Axis of Evil

Chapter Nineteen: Good German, Bad German

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

11^th May 1941

“The Germans attempted to take Malta,” Stirling said. Hanover nodded grimly, only half-listening. “It was a total defeat.”

Hanover smiled. “I dare say that the Contemporaries will be pleased,” he said. “What happened?”

“They tried to land a parachute assault like they would have done on Crete,” Stirling said. The Oversight Committee had warned of the danger almost from Day One. “The radars picked out the transports and they got wiped out of the sky. They must have lost almost the entire division.”

Hanover smiled. “How bad was it for us?”

Stirling glanced down at the report. “Malta got hammered pretty badly by the German bombers as our close-in defences were prioritising the transports. Several hundred people got killed; several thousand injured. Around two hundred Germans were captured.” He hesitated. “Some of them got lynched.”

Hanover shrugged, unconcerned. Malta had been spared the war until the Germans had tried an invasion. “They’re only human,” he said. Inwardly, he wondered if becoming desensitised was a cost of war. “What about the others?”

“They’re being flown to POW camps in Algeria,” Stirling said. “The Algerians are hopping mad; this might serve to unite them behind us. They got bombed a couple of times by the Germans during the struggle.”

Hanover nodded grimly. Even without the long and bloody war for independence, the Algerians were still arguing about their future government. The Provisional Government was having problems; not all the tribes, particularly the ones that had been French allies, were happy with the new situation.

“What is the situation now?” He asked finally. “Are they still trying to bomb Malta?”

Stirling shook his head. “We slapped them back pretty hard,” he said. “Some of the radio interceptions have been in clear.” He chuckled. “You should read some of the transcripts, sir; it reads like a Goon Show.”

“I keep meaning to go see Milligan,” Hanover said. “What happens?”

“Some German officer can’t believe the report, so he asks for clarification in clear, and then the poor bastard reporting tells him that we’ve destroyed over a million aircraft, and he has a fit in clear,” Stirling said. “I don’t think we took out more than four hundred at most, but that should really confuse the Germans.”

“I imagine they know how many they sent at us,” Hanover said. “How did Admiral Somerville do?”

Stirling looked uncomfortable. It was the closest that any of them had ever come to admitting that the 2015 personnel kept a close eye on the 1940 personnel. “He did pretty well,” he said finally. “He’s made remarkable progress.”

“Unlike Wavell,” Hanover said. The former desert commander had been packed off to India as Governor-General. “Speaking of which, what’s happening in the desert?”

“No real change,” Stirling said. “The Soviets are still piling into Basra and spreading down towards Kuwait. General Flynn was preparing a defence line down there, and we might have more tank battles. Incidentally, he wants you to know that the Soviets have placed a high priority on capturing our equipment; a damaged Firefly was towed away and destroyed from the air.”

“Smart of them,” Hanover growled. “John?”

“It’s clear that they want to exhaust us,” McLachlan said. The Foreign Secretary looked tired. “Hammer us, keep hammering us, until they get their nukes ready. Learn as much about our technology as they can, duplicate bits, devise countermeasures… keep fighting until we lose our will to fight.”

“It won’t happen that way,” Hanover said. “Public opinion is behind the war. Everyone knows about the Nazis; despite that wretched Stewart woman they know what they’re doing and our ‘ham-fisted’ attempt at censorship just made it seem more real. There can be no compromise with Germany.”

“They haven’t offered to discuss terms with us,” Stirling said. Hanover started; he’d almost forgotten that the officer was there. “If they did…”

“What sort of terms could they offer that we would accept?” Hanover asked. “Have they tried anything in the Middle East?”

“Not yet,” Stirling said. “The Free Germans put forward the Operation Redemption plan.”

Hanover smiled. “Rommel is certainly living up to his legend,” he said. “Can we pull it off?”

Stirling hesitated. “General Cunningham believes that we can, but the cost will be heavy, particularly for the Marines and Turks.”

“We’re going to have to abandon the ridiculous fiction that we’re only in a state of semi-belligerency with the Turks,” McLachlan commented. “Would that cost us anything in the military field?”

