Harry Turtledove - Alternate Generals

Sperrle s target had been London.

Bombing civilians ran against conscience, and struck Moelders as poor strategy besides. Should have hit their airfields, their factories, their radar. And he should never have stopped looking at England. Sperrle’s idea of reconnaissance only went to show how long it had been since that man had ever been in a cockpit.

To a fighter pilot, seeing—seeing first—was life.

Moelders knew that the Alhes knew what he was doing.

Even after taking out their reconnaissance flights.

“As a cloak of secrecy, we operate like a sieve,” muttered in hiding under the snarl of Merlin engines. Allied fighter sweeps were relentless.

Thank God for the VI sites. Stupid, random weapons to his mind. Good for drawing off vast tonnages of Allied bombs. The Allies did much better shooting Vis out of the air than they did hitting their bases. But let them try. Gave them something to bomb that was not one of Moelders’ airfields.

At once he was hauled back to explain to the Fuhrer what he thought he was doing; why was he taking fighter cover away from Berlin; and why were those jets going operational without bomb racks on them?

Aides cringed outside the doors of the Fuhrer’s inner sanctum, expecting the young general to reemerge carrying his handsome head under his arm.

Moelders had brought back pictures of English harbors.

Watery blue eyes scanned with incomprehension, amazement. Couldn’t understand, would not believe what he was seeing.

“Where did you get these?”

“I took them myself.”

The Fuhrer stared in the shock of being blindsided.

He’d been advised that the Allies were planning an invasion, but this. This. No one had dared describe this to Adolf Hitler.

Moelders added, “Every harbor looks like that. The buildup along England’s southern coast is so big the whole island is tilting.”

Hitler had gone white with rage. The bearer of bad news waited.

The voice came very soft, directed inward, “I have long known my generals are not telling me everything they know. What of the north? You didn’t take any pictures of Patton’s army.”

“Too easy. It’s almost as if they want us to take pictures of that stuff.”

Softly, almost a dare, “And where do you think the attack will come?”

There were 800 miles of coast to defend.

“Mein Fuhrer, I don’t care where they think they’re coming.”

The eyes grew quite round. Forelock drooped across ridged brow. Waited for him to explain that. Better be good.

“I wouldn’t cower in my house waiting for a thief to break in. I would storm out and hit him.” His finger landed on a picture of Southhampton Harbor crowded with transport ships, their netted decks packed with tanks.

“Here.”

Hitler rose, vibrating. He gave Moelders his head all right. And threw the reins and everything else he could call to bear in behind him against England.

He wanted the roads of France lined with antiaircraft batteries. Mines. He wanted mines in the Channel. And aircraft. Why was aircraft production at a pitiful 1000 planes a month?

The Owls came in the moonlight, when they could see, in case the Allies jammed their radar. HE 219’s were new in the West. Quick, versatile, they had been keeping the Bear at bay on the Eastern front.

The London Blitz had ended three years ago. So when the air raid sirens wailed back to life, one had to assume it was another VI rocket strike. Either that or another spasmodic terror raid on London. Those seldom came anymore.

The sector controller saw the plots rising over France, over Belgium, over Norway, swarming, and heading toward England. A mass of them. Too many targets.

Scramble, they ordered. Scramble everybody.

But as the raiders crossed the coast, they dropped bundles of Dueppel radar-reflective foil, and they turned.

Allied fighters rose to meet an attack on London that did not come. The Owls veered and struck no deeper than the coastline—the harbors and the coastal airfields of Hawkenge, Manston, Tangmere and Lympne.

All the AA in the world ripped open the skies to give the intruders a 90-mm salute. The guns only fired to 12,000 feet at night so as not to hit friendly fighters.

The enemy bombers were high and the friendly fighters were over London.

As the first wave of bombers retreated, they left some targets burning bright enough for the second wave to see. The second wave did not even need the pathfinder flares to light the way. They slammed in under the radar, popped up over target and skulked off low over the water.

The British claimed nine intercepts. The Germans counted three losses to groundfire.

But night bombing was never very accurate—almost as accurate as night intercepts—and Moelders wondered if they’d inflicted any real damage.

During the London Blitz, daylight used to bring an end to the bombing. Dawn’s first light this day brought an enormous wave of bombers, largest yet. Some of them carried guided bombs, the kind the Luftwaffe sent against ships. The Owls were coming after the troop transports that would carry the invasion forces for Overlord.

Tempests and Spitfires and Mustangs stacked up over the coast to greet them.

A German guided bomb was on a wire, so there was no radar to jam. But the bomber needed a straight run to guide the bomb down by sight.

By God and Supermarine, they were not going to get one.

“Tally ho! Tally ho!” a Tommy called the attack.

“Watch for the fighter cover! Watch for the fighter cover!” the Allied fighters warned each other as they closed in for the kill.

The bombers straightened out for their attack run as if the interceptors were not there. As if they had guardian devils. Something was wrong.

The Hun bomber could not be here alone, even as the controller was reporting no plots overhead.

The Allied fighters craned their necks. Squinted into the sun for fighters. They had to be here.

They came from below like sharks. They looked like sharks with their blunt-point noses and swept-back wings.

And they climbed over you before you could twitch, tearing into your crate with 30-mm cannon as they whistled past.

“What the hell are those!”

A barrage of excited voices broke out in Moelders’ wake. He cursed himself for going too fast. Got in some strikes, not concentrated enough to bring the kite down.

Woke them up though.

“Did you see his tail fin!”

“Did I see—!” A sputter.

“I didn’t see sift!”

“Have a care there. Yank. There are ladies on the R/T.”

Quick apologies to the dulcet-voiced ground controller and back to yelping after the jets.

There are Huns on this frequency too, Moelders wanted to say. Had told his own squadrons to shut up on the radio. All the voices were English.

“Gotta be the Red Baron himself!”

“He’s dead, you clot.”

“He’s right there and I want him dead!”

Moelders pulled up high and clear to turn for another strike. Looked round for his wingman, Karl.

“Sorry, Yank. This one’s mine. See those chevrons? I believe that’s a ruddy Hun win co

It’s a ruddy Hun air marshal, if you don’t mind. Indignant. Singled out a target. Checked the aft fuel tank. Okay to dive. Pushed the throttle. Stomach flew back into the tail section.

“Here he comes. Here he comes—”

“I got him I got him I oh hell.”

” There he goes. Shit off a shovel.”

No kill. Too fast again. Diving like lightning. Approaching critical .86 mach. No shudder. The sweet fighter will let you loll yourself without warning. Eased back. Glanced back. Nest of them after him. Calling him a coward, bastard, sod.

Fine, Moelders thought as a raging tower of orange flame belching from below told him an Owl had struck something fuel-laden. At least some of the bombers had gotten through while these boys were chasing his scalp.