main problem wouldn’t be landing as such.
We can pick our spot, with the advantage of surprise, and will almost certainly get ashore.
The problem will be staying there once the Germans get their counter-attacks organised.
We will need to maintain a massive supply effort across the Channel just to keep the army supplied.’
‘I wouldn’t take the landing quite so much for granted.’
Don was in lecture mode again.
‘Don’t forget what was learned in my time…’
Howard grinned.
‘We know.
Accurate intelligence; realistic training; advanced saturation bombing of transport nodes and troop concentrations; intensive naval bombardment in support of the landings; air superiority maintained over the battlefield; tanks to support the first wave of troops; and the need to land away from harbours, which will be too well defended.’
This was variously greeted with laughs, cheers and applause, and Don grinned wryly.
‘Well, I’m glad someone’s been listening.
Let’s hope the planners have as well.’
Charles sighed.
‘Well, we’ll soon find out.
Churchill will be meeting Roosevelt soon.’
Don looked up, interested.
‘Oh?
Where?’
‘Anywhere but
Casablanca
!’
They all groaned.
‘One of these days,’ said Geoffrey, ‘we’ll do exactly what was done before; then that will really fool them!’
Mary was pensive.
‘What decisions are they likely to take?’
‘Depends who they choose to listen to.
My betting is on an invasion in the later spring or early summer of next year.’
‘Several months away.
In that case, we’ll just have to hope that the Russians can hold out until we land.’
Peter grinned wryly.
‘If not, it won’t be for want of trying.’
‘Target zone in sight.
Lots of smoke about.
We’ll approach from upwind – it’ll give us a better chance of seeing what we’re shooting at.
Keep a sharp eye out for bogeys.’
The Flight Sergeant acknowledged his Squadron Leader and banked his aircraft to follow the rest of the formation.
The big Herefords skimmed low over the flat north Russian plain, the gleam of the
Above them cruised the protective umbrella of Brigands.
Ahead of them, battle raged.
His headphones crackled with a three-way conversation between his Squadron Leader, the observer in the little Auster flitting above the scene, and the Forward Air Controller in the thick of the fighting.
The Canadian armoured unit had disembarked at Archangelsk only three weeks before and had immediately been rushed to the front to block the Wehrmacht’s determined thrust northwards.
If the Germans succeeded in their aim to cut the Allied supply line before the harsh winter set in, resistance in this area would almost certainly collapse.
‘Red flares going up mark our front line.
Attack the formations due south.
One
pass
with rockets.
Circle to starboard.
Repeat with guns, as often as you can.’
The squadron acknowledged and settled into their attack run, spreading slightly as each pilot selected his target.
The Flight Sergeant checked the armament selector switch, adjusted the reflector sight and armed the guns.
He eased the throttles open, the sound of the twin Hercules engines rising to a howl as the speed built up.
The view to either side of straight ahead was a blur; directly in front of him the unmistakable shapes of armoured vehicles and running men suddenly snapped into focus.
He thumbed the firing switch and a salvo of sixteen rockets flowed in a rapid stream from the underwing launchers.
He hauled the Hereford up and to the right as the ground in front of him erupted in smoke and flame.
The shape of a tank turret suddenly emerged, somersaulting slowly as it flew through the air.
Then he was clear and circling round, memorising where other tanks had been, watching out for the other aircraft in his formation.
He flicked the armament switch and settled down to the second run, aiming a short distance from his previous target.
More movement ahead as men ran for cover.
He thumbed the firing button and the six Vickers-Brownings blared, their tracer bullets walking across a field towards the enemy.
Just before they reached the tanks, he pressed the second button and the plane shook at the deep hammering of the twin 40 mm cannon, lightweight Bofors guns firing super-velocity, tungsten-cored ammunition.
The tracers streaked towards the tanks, the flash of impact clearly visible.
He dragged the plane round again and felt it judder.
Flak!
He scarcely noticed the roar of his dorsal turret gunner returning fire as he kicked the rudder controls and pulled the Hereford into a violent corkscrew, going right to the deck to escape the gunners.
Suddenly he was clear, skimming the ground, no sign of battle.
Instruments looked OK, controls felt OK.
He had a brief word with his gunner then returned to the fray.
His CO had left him in no doubt: the Germans had to be stopped.
