The Invasion of 1950

Chapter Twelve

London, England

Alex DeRiemer spent the day collecting the latest information on the German movements and trying to foresee a pattern in their activities before deciding that the Germans didn’t seem to be planning a leap across the Channel that evening. Their operational tempo had increased sharply over the past few days with observers in Sweden reporting that the German air force had been practising precision bombing. The German navy was preparing for sea. The activity had dropped off sharply over the last couple of weeks. DeRiemer had been starting to wonder, despite himself, if it had all been a drill. His boss had been less sanguine.

“Adolph is a crafty bastard,” he’d said when DeRiemer had broached the subject with him. “He may be merely rattling the sabre to make us flinch, or he may have evil intentions, but there’s a reason behind his madness.”

DeRiemer hadn’t argued with that point, but what was the reason? He’d warned the Government that he was sure that the Germans were planning an invasion of England, but as the German activity started to subside, he’d researched their other sources in hopes of finding out why, only to draw a blank. MI6 had agents within Germany, but the Germans had tightened up their security remarkably and anyone who might have been in a position to know what was coming wouldn’t be interested in trading secrets with the British. The members of Hitler’s inner circle knew what side their bread was buttered on; they wouldn’t dare to gamble on a British victory in an unspecified future war when Hitler’s forces were so strong. It would have earned them a short and unpleasant stay with the SS.

Shaking his head, he packed up and left the office. He turned the papers in to the secure office as he passed it and then headed down the stairs. He nodded to Kim Philby as they met. Philby had always struck DeRiemer as a sort of unstable character, but there was no denying his determination to work against the Germans; his hatred for the Nazis was almost unprofessional, more suited to SOE than the more dispassionate MI6. Philby looked preoccupied as DeRiemer passed him and headed out onto the streets of London, looking around as he walked towards his flat. Like other unmarried MI6 officers, DeRiemer had a small flat only a five minute walk away from the building, a legacy from the times when they could be expected to report for duty at any moment.

The city itself seemed so… peaceful and tranquil under his gaze; the richer folks of London hadn’t hesitated to take advantage of the end of the war by investing in more entertainment for themselves. They weren’t interested in supporting the Atlee Government at all. They’d spent most of the last war in only slightly reduced circumstances, while the brunt of the suffering had been borne by the poor. Thousands of young men had emigrated from Britain under the economic depression, heading away to South Africa, Australia and America, while the motherland suffered because of their absence. Only conscription kept thousands of men off the dole… and DeRiemer suspected that it wouldn’t be long before the program came to an end. It simply cost too much.

He let himself into his flat, nodding to the landlady as he passed, and smiled at her suspicious gaze. MI6 had hired, he suspected, the ugliest woman in the world… and the most suspicious. One of his colleagues had brought a girl home and had ended up being hauled up in front of his supervisor for a dressing down. It was like living in the remains of Soviet Russia; DeRiemer had visited Beria’s land for a month, and it had been drab and depressing. They’d even attempted to recruit him as a spy.

There was little time to think. He found the bed, clambered into it, and turned out the lamp. It seemed only moments later when the alarm shrilled at him. He reached out for it, pushed at it several times without silencing it, before realising that it was actually the telephone ringing. He pulled himself out of bed again, glancing down at his watch; had he really only had an hour of sleep?”

“DeRiemer,” he said as he picked up the telephone. The line was awful. It hissed and cracked at him as he tried to listen to what the man was saying. “Sir, I can’t hear you…”

The line cleared suddenly. “Get over to the War Office at once,” Sir Stewart said. The Director of MI6 sounded as if he was dreadfully worried.

It’s started, DeRiemer thought as the telephone went dead. He hit the radio and cursed as all he heard was static, but then he heard, in the distance, the noise of air raid sirens. The rich party-goers out there wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do; the wardens would probably have to cope with their panic as well as fires caused by German bombings. He dressed quickly, fled down the stairs, and opened the door with his key, leaving it open behind him. He doubted, somehow, that the landlady’s bomb shelter would be any real use — that design was more hazardous to the occupants than it was to the Germans, with the added disadvantage of looking like a pillbox and therefore a legitimate military target — but everyone would want to pile in and see if they could survive there until morning.

