Axis of Evil

Chapter Fourteen: Culture Shock (Again)

Newcastle Airport/Camp Tommy

Nr Newcastle, United Kingdom

20^th April 1941

The small aircraft had belonged to a millionaire who’d been in France during the Transition. Its speed, combined with unparalleled fuel efficiency, had led to its pilot – and default owner – offering to fly it for the Ministry of Defence in order to avoid combat service. The RAF had practically conscripted every pilot in Britain, particularly those with genuine military experience, for the new aircraft, and not every one of them had wanted to be conscripted.

As Stirling watched, it touched down neatly on the private runway, built by a different millionaire as a gesture for his home city. It taxied neatly to a stop near the terminal, followed by the equipment on trucks, until the ladder was connected on to the plane. Stirling checked his cap and stepped forward as Dwight D Eisenhower stepped out of the plane. The Supreme Commander of Operation Arctic, and Commander of Allied Troops within Britain – which meant American troops – stepped out of the plane, and stopped dead.

Stirling concealed a smile. He’d seen it before, on the now-dead Captain Townley of the Queen Elizabeth, and on Admiral Somerville and Admiral Cunningham, but it was different for the man who would have been President. For the American, suddenly the Transition was real; the old colonial master had grown powerful beyond hope of containment.

He saluted, sharply, and was unsurprised to note that Eisenhower’s salute was a little shaky. He tried to see the airport, a marvel of sophistication, through Eisenhower’s eyes and smiled. Eisenhower must have thought that he’d come to wonderland.

“Welcome to Britain,” Stirling said. Eisenhower shook hands weakly, still staring around. “I’m Major Stirling.”

“Pleased to meet you, I think,” Eisenhower said. They’d met before, but Stirling was too low-ranking for Eisenhower to notice him then. “Thank you for honouring my request.”

Stirling nodded. Under normal circumstances, a person of Eisenhower’s statue could expect to be met by a whole host of dignitaries. He’d requested a low-key introduction to Britain, and to Camp Tommy 1, and Hanover had sent Stirling to meet him. Formal meetings and introductions could come later.

“This is Newcastle,” he said, as he led the way into the car park and headed towards a limousine. The security guards, staying out of the way, moved to blanket them in a protective envelopment; enough pre-emptive-revenge cases had appeared to convince the Government to insist on an armed escort, although no one had been able to think of a reason to hate Eisenhower that would have lasted sixty years. “Newcastle and Aberdeen are going to serve as the main staging posts for the troops.”

Eisenhower was reeling. “There are so many cars,” he said, as their own vehicle opened its doors. “Who owns them all?”

Stirling grinned. “There are fewer here than you might expect,” he said, knowing that Eisenhower wouldn’t have expected anything like as many were parked there. “Although we have managed to get a fairly steady line of petrol supplies, we are short on reasons to come to airports, these days. The flights back and forth don’t always attract people.”

He invited Eisenhower to sit inside the car and sat down beside him. He’d insisted on bringing along a driver, simply so he could try to answer Eisenhower’s questions as they left the airport. The American still seemed stunned as the car drove onto the main road and then moved onto the motorway, heading north.

“What is that?” Eisenhower asked, as a large building passed by on the left. “What on Earth is that for?”

Stirling hesitated. “It’s an office block,” he said finally. “There was a big trend towards monstrous glass and iron structures a few years ago. You should see some of the ones in London.”

“I see,” Eisenhower said. He remained silent as they drove off the motorway and headed into a series of side roads, finally reaching a fenced-off complex.

“This used to be a MOD complex – that’s the Ministry of Defence – before the army was cut, back in the 1970s,” Stirling explained, as the guard checked the papers their driver extended to him. “It was designed to hold five thousand troops in reasonable comfort, if cramped conditions. It was renovated during the first conscription period and hosted the newer divisions, before they went to the Middle East. It’s a bit rough and ready, but it’s the best we have.”

He tapped neatly on the driver’s window. “Just pull up by the main building,” he ordered, and nodded in the direction of Eisenhower. The American was studying the complex without the disdain that Stirling had half-expected; in fact he seemed to be nodding in approval.

“Time to get out, sir,” Stirling said, and opened the door. Eisenhower followed him, more the General now that he had something familiar to get his teeth into. “This is the main common room.”

