The Invasion of 1950 Read online

  “This is a day that will live for a thousand years,” Hitler said, as soon as the doors were closed. “On this day, the glorious forces of our Thousand Year Reich will finally put an end to the nation of shopkeepers and Jews that remains the one thorn in our side. Today…”

  Himmler tuned him out. Hitler was capable of speaking for hours on a subject that interested him or one that he knew a great deal about, but he often ended up repeating himself. He might not be shouting at anyone, but if there was a defeat, even a tiny one, he would explode into a fury that would only be ended by his body failing.

  It didn’t seem fair, somehow; Hitler was the most important person in the Reich, and still he was fading under their eyes. There had been hundreds of experiments conducted on concentration camp victims to try to find a way of prolonging the Führer’s life, and even with some of the new techniques, Hitler’s lifespan was likely to be no longer than a handful of years, degenerating all the way. That particular secret had been kept from the German people, but what would happen when Hitler died? Who would become Fuhrer then?

  His gaze met the gaze of Speer, and then Kesselring. Only one person could wield absolute power within Germany, and only Himmler himself could ensure that the Reich gave birth to the Aryan society that would dominate the world for the rest of time. He knew that he must win the power struggle that was sure to follow Hitler’s death or collapse. Britain would be a battleground in more ways than one; Himmler’s agents would have to ensure that the SS came out of the affair looking as if they’d borne sole responsibility for keeping the peace. There was a Waffen-SS unit earmarked for duty in the invasion, but only one of them; there could only be one reason for that. Kesselring didn’t want the SS to be able to claim credit for the early victories.

  “That leaves us with one question,” the Fuhrer concluded, after nearly half an hour. “Do we still have the advantage of surprise?”

  All eyes turned to Canaris. “The British have been engaged in a low-level alert for the past week,” he said, after a moment. “I do not believe that they are aware of the full scope of our plans, but they are certainly suspicious that we are up to something, even to the point of trying to send recon planes over France. We shot two of them down and refrained from making a formal protest; we don’t want them to think that we have something to hide.”

  Hitler laughed and, after a moment, the others joined in. “Overall, however, the British seem not to have declared a full mobilisation,” Canaris continued. “We don’t know what they’re thinking, but without a complete alert, they are likely to be caught by surprise, at least on a tactical level.”

  Himmler interjected a comment. “Through certain sources, I have established that there are elements within the British Government that suspect that we are planning something,” he said, revelling in his position of power. The military intelligence machine had been demanding to know about his sources for years, but Himmler had no intention of admitting that the SS was using socialists as a source of intelligence; that would have been seen as a sign of ideological weakness. “Churchill, Admiral Cunningham and others have been pressing for an increased alert status…”

  “That dog,” Hitler burst out, furiously. Himmler nodded in agreement; Churchill was the one national leader who had defied the Fuhrer and gotten away with it. Stalin had crawled on his belly before the Fuhrer, after which he had been taken away and executed; Tito had killed himself the night before he had been scheduled to meet with the SS death squad. “The British should have exiled him from the country!”

  “It is quite likely that the operation directed against London itself will succeed in killing him as well,” Himmler said. The SS’s Black Book on British citizens who were to be rounded up included much of the former British government and almost all of the British aristocracy. As natural leaders — or so Hitler saw them — they would end their days working in one of the slave camps or simply receiving a bullet in the back of the head.

  Himmler pushed his advantage. “Regardless, if Churchill is unable to convince the British that they need to come to alert, then there is no need to worry,” he said. “Even if the British come to their senses now, they will have almost no time to bring their forces up to readiness and strike at us first.”

  Hitler calmed himself with obvious effort. “Yes, you’re right,” he said, absently boosting Himmler’s position in the coming power struggle. “What is their state of readiness?”

  Canaris touched the map. “Their main units have been running through drills, but we believe that around a third of their soldiers are not on station, even in the Dover region,” he said. “If they had a day’s warning, they could recall their soldiers and airmen and prepare to engage the leading assault forces, but in the event they will only have hours and the confusion cannot help but benefit us. Their Home Fleet, in particular, just finished a set of drills and the crewmen will be exhausted; an ideal time to hit them.”

  “Good,” Hitler said, reassured. “And now… our status?”

  Kesselring, by common agreement, spoke first. “The airborne units are prepared for their missions,” he said. “The leading assault units for Scapa Flow are already running through their final checks and will be taking off within hours. Units with targets of importance will be take off in a coordinated effort so that they all enter British radar coverage at the same time. Those units have been given specific targets, although only a few of them are of vital importance.”

  His fingers touched the map. “Luftwaffe 3 will be handling the most important section of the mission,” he continued. “They will launch a series of precision strikes against road and rail communications between the Dover region and the landing site, in Felixstowe. In addition, they will also drop two thousand parachutists into the area, with orders to carry out attacks against British troop formations, roads, rail lines, and other means of communication. Once the night comes to an end, the troops will withdraw back towards Felixstowe, where they will be reassigned and given other tasks as part of a general personnel pool.

