The Long Hard Road

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Onwards

Battlezone

Netherlands/Germany Border

11^th June 1942

The German attack came out of nowhere, three trucks rushing down the road, Wehrmacht infantry jumping out of the cabs as the machine guns on the Franks tanks began firing, ripping the trucks to sheds. One truck was lucky, it hit a blockade, span around and slammed into an American tank. The massive explosion shattered both tanks.

Suicide tactics, Captain Robinson thought. He shuddered as five more German trucks, equipped with armour to ward off machine guns bullets, charged down the road. “Fire,” he snapped, and the main gun barked once, blasting one of the trucks into flaming ruin. The explosives inside the truck detonated with a powerful blast, shattering the enemy formation.

“That was too close,” his driver muttered. One tank had been lost and two more had been damaged. As mortar rounds began to detonate near the tanks, Robinson barked orders; the infantry moved forward to secure the enemy positions.

“Gunner, three rounds through that wall,” he snapped, as a small house appeared through the woodland, an enemy position dug into the side. The high explosive rounds detonated, blasting the German position, even as one of the Germans fired a rocket at the advancing tank. It missed, the tank returned fire with its machine guns, but the damage was done; their confidence had been blunted.

“Captain, they’re all through the fucking village,” the infantry leader snapped. “We need air support!”

“Acknowledged,” Robinson said, calling the forward headquarters. Now that some Harriers were permanently based in Europe, they could drop their dumb bombs anywhere near the front. The British might have run out of the super-weapons that made the USAAF drool at the mouth, but they still had plenty of the napalm warheads.

He cursed as he studied the situation through the periscope. The tiny German village – they didn’t even know its name – had been turned into a strongpoint by the Wehrmacht and heavily fortified. The Germans had been adapting their tactics, moving forces around by night and confusing the orbital satellites. Instead of trying to meet the Allies tank for tank, they had elected to keep their own tanks back, while systematically sabotaging the main line of advance. Ten days after the invasion had begun, it had stalled.

A screech across the sky announced the arrival of the Harrier jump jets. He knew that the USAAF had offered serious money for even a handful of the tactical support craft; they had more than proved their value. Dumb bombs began to fall on the town, even as the black puffs of German anti-aircraft fire began to explode in the air.

“Missed, you fuckers,” someone shouted, as the massive napalm bombs began to detonate, blasting waves of fire across the German town. Germans fled from the blast, some burning, and Robinson gave the order to fire. It was a mercy; the facilities for wounded personnel were overwhelmed.

“Advance,” Robinson ordered, and the Franks tank began to move. The gunner fired once as an enemy lorry roared out of a burning building, destroying it, and they moved on to the next target. The village was still burning; the tanks entered the village, leaving the infantry behind.

General Flynn was on the field satellite phone, talking to Eisenhower and the SHAFE staff. He scowled; Hanover had promised him tactical control, but Eisenhower was insisting on at least being consulted. The operations were far larger and more complex than Iran – or Norway – had been, and there just wasn’t time.

I need a bigger staff, he thought grimly, and knew that that was nonsense. He trusted his people, particularly the ones who’d fought in Iran, but trying to coordinate the entire battlefield was difficult. It was a good thing that both armies believed in initiative; he would have found it much harder without it.

“We’re getting more of the localised German counter-attacks,” he snapped into the phone. A hail of brilliant flares announced an attack by a German rocket-launcher, one of the Stalin organ knock-offs that the Germans had duplicated. They weren’t a serious threat to his heavy tanks, but they were lethal to the infantry. “I think we’re about to hit their main line.”

There was no ‘think’ about it. The Germans had worked hard, creating a fortified line in seven days, skilfully using the River Ems as part of a delaying tactic designed to slow the advance as much as possible, while building the defence line itself. From Bremen to Hanover to Dortmund, the Germans were digging in, bringing up reinforcements from Poland and France.

“I understand the situation,” Eisenhower said, as calmly as only a man in an office could be when soldiers were fighting and dying. He’d made one visit to the front, just one. “What do you want to do?”