Eisenhower stepped inside the bulky room and examined the collection of electronic toys and equipment. “What are… they for?” He asked. “What good are they?”

“Quite a bit, actually,” Stirling said, unflappably. “Even soldiers need some time to unwind. Those tools are used for entertainment – there’s a cinema in the next room that seats five hundred – and emails to home. Unfortunately, I am legally obliged to warn you that any email they send will be read while its in the buffer.”

“I suspect that the censors will want to do the same,” Eisenhower said. “You consider this just… adequate?”

Stirling lifted an eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?” He asked. “Yes, this is pretty basic; there are none of the advanced training facilities that get used at Sandhurst or the RAF bases.”

“It’s more than they will expect,” Eisenhower said. “It’s cleaner than most United States barracks as well.”

“Sanitation is important,” Stirling said, leading the way into one of the barracks. Hundreds of bunk beds stretched ahead of them; Eisenhower poked one of the mattresses thoughtfully. “We expect our soldiers to clean their own lockers and make their own beds, I’m afraid.”

Eisenhower gaped at him. “You seem to be expecting us to be… well, prissy-boys.”

“You would be amazed at the fuss the 3^rd Infantry made during the exercise we held last year… sorry, sixty-odd years in the future,” Stirling said. He led the way into the washing rooms. “Hot and cold water is always available here,” he said. “The underground tanks are kept perpetually heated and are available to anyone who asks. Showers are either public, over there” – he waved a hand at the row of open showers – “or private, over there. Legally, we have to provide both options when not at war; its something to do with having female soldiers.”

Eisenhower snorted. “Women would go to pieces on a battlefield,” he said.

“They fight very well,” Stirling said. “About a third of the RAF and the Navy are women. The only department that has only a handful of women is the SAS; while women can join, they need to be ultra-fit and strong.”

He led the way back outside, allowing Eisenhower to see how the building worked; a gigantic cross on the ground. “There are five barracks, arranged like a five-side of a dice,” he said. “Each one can hold a thousand soldiers, and there are more complexes like it in the region. We can accommodate your soldiers, you can train them on the fields or in the woods, depending upon what you want to do.”

“Thank you,” Eisenhower said finally. “These buildings will suit us fine.”

He tried to put a note of lofty condensation into his voice and didn’t quite make it. “What about the ships?”

“We have something of a problem there,” Stirling admitted. “Some of them will have to be based in Ireland until D-Day, but fortunately the Irish have agreed to that in exchange for some assistance in ending their civil war.” He shook his head; the war in Ireland had grown to the point that thousands of Protestants were heading to South Africa, which was accepting all the white men it could find. “The facilities at Scarpa Flow will require years to get them back into what they were, but they won’t be needed for this, I think.”

Eisenhower nodded. “Tell me something, young man,” he said. “If the force in Norway does get into trouble, will your people help out?”

Stirling’s brain whirled. He might work directly for the Prime Minister, and the Oversight Committee, but that hardly qualified him to issue any promises. Rather the opposite, in fact, and he was certain that Eisenhower knew that.

“I imagine that we’d do what we can,” he said finally. “I’m not in any position to…”

“Relax,” Eisenhower said. Stirling lifted an eyebrow. That expression wasn’t contemporary. “I know that you’re not in any position to make promises, but I would be interested in a soldier to soldier discussion.”

Stirling nodded slowly. The entire discussion was being recorded. The Oversight Committee could dissect it later. “We have limited resources,” he said. “I know that a great deal of contingency planning has gone into a rescue mission, but just how feasible it is? I don’t know.”

Eisenhower scowled. “I do know that the RAF is perfectly capable of cutting off Norway from the rest of the German Reich,” he said. “The terrain in Norway favours you more than them, as they won’t have many tanks. You should be able to win, General,” Stirling continued.

“Thank you,” Eisenhower said. “Now… when do we go to London? The first troops are supposed to arrive tomorrow on ships.”

Stirling waved a hand at the tilt-rotor sitting on the helicopter pad. “Right this way,” he said. “They have a formal reception planned; I hear that the King himself will be coming.”

“Oh goody,” Eisenhower said sardonically. Stirling thought of all the homage paid in the future to Kings and Princes, and said nothing.

