The Invasion of 1950 Read online

  “And if they go into Palestine, there’ll be a bloodbath,” Atlee said. A fundamentally decent man at heart, he had been shocked when the first reports of the fate of European Jews had begun to sink into his mind. He had even given asylum, despite German protests, to a Jewish family that had somehow escaped the Netherlands and reached Britain. “I want to ensure that every unit gets a warning that there might be some trouble coming and readiness is to be increased accordingly.”

  “It’s not strong enough,” Churchill said. “We should be flying regular combat air patrols over Britain and preparing the defences.”

  “It’s all we can do,” Atlee said, tiredly. “Winston, I understand your concern, but there are other issues involved here.”

  He looked over at DeRiemer. “Thank you for your report,” he said. “Please remain available outside the room for the remainder of the meeting.”

  DeRiemer nodded once and withdrew back into the waiting room. He hadn’t realised just how much poison there was between the senior members of the government, not until he’d seen them at first-hand and realised what was going on. Eden wanted to be Prime Minister, Lord Halifax wanted to be a man of influence… but the former knew that his position was weak and the latter knew that no one trusted him since he had betrayed Churchill. Atlee’s own position was weak because of the weakening economy; Churchill’s position was weak because he was associated with the last government, which he’d headed. He, at least, had taken the warnings seriously…

  But he wasn’t heeded. DeRiemer remembered Churchill’s speech in Parliament about an Iron Curtain descending over Europe and knew that far too few people believed him. DeRiemer believed him, knowing what he did about the fate of people under German rule, but who else believed him? Most people preferred not to think about the monster crouching on the other side of the Channel, preparing to pounce on Britain…

  DeRiemer hoped and prayed that he was wrong.

  Chapter Six

  Felixstowe, England

  “You’ll be pleased to know that heads are rolling back at the RAF base,” Constable Toby Johnston said, as he sipped a cup of tea that Kate had prepared for him. Gregory Davall smiled at the memory; he’d made it back to the house and crawled into bed beside Kate without coming close to being caught. “The security level has been increased and a number of guards are wishing that they had been more alert, rather than earning shit duties for the next month.”

  “Thank you,” Davall said, as he sipped his own tea. It was far too easy to like the Constable, who had been a policeman ever since leaving the army at the age of forty-seven. It was chilling to remember that he would have to kill him if the Germans ever invaded. “What were the papers anyway? I couldn’t make heads or tails of them.”

  “Maintenance information, I believe,” Johnston said, without particular concern. “The RAF had copies, so losing them wouldn’t have been a problem, but if they had been the plans for the latest aircraft or maybe the base commander’s collection of secret papers… well, even more heads would have rolled. I think that the base commander has been given a week to get the base’s security back into line or else he’ll get the sack, but after that, someone else will be trying to penetrate the base.”

  Davall blinked. “It won’t be me?”

  “Not this time,” Johnston said. He looked over at Kate for a long moment, before turning his attention back to Davall. Kate was the only other one in the household who knew about the Grey Wolves. Davall had told her, right from the start, just so he could rely on her help if he needed it. She was braver than he was. The Germans wouldn’t hesitate to drag her off in chains if they suspected his role. “There is a more important issue at hand.”

  He put down the tea and leaned forward. “I got a message from the Major-General yesterday,” he said, grimly. Davall frowned; there was only one Major-General who would have an interest in talking to a lowly police constable — Gubbins himself. “We’re on alert status, as of yesterday, but a covert alert status.”

  Davall felt his blood run cold. “Is this it?”

  “I don’t know,” Johnston admitted. “The message wasn’t particularly clear — it was meant to avoid attracting attention from people in the police station who aren’t meant to know about the Grey Wolves or my role in them — but it included code phases indicating that it is believed possible that the Germans might launch their invasion. It didn’t say anything about where the Germans will land — and as far as I know, from the last major briefing, that was expected in Dover — or when, but there is a good chance that they will try something within the next few weeks.”

  “I understand,” Davall said. “Do they have any specific orders for us?”

  “There weren’t any included on the message, although I suspect that there may be a courier within the next few days to remind you that you have some duties,” Johnston said. “If the Germans invade outside your area of operations, your orders are the same as they always were; stay inactive unless summoned to the colours. If the Germans occupy the area, harass them as seems appropriate and, until then, remain under cover.”

  Davall remembered the last courier he’d met personally and silently thanked God that he’d had the sense to meet him far away from Kate and anything else that could be used to identify him. The man had been too excited at the thought of meeting one of the auxiliary units to believe that he would keep it quiet.

  “Of course,” he said, dryly. The Grey Wolves had always been a secret from every other serviceman around their operations area; they’d only been used rarely and never as a group. They didn’t dare risk allowing themselves to be identified too soon. “What sort of orders do you have for a landing?”

  Johnston shrugged. “The orders haven’t changed much,” he said. “I’m to remain at my post, try and keep people calm, and try to avoid collaborating too much with them.”

