The Invasion of 1950

Chapter Eighteen

Felixstowe, England

The knock on the door made Gregory Davall’s blood run cold; he’d been half-expecting it since the Germans had occupied the town an hour ago. He had watched through the windows as German soldiers, their uniforms and rank tabs identifying them as SS paramilitary occupation forces, marched through the town, showing a terrifying amount of discipline. The young men, physically perfect, all bearing the same expressionless face, had shown themselves to the townspeople, in what Davall knew to be an attempt to intimidate the British into submission.

“Stay here,” he hissed at Kate, wondering if he should try and make his escape. The Grey Wolves had been ordered to remain undercover for the first hours of the invasion, but he had a particular instruction he needed to carry out, one that would depend on remaining unsuspected by the Germans. He hadn’t been too impressed with what he’d seen of the British Eastern Command during his training; he wouldn’t have put it past them for the files containing his name and details to have fallen into German hands. They would certainly want to round the Grey Wolves up before they could cause trouble.

The knock was repeated as he reached the door and opened it, revealing the face of one of the town’s policemen, not the one who knew about the Grey Wolves. It would be difficult to carry out his orders without being detected by the Germans. It all depended on how much supervision they intended to develop over the town; the police would have orders to cooperate on a limited basis, in hopes of avoiding a direct German occupation. The Germans would be far harsher than anything the British could do.

“Mr Davall,” the policeman said, his voice strange in his ears. He was trying to remain firm and controlled, but Davall could hear the sick note of fear and desperate concern under his voice. “You and your family are ordered to present themselves at the Town Square at noon to hear a proclamation from the occupation authorities. I must warn you that failing to show yourself may result in arrest and possible detention.”

“I understand,” Davall said, keeping his voice calm. The Germans would want to ensure that everyone got the message. “We’ll see you there.”

He closed the door in the policeman’s face and walked back into the kitchen. “It doesn’t look as if we have any choice, but to go,” he said, to Kate. Her eyes went wide with fear; she’d crawled into the basement with him as the sounds of fighting had grown louder, holding James in her arms and almost squeezing him to death. “I think it’s going to be all right.”

Kate was smart enough — she’d been born the daughter of a fisherman — to know when he was trying to reassure her. “You’d best be careful,” she said, taking hold of him and pulling him to her. “I don’t want to lose you as well.”

Davall held Kate’s hand firmly — she held James in her other arm — as they emerged from the house just before noon. Their neighbours — some of them friends, some of them people they barely knew — all shared the same expression; fear. Looking at them, Davall suspected that the Germans had already won half the battle; the people were defeated, trying to avoid the gaze of their new masters. He tried to muster an encouraging smile as he met the eyes of people he knew, but as they walked onwards, he started to feel it himself, a sickening dread deep in the pit of his stomach. The Grey Wolves had thought they’d known what being occupied meant, he realised, but they hadn’t had the slightest real understanding.

The town square was just in front of a grassy park, a place where children and teenagers had used to play; he remembered that a group of schoolchildren had played football there yesterday, one of them accidentally breaking a window with a mistimed kick. There were still children now, joined by their parents and relatives, watched by blank-faced Germans who showed no sign of even recognising that the British existed. The civilians slunk around the sentries, a defeated people trying to avoid the notice of their victors, and joined the milling crowd in the park.

Davall kept his face expressionless as he took in the sight. The Mayor was fond of hectoring people from the steps of the Town Hall; now, there were two heavy machine guns set up around the building, and hundreds of German soldiers standing in position, their eyes missing nothing. A large red flag hung from the Town Hall pole, flapping listlessly in the breeze, but revealing just enough of itself to prove that it was a Nazi flag. The black crooked cross was all too clear.

A Swastika, Davall thought, and shuddered.

Precisely at noon, a German mounted the podium and peered down at the crowd. Davall disliked him on sight; he had a pinched, sallow face with eyes that suggested a touch of jaundice. His black uniform drank in the sunlight; he showed no visible reaction to the occasional bursts of gunfire that rang out in the distance, sending shock-waves of fear through the crowd.

“Thank you for coming,” the German said with what felt like inane politeness. He spoke perfect English, with just a hint of upper-class in his voice; it made Davall wonder if some of the rumours about members of the aristocracy coming to terms with the Germans were actually true. The BBC hadn’t made any broadcast in the morning; they’d listened for a signal. “This town is now under the control of the Greater German Reich, operating under the authority of the Fuhrer. I advise you to listen carefully and heed my words.

