The Invasion of 1950

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Felixstowe, England

The British Army entered Felixstowe as the sun slowly set in the sky.

Colonel Harry Jackson looked upon the town he’d known and served in — although he hadn’t liked it much — and felt like crying. Seeing the results of the final struggle for control, a struggle only ended by Rommel’s surrender, almost broke his heart. Buildings had been destroyed, the main street was pockmarked by bullets, and a handful of the town’s notables were hanging from trees, hung by either the Germans or the resistance fighters. It looked as if the Germans would get the blame, but he had his doubts.

The Germans had retreated or surrendered. Some had boarded the final ships and set off across the Channel, trying to escape the vengeance of the British, while others had scattered into the surrounding area, trying to escape and become guerrillas. They would all be rounded up, sooner or later, but until then Felixstowe would remain a dangerous area. Some of them, he suspected, would still be in touch with Berlin and remain underground until the war finally came to an end. Mere hours after Rommel’s surrender had been broadcast, a flight of German bombers had hammered London with impunity, a reminder that the Reich was still across the Channel and the lives of British citizens would be blighted by the threat of war. The Germans, deprived of most of their fleet, would be unable to mount a second invasion in a hurry, but somehow he was sure that they would find other ways to continue the war. They might expand the submarine campaign.

He shook his head. That was well above his pay grade. “Sergeant,” he said as the marching soldiers finally fell out of line. The citizens were happy to see them. Jackson had seen several soldiers kissed by girls and had turned a blind eye for once. They all deserved a treat after so long. “Fall out all the men who have family in the area and inform them that they have five hours of leave to visit them and discover how they are.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilt said, and busied himself issuing orders. “And yourself, sir?”

“Company A, follow me,” Jackson said. Company A was composed largely of regular army soldiers from Newcastle. Instead of visiting relatives, they had less pleasant task to perform. “Keep the remainder of the soldiers on a loose leash at the barracks.”

Wilt winked in understanding. “Yes, sir,” he said. The soldiers could have their celebrations at the barracks and the areas surrounding the barracks, which happened to include several pubs. “A very loose leash indeed.”

Jackson led the company of men over to the village green, composing himself as best as he could; this wasn’t going to be easy. The men sitting on the green, their hands laced together on their heads, looked as if they’d been abused; it would be difficult, if not impossible, to sort out who had taken legitimate injuries from the fighting from those who had actually been abused by their captors, assuming that anyone cared to try. Jackson wasn’t sure if he wanted to try, not after seeing the damage and the signs of Das Reich’s passing, but maybe he would have no choice. No one was certain how scrupulously the Germans had adhered to the rules of war, at least in relating to British soldiers, and it would be a mistake to give them an excuse to start abusing the British prisoners.

He saw the man in charge and waved to him. The insurgent looked like a bandit, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

“We rounded up these pigs for you,” he said, cheerfully. Jackson stared at him, finally recognising him as one of the local bartenders. He’d owned the Dangling Prussian. “Do you want to hang them over there or shoot them all dead?”

“I am taking them into my custody,” Jackson said flatly. There was little point in arguing, especially because part of him shared the desire to just exterminate the Germans and be done with it. “How many others are there in the area?”

The bartender shrugged. He waved a hand at a sobbing girl, her hair shaved off and her dress torn and ripped, pulled tight around her to hide as much as possible. “You might as well have her too. She slept with the Germans and lorded it over everyone else.”

“Thank you,” Jackson said tightly. He had orders to prevent any kind of revenge attacks until the government sorted out who was actually to blame and who had been placed in a position where they had no choice but to collaborate. “If there are any other collaborators around, you are to place them into my custody as well.”

The innkeeper stared at him. “But sir…”

“Don’t argue,” Jackson stated grimly, seeing the face of post-war Britain in his mind’s eye. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant place to live. “I want you to see to it personally, and not a one of them is to be harmed until they have a fair trial, understand?”

The innkeeper shuffled off, and Jackson devoted himself and his soldiers to securing and counting the prisoners before herding them out of town towards one of their former detention camps. The innkeeper and his men returned with some unwilling captives, mainly young women, although he had clearly taken Jackson’s words to heart. Only one of them had had her head shaved.