  Davall nodded. They’d been briefed on how the Germans had acted in the different countries they’d conquered. In the western countries, they’d been almost civilised, at least at first. They’d kept the police around, but they’d insisted that some of the policemen help them hunt for Jews and resistance fighters. As far as Davall could remember, the partisans in France had only scored minor successes, at best.

  He had been briefed on how vicious the Germans had been to the inhabitants of the Eastern countries. He’d seen some grainy movies, filmed by Germans and sent to Britain, that had given him nightmares for a week, where every one of the bodies or slaves bore Kate’s face. If the Germans treated the British population like that, the Grey Wolves would extract what revenge they could, but he feared that it would be a terrible test of strength. One day, they would find him and punish him with a bullet in the back of his head.

  He kept that thought from showing on his face. “You poor bastard,” he said, as Johnston got up to leave. “Do you have anything else for us to do?”

  “Not at this time.” Johnston said. “Check your weapons and equipment when you have a moment, but remember; you can’t trust anyone. If you fail to keep your own security, you will be broken quickly by the Germans and then treated as an illegal combatant.”

  “I know the risks,” Davall assured him, feeling sorry for the policeman. When — if — the German army reached Suffolk, it would have punched out most of the British army and probably taken London, leaving the Grey Wolves and the other underground movements as the only source of resistance. Johnston would be watching the Germans, knowing, perhaps, that they would know what he knew about the underground units… and what they might do to make him talk. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  He watched as Johnston left his house and headed on to his next destination. Without his uniform, the burly policeman still looked like a soldier even though he hadn’t been in the army for years. Riding a bicycle, he still looked remarkably normal out in the near-countryside, but like so many others of his age, he had a military bearing. The conscription program had been going on for so long that hundreds of young men
had gone through the army… and, soon enough, it would be James’s turn as a soldier. Only six years…

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Kate asked, softly. They’d been married for twelve years and he had no secrets from her now. “You could just abandon it all…”

  “I was a young man back when I agreed,” Davall said. “Even so…”

  The Germans hadn’t come, not back then. He’d had a child with Kate and known that the war would cost him more than just his own life. The treaty had seemed to bring peace for a time, but Gubbins had kept the underground units up to date just in case of war breaking out again… and now it seemed the war might be on the verge of re-igniting. If it did come to his home…

  “I have no choice,” he said, softly, and took his wife in his arms. “I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.”

  That afternoon, he slipped back into the woods and walked down a path that was hardly ever used, even by walkers and young couples out for some privacy in the woods. The Grey Wolves all lived — with one exception — away from the main body of the city itself, spurning contact with the suburbs and living near the forest, where they could take refuge if they had to escape in a hurry. It wasn’t a perfect place to hide, but a man who knew the area well could escape while his hunters were still looking for him… and hide anything in the forests.

  They’d cached the arms and supplies near an old house, one that made a convenient navigation post for the team, and it was fairly easy to find the location of the cache from it. He checked around the entire position first, just in case, before finding the hidden sheet of wood they’d buried just under a layer of dirt. It took a moment to find the edges and then pull it up, revealing a hidden pit stuffed with weapons and explosives, as well as a handful of other tools and some money. The Germans, it was generally expected, would want the British to use their money — that was what they had done in their other conquests — and so money had been provided. The weapons were all in good condition; they’d all been put through a course in handling them and treating them with respect, and they’d wrapped all the weapons up in covering.

  It’s all there, he reassured himself, and carefully hid the cache again. If Hitler came to Britain, Davall would be able to hit a few of the Nazis before the Grey Wolves were hunted down like dogs. He strode away from the cache, found a path leading back down towards the village, and became an ordinary walker again. There was nothing to show that he had just been looking at enough weapons to fight a small war.

  He checked his watch as he moved. He would have time to eat dinner with Kate and James before meeting the other Grey Wolves and discussing plans for the future. Somehow, deep inside, he was sure that this was the time — or else all of their preparations would be for naught.

  * * *

  “I never liked the sea,” Captain Harry Jackson confessed, as he stood next to Sergeant Henry Wilt, staring out to sea. He’d been born inland and had only seen the sea as a child on a visit to relatives in Poole, where he’d visited a beach and almost drowned. “What’s the point of us being here?”

  Wilt gave him a mischievous look. “Because the Home Guard is supposed to be a countrywide organisation and Felixstowe cannot be left out of any preparations for defence,” he said, carefully. “If something should happen here, the army will expect us to serve as the first respondents to the crisis and deal with it.”

  Jackson looked at him sharply. “And just what might happen here?”

  “There was a major riot two years ago,” Wilt said, as they walked back towards the barracks. “There was a strike protesting something, and a boss sent in a group of hired thugs and… well, dockyard workers are tough, so they beat hell out of the thugs and then rioted. I think it required an army battalion to put an end to the rioting and a lot of people got hurt.”

  Jackson looked around the dockyard complex. It was massive, with several large slips for massive freighters and a small MTB and destroyer base down the coast, providing a small base for the Royal Navy. Inland of the slips there were hundreds of warehouses and an entire rail line dedicated to moving cargo out of the dockyards and into Britain; behind that, he could see the town of Felixstowe, shimmering slightly in the early morning mist. But the workers themselves looked thin and scrawny, the result of rations that were somehow never enough to keep themselves going. And, as they were in a protected occupation, they couldn’t even find work elsewhere.