The skies were illuminated by the glow of searchlights, scanning the skies for enemy aircraft, but he saw no sign of any in the bright glare. A handful of anti-aircraft guns sounded out in the distance, but he couldn’t hear any enemy aircraft. The Germans might have risked the use of gliders, but surely they wouldn’t send them over to London, would they? They’d have to be out of their minds. He was drawn back to reality by an armed soldier blocking the way into the War Office, demanding identification.

“Here,” DeRiemer snapped and waved a card under the guard’s nose. There were thousands of people running around, some of them looking as if they didn’t have the slightest idea of what they were meant to be doing, or if they preferred to be panicking rather than actually doing anything useful. A stream of people, mainly the night staff, were heading out of the building and down towards the air raid shelters that had been dug near The Mall, others were heading towards Hyde Park, in hopes that it would be safer than a building that was sure to be a German target. DeRiemer pushed aside his own fears and took the steps to the basement two at a time, as he walked into the War Office itself, he passed another guard.

It had actually been instigated under Churchill, if he recalled correctly. It was a single room intended to provide global control of British military forces, wherever they were in the world. The idea hadn’t worked out as well as Churchill had expected — the technology just hadn’t been up to the challenge — but as the centre of Britain’s defences, it was almost invulnerable to German bombs and linked to every air base and military complex through secure telephones. The officer in command of British Home Forces - General Montgomery, Monty to the troops — could direct their operations without ever leaving London.

Monty himself was taller and thinner than DeRiemer had expected. He was also a frustrated old warhorse who had served in Egypt and Iraq before being called home to serve as commander of the British defences. DeRiemer had heard that Monty had objected loudly to the ending of the war, even to the point of offering his resignation. Atlee had approved Monty’s promotion, so the objection wasn’t held against him. Either that or Churchill had secretly intervened. There was no way to know.

“Alex DeRiemer, SIS,” he said. “Sir…”

“You’re the one who predicted that the Germans were planning something,” Monty said, without pleasantries. He waved a hand at the giant map on the table, being endlessly updated by a small army of WRENs and other servicemen. “Tell me; what the hell are they doing?”

DeRiemer studied the map for a long moment. The listing of bombed locations was growing longer by the minute and looked thoroughly intimidating. “They’re attacking Scapa Flow and Dover, as well as several of our airbases in England and naval bases around the coast,” he said, carefully.

Monty glowered at him. “I can tell what they’re doing,” he snapped irritably. “What I don’t know is why; why are they doing this and what do they want to achieve?”

“Britain,” DeRiemer said, carefully. He scrutinised the map again. “They’ve committed a large portion of their force to attacking Scapa Flow, so they clearly intend to knock out Home Fleet, or as much of Home Fleet as they can…”

“Distress signal from HMS Punjab,” one of the operators called, desperately trying to be heard over the growing racket. A new icon was placed onto the map; a destroyer had been sunk in the middle of the English Channel. “The Captain is reporting a torpedo attack and that he’s abandoning ship!”

“And mop up as many other ships as they can,” DeRiemer continued, realising now that the Germans had spread their plans wider than he’d feared. Their Elektroboot U-boats could sail for a long distance under the water, with very little need to fear detection as long as they were careful, and the Germans would know where their own ships would be, preventing any accidents caused by friendly fire. “I think that these are the opening moves in a long term plan to invade Britain.”

“I understand that,” Monty growled, adjusting his beret with one hand and waving a hand down at the map. “Where is the main angle of attack?”

DeRiemer looked down at the map and sucked in his breath sharply. Paratroopers had been reported everywhere from Dover to Manchester, an operating area so vast that the reports had to be mistakes, or hoaxes, or something had gone seriously wrong with the German war plan. He was more inclined to believe the reports from Dover — a German army group had been massing on the other side of the Channel — but the Germans wouldn’t launch an offensive right into the heart of the British defences, would they? He knew the German Army as well as anyone in Britain, and he knew that they didn’t have anything like that scale of numbers, not in the paratrooper divisions… and they would know better than to drop paratroops into an area where they couldn’t be relieved quickly.

“They have to be mad,” he said, as more reports came in. “They wouldn’t want to spend units like nothing, not when each one is a massive investment in training…”

DeRiemer said, “They have to be landing somewhere, but where?”

“More air strikes in Dover and moving up the east coast,” one of the dispatchers called, updating the map. “I have several reports of more ships being sunk, including one freighter and another destroyer.”