  “Luftwaffe 1 will launch heavy strikes against the ports, army units, airbases, and heavy fortifications of the Dover region.” he said. “They will also be dropping fake parachutists into the area, hopefully confusing the British defenders and convincing them that the main assault will be landing in Dover. Army units on the far side of the Channel will be simulating preparations for a landing for the first week of the campaign, whereupon they will be moved to join the invasion or held back, as the situation warrants.”

  He nodded at the Fuhrer. “Overall, the Luftwaffe is prepared for its mission.” he concluded. “We should have no difficulty in making a mark on the British and winning air supremacy.”

  The Fuhrer, remembering Goring’s failure in 1940 — and his later failure with the flying wing project — looked doubtful, but clearly decided not to push the issue. He looked over at Manstein, who straightened to attention and faced the Fuhrer with a firm gaze. Manstein knew just how much he could get away with, Himmler reflected. He was someone who it was best to keep a careful eye on just in case he developed ambitions of his own. The General Staff were supposed to be free of ambition, or at least political ambition, but Himmler didn’t believe it. Everyone, in his experience, wanted power.

  “The army stands ready to do its part,” he said, after a moment. “We have the Hans Bader already on its way towards Felixstowe; it will land just at twilight, whereupon it should hopefully avoid inspection long enough for the troops to deploy. If not, the commandos will assault anyway and take the port as quickly as possible, capturing the docking slips and the port’s supplies — as well as putting the Royal Navy units there out of action — and then they will hold it until the first heavy transport arrives.”

  His bearing tightened slightly. “We were able to load enough supplies for the commandos to hold the port for hours, if there is a major delay, but we anticipate getting the first heavy transport into the dock within an hour, maybe less, as they will have sailed only an
hour ago. Admiral?”

  Generaladmiral Erich Raeder looked over at the Fuhrer. “The main invasion convoys are already being loaded and will be escorted by the vast majority of our warships,” he said. “The flotilla will make a high-speed run to Felixstowe, whereupon they will unload and return at once for additional units. French and Dutch ports have already been prepared for rapidly reloading the ships. Other ships, including smaller freighters and barges, have already been marked for seizure and deployment into a transport force. As long as we can keep the sea lanes open, we can keep reinforcing the beachhead.

  He hesitated. “The danger remains that the British Home Fleet may be able to come out to engage our force,” he concluded. “If Home Fleet remains at its current strength, we will probably lose, despite the more modern nature of our battleships and the carrier tactics we practised with our yellow friends. If Home Fleet is crippled, we should be able to dominate the Channel until the battle on the land is concluded.”

  Himmler kept his face blank with extreme care. The Japanese had taught the Reich much about carriers and carrier operations — three of the Reich’s carriers were based on Japanese designs — but it wasn’t something that could be acknowledged in public. Officially, the designs had all been invented by the Kriegsmarine, which had developed them on its own. The truth was not something that could be shared with the world — it threw the ‘master race’ theory into doubt.

  Manstein nodded his thanks. “To a certain degree, Field Marshal Rommel will have to improvise during the first few weeks of the war,” he admitted. “The reinforcement situation is the most critical part of the invasion; as long as the supply lines remain open, the British will lose in the end. We have better training, better equipment, and better soldiers. As long as we can keep the supplies flowing, we will win.”

  “There does remain the question of the American angle,” Canaris said. Himmler felt the ripples of opinion running around the room and glowered inwardly. Canaris, he felt, overestimated the Americans, even if they were the only power left that could give the Reich a run for its money. “Churchill is surprisingly popular on the other side of the Atlantic and might well be trying to convince the Americans that we represent a danger to them as well. Do we have any way of defeating them if they decide to get involved?”

  Himmler smiled. “The current mode in America is isolationist,” he said, recalling what one of his other unknowing spies had reported. “Certainly, they do have pressure groups, mainly Jews and a few others, pushing for a more vigorous response to the Reich.”

  He shrugged. Hitler’s plans had grown larger and larger as his victories grew larger; he’d spoken before of one day carrying the war to the American continent. His delusions about the rest of the world were strange — he literally believed that New Zealanders lived in trees and had tails — but when matched with his mind, skilled at finding an opponent’s weaknesses, he was a formidable opponent. One day, Himmler was certain, the Americans would discover just what sort of nation Nazi Germany was, the day when the Reich would crush the American republic like a bug.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel said. He was known as ‘lackey’ within the General Staff; Hitler used him as a mouthpiece, rather than as a serious officer. “If the Americans send everything they have now to Britain it will not alter the balance of power significantly, even assuming that their navy makes it across the Atlantic without being sunk by the horde of U-boats we have been launching into the waters. Upon a signal, they will all attack the American fleet and the Americans will be completely unprepared for their existence.”

  Himmler understood; Keitel was speaking the Fuehrer’s own words. The Americans had been worried about the Japanese back in 1941, but when the Japanese had gone north into Soviet-held Russia, the American public had slipped back into apathy and the American Navy rebuilding program had been allowed to slip to a halt. The Americans barely had an army, nothing like the millions of men Hitler could send into battle, and in the time it would take for them to build one, the battle for Britain would have been decided, one way or the other.