Camp Tommy/Newcastle

Nr Newcastle, United Kingdom

28^th April 1941

The original plan had called for launching the operation in early May, but events had made that impossible. Private Max Shepherd, 1^st Marine Corps, didn’t mind at all. The future Britain, if he understood the briefing correctly, was fascinating; it was so… rich. The people seemed to be happy and contented; they had toys and games – and almost everyone had a car – that even the richest people in America lacked.

Shepherd shook his head with awe. Born in Tennessee, he’d rarely used a bathroom and had gone to the toilets in the woods, and the super-luxurious barracks were fantastic. From what he gathered, not all of the Americans were accommodating well to the new situation; expecting to be worshipped by the women had moved to disgust. The women of Britain simply weren’t that impressed with the Americans, those who weren’t paid for the pleasure.

Still, their first week at Camp Tommy wasn’t bad, insofar as the Marine Commander had ordered a full training schedule. Captain Caddell kept them on their toes, forcing them through constant repetition of drills; drills and more drills, practicing loading and unloading the LSTs and their small flotilla of craft on the Newcastle beach, before staggering back to the barracks to catch some sleep. The British had offered them buses to transport them over the five miles to the beach, which had been rigged up as a primitive landing site, but the Commandant had refused.

“We need to remain tough,” he said, and had insisted on the Marines marching to and from the beach, unless they’d been injured. Crowds turned out to gawk at them; shopkeepers tried to sell them their wares. Without a proper exchange rate, the British had settled for loaning each man £100 per week, which was used for private activities. Apparently, a racket had already begun; men trading their pounds for goods from America.

Shepherd checked his barracks as the men climbed into the lorries. This day, at least, was different; they were finally going to practice an amphibious invasion. Shepherd had heard – a lowly private was not encouraged to know such matters – that several islands would have to be secured, and that some of the Marines were practicing the techniques up in the Shetlands, where most of the invasion force was being assembled.

“All aboard?” Sergeant Pike called out, ignoring the whiffs of cigarette smoke from some of the men. Smoking in public places was banned in Britain; a couple of men had been fined for the offence. “Driver, go!”

The lorry wasn’t British-made, but one sent over from America. It made a stink as it passed along the motorway, along the corridors designated for military use, and entered the city itself. The men gawked themselves; Newcastle seemed grander than New York, which had been the most glamorous city in the world to many of them.

“Niggers and wogs,” Private Buckman muttered. Shepherd blinked; there were black men, and Indians with dark brown skin and weird clothes, wandering freely through the streets. Some of them waved at the lorries, others jerked their fingers up at the Americans. “Almost as bad as the dagos.”

“Silence in the ranks,” Sergeant Pike thundered. Shepherd smiled openly as the lorry fell silent; Pike wasn’t a man to cross. Shepherd had once seen him half-strangle an imprudent Private. Black men weren’t allowed in the Marines, but there were Italians in the Corps.

“Hard luck,” he muttered to Buckman, who glared at him. Before a fight could break out, the lorry stopped inside a large harbour; a Marine transport sat there docked neatly.

“At the double, everyone out and form up!” Sergeant Pike bellowed. Shepherd hurried to obey as the men jumped off the lorry and onto the tarmac; they’d performed the same manoeuvre dozens of times before. “Line up!”

“At ease,” Captain Caddell said, as the men saluted him. Shepherd regarded him with respect; the officer, who always gave the impression of being bespectacled, was known for taking care of his men. “Stand… at ease!”

The regiment – Shepherd noted that several more men had assembled behind him – relaxed, but remained in their rows. “Our mission is to take a beach,” Caddell said. “We will be launched in the small LSTs from the transports, and then run to the beach. There will be a bottle of wine for the one who hits the shore first.”

The men chuckled. Caddell was an officer you could laugh with. “Once we’re on the shore, we have ten minutes to knock out the mock-ups of German guns and kill all of the Germans defending the place” – there were more chuckles; the British produced little mannequins of German defenders that were very realistic in bad light – “and clear the beach for the follow-up forces. Watch out for mines; the person who gets covered in purple ink is buying the drinks tonight.”

“We’re finally getting liberty?” A young Marine with more courage than discipline asked. Shepherd winced as Pike started to stalk towards him.

“Yes, we get a night on the town,” Caddell said. “There’s an entire district that helps sailors find what they want… and now will have us as well.”

Half an hour later, all enthusiasm had faded as another wave of cold water splashed against the LST, drenching Shepherd with vigour. The murky grey sky was more like winter than summer; the Marines had already lost one LST.