Finally, Flynn thought. “I want to launch an attack,” he snapped. He stared at the map, even with German attempts at hiding the satellites and the SAS had a pretty good idea of what was where. The Germans, knowing the terrain well, had dug in mainly between Bremen and Hanover, expecting that the Allies wouldn’t want to go the long way around. They were right.

“Do you believe that we can challenge the defences that exist between Bremen to Hanover?” Eisenhower said. Flynn, who knew that a major defeat would be blamed on Eisenhower, felt little sympathy. “Can our logistics handle the attack?”

Flynn nearly laughed. Eisenhower had mainly devoted himself to logistics, something that he’d done with considerable skill and verve. “Yes, they can,” he said. “The attack can be supplied with everything it needs.”

“And you plan to launch the attack today,” Eisenhower said. “No time for preparation?”

He meant softening up the Germans through shellfire. “No need,” Flynn said. “That would just warn the Germans that we are coming,” he said. “We have the ability to move forward rapidly, and catch the Germans in a vice, which would destroy almost all of their armoured forces in the region. Once we have punched a hole through their defences… we can drive directly to Berlin.”

There was a long pause. “I approve the operation,” Eisenhower said finally. “You may launch when ready.”

Fire when ready, Gridley, Flynn thought absently. “The operation will be launched in a few hours,” he said, and put down the field telephone. “Colonel Nott?”

“Sir?” Nott asked. “What can we do for you?”

Flynn blinked at him. “My compliments to your gunners,” he said, “and inform them that I want them to be ready for a massive shelling of” – he checked the map – “the Germans lines, here, near Neinburg.” Nott bowed once. His command had nearly every British artillery battery and half of the American guns. “Corporal Darling?”

“Sir?” Darling asked. “The air force?”

Flynn nodded. “My compliments to Air Commodore Cromwell and I want him to prepare for heavy bombing operations.” He grinned. “Colonel Toby, summon Generals Stillwell and Rommel,” he ordered. “We have a decisive battle to plan.

The headquarters had been chosen with care; a massive church that had been the pride and joy of the small town before the Allies had begun their invasion. General Walther Model allowed himself a moment of quiet contemplation in the church, before turning to his defences. He scowled; no matter his orders, he knew that there would be only one chance at victory.

“Bastards,” he muttered. He’d heard about the advanced British tanks – and the powerful tanks that the Americans and the renegade Germans had deployed – and he’d never quite believed them. It didn’t seem plausible… until he’d seen a Challenger take ten shots from an anti-tank gun at close range and keep coming. The British were tactically skilled… and they had the firepower to cut their way out of most German traps. Only one Challenger had been disabled – and the RAF had destroyed it on the ground before it could be dragged back to Germany.

“Herr General,” a sentry said, as a dull roar began to appear in the sky. Thousands of black dots moved across the sky, thousands more fell from the air as the planes released their bombs down on the defence lines. Model cursed; the planes were showing diabolical targeting, hitting defences he’d hoped that had escaped detection.

“I saw,” he said. “Send runners to Von Bock; his forces might be needed.”

“Jawohl,” the sentry said, heading off to do Model’s bidding. Model watched grimly as his anti-aircraft guns began to fire, launching rockets and proximity shells into the air. Some aircraft fell, others changed their course, trying to hit the gunners as they poured fire into the sky.

“They’re coming,” he said, and scowled. The defence plan had been simple – most good plans were – but it relied upon the British doing the right thing – or rather the wrong thing. Model hated it on that ground alone – but what other choices did the Reich have?

“Herr General,” one of the other choices said. The SS Obergruppenfuehrer had been charged by Himmler with deployment of the special weapons they’d brought to the front. “Shall we prepare the weapons?”

Despite himself, Model shuddered; the nerve gas canisters were dangerous. He’d noticed that even the SS fanatics carried them carefully. The compressed nerve gas could wipe out an entire division – if they lost containment. And, from what Kesselring had said, using them could mean the end for Germany.

“Not yet,” he said, and hoped that the Obergruppenfuehrer – who hadn’t even deigned to share his name – would obey him. Guderian had been able to force the SS to obey him, but Guderian had been a favourite of the Fuhrer – the then Fuhrer. “We keep those back until we need them.”

