The Invasion of 1950 (54 page)

Skorzeny merely held out a hand. Philby passed him the note and went into the kitchen, somehow unsurprised to discover that the commandos, while very neat, hadn’t bothered to make any food. They hadn't even set about preparing a small meal for them. The seven of them ate a great deal of food between them, he had realised, and as his rations were designed for only one person, he was having to use a great deal of ingenuity to gather enough food to feed them all. He had contacts and friends in high places, but with a witch hunt going on for German spies, he didn’t dare do anything that would cause anyone to realise what he was doing.

“Interesting,” Skorzeny said as he came into the kitchen. The team leader showed no sign of recognising Philby’s irritation. “Do you know what they want us to do?”

“No,” Philby said crossly. It had occurred to him that he could have forged information or orders for the commandos, but cracking the code for their communications had proven beyond his abilities. “I cannot read your codes.”

“No,” Skorzeny agreed dryly. His face twisted into a sneer. “I guess they didn’t trust you. Once a traitor, always a traitor.”

Philby had a rare moment of deep insight. Skorzeny acted like a small boy half the time. A small boy with utterly lethal combat skills and a small arsenal of weaponry. He had complete faith in his own abilities and absolutely no conception of what might happen to him if he were caught, or even of his own death in combat. He went to war gladly, with a smile on his face, completely unable to grasp the fact that he might die. His faith in his own invincibility was a powerful asset, the one that had kept him going through his career…and allowed him to become one of the legends of the SS.

“I thought that the idea was security,” he said, refusing to show any offence. They had had some details drummed into their heads a long time before Hitler’s forces had taken Moscow and killed Stalin. “If I am caught, the less I know, the better. What do you have to do, and how does it involve me?”

“It seems that someone in Berlin has decided to toss Winston Churchill down the WC,” Skorzeny said, laughing at his own joke. It wasn't that funny, but Philby risked a laugh anyway, not daring to antagonise the bully too much. “They want us to remove him permanently from office with a shot through the head.”

Philby stared at him. “They want you to kill Churchill?”

“Apparently so,” Skorzeny said, buffing his nails with a toothpick. “I dare say that our esteemed
Fuhrer
has decided that Mr Churchill is no longer required for the war effort and has ordered him removed. As the best people in the
Reich
for such missions – I have killed several Russian generals personally – we have been ordered to dispose of him.”

He leered, picking his teeth with one hand. “Or don’t you think that’s a good idea?” He asked, his voice becoming mocking and very cold. “Are you feeling some tiny trace of loyalty still left in your system?”

Philby frowned at him, thoroughly disgusted.

“Not really,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I just suspect that if we actually kill Churchill, it’s going to be extremely difficult to remain in place and avoid detection.”

Skorzeny quirked an eyebrow. “In the middle of a power struggle over who would succeed Churchill as Prime Minister?”

“We’re not going to fight a civil war over it,” Philby proclaimed. “The handful of possible candidates will either form a compromise government between themselves or one of them will gain enough votes in Parliament to go to the King and receive his blessing to form a new government. Regardless, they’re not going to stop looking for you, and they’ll go through everything – and everyone – with a fine-toothed comb.”

“And maybe they’ll see through your cover at last,” Skorzeny said, a smile forming around his lips. His teeth showed once; they were perfect, of course. “What are you going to do then?”

“I have no idea,” Philby said wilting. He had some plans for escape, but he suspected that the press of events would ensure that they were no longer usable They had partly depended on Hollis, and he was now dead. “What do you want me to do?”

“They want us to get out of the city afterwards,” Skorzeny said calmly. Philby tried to paste a relieved-looking expression on his face. Skorzeny probably thought he was a coward, but that hardly mattered, not now. There might just be a chance to escape completely. “How do you advise that we do that?”

Philby had looked into the matter before the Germans launched their attack against the defence lines to the north.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he said, after a moment to collect his thoughts. He’d have to check everything again, and that would risk detection. “I don’t think I can get us papers to get very far out of the city, and if we were to pose as a military unit, we would be unlikely to get away with it for long.”

“Why not?” Skorzeny smiled and asked. His eyes lit up as he contemplated an important point. “You could be an important minister and we could be your bodyguards.”

Philby shook his head.

“The British Army senior ranks are very entwined with the political and aristocratic framework of the country,” he said. How much did Skorzeny actually know? “It’s quite likely that if we posed as a government personage and his escort, whoever we met would know all of them by sight and would smell a rat at once. If we tried to make it to German lines in the north, we would very likely be caught and then thrown into jail.”

“Executed,” Skorzeny said flatly. He laughed aloud as Philby flinched at the blunt word. “Where else is there? Ireland?”

“That’s where they would expect us to go,” Philby said. “There are dozens of possible ways to get to Ireland, but all of them would be watched under any circumstances, and of course that would be doubled after Churchill’s death. The only other way out would be to head to France.”

Skorzeny gave him a sharp look. Did he see the deceit that Philby was planning deep inside his heart?

“France happens to be on the opposite side of a rather large sea,” he said coldly. “They may claim that I can walk on water, but I would sink if I tried to swim that far, so what do you have in mind?”