Jackson shook his head slowly. The invasion might have been defeated, but the scars would remain for a very long time. Families would be torn apart, communities would wage war on one another, feuds would be nurtured for years to come. Was such a country really worth fighting for? He imagined their possible future and saw nothing, but darkness.

Although there had been hundreds of acts of resistance in the final few days of the German offensive, it still surprised Gregory Davall to see how many people had come out of the woodwork claiming to have been insurgents all along. Janine — her role unknown to all but the Grey Wolves — had narrowly escaped having her hair shaved off, and since then, an armed Grey Wolf had remained with her at all times. Davall wouldn’t hesitate to shoot one of his former townspeople. Their gratitude was severely lacking, even though he had lost his wife as well.

“She was a magnificent woman,” he said to Janine as they stood together in front of the mass grave. The Germans had dumped all the bodies into the same grave. The townspeople were promised that the grave would be dug up and the civilians buried in a proper grave, but Davall wasn’t too keen on the idea. Kate would never have forgiven him for allowing her body to be disturbed after she was buried. “She deserved better.”

“I know,” Janine said. Her scars hadn’t healed much in the time between Stahl’s death and the liberation of Felixstowe, but dressed properly for once, it was much harder to tell that she had been hurt. Her appearance always made Davall smile. He’d seen her without clothes, in circumstances that should have embarrassed both of them, but now she looked more attractive than undressed. “What are you going to do now?”

Davall smiled sadly. “I’m not going to stay here,” he said after a long moment. “There are too many people who blame me, us, for the deaths of their wives, and they will be taking it out on us after a few days. I can’t gainsay them. Perhaps, if I had surrendered, it would have been easier for us.”

His voice broke off.

“I’m going to take James and go north,” he said after a moment. He didn’t miss the brief expression on her face. “Do you want to come with me?”

Janine reached out and gave him a hug.

“There’s nothing for me here either,” she said. “If you’ll allow me to come with you, then I will be happy to follow you anywhere.”

Davall kissed her and led her back towards the village green. Churchill was supposed to speak to the townspeople. He was the first of an endless stream of government ministers who would be coming to tell them how sorry they were that the townspeople had been put through hell and that it wouldn’t happen again. Particularly if the townspeople voted them in again. Davall suspected that there would be a few changes to the country in the next few years. There were hundreds of thousands of people with guns now, and the determination to use them. The next trade union dispute might get very interesting.

“Or maybe I’ll go into politics,” Davall mused as they reached the village green. The MP for the area had been in London during the occupation and had been strongly condemned for remaining there, rather than sharing the trials and tribulations of his people. Davall’s fighting credentials were first-rate. “What do you think of that?”

Janine considered it.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “What’s wrong with earning an honest living?”

Winston Churchill insisted on visiting the liberated area as quickly as possible, despite the unified opposition of Monty, Alexander and Alex DeRiemer himself. A company of soldiers had been devoted to his protection as he was driven along battered roads, passing British soldiers mopping up after the fighting had died down. They finally drove into Felixstowe as darkness fell. The streets were still brightly lit. A street party was going on that rivalled anything that DeRiemer had seen since the end of the last war, but then that had been a messy and inconclusive ending to the fighting. The British Empire might not have defeated the Nazi beast and killed it in its lair, but it was a clear and very conclusive victory. The invasion of Britain was over.

DeRiemer smiled as he took in the crowds. It was a strange mixture, from British servicemen to other Commonwealth soldiers, Canadians, Australians, Indians… all blending together into one strange mass. Three different bands were playing three different tunes, all trying to drown each other out and drag as many dancers as possible into the dance, while the inns had thrown themselves open and were pouring free beer into the hands of anyone who cared to take it. The soldiers, at least, were fairly disciplined. The townspeople, liberated from the Nazi shackles, danced and sang as if there were no tomorrow.

