The Invasion of 1950 (27 page)

“Fire two,” Molesworth ordered, as he yanked the MTB around in a desperate course alteration. If they rammed the German ship broadside, the Germans would probably be unharmed, but the MTB would be smashed to smithereens. More gunfire rang out, some of it striking the hull of his boat, but it no longer mattered; the torpedo was in the water, aimed directly at the German destroyer.

Pearson flinched as the smaller gun opened fire, spraying shells towards the German ship and raking its decks with fire. The MTB didn’t carry anything heavy enough to make the Germans regret meeting it – apart from the torpedoes – but the gunfire would force the German shooters on the deck to keep their heads down, just as the torpedo struck the German ship broadside. There was an explosion… shattering the destroyer and sending a tidal wave of water towards the MTB. Molesworth swore under his breath and altered course sharply, racing right towards the wave and shouting a warning moments before the wave struck and washed over the hull. The water shook the boat, but Molesworth kept it under control and raced out into the ocean away from the Germans. A final hail of shellfire came after them, and then nothing; they had made it clear away.

“Safe,” Molesworth said after a quick radar sweep of his own. The German freighter was burning in the distance, but the MTB was alone in the waters, otherwise. The Germans would probably seek to adapt somehow but for the moment, they’d just blooded the German nose and gotten away with it. “Did you learn anything interesting?”

“Yes,” Pearson said. “Don’t do this again!”

Molesworth laughed as he guided the MTB back towards its harbour at Grimsby. It would take some hours to return to the port, and they needed to watch out for marauding German ships. As well as the possibility of running into a British ship that might mistake them for a German ship and open fire. It would be dawn by the time they docked. However, the further north they moved, the less likely it would be that they would have a hostile encounter.

From time to time, they heard aircraft in the distance but saw nothing until they neared Grimsby and saw the flames licking into the sky. The Germans had been pounding away at the Royal Navy installations regularly but it was the first time he'd seen it from the waters. He found it hard to believe that the war was only three days old.  He'd spent the first day of the war trying to get back to his station and the second day patrolling the waters around Grimsby, in case the Germans tried a second landing. He hadn’t considered it anything but a waste of time, but the higher-ups had been nervous, and it was difficult to blame them.

He guided the boat into its docking slip and smiled bitterly as the next crew, already prepared for their mission, swarmed onto the ship and began to check everything, as well as loading more torpedoes and bullets onto the boat. It wasn't really safe to operate during the day, not with the German aircraft watching everything they did, but the Royal Navy was desperately needed. If that meant risking a boat and her crew…

“I relieve you,” his counterpart formally said. Molesworth wasn't a Captain and probably would never make captaincy of a ship, but on-board the MTB, he was as much a Captain as any other junior officer. “Did you get anything?”

Molesworth smiled. He was still very young. “One freighter and one destroyer,” he said, trying to keep the boasting out of his voice. “The enemy freighter should be sinking right now” – he was distracted briefly by the sight of a submarine heading out to sea – “and we blew the destroyer into dust.”

“You probably hit the ammunition magazine,” his counterpart said. “Get some sleep and we’ll see you tonight.”

“Don’t get a bloody scratch on her,” Molesworth warned, and then turned to leave before turning back. “They’re on the alert now, so watch yourself.”

He had been awed by the sight of the Royal Naval dockyard when he had first come to Grimsby as a young recruit. Now it was bursting with activity, thousands of men swarming everywhere, trying to repair the damage caused by the latest set of German air attacks. Grimsby served as a base for minesweepers and the occasional heavier ship. The Germans, who had been laying mines enthusiastically in the area, had a great interest in preventing the Royal Navy from sweeping them.

Everyone knew that when the remains of the Royal Navy mustered themselves, there would be a major naval battle for command of the seas. Molesworth had heard speculation that it might be the last battleship duel in the world. No one had fought a battleship duel since Admiral Cunningham had fought the Italians in 1943. As the Germans had proven at Scapa Flow, the face of war had changed forever.

The main office was a grand building, one that had impressed him when he had first come to the port, but now he wondered if the money that had been used to build it shouldn’t have been used on more ships instead. He heard and ignored the sounds of more air raid sirens in the distance as the German bombers swept towards their targets, just as he ignored the banging of the anti-aircraft guns closer to home. The Admiral had told him that he wanted a personal report when, if, he returned, and while Molesworth was desperately tired, he had his duty.

“Sir, Lieutenant Nigel Molesworth, reporting,” he said, as he was invited into the Admiral’s office. He blinked and straightened up as he took in the person sharing the office and then broke out of his semi-trance. “Sir, it’s a honour…”

“Thank you,” Winston Churchill said. “Please could you give us your report?”

Molesworth faltered as he spoke. “We slipped down into the waters near Felixstowe and found a German convoy,” he said, slowly, trying to capture the feeling for the Prime Minister. “We engaged them under cover of a German air raid and hit a freighter with one of our torpedoes before a destroyer tried to block our path. We sunk it before we escaped.”

“Excellent,” Churchill said “That freighter of yours; are you sure that you sank it?”

Molesworth frowned. “We hit it, sir,” he said, trying to remember. Everything had happened so quickly; even now, it was all a blur. “It was settling low in the water when we left the area, but we never saw it actually sink under the waves.”