“There are fishing boats all around the south coast of England,” Philby said carefully. “Any one of them could get us to France; hell, there are reports of Frenchmen using the boats to smuggle stuff in and out of Vichy France. The fishermen haven’t even stopped in time of war. They have kept fishing, and they are feeding part of the south coast through their efforts.”

Skorzeny rolled his eyes.

“You British couldn’t secure a thing,” he said dryly. Philby, who would have privately agreed, said nothing. “In the
Reich
, we do not allow such behaviour.”

“Without their efforts, the south coast would be much more hungry,” Philby said, half-smiling. “Would you want to be the Government that told millions of people to starve rather than allow the fishermen to continue their trade?”

“Democracy is an alien concept to me,” Skorzeny growled. It was true, Philby knew. The
Reich
had never been a democratic state and the state before it, the Weimer Republic, had failed spectacularly. They had been meant to vote in a communist government, but instead they had trusted Hitler, a dreadful mistake. “Are you confident that you can get us all out that way?”

“As long as we move quickly, we could be in France within hours,” Philby promised. “I think that we could make it without any major problems.”

“Good,” Skorzeny said. “Now, it’s time to start figuring out the answer to the most important question in the world; how can we get a clear shot at Winston Churchill?”

South of
Colchester, England

Captain Harry Jackson stood to attention, along with the other officers and men, as the Jeep pulled to a halt in front of them. Monty himself, a tall wiry man, stepped out of the vehicle, followed by a smaller portly man who drew all of their attention to his face and the single defiant cigar poking out from between his lips. They'd all seen photos and the occasional film, but meeting Winston Churchill in person was something different; he was every bit as impressive as they said. The line of soldiers snapped out a salute, which both men returned, and then relaxed as Monty ordered them to stand at ease.

“Thank you, all of you,” Churchill said, his voice ringing out without the use of a loudspeaker. Jackson was silently impressed. Churchill knew how to speak in public. Even the occasional bursts of gunfire to the north were dim in comparison to his voice. “Through your efforts, the British Empire will yet be saved from the Hun, and all of you will be remembered; if England lasts a thousand years, your names will live on as the saviours of the country and the finest fighting men that England has ever produced!”

Jackson smiled to himself. His father had fought in the Great War and had often spoken bitterly of how returning soldiers had been treated. Perhaps it would be different this time, or maybe their sacrifices would be forgotten just as quickly, but it hardly mattered. For now, all that mattered was throwing the Germans back into the sea. He’d been holding the responsibilities of an officer several levels above him and he knew that Monty was trying frantically to reorganise the army before taking the offensive again.

Jackson hoped it wouldn’t be too soon. The infantry he was reorganizing had taken a beating at the hands of the Germans. Even now, a week after the battle, units were still being reconstituted and training together, before being moved up to the lines for patrolling.

The Germans were patrolling much more aggressively than they had before, making life dangerous all along the line. Their infantry remained dug in around Colchester, miles to the north. The fighting might have died down, but it hadn’t stopped altogether; if the Germans suspected that Churchill was at the camp, they might have tried to shell it to get rid of him and a few dozen soldiers…and Monty, of course.

Monty stepped forward as Churchill finished his speech. “Captain Harry Jackson, step forward,” he said. Jackson took a breath and stepped forward, facing Monty directly. “Captain, you have served the Home Guard and the British Army well, and you have earned a promotion,” Monty said. “For your services, it is my pleasure to promote you to the rank of Colonel in the Home Guard, a title that reflects the responsibilities you have been given and discharged with such success. I expect great things from you in future.”

He smiled at Jackson as he stepped back into the line and called on the next officer. He hadn’t expected a promotion so quickly – the Home Guard didn’t promote as rapidly as the regular army – but now he had it, he felt a little strange.

Monty promoted seven more officers, one after the other, before finally stepping back and addressing them all. “I’m proud of you,” he said simply. Jackson felt his heart swelling. “Soon enough, we will advance and take back what’s ours from the Germans and rid our land of their scourge. God save the King!”

“God save the King,” the soldiers echoed.

“Dismissed,” Monty said. Jackson saluted and left the field, heading back to the training ground that held his soldiers and several other companies, or were they all under his command now? He had spent most of his time training new units and getting them to work together.

He made a mental note to pick up his new uniform from the office later. Somehow, the British Army was never short of uniforms, although there were shortages of everything else useful at the moment. He knew from listening to General Barron that they’d fired off too much ammunition and lost too many tanks to take the offensive at once, but replacements were on their way from British factories, Canada and America. Once they arrived and were distributed, he hoped that they could take the offensive and drive the Germans out of the country he loved. Perhaps that would end the war…or perhaps it would go on forever.

***

Alex DeRiemer watched as Churchill spoke to group after group of British soldiers, reassuring them that their sacrifices were not in vain an
d that their country would remember them after the war, something that DeRiemer suspected was rather uncertain. Churchill himself had been remembered after the last war, as had Monty and a few others, but most of the common soldiers had been quietly forgotten, their lives something unimportant to the vast majority of people. The struggle to survive had drained that much from the country.