Churchill loved it. He was down off his stand and mixing with the crowd before DeRiemer, or any of his bodyguards, knew what was happening. Everyone wanted to shake his hand, to assure him that they wanted no one else as Prime Minister or to encourage him to join in the dance despite his advanced age. It was growing darker and darker, but the lights kept the town awake despite the blackout order. DeRiemer silently prayed that the Germans wouldn’t launch a spiteful attack on Felixstowe, just to pay off some of their hard feelings. He wouldn’t have put it past them.

“This is impressive,” Truman said from his position in the car. The American Ambassador had insisted on coming as well, and Churchill hadn’t forbidden it. Indeed, Churchill had been delighted to have a chance to show his friend what free people could do. The war was far from over, after all, and American help would still be vital in winning the next round. “There will be celebrations in America as well.”

“This was a battle,” DeRiemer said tersely. He thought cold thoughts about Project Omega and wondered grimly if the Germans had such a project. The Americans had been tight-lipped about their own progress. Who knew where they stood with such weapons? “We have not yet won the war.”

Churchill finally mounted the stand, and something reassembling quiet fell. “We have won a great victory,” he said, his voice echoing out over the village green. “We have defeated a German army on our own soil through the courage of our fighting men and the determination of our population to never bow the knee to Adolph Hitler and his Huns! We have fought and won the first of many battles of this war.”

His voice grew in intensity.

“This is not the beginning of the end,” he said grimly. “There will be much more blood, toil, tears and sweat ahead, with reverses that will challenge our faith in ourselves and victories that will make this one look small. This is, rather, the end of the beginning; we took on a surprise attack and defeated it, proving to Hitler and his men that we cannot ever be beaten! In their newly-built cities, they tremble now, tremble at the thought of their empire coming to an end as we prove to the world that they can be beaten. We have much to be proud of, in our way, but most of all we should be proud of the lesson we have shown the world… that the Nazis can be beaten!

“Across Europe, in France, in Norway, in Denmark, in Russia… they know, now, that the Germans were beaten,” he proclaimed. “Hitler’s Knights of the Iron Cross… beaten. General Rommel, the man who never lost a battle, lost one today. In countless hearts, a new hope of freedom burns now, with the fuel that you have provided them. They now think of freedom as a goal, something they can reach, and we will be there for them. This war will not end until we have marched into Berlin and burned the core of Hitler’s evil regime out of existence, but today, we have proven that it can be done.”

He lifted one hand in a gesture. “Tremble, Hitler, in your lair. Tremble, Himmler; tremble Speer, Goring and so many others, all men of hatred and evil,” he said. “Tremble, for the world now knows that you can be beaten… and you will be beaten. There is no place where you can hide, nowhere where you will be safe from us, if it takes us a hundred years. We are coming for you!”

The crowd went wild. If Churchill had meant to say something else, it was completely drowned out by the cheering and then by singing. DeRiemer felt a tear in his eye as the song rose in intensity, the first time that God Save The King had been sung in Felixstowe for months. Tomorrow, the citizens of Felixstowe would discover that Free Britain wasn’t an easy place to live, with rationing and economic problems, but for tonight, they could dance and sing.

Churchill stepped down and the three men stood together for a long moment, watching the celebrations DeRiemer looked up at Churchill, seeing the famous cigar moving in the air as Churchill’s face seemed to lock permanently into a mischievous smile, almost like a little boy contemplating a prank. Churchill’s sense of humour was a little odd, but DeRiemer wondered, just for a moment, what he was thinking. Taking his courage into his hands, he asked as much…

“Hitler,” Churchill said, a wry smile covering his face. “I was just wishing that I could see Hitler’s face when he hears the news.”

DeRiemer nodded in understanding. The two men had been enemies for so long that they defined their respective sides. They were both warlords, both very aware of their limited time on the Earth, and both a mixture of brilliance and stubbornness. And they loathed one another; if the source in Berlin was to be believed, Hitler had been furious to learn that Churchill had escaped death twice. Churchill had tried to have Hitler killed, but by the time he had signed off on Hitler’s death, it had been too late. Hitler had never been in any real danger.

Churchill’s smile grew broader.

“I suspect that the person who told him is dead by now,” he said after a long moment. “Hitler was never good at dealing with bad news.”

Together, they watched until the bonfire finally burned itself out, and then headed back to London. There was work to be done.