“For the time being, we intend to leave you as undisturbed as possible,” he continued. Davall felt Kate’s hand tightening on his hand. “However, I must inform you that any attempt to interfere with our activities, report our activities to any enemies of the Reich, or to carry out anything we feel is designed to hamper our efforts will meet with the severest punishment under German military law. Specifically, depending upon the severity of the offence, punishment will either consist of a long stay in a work camp on the continent or death by firing squad. These sentences are fixed and there is no appeal.

“We must therefore insist that you hand over all weapons and radio transmitters, immediately,” he continued. “If anyone is found in possession of a weapon after today, it will be taken as a sign of your active participation in an insurgent group and you will be severely punished. All citizens will register with the local SS office as soon as one is established, whereupon you may continue with your lives or apply for well-paid work assisting the German forces.

You may not leave this area without permission and if you are caught trying to do so, it will result in the severest punishment. Any action taken to harass the occupying forces, regardless of its nature, will result in the severest of punishments. Any member of the British Army, Home Guard, or volunteer forces caught within the occupied zone who does not make themselves known to the occupation forces will incur the severest punishment.”

Davall watched him as he spoke, adding more crimes that would face the severest of punishments, and felt a cold wellspring of fear in his heart. The German was trying to sound as if he cared about the people, and was only trying to act on their behalf, but there was something in the way he breathed the word ‘punishment’ that suggested that something wasn’t quite right with his head. He didn’t look that healthy; was he suffering from an inferiority complex, or did he have some disease?

“In the long term, we expect that this town will become a peaceful and productive part of the Reich,” the German concluded. “You will have access to the ports on the other side of the Channel and your people will be in a good position to make business contacts in the Reich that will bring new prosperity to this town. We ask only that you obey our laws and prevent any of your fellows from causing trouble. If you have any questions, feel free to ask them.”

The townspeople dispersed slowly, some talking in whispers, others trying to escape the Germans as fast as they could; they would be running if the crowd had allowed them passage. Davall found himself looking at the German vehicles and wondering how large a Molotov cocktail would be required to damage them. A PIAT might be required to damage the heavy vehicles; bullets would just glance off them as they advanced towards the shooters. The Germans had done well to show off their weapons to the British civilians; they wanted to make the veiled threat very clear.

Kate tugged at his arm and he allowed her to lead him away from the square, pausing only to pick up one of the leaflets the Germans had given to a group of children to disperse. The leaflet reflected an odd sense of German priorities, ranging from a repeat of their instructions to turn in all guns and radio transmitters, to setting a sunset curfew; anyone found on the streets after dark would be arrested and — as he had expected — severely punished. The leaflets wouldn’t even be good for wiping his behind; he could only hope that they had taken up space on a German ship that could have housed some ammunition or a few dozen German soldiers. The Germans themselves were patrolling vigorously, small groups walking down the centre of the road in perfect step, ignoring the British citizens.

“They will count on using your perceptions to fill in gaps,” his instructor had told him. She’d come from Holland, escaping two years after the Germans invaded. She’d made it out with a Jewish family, winning Britain a propaganda coup but little else. “They will patrol heavily to mask their weakness and convince you that they are everywhere, all-powerful and all-knowing. You must choose your targets carefully.”

Kate closed the door behind them with an audible sigh of relief. “Greg… are you going to be doing anything tonight?”

“I think so,” Davall said, wondering what he should do. He knew what he had to do — and delay could prove fatal — but if he went in the night, the Germans were likely to be mounting constant patrols, just to hammer in the message. If he got caught, it could prove fatal for Kate, as well as the other Grey Wolves. “Kate, love… it’s better that you don’t know.”

“Of course,” Kate agreed, angrily. “If you don’t come back, I’ll kill you myself.”

Davall didn’t smile. The joke was likely to hit too close to home. If the Germans caught him, they might make Kate a widow without her ever knowing that her husband was dead. Worse, they might ship him off to one of the work camps they ran in France or Germany, leaving Kate to hope that one day, he would be returned. They might also decide to put him to use in one of the factories here; he might be a worker in a electronics workshop, but the Germans would certainly see him as someone who could work for them. Skilled workers were important.

“I won’t let them kill me,” he promised, and sipped his cup of tea. “I’ll come back to you.”