Stirling shook his head. “The Turks are pretty much part and parcel of the German force,” he said. “The only danger is that this will put public opinion in Turkey behind the war.”

Hanover chuckled bitterly. “It’s not as if it could get any worse,” he said. “What steps do we have to take before we’re committed?”

“We have to take Crete back,” Stirling said. “Now that we’ve kicked hell out of the Germans in the air, they won’t find it so easy to oppose us. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to launch the real part of the operation until after the first stage of Operation Arctic goes ahead.”

Hanover scowled. “It would have been nice to hit them with a coordinated offensive,” he said. “They go high, we go low. Why can’t we?”

He caught Stirling’s sigh and smiled to himself. “We have committed ourselves to deploying considerable assets to support the American landing,” Stirling said. “We would also need them for Redemption. We can’t do both for at least a year. However, we could hit Crete – and this time take it – at the same time.” He chuckled. “If the Germans have studied history, they might consider it like Operation Torch; the attack that prevented them from reinforcing Stalingrad.”

Hanover nodded. “Tell Cunningham to draw up the plans,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

It was a dismissal and Stirling was smart enough to recognise it. He picked up his papers and left the room, leaving the other two alone.

“What did you think of Turtledove’s plan?” Hanover asked. “Do we go ahead with it, with or without Australian cooperation?”

“Only if they agree,” McLachlan said thoughtfully. “Unlike the other thing we’ve done, it would be impossible to pull it off without them knowing about it. The last thing we need is Curtis in office instead.”

“I’ll talk to Menzies privately later, then,” Hanover said. “If it works, we destroy… what? Six Japanese divisions at a fraction of the cost of digging them out of the East Indies?”

McLachlan nodded. “If it works,” he said.

Hanover shrugged. “The Japanese don’t have the logistics to take Australia,” he said. “We’ll destroy them. If they last more than a week, I’ll be astonished.”

“We still have another problem,” McLachlan said. “Security leaks in America.”

Hanover nodded grimly. “They have Hoover on the case, but he’s more worried about the sudden rise in black militancy,” he said. “You’d think that they’d just agree to equality and let it go.”

“South Africa isn’t,” McLachlan said. “You know what they’re doing.”

Hanover nodded. The Smuts Government had not only started to recruit new white settlers from Italy, or the German prisoners who had refused to join Rommel, they’d begun a policy of using the new contraceptives on black tribes. Without the antidote, which the Smuts Government was keeping to itself, a lot of tribes would simply… die out. Those who refused to learn submission and white ways, as civilised humans and second-class citizens, would die.

He shook his head. Had they figured out what was happening? Did they have any idea of the doom that was befalling them? Hanover’s intelligence sources were far better than any Contemporary force – the outside world had no idea what was happening. Once the contraceptives were used in India, as Ambassador Homchoudhury was urging, they would know.

And how would they react?

“I know,” he said finally. How long before their technology was used by a repressive government? It had been the nightmare; that which brought freedom could also bring new unbreakable chains. “I know.”

Bundeswehr Forward Base

Palestine

11^th May 1941

General Erwin Rommel knew that he had assembled a good command team. Each of the Bundeswehr – a name that Ambassador Schulze had insisted upon – divisions had a good and competent commander. After six months of hard training, he would have placed them against the best German division in the Wehrmacht – or even a division from 2015, given equal equipment. Colonel Muhlenkampf claimed that it meant that the British feared the Bundeswehr, but Rommel knew better. Some of the Germans who had been recruited might have been spies, or might have a change of heart… and the British had to be careful.

He wished he knew why he had a lump in his heart. Ever since learning of the crimes of Hitler, a man he had once admired, he had devoted his life to ending the Nazis before Germany was left a radioactive wasteland. Ambassador Schulze might prattle on and on about limiting commercial restrictions and avoiding French, American and Russian dominance, but that wasn’t the point. Germany had sinned; she had to pay.

He looked down at the refugee camp and shook his head. The largely Jewish population of the refugee camp, those who had been unable or unwilling to fight in the Jewish Defence League, had fled Palestine. Many of them would head to South Africa, when shipping was available, but for the moment they were stuck in Muslim lands.

