He scowled. The Turks were untermensch, sub-humans, and the sooner Turkey was cleansed of their filth, the better. He shouted orders at his own people, and the countless Turks, commanding them to work faster on the defence line. The British were probing their way towards the city, and he hadn’t wanted to fight in a city. The British – an enemy to be proud of – were being more daring than he remembered from the Battle of France; there, they had fought bravely, but had had very bad leadership, nothing at all like his own people.
I wanted to capture Rommel, he thought. He’d requested that his own force be assigned to the Middle East, but instead the SS had sent them to Gallipoli. He smiled; maybe the headquarters had known what they were doing, although if they’d warned him of a British attack…
“Herr Standartenfuehrer, the British are closing in on us,” Oberscharfuehrer Jung reported. “Scouts report a Panzer column, less than a mile away.”
“They move quick, don’t they?” Kaiser asked cheerfully, feeling the respect for a worthy foe. He glared over at the Turks who should be handling the World War One-era field guns. “What the hell are they doing?”
“Who knows what untermensch talk amongst themselves?” Oberscharfuehrer Jung said, who’d served with Kaiser long enough to know the required answer. “I shall force them into servicing the guns.”
He headed off. Kaiser lifted his binoculars and peered west, until a gunshot echoed out behind him. He spun around, to see Oberscharfuehrer Jung’s body falling backwards, with his head missing. He had only seconds to realise that the Turks were turning on the Germans, before one of them shot him neatly through the head.
The Challenger picked up speed as it headed along the road. It wasn’t a very good road, but it was good enough for the massive tank, and the Germans seemed to have stopped their tiny attacks. Captain Yates wasn’t relaxing; it reminded him way too much of Iran, when the defenders had let the Americans and British into their country, and then tried to cut off their supply lines.
“Captain, up ahead,” Benton said. Yates peered through the range finder, to see a Turkish man waving a white flag. “They want to surrender.”
“Humm,” Yates said, who’d been expecting trouble. The satellites had reported the defences; the plan had been to bomb it just before the tanks arrived. He tapped the radio. “All tanks, hang back; we’re going in.”
“We?” Benton asked, but he gunned the engine forward, heading for the Turk. He was unarmed, wearing a fez and a basic army uniform. “I think he’s a colonel.”
“Is he?” Yates asked, as the tank stopped, a few meters from the Turk. A weapon swung around to point at him; his dark skin paled. Yates keyed the outside microphone. “Explain yourself!”
“We wish to… surrender,” the Turk said, in very bad English. “We killed the” – the next word wasn’t in English, but it sounded unpleasant – “and we have been ordered to mate with you.”
“I really hope that that’s a translation error,” Yates muttered, calling for a translator to drive in on a jeep. Minutes later, a jeep raced up from the main force, carrying three men. There was a long conversation in Turkish. “Well?”
“The Turks have turned on the Germans,” the interpreter said. “He wants to ally with us.”
“That’s good, but we can’t have them at our back,” Yates said. “What did the Brigadier have to say?”
There was a long pause as they radioed for orders. “The Brig wants us to take them into custody,” Yates said finally. “We can’t risk having them at our back until we know they can be trusted.”
There was a second argument in Turkish. “He’s not happy about it,” the interpreter said finally.
“Boo fucking hoo,” Yates snapped. “Those are our orders, and for once they make good sense.”
“He says that the force will surrender provided they get good treatment,” the interpreter said finally. “Can you promise them that on your word as an officer?”
“Of course,” Yates said impatiently. The interpreter translated that for the Turk, who headed back over the hills. Minutes later, thousands of Turks arrived, almost twenty thousand who had been press-ganged into defending against the British.
“Fuck me,” Benton breathed.
“I guess they really hate the Germans,” Yates said. He adjusted the radio. “Sir, we need some help to set up a POW camp.”
“It’s on its way,” the radio said. “As soon as it arrives, you head on to Istanbul.”
Führerbunker
Berlin, Germany
28th June 1941
“You have failed us,” the Fuhrer bellowed. “Traitor!”
Field Marshal Kesselring could only hang his head in shame. The sudden treachery of the Turks had completely torn open whatever hope there was of holding the supply lines to General Heinz Guderian, in the Middle East. Nearly half a million soldiers were in the Middle East, a disaster fully comparable to the Battle of Tannenberg in 1914. Unless Turkey could be recovered…
“Stalin will be at our throats,” Hitler bellowed. “He’ll take the territory that we have gained and use it for his own puny system.”
Himmler coughed. “Is there any way to salvage the situation?” He asked. “It can’t be as bad as it looks.”
Kesselring blinked at him. Support from the Reichsführer-SS tended to come with a price tag attached. “We have to reopen the supply lines,” he said. “The only way to do that is to order Guderian to attack Turkey, assuming that we can get the message through.” Hitler’s face twisted; they’d lost landline contact with Guderian as soon as Istanbul had fallen. The British jamming was preventing them from making radio contact.
“We could send orders through the lines through Russia,” Himmler said. He scowled; the lines through Russia might have been intact, but they were hardly secure. The NKVD would be reading each and every signal that went through them.
“The forces assembled in Greece could be used to launch a counter-attack,” Kesselring said. “If we re-take Istanbul, we could hammer the Turks into submission. We have had some success with air attacks, even through the British have given our aircraft a hammering, and we could pour everything into a relief effort.”
Hitler glared at him through strange eyes. “You had better succeed,” he said finally. “There are thousands of Germans depending upon you.”
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
28th June 1941
The war room was full again, with the Leader of the Opposition and several other politicians, all showing a united front. Hanover scowled at them all; they would be quite happy to claim credit for the victory, but they would be more than happy to discard blame for the defeats, should there be any.
“The Marines have successfully secured Istanbul,” Stirling said, using a laser pointer to indicate places on the map. “The Turkish switch of sides sealed their defeat; a lot of Germans were killed and others surrendered to us. The supply lines to the Middle East are cut.”
He adjusted the display. “The Turkish Government has requested our help on a number of different matters,” he said.
“They seem to feel that we owe them something,” Admiral Grisham muttered, from her seat. “As if the Germans could have done as much as they did without their support.”