  “I can see why they rioted,” he said, as they passed by a massive freighter which was unloading a massive pile of crates, dockyard workers coming up to transport them away from the ship and towards the railway station. A set of trucks drove past and they moved out of the way, heading towards the gate; the entire dockyard was surrounded by a fence and a guarded gatepost. “Are there any security problems here?”

  Wilt nodded towards a line of pubs, inside the fence. “We get German crewmen coming here and sometimes they get into fights,” he said. “There’s quite a lot of Polish workers here, people whose families fled Poland before the Germans invaded, and they don’t get on too well with the Germans. More seriously, we have had some spying incidents out here, although the Home Guard hasn’t actually done much apart from providing manpower if it’s needed.”

  They passed through the gates and began walking towards the Home Guard barracks. They were smaller than a regular army barracks; according to Home Guard regulations, one Company was supposed to be ready for anything, and a second Company was supposed to be in reserve, but the other part-time soldiers were permitted to get on with their lives in-between serving their time on guard duty. There was a great deal to guard at the barracks: apart from providing sleeping space and offices for the senior officers of the unit, it also stored the unit’s weapons and equipment.

  He grimaced. Junior officers in the Home Guard had been pressing for the soldiers to be allowed to take their weapons home with them so that they could be ready at any moment, if there was a problem. It hadn’t been considered politically possible, not with so much economic turmoil sweeping over the country, and it meant that the Home Guard had to report to their barracks before getting their weapons. If something did happen, they should have plenty of time to respond, but it worried him.

  “Ah, Captain Jackson,” Colonel Felton-Smith said, as Jackson entered his office. “What did you make of the docks?”

  “I think we really need more patrols round there,” Jackson said, honestly. “If there are security issues we need to tighten security and ensure that no one comes in or out of the docks unless we know who they are.”

  “You think that the Germans will slip some spies into Britain,” Colonel Felton-Smith said, thoughtfully. “I have just received this information from the War Office; a message from General Slim himself.”

  Jackson nodded as he read through the note. General Slim, an expert in fighting in the Far East and the Middle East, had recently been appointed the commanding officer of the Home Guard, second only to the Minister of Defence and the Prime Minister. It was a role he was suited for. He was tasked with organising the Home Guard around the issues that plagued part-time soldiers who also needed to work or take in the harvest when they were wanted to serve in the Home Guard. It was one of the reasons why only two companies of the Home Guard were serving at the barracks; the other soldiers had regular jobs and employment.

  “He thinks that we should come to full readiness.” he said, puzzled. “Does that mean we should declare a full mobilisation and bring the Guard up to alert?”

  “No,” Colonel Felton-Smith said. There was a bitter tone in his voice, one that surprised Jackson. “For reasons they haven’t bothered to explain to me, they want us to merely come to alert, but not to mobilise the full force.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jackson said. He could understand reluctance to mobilise — it would cost a lot of money and cause considerable inconvenience to everyone involved — but if there was some reason to be worried, why not start the mobilisation anyway? “What do they mean by that?”


  “Off the record, I got some whispers down the chain that suggested that there are some reasons to be worried about the Germans,” Colonel Felton-Smith said. He sounded irritated and Jackson didn’t blame him; the warning was so vague as to be almost useless. “They want us to take what precautions we can to make sure that if someone does declare a full mobilisation, the Home Guard can be raised to its full complement as soon as possible.”

  Jackson ran through it in his head. There were, in theory, two thousand Home Guardsmen in the area. He privately suspected that it would take at least a week to get all of them concentrated, particularly if they weren’t allowed to inform them ahead of time that they might be called up to serve. That sort of delay could be disastrous. They might manage to get a quarter of their established force up quickly, but even that would be tricky…

  “It’s not going to be easy,” he said, thinking about the other units. Half of them were still out on exercise; they’d all have to be recalled, quickly. The others had returned to their civilian lives and it wouldn’t be easy to recall them all. “There’s no way that we can call them all up quietly?”

  “No, it’s not going to be easy,” Colonel Felton-Smith said. Jackson remembered, suddenly, that the Colonel had fought in France during the Battle of France and left the country at Dunkirk. “Still, we’d better get on with it, hadn’t we? There’s no way of knowing how long we have before the balloon goes up.”

  Chapter Seven

  Berlin, Germany

  Hitler was in a good mood, Himmler noted, as he entered the Führer’s war room. His leader’s face was split into a smile. The Fuehrer hadn’t been in such a good mood since the first reports had come back from the Russian Front, when his nerves about launching Operation Barbarossa had been swept away by the awesome successes of his army. Now, instead of a massive and inaccurate map of Russia, a scale map of Britain was hung prominently on the wall. A second set of maps was placed on the table. Himmler was no skilled map reader, but even he could tell how the massive fighting force that Hitler’s generals had assembled was straining at the leash, preparing to jump forward and attack the British.