They hate us, he thought, and he understood. The American and British-born Germans didn’t understand; to them the Holocaust was an abstract or something in the past. The Jews hated and feared the German force, and he’d barred his people from visiting the towns.

“Herr General?” Colonel Muhlenkampf asked. “Are you all right?”

Rommel scowled. Few Wehrmacht officers would dare to ask a general if he was all right. “Just contemplating the plans for Redemption,” he said. “Are we ready to attack?”

“No, Herr General,” Colonel Muhlenkampf said. “The Nazis are advancing along the coast. 1^st Panzer is moving into position to engage.”

Rommel smiled to himself. “Waffen-SS units,” he said. Apparently Himmler didn’t trust the regulars against the Bundeswehr. “Has General Flynn said anything?”

“No, Herr General,” Colonel Muhlenkampf said. “I need to get back to 1^st Panzer before they engage.”

“I think I’ll take personal command,” Rommel said. “In the absence of orders, find something and kill it.”

Colonel Muhlenkampf chuckled. “Jawohl, Herr General,” he said.

Gunter Jagar, now a brevet Captain to give him some authority, was finding working for Rommel a fascinating experience. As soon as Rommel burst out of his office, he was shouting for Jagar to get into the little plane, a VTOL craft that served as Rommel’s personal transport and spotting craft.

“Get us up to 1^st Panzer,” Rommel barked at the pilot, who was already closing the hatch. The large tilt-rotor wasn’t cleared for engaging the Luffwaffe, but it carried missiles and cannons anyway. “Gunter, the laptop, now.”

Jagar was already logging into the divisional command network. A reconnaissance flight and then an SAS patrol had revealed that the SS Panzergrenadier Division Wiking, one of the multinational formations recruited by the SS after the conquest of Europe, was moving. Wiking, according to the Internet, wouldn’t have that many war crimes attached to its personnel, but it was clearly a different organisation than had existed in the first history. For one thing, it was at least four months ahead of its time.

“They’re moving,” he said, and displayed the map. “They’re heading into Amman.”

Rommel peered over his shoulder. “Desert, desert, more desert,” he said. “Show me our positions.”

Jagar displayed the location chart. 1^st Panzer stood near Amman itself, moving into defensive formation. “That road would make a nice ambush site,” Rommel said thoughtfully. “I assume that the current commander is moving his anti-tank weapons forward?”

“I believe so,” Jagar said. One advantage of the command network was that every troop movement was reported on the computer network – and the Germans had no hope of tracking them down. “Yes, Herr General, they’re moving into position.”

“Excellent,” Rommel said. “Pilot, put us down near the tanks,” he commanded. “Well, Gunter, are you ready for your first major tank battle?”

“Yes, Herr General,” Jagar said. “I’m ready.”

SS-Obergruppenführer Felix Steiner lifted his binoculars to his eyes and stared ahead into the distance. The strange terrain of Jordan was… uncomfortable, only suited for camels and mounted horsemen; the sand was getting into the tanks and making life miserable for the Germans. The Spanish and French units didn’t seem to be that bothered, but then, the men of the Foreign Legion had been in the desert before.

“Only an hour before we reach Amman, Mon General,” Colonel Picard informed him. The gaunt Frenchman hated the British and hadn’t hesitated when the Vichy Government had appealed for volunteers to go to the desert. “Then we can rest.”

“A good thing too,” Steiner said grimly. His men had stripped down to their bare chests; only trousers and caps were worn. In six months, the Germans had learnt a great deal about fighting in the desert. “I’m not sure how much of this we can take.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Mon General,” Picard said cheerfully. His bronzed skin shone under the sun. “We learnt to take it and so will you.”

Steiner felt like shooting the imprudent Frenchman down. Picard was right, of course, and he was competent; if all Frenchmen had been as competent as he France would never have fallen in 1940. Still, he was annoying.

A flicker of light ahead of them caught his eye, and then a Panzer IV exploded violently. “Guns,” he snapped, as the Panzers slowed and started to fall back. Three more exploded before they managed to escape.