The Obergruppenfuehrer’s eyes bulged comically. Model didn’t bother to sneer; the Obergruppenfuehrer was hardly one of the skilled and deadly Waffen-SS, which deserved some respect for their fighting skills, but a lowly man forced forward by circumstances.

“Herr General, we need to use them for maximum effect,” the Obergruppenfuehrer protested. “They might be hit from the air, and then where would we be?”

A lot better off, Model thought coldly. He lifted his pistol. “I am in command of this front and I have the command authority,” he said. “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, you can obey my orders, or you can place yourself under arrest.”

The Obergruppenfuehrer wilted, confirming Model’s low opinion of him. “Jawohl,” he said. “I will obey your commands.”

“Panzer, march,” someone snapped over the radio. Captain Yates snarled as the Challenger tank moved forward into its launching permission; the briefing had been quicker than he would have believed possible. It had also been simple; the German defence lines are ahead, punch through them.

“Shut up and stay off the airwaves,” Colonel Barrington snapped. “All units; sound off.”

Yates acknowledged in his place, listening to the other tankers as they reported their status. There were no faulty tanks; after two years of warfare, he would have been astonished if there had been any maintenance errors caused by bad training. The entire division was well trained; mechanical skills had been hammered into their skulls by the drill sergeants.

“Very well,” Colonel Barrington said finally. “Captain Yates; you may advance.”

“Yes, sir,” Yates said. “Corporal Benton, start the engine.”

“They don’t pay me enough for this,” Corporal Benton muttered, as the engine burst into life. The Germans had tried to shell the tank-parking park twice and sent in a team of sabotage experts, but the division had remained intact. “Moving out.”

Yates peered through his little portal. In theory, there was a mile to go until they reached the enemy lines. In practice, well, the enemy would be bound to have scouts out, just as the SAS was trying to cause havoc in the enemy rear. The tanks advanced slowly, heading towards the main line… and then a rocket slammed into the armour.

“One German, running,” Sergeant Josephine Grant snapped. “Firing.”

The machine gun chattered and the German fell. Mortar rounds crashed down around them as the drove forward, revealing a German position that had been attempting to mine the road and build a defence line, buying time for their main defence lines to be strengthened still further.

“Fire,” Yates snapped, and Grant put a shell directly into the mortar crew. The explosion killed the crew, the others tried to surrender, except for one SS fanatic, who fired at the tank with a submachine gun.

“Idiot,” Grant muttered, as she mowed him down. The other Germans surrendered to the infantry, allowing the Challengers to press on through the fields, watching carefully for signs of attack.

“There,” Yates snapped, as a shell slammed into the tank. The Germans had carefully constructed an entire trench, half-hidden by the foliage, which held three massive guns. He cursed as a shell struck one of the IFV units and blew it away, followed by more shells landing around the division.

“Open fire,” he snapped, and Grant obeyed, slamming seven shells into the entire structure. One of the shells was a modified FAE design, designed to start a fire, and it exploded in the centre of the trench. Germans ran forward, throwing grenades, and Yates cursed as he realised how deep the trenches ran.

“There’s an entire anthill under here,” he snapped. “We need to burn them out.”

“On it,” Grant said, and she fired again. The German tunnels were becoming exposed as the shells dug into the camouflage, blowing it away. Yates scowled; the Germans might have hidden an entire infantry battalion under the ground and they would never have noticed.

He cursed and lifted his radio. “We need infantry support,” he snapped. “Bring up more infantry, quickly.”

The tiny SAS squadron wore German SS uniforms, except Chang, who had been handcuffed with a pair of fake handcuffs. Dwynn grinned to himself; even unarmed Chang was death on two legs. The handcuffs looked real, but a single hard yank could shatter them.

“Remember, we’re Germans,” he muttered, as they approached the German command shack for the region. Satellites had suggested that the Germans had someone important running matters there, and as the British and American tanks were pressing hard towards the position, the high command had ordered the SAS to capture or kill the German commanders.

“So don’t mention the war,” Vash said, putting on a bad German accept. “Achtung, spitfire, Rommel, egg in the eye, mien Kamrad…”

“Shut up,” Dwynn said. The words might have amused cinemagoers – there had been a resurgence of interest in war movies – but he didn’t think that they would have impressed real Germans. “Everyone ready?”