“Move, you bunch of poofs,” Pike screamed, as the Marines piled into the little transport. Some of them were green to the gills; it was rocking alarmingly. “Move it!”

“All aboard,” the driver shouted. Shepherd suspected that he was trying to drop Pike in the drink, but the wily old sergeant moved too quickly. “We’re off!”

The LST lurched as it spun away from the bigger ship, before turning to face the shore. It looked very realistic; smoke and flames were already billowing from positions where battleship shells would hit in reality. Shepherd took a breath to steady himself; the LSTs were moving into formation and racing towards the beach.

“Move,” Pike shouted, as the LST hit sand and the bow came down. Gamely, the Marines raced forward, splashing through the water and onto the beach, firing all the while. A German rose up in front of Shepherd, lifting a Mauser, and he fired once, seeing the plastic of the head folding away under the impact.

“With me,” Pike ordered, as they jumped towards a bunker. Buckman was already lying on the ground, pretending to be dead. The dummy Germans were firing tiny blobs of paint. “Now!”

Pike kicked open the door of a bunker; two Marines tossed in grenades and jumped back. The explosion shattered the bunker. More explosions followed as the Marines mopped up, taking no prisoners, and the scene fell silent.

A whistle sounded. Slowly, reluctantly, the ‘dead’ got back to life, covered in ink that indicated how they’d been ‘killed.’ The Marines formed up into lines again, gratefully sipping water from their flasks and wishing for something stronger.

“Good work, all of you,” Caddell said. “We’re going to have to move faster and make more use of the mine-hunting equipment, for we have to take the islands.”

Shepherd nodded. The British had supplied them with some equipment that was designed to hunt mines, even buried ones. What it wasn’t, however, was convenient; some of the Marines had left theirs behind in the LST, trusting in the preliminary bombardment to clear the beach of mines. This time… there hadn’t been such a bombardment.

“For the moment, we’re going to the bars tonight,” Caddell said, and a great cheer rose up. “Take the maps, be on your best behaviour, and have fun. Tomorrow… we do it all over again!”

“Three cheers for the captain,” some toadying Marine shouted, from the rear. The Marines cheered anyway; nothing cheered them up like rest and relaxation.

The bar was one massive room, filled with people. Bright lights flashed as loud strange music played, inciting the dancers to dance. The Americans, for the most part, had been sucked into the dance, staring at the teenage girls and their revealing clothes.

“I never knew you could dance like this,” Shepherd shouted at Private Manlito. The swarthy Italian-American smiled back, unable to hear. The girl he was dancing with, a blonde girl with wide-open breasts, smiled at him and said something. “What was that?” Shepherd shouted. She caught his hand and brought him outside the dancing floor.

“Want some raw sex?” She asked. Shepherd’s expression must have been comical, for she laughed and passed him a tablet. “Raw sex,” she explained, as Shepherd examined it doubtfully. “It makes the night go quicker.”

Shepherd peered at the little green pill. “Are you certain?”

“Big bold soldier scared of a little pill?” She asked, and balanced one on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it in one motion and smiled at him. Shepherd saw her expression, and her body, and swallowed it in one gulp.

“Wow,” he breathed, as… something happened. Her body seemed far more desirable; her smile one of welcoming invitation. He reached out for her, to kiss her, and her lips opened to meet his. Unaware of his surroundings, he pulled her closer and…

“Get your filthy hands off my girl,” a black man bellowed. Shepherd, lost in his drug-induced gaze, saw only a rival. The man lashed out with a chair and struck Shepherd’s shoulder.

“Fuck off, you nigger bastard,” Buckman shouted, and threw his glass of beer at the man. It shattered on his face and blood started to trickle down, just before Shepherd struck him with a haymaker.

“You bastard,” someone shouted, and the entire room went mad. Several dozen fistfights had broken out and alarms were sounding. Shepherd, wavering on his feet as the drug worked its way through his system, saw dimly the fire start as someone smashed a bottle of alcohol against the fire, before the girl started to pull at him.

“We have to get out of here,” she snapped, for once losing the breathy tone in her voice. “The pigs will be on their way right now and if they find out that you took that pill, you’ll be stuffed in jail.”

“They can’t put me in jail,” Shepherd said, as his mind fought to stay awake. “The Captain would kill me!”