“A professional ambush,” Picard said. he barked orders at the white-capped legionaries. “Down, and forward,” he commanded. “Take out the guns.”

“Open fire,” Steiner snapped. The Panzers began to fire, covering the Frenchmen. A rattle of machine gun fire told him that the tactic was unsuccessful. A contrail high in the sky told him that sneaking up would be impossible.

“Blasted Anglo aircraft,” Picard sneered, for once in total agreement with the German. “They might try to bake us like they did the uncouth Slavs.”

“Perhaps,” Steiner said, realising again why Picard hadn’t been sent to the regular army in 1940. More explosions billowed ahead as one of the Panzers scored a lucky hit on something; perhaps a large ammunition dump. “Forward,” he shouted, and the Panzers roared forward.

“They’re breaking through the guns,” Jagar said, examining the laptop and trying to keep it on his knees. You would have thought that someone as tall as Rommel would have balked at riding inside a Command Firefly, but Rommel hadn’t hesitated. It was worse than a sea crossing; the Panzer bounced backwards and forwards as it charged across the desert.

“That wasn’t quick,” Rommel said. His voice sounded faintly disapproving. “They must have a slow officer in command.”

“Firing range in three minutes, Guv,” the tank’s commander said. He spoke British, acted British, and yet had German grandparents who might be alive at the moment in Germany. Jagar looked up at the portal; the sea of sand dunes stretched ahead infinitely.

“They’re cloaked by the sand dunes,” Rommel muttered, answering his unanswered question. “Sergeant, give them hell.”

It happened faster than Jagar would have believed. Suddenly, the dunes fell away, exposing a line of grey tanks, prominent against the sand. “Fire,” the commander snapped, and the tank shook violently as it fired a shell. Explosions blasted through the German ranks, hacking away at Wiking’s numbers. Three Panzers exploded, and then a forth and then…

“Brace,” the commander shouted, and then the tank shook violently. A Wiking tank had begun to return fire, but its shells were useless against the frontal armour. “They’re useless!”

“Careful of the rear,” Rommel murmured, as the tank skidded around, its main gun rotating faster than Jagar would have believed possible. For all the primitiveness of the Firefly, compared to the modern British tanks, it was a powerful and capable machine. It shuddered again, and then fired once, blowing the turret of a Wiking tank right off. An explosion shook the tank violently as the remains of the 1^st Panzer powered their way across the battlefield, firing violently at tanks without an IFF signature.

“Wow,” he breathed, as the Firefly came to a stop.

“Report,” Rommel said sternly. Jagar flinched, and then recognised the warmth within Rommel’s voice. “What’s happening?”

“We’ve broken up this attack,” Jagar said, examining the laptop. “There’re trying to outflank us.”

“Then let’s not let them,” Rommel said. He picked up his radio and started to issue orders. “Order the other tanks to move up and outflank the outflankers,” he said. “We have the speed advantage and I’m not about to waste it.”

“Moving out,” the tank commander said. “Now.”

Jagar shuddered as the tank leapt back into action, pulling backwards with a complete disregard for safety. He took a breath, feeling excitement spreading through his body as the tank jumped over a dune and was back among the dunes. He looked up at Rommel and was astonished to see a smile on his face; the General was enjoying himself.

Steiner cursed violently as the new tanks, British, but carrying an Iron Cross, danced over the desert. They weren’t jamming his radios, but they might as well have been; he’d lost command of the various detachments. He heard a cheer as one of the 88s finally managed to destroy a British tank, knowing that it was futile. They’d been caught with their pants down, and it was costing them.

“Send the signal to withdraw,” he commanded, cutting his losses. “We’ll be back, with more and better tanks. Send a signal to the bases in Syria, order them to get ready for an attack.”

“Jawohl,” his aide said, talking rapidly into his radio. Steiner ducked as a bullet cracked past him and he laughed, he had survived. “Colonel,” he began, and then he realised that Picard had been hit. The Frenchman would never return to France; his blood stained the desert sands.

“Go with God,” he muttered, and then ran to join the retreat.