It was an hour later when he wandered over towards the block of soulless flats that had been erected two years ago to house some of the dockyard workers and their friends. The Mayor and Town Council had been delighted at having hundreds of new people flowing into Felixstowe, but the local population had been much less happy at the deluge of workers from across Britain and ship crewmen from across the world. They’d seen the arrival of small groups of Germans, Frenchmen, Balts and even a few Swedes as a sign that their community was changing, particularly when they started getting into fights. They’d ended up with the mind numbing apartments and a strip of bars and clubs near the dockyards that attracted, much to the irritation of the older residents, far too many of the younger generation. Felixstowe was a pretty conservative place in the world… and the influx of newcomers threatened that…

His lips twitched. The German underlying message had been all-too-clear. They would keep their word and develop Felixstowe, but only as one of their ports. In time, they would change the place completely and the old population would either be assimilated or driven out. They’d done it before in Norway and France; they wouldn’t hesitate to do it again in Britain. He grimaced inwardly as he passed through the door and entered the flat, wrinkling his nose as the smell of urine and vomit reached his nostrils. He had never understood why Constable Toby Johnston would choose to live in such a dump; his only real explanation was that the Town Council had thought that having a policeman living there would be good for the building, and Johnston had drawn the short straw.

He knocked on the door, waited nearly five minutes, then used his skeleton key to open the door and slip inside. The policeman’s apartment was neat and tidy, arranged with military precision, but with enough hints of humanity to remind Davall that his target was a living breathing human being. He searched the flat quietly and professionally, noting the position of some valuables; he’d have to take them to show a reason for the murder. The window was inoperable, but he peered out through the grime anyway, looking out to sea. A massive German freighter was coming in to dock.

The sight almost made him despair. From his vantage point, it looked as if the Germans had it all their own way. Where was the Royal Navy? Where were our boys? Where was the RAF? What was happening further into Britain? He could see armoured columns snaking off into the distance, their crews seizing as much territory as possible; it looked as if their main target was Ipswich. It wasn’t that far off by car. How long would it take for a panzer tank to cover the distance?

Bastards, he thought, as he settled down to wait. He’d done enough poaching on his training course that he knew how to be patient, but the feeling in his belly kept disturbing him; he’d placed himself in a very vulnerable position, compromised his own safety — and that of Kate’s and their son — for his country. That was true of every soldier — he remembered his attempt to join the army with a moment of bitter amusement — but in his case, it was worse. He wouldn’t be covered by any rules if he were to be captured… for a moment, long enough to seem an eternity, he teetered on the brink of running, abandoning the mission and hiding himself somewhere in the forest. He knew it well enough to be sure that he could hide from the Germans indefinitely. He could hide…

The sound of the lower door opening and footsteps moving up the stairs forced his hand. He darted, silently, into a corner and raised his cosh. He’d been taught how to use it on dummies, which were harder than any human head, but the person he was about to face might be wearing a helmet. He tensed as he heard a key rattling in the lock, refusing to breathe as the door opened, revealing the shape of Johnston’s head as he stepped into the flat and walked over to the kitchen. Davall lunged forward and brought the cosh down, but Johnston moved slightly and the cosh just missed its target, sending Johnston falling to the floor. Davall cursed under his breath and fell on top of Johnston, his hand reaching down and covering the policeman’s mouth before he could scream, while his other hand dropped the cosh and drew a knife.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as he stabbed downwards, once. Johnston’s body jumped under the sudden shock, almost throwing Davall off his back, but a second later all the life left him and he lay still. Davall let go of his mouth and turned the body over, confirming that he’d killed the right person, a man he’d known for more than seven years.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, as he worked with frantic haste. Johnston’s superiors would be expecting him back at the police station in an hour, unless the Germans had forced them to change their timetables, and when he didn’t show up, they would start looking for him. He picked up some valuables, removed the knife and cosh, and then left the room, closing the door behind him. Behind him, a dead body lay on the floor, taking its secrets to the grave. The one man who could have named all of the Grey Wolves was dead.

Davall calmed himself as he made his way out of the flat and back into the main streets, pausing only to drop the valuables in a waste bucket before slowly making his way home. The Germans he passed on the streets ignored him, but he took care anyway as he entered his own street, keeping one eye out for them as he opened the door and sighed. He’d killed a man with his own hands; he expected that he would feel different, but all he felt was numb, dispassionate. Johnston had died, but his death should have affected his killer more, right?

In the distance, he could hear the sound of guns.