  “And so the American interest in the war will fade to an end,” the Fuhrer said. The confidence in his voice made Himmler smile. “Heinrich, what about Skorzeny and his commandos?”

  Himmler smiled at Kesselring in triumph. Skorzeny was an SS man… and if his stunt worked, he would have ensured that the SS got a fair share of the credit for the invasion and its success. Himmler had read all the reports about the exercises carefully as the paratroopers went through their preparations, jumping out of planes at what seemed to be a ridiculously low altitude, then attacking the dummy target that had been prepared for them. The rate of training injuries shocked Himmler, who didn’t even like the sight of blood, but Skorzeny’s men were ready for their operation.

  “The unit went into lockdown after being transported to an airbase in northern France,” Himmler said, and enjoyed the look on his opponents’ faces. “In” — he glanced at his watch — “less than an hour, they will take off and fly directly to London.”

  “I have faith that Skorzeny will pull the operation off and succeed in decapitating the British,” Hitler said, his voice rising again. “Without their head of government, they will be unable to react in time to our advance, and we will rip the heart out of their island if they are so foolish as not to come to terms with us and take their place in the New Order.”

  “Of course, Mein Fuhrer,” Himmler agreed. It was easy to praise the Fuhrer. It was much harder to talk him out of anything. “The operation is a master-work”

  Hitler looked up, around the war room, before finally looking down at Goebbels. “You have prepared the news?”

  “Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Goebbels said. His eager gaze met Himmler’s for a moment, and then he flinched away. He wasn’t a candidate for true power in the Reich despite being one of the more intelligent of Hitler’s sycophants, and he knew it. It had made him bitter. “I have prepared the news release for the people, informing them that the British have been attacking us and finally we took pre-emptive measures to prevent a catastrophe.”

  Himmler smiled at some of the reactions. Keitel and Speer looked as if they believed every word of it, although he doubted that Speer would accept such obvious nonsense. Manstein looked as if he didn’t care what excuse Hitler used to justify the invasion. Canaris, Kesselring and Joachim von Ribbentrop — who would have to present the news of the invasion to the remainder of the world — looked slightly disgusted, although Himmler wouldn’t have bet good money on Ribbentrop doing anything successfully for the Fuhrer. The man was an incompetent jumped-up wine salesman; his only real successes had come when he was dictating terms or when the other side had been eager for a deal.

  Hitler straightened up, the Iron Cross he wore on his jacket flashing in the light. “I approve this operation,” he said, formally. Himmler felt the tension in the room rising as the Reich prepared another gamble, this one on dangerously uncertain territory. If the operation failed, it would shatter the one thing the Reich had in abundance; a reputation for being invincible. “Inform all of the troops; the operation is to commence immediately.”

  Chapter Eight

  Scapa Flow, Orkneys

  As the sun slipped below the horizon, Benjamin Matthews glanced down once at his compass and then up at the darkening sky. It was only an hour to complete darkness. The little fishing boat was well away from the islands where Matthews and his wife lived, but they were used to fishing far to the east of the Orkney Islands. The little community had more fish than they knew what to do with, but fishermen could earn more money through catching extra, salting it, and shipping it to the mainland. So, Matthews had found himself and his small crew heading out to sea on a regular basis.

  The war had never touched his community, apart from a handful of German bombing raids, one of which had killed a rabbit, and a German submarine that had sneaked into one of the Royal Navy slips and sunk a battleship.

  Matthew
s himself was too old and too important to be drafted into the Royal Navy or one of the other services, but his three sons had all been sent south to join the army. Matthews regretted that, somewhat. He might make some money by selling to the Royal Navy, but what did the quarrel with Germany have to do with the islanders? By and large, they ignored the mainlanders, asking only that the mainlanders ignored them in return.

  “Start hauling the netting in now,” he called over to Morag, his daughter and first mate. He had never had any time for the suggestion that a woman shouldn’t be sailing with a man, particularly when his sons had been taken away from him. Besides, it kept Morag away from the sailors. He knew what sailors were like; he’d been one himself. “Let’s see what we’ve caught.”

  It was the quiet that awed him more than anything else about sailing. They hadn’t seen a single ship or aircraft since they’d passed the destroyer that had been patrolling around the islands, well away from the main fleet base. He’d seen the great ships before, massive ugly brutes on the surface of the sea, but he preferred sailing ships to boats with engines. His fishing boat might have been primitive, but it was reliable and he could fix every part of the boat without needing to take it to a mechanic. His sons might change their minds and place their faith in massive fishing boats, but Matthews knew where he belonged, and what he gained from fishing alone.

  “Yes, dad,” Morag said. At fourteen, she was lovely; she looked so much like his wife that it chilled him. He’d have to see about introducing her to some of the young men from the other island settlements before too long; that would ensure that she married a good man who would take care of her. Matthews was already feeling older and older each day and knew that one day, not too far away, he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. He was just looking at her when he saw her head start up. “Dad, what’s that?”