They nodded; Dwynn led the way down to the German command post. It wasn’t as pretentious as he had expected and for a long moment he wondered if they had made a mistake. It would hardly be the first time that intelligence had gotten something wrong; if they had the SAS team would have to kill everyone and be extracted under hostile fire.

“Good,” Dwynn said, as three sentries appeared out of nowhere. They demanded his business in sharp German; one of them, he was amused to note, was clearly a Frenchman. “I have a prisoner for the commander,” he snapped.

The SS guards glared at him. They were SS, which meant that he couldn’t hope to intimidate them by his own fake rank. An explosion blossomed, not too far away, and the guards jumped. Dwynn allowed himself a sneer at their expressions.

“Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer, the Obergruppenfuehrer is not to be disturbed,” the leader said finally. “Can you not take him to the command post?”

Dwynn’s suspicions were activated. If this building wasn’t the command post, then what was it? “I have strict orders to deliver the prisoner to the Obergruppenfuehrer in person,” he said, and hoped that the guards didn’t know that he was lying. “Open the doors.”

The guard started to protest. Dwynn glared him down. “Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer,” the guard said finally. He opened the doors. “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, there is an Allied prisoner for you.” He chuckled. “A slant-eye, no less.”

The Obergruppenfuehrer burst up the stairs, slamming a door shut, but not before Dwynn had caught sight of shells buried under the ground. He blinked; what sort of shells needed an SS armed guard?

“What are you doing here?” He snapped. “There are particular orders…”

His eyes fixed on Dwynn’s face and a terrible realisation came into his eyes. Dwynn didn’t hesitate and shot him neatly through the head; the others had already taken care of the guards. The Obergruppenfuehrer’s body tumbled back down the stairs and hit the ground.

“I think we’d better check it out,” Dwynn said, and led the team down the stairs. He opened the door carefully, to peer into a scene from hell. Countless shells, ones he recognised from service in Iran, lined the walls, along with a gun designed to fire them.

“Fuck,” Vash breathed.

“Gas shells,” Dwynn said. He headed back up the stairs. “I think we’d better call this in; let the head sheds decide what to do with it.”

General Walther Model put the latest reports on the map in his mind and knew that the battle was lost. Three major enemy armoured columns; one British, one American and one Bundeswehr, had engaged the defence line in three places, a coordinated attack that would have been very difficult for even the Wehrmacht at its prime. His King Tigers had been directed against the American tanks and they had had some success, but then the British had launched an attack and…

He shook his head. Three hundred of the heavy tanks had been destroyed in the space of half an hour, and with them the war. The defence line, the last line of defence before Berlin, was collapsing. He knew that the local commanders from the line to Berlin would do what they could, but the bulk of the skilled manpower was trapped or had been destroyed.

“Herr General,” an SS officer shouted. “Herr General, they destroyed the gas stockpile!”

Model swore brutally. The gas shells had been the last chance for producing any kind of victory. Without them, the cities were practically unable to launch any attacks, leaving the populations trapped inside.

“Herr General, we have a communication from someone on the radio,” his aide said. Model looked up sharply; the airwaves had been jammed ever since the attack had begun. “He claims to be the British commander.”

“Give me the headphones,” Model said, taking the small radio. “This is General Walther Model.”

“My name is General Robert Flynn,” the voice at the far end said. “General, your people were attempting to prepare gas shells.”

The note of cold condemnation within his voice stunned Model. “General, your forces have invaded Germany and…”

“This is no time for posturing,” General Flynn snapped. “General, allow me to summarize the situation; my forces have broken your defence line in five places, shattering your ability to counter-attack. You have nothing left to hit us with, and further fighting would be futile.”

Model sighed. “I might have one or two tricks left,” he said.

“Bollocks,” Flynn said, in English. “General, think of your men. You cannot resist further to any useful end. We have trapped thousands of your men and they will be worn down and destroyed, unless you surrender.” He paused. “Think of the civilian population, which would be utterly devastated by a long siege.”

“Enough,” Model snapped. “If you cut your jamming, I will issue the order to surrender, understand?”

Flynn didn’t seem to notice the sharp tone. “I understand,” he said. “Be warned; if there is trickery, your forces will suffer.”