Christopher Nuttall - The Invasion of 1950

“Strip,” he ordered, once the Germans had been searched for hidden surprises. They had been carrying a surprising number of weapons on their uniforms, from ceremonial knifes to smaller knifes and even a few grenades, all of which the Grey Wolves added to their collection. The Germans, stripped down to their underwear, were rapidly handcuffed, gagged, and urged down the steps into the basement where they were chained to the wall. Davall suspected that they might manage to escape eventually — it was a lot harder to gag someone effectively than it was in the American cowboy films — but by then, one way or the other, it would all be settled. “Remain here, and you will not be harmed.”

The German uniforms didn’t fit perfectly, but they could all pass reasonably well, provided that they didn’t have to talk to the enemy for long. Three of the Grey Wolves spoke perfect German, but their accents wouldn’t be perfect. The only way they would succeed in infiltrating the HQ would be through surprise and speed. They checked the weapons, noticing how few rounds each German carried, and marched out of the house. Davall forced his face to remain blank as he caught the eye of some of the townspeople. They didn’t see him, but only the SS man, wearing the hated uniform. He might be killed by one of his own people.

The Germans buzzed around like a hornet’s nest. Davall saw dozens of SS officers running backwards and forwards, some of them seemingly without any clear idea of what they were doing, while still others were heading out on commandeered vehicles. The SS vehicles they’d seen back at the start of the invasion were gone, replaced now by British vehicles, none of which had really been designed for security purposes. They approached the barracks gate expecting to be challenged at any moment, but instead the guards let them in and waved them towards an officer. Davall guessed that the officer wanted a report of what was happening on the streets, but they didn’t dare try to fool him. The officer could quite possibly know all of his men by sight. The Germans might have looked alike in the black uniforms and coal-scuttle helmets to the watching British, as if someone had hewn them out of cold clay, but the Germans could probably tell the difference between them. Davall led his men towards the main entrance to the barracks, just as a crowd of men burst out, heading towards the exit and out onto the streets. There would never be a better opportunity…

Davall lifted his German-made assault rifle and opened fire. The others followed suit. Caught by surprise, the Germans were hacked down quickly and efficiently. The guards at the gate, expecting a British raid from the outside, turned too late. Two of Davall’s men gunned them down before running to the gates and closing them completely. The Germans on the outside would know that something had gone badly wrong, but it would take them time to realise what had happened and by then, Davall hoped to have completed their task and vanished into the side streets.

“Move,” he ordered as he gunned down a German officer. They left bloody foot prints on the pavement, with dead or wounded Germans everywhere, but there was no time to finish off the wounded. The Germans on the inside should know that they were under attack and couldn’t be allowed to regroup, or the attack would fail before it had even begun. He unhooked a fragmentation grenade from his belt and tossed it into the lobby, before following in and shooting down a pair of German clerks who had been sheltered by their desks. The files that had recorded every detail of every person who lived in Felixstowe were caught and slowly burned to ash. Davall laughed aloud as he threw more grenades into the barracks, hearing the screams of Germans who were caught by surprise before they even had a chance to react and escape, let alone counter-attack

Their target would be on the second floor. He led the way up the stairs as quickly as possible. It would be just like the Standartenfuhrer to manage a quick escape and leave his men in the lurch. He had to be found before that happened.

Standartenfuhrer Ludwig Stahl had lost control and knew it. The British offensive had been augmented by an entire series of insurgent attacks, and he’d given up ordering reprisals because he no longer had the men to do it. Rommel’s demands for men had weakened him to the point where he was trying to control a vast area with only a few hundred men. Although he hated to admit it, he had lost his grip over almost all of the countryside. The only place that was reasonably ruled was Ipswich and that, he knew, was because there were thousands of German soldiers in the city. It was all he could do to hold on to the vital targets and keep the roads to the port open… not that it mattered any more The supply ships had been held back as the naval war raged, by the time a winner emerged, Stahl was starting to suspect that it would be too late for the lodgement.

He glared across at the French whore on his bed. She was holding one of her hands to her jaw where he had punched her in a fit of anger. She hadn’t deserved his rage, but the cold knowledge that he was losing control of everything and that his career was in flaming ruins had driven him into a frenzy. What could he do to reverse the trend? He couldn’t think of anything, short of mass slaughter, and he didn’t even have the manpower to do that; the most he could do was kill everyone in the detention camps… and violate Rommel’s orders in the process. The SS would get the blame for the loss of the lodgement, and Himmler would be furious. Stahl had considered trying to find a way back to Germany, but without a major wound, that was impossible. The transport aircraft were reserved for wounded men and officers.

“Damn you,” he said, wondering if there was any way to convince Rommel to return his men. Without them, it wouldn’t be long before he lost control over the vital areas as well, and then the failure would be impossible to reverse. “I need the…”

The shooting broke out, so close to Stahl’s hearing that he almost fainted, and he snatched his personal weapon out of his belt. It sounded as if the British were attacking his barracks… and, oddly enough, it made him smile. Everything had just boiled down to the simple matter of staying alive, rather than trying to control and contain an impossible situation. He laughed and turned to the French whore, hoping to share his new understanding, only to see her flying at him, knife in hand. Sheer surprise kept him motionless for a long chilling moment… and then Janine buried her knife in his throat, sending him falling to the ground and into darkness. He was barely aware of her final kick to his groin before he died.

“Janine,” Davall cried as they broke into the office. Janine was standing over a very familiar SS officer, clothed in an oversized shirt that would have been white except for the blood covering her. She pulled her knife out of the monster’s throat. Davall felt conflicted. He had wanted to break him with his own hands, but he was also relieved that Janine was safe. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better,” Janine said, managing a weak smile. Davall’s eyes tracked the bruises on her body and lifted a questioning eyebrow. Her voice hardened into a steely tone. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I see,” Davall said. Whatever Janine had gone though in her final days as a whore, it wasn’t something she wanted to talk about. Davall didn’t want to think about what her captor might have done to her. “We have to get out of here!”

Janine picked up a robe, covered herself more appropriately, and followed Davall and his men into the next room. A handful of blonde typists sat there crying. Davall allowed himself a moment of disgust as he saw how the women trembled while Janine had killed her tormentor. He saw the blonde woman who had taken down their details, long ago, and shot her through the head, leaving the others to remain behind in the burning barracks. The Germans would be trying to organise a counter-attack, but as long as they didn’t know what was happening for certain, there was still a chance to escape.