DeRiemer found himself puzzled, trying to understand the enemy tactics; could they have decided to try to land at Dover after all? The confusion wouldn’t last forever, not unless the Germans got very lucky; they might be trying to jam up British radio signals, but they couldn’t have taken out all of the telephone wires. The network had been designed with multiple redundancies built into the system; at a pinch, they could even commandeer the civilian telephone system.

Monty stepped over to a ringing telephone, answered it, and spoke rapidly in response to various questions. “That was the Prime Minister,” he said, as he put the phone down and returned to the balcony, looking down on the massive map. “He wants to put the entire country on alert.”

He didn’t quite manage to keep the contempt out of his voice. “He was also wondering if it was a real invasion,” he said. His voice lightened, as if he were trying to make a joke; DeRiemer didn’t smile at the implied humour. The Prime Minister was seeing his policy crashing down in ruins around his head. “What do you think?”

“I think that it’s a real invasion,” DeRiemer answered without hesitation. “The Germans aren’t stupid, sir. They won’t have launched a massive attack without some longer-term plan, and why would they launch an attack and give us time to recover from it? We already have our own aircraft up in the air, although overstretched…”

“I’ve ordered the northern squadrons to support Admiral Fraser at Scapa Flow,” Monty said, grimly. He didn’t look as if he were happy with that decision; he had been happy, DeRiemer suspected, as a commander of a large army, rather than the man sitting safe in a bunker while his men fought and died. “The Germans have actually been bombarding Dover from France, using their heavy guns to throw shells across the Channel; are they clearing the way for an attacking force?”

One of the operators interrupted him before DeRiemer could say anything. “General, we have a confirmed report of enemy contact on the ground,” he reported quickly. “The GHQ at Ipswich reported that it came under attack from armed paratroopers wearing German uniforms, who hit the gates and killed several dozen staff officers before they were beaten off.”

Ipswich, DeRiemer thought, and realised in a moment just what the Germans were doing. “They’re focusing their efforts there,” he said, sharply. Monty looked over at him, his eyes hooded and disbelieving. “There’s a port there, everything they need is there, and it outflanks most of our fixed defences without having to batter their way through the GHQ line.”

Monty spun around at once. “Send out a general signal to the RAF,” he barked. “I want them to funnel as many fighters into the Ipswich area as possible, before the Germans manage to get embedded and impossible to dislodge. Have torpedo-bombers loaded up for anti-shipping strikes and send them out to find the German fleet…”

He turned and addressed another dispatcher. “Do we have any update from Scapa Flow yet?”

“No, sir,” the dispatcher said, professionally. The contrast between her voice and her demeanour made DeRiemer smile. Her mouth moved silently as she spoke into one of the speaking tubes. “There’s been no update from Admiral Fraser, but the RAF units report that the entire dock-works seems to be on fire and burning down to the ground.”

Monty hissed a curse under his breath. “Do you think that they’ll try to land on Scapa Flow directly?”

“I doubt it,” DeRiemer said, after a moment’s thought. “If they’re landing at Felixstowe and spreading out to take other ports, they’ll need to concentrate all of their shipping on that single task alone; taking Scapa Flow against the defences there, even battered, would be tricky and wasteful. They’ll focus everything on that one spot.”

“I’m going to give the Cromwell Alert,” Monty said, shortly. He picked up another phone and barked an order down it, before crashing it back into the cradle with a bang. “The army reserves will be called up at once, and then we can start manoeuvring units to prevent the Germans from expanding too far from their beachheads. The local Home Guard should be giving them something to think about, even now…”

“General, we have some major distortion on the radar bands,” a radar technician said, running over to Monty and saluting. His face was glistening with sweat; DeRiemer noticed the smell and winced inwardly. “I think the Germans are dropping chaff to confuse our radars and make it harder to coordinate the defences.”

“I expected as much,” Monty said, with surprising patience. He wasn’t known for treating fools kindly, but under the circumstances, the untested staff members were likely to start cracking up under the stress. “What are they doing at the moment?”

“Sir, before the radar screens filled up, we detected a large flight of enemy aircraft,” the technician said. DeRiemer caught Monty’s eye as they shared the same horrified realisation. The German plan wasn’t done unfolding yet. “They’re heading directly for London!”