“Good enough,” Churchill said. The warmth and admiration in his tone made Molesworth smile in pride. “We need heroes, young man, and the BBC will have a lot to say about your performance. What did you think of the German tactics?”

Molesworth blinked at the sudden shift. “Well, they weren’t really prepared for us,” he said slowly. “They should have had more destroyers or E-boats escorting their ships, and perhaps had them operating closer to the harbour than they actually were, but apart from that, they just weren’t able to draw a bead on us in time. Their destroyer captain made a fatal mistake by trying to block us, which allowed us to launch an attack on him as well…”

Churchill listened in silence until he had finished. “That does make a certain kind of sense,” he said as the wail of the air raid sirens came to a halt. “They’re bound to adapt their tactics after your success and some other hits caused by submarines, but we have to keep hitting them until they run out of freighters.”

Molesworth hesitated. He wanted to know…and yet, he wasn't sure if he dared ask. “Sir, what happened at Ipswich?”

“They took the town,” Churchill said, slowly. Molesworth shuddered; he’d listened to the BBC and heard the tale of Tommy Atkins, who had been killed by the Germans after taking a shot at one of their officers. The BBC was officially discouraging private resistance activities, but Molesworth suspected that it wouldn’t discourage everyone from trying to find a way to hurt the Germans as much as they could. “Your service today might just have made it harder for the Germans to expand their level of control.”

He spoke on for a moment, although he was speaking more to himself than to Molesworth. “They landed there to outflank us, but if we can break their supply lines, we can crush them under the sheer weight of fire-power,” he said. Molesworth said nothing, hardly daring to breath, as Churchill spoke. “If we can hold long enough, we will win.”

He cleared his throat. “I believe that you will get a medal for this,” he said, and winked in an uncle-like fashion. Molesworth felt himself flushing; Churchill was, very much, the person who would decide who got the medals and why. “Try not to get yourself killed before we can pin it on your chest and make a hero out of you.”

Over Dover, England

“
You have contacts directly ahead of you,” the controller on the radar plane warned. “Engage at will.”

Gruppenkommandeur
Albrecht Schmidt drew a breath as the British planes materialised in front of him. The first days of the invasion had been chaos personified; the British had been scattered, with the Germans hunting vainly to locate and destroy them before they regrouped, but now the British had regained their balance and were fighting in a coordinated manner. Their aircraft had been pulled back to bases in the west, ensuring that they would have plenty of warning of a renewed bombing offensive now. Since then, they had been operating against the German formations that had been pounding their country.

Schmidt checked his cannons and his antitank rockets moments before they engaged. The RAF was actually secondary to their objective, which was to prevent the British from massing the forces required to crush the invasion lodgement. Any airman with real experience of the air knew that air superiority, if not air supremacy, was vital to any military operation.

Goring had failed to grasp that, and because of the Iron Fatty, the
Luftwaffe
had been denied the military honours of having played a vital role in the conquest of Britain years ago. That planned invasion had failed because of Goring’s vainglorious boasting…and it had cost the
Luftwaffe
its position in Hitler’s eyes. That alone had almost broken the air force, with some of their craft being given to the
Kriegsmarine
, and the Wehrmacht
being given control over autogyros and some close-support aircraft. Now they were back. The success at Scapa Flow had pleased Hitler and now were compelled to defeat the British in the air.

The radar traces closed rapidly. The British aircraft had proven themselves to be doughty fighters and, of course, their survivors were gaining as much experience as the pilots of the
Reich
. The RAF had bombed several ports at night, but a combination of radar-guided aircraft and radar-guided guns on the ground had managed to keep them from damaging too much of the port in their attacks. He’d feared that they would concentrate everything on hammering the invasion lodgement. The chaos of the first few days had given way to cold professional organisation as the Germans and the British strove to reinforce and advance towards their targets.

Now
, he thought, and gunned his engine. His fellow pilots didn’t need any more orders; whatever kinks there had been in the unit, they’d been worked out by days of heavy fighting. The British jet he’d chosen as his target fired back, sending a line of tracer directly towards him which he evaded with ease before firing back with his own cannons. The British pilot evaded and swooped down towards Schmidt’s aircraft, firing a secondary burst that narrowly missed. Schmidt sniffed and buckled down to some hard fighting. The British pilot was good, almost as good as he was, with a slightly inferior aircraft.

The roar of the engines grew louder as he banked and tried to draw a bead on the enemy fighter. The Brit didn’t react in time, and Schmidt was certain that he had him, but the Meteor flipped at the last possible moment and came right at him. Just for a second, Schmidt was sure that the two aircraft were going to smash into one another before the enemy pilot rolled into a dive. Schmidt pulled out and watched as the British aircraft lanced down towards the ground, just before it was too late, the plane levelled out and raced across the English countryside. Schmidt was tempted to dive after him and finish him while he was still stunned, but allowed him to leave; the Englishman had been a valiant foe and deserved a chance at survival.

A second British plane appeared out of nowhere, and Schmidt gave chase. HE watched as the British aircraft jinked to and fro to avoid his fire, before he finally clipped one of the jet engines with an explosive bullet. The plane tilted and spun out of control. Flames were flaring from one wing, and the pilot barely managed to eject in time. Standing orders were to shoot at any pilots who managed to escape via parachutes, but Schmidt and the remainder of the
Luftwaffe
pilots had quietly agreed to ignore those orders; the British would only have started shooting
Luftwaffe
pilots after they fell out of the sky.