He tapped neatly on the driver’s window. “Just pull up by the main building,” he ordered, and nodded in the direction of Eisenhower. The American was studying the complex without the disdain that Stirling had half-expected; in fact he seemed to be nodding in approval.
“Time to get out, sir,” Stirling said, and opened the door. Eisenhower followed him, more the General now that he had something familiar to get his teeth into. “This is the main common room.”
Eisenhower stepped inside the bulky room and examined the collection of electronic toys and equipment. “What are… they for?” He asked. “What good are they?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” Stirling said, unflappably. “Even soldiers need some time to unwind. Those tools are used for entertainment – there’s a cinema in the next room that seats five hundred – and emails to home. Unfortunately, I am legally obliged to warn you that any email they send will be read while its in the buffer.”
“I suspect that the censors will want to do the same,” Eisenhower said. “You consider this just… adequate?”
Stirling lifted an eyebrow. “Is it that obvious?” He asked. “Yes, this is pretty basic; there are none of the advanced training facilities that get used at Sandhurst or the RAF bases.”
“It’s more than they will expect,” Eisenhower said. “It’s cleaner than most United States barracks as well.”
“Sanitation is important,” Stirling said, leading the way into one of the barracks. Hundreds of bunk beds stretched ahead of them; Eisenhower poked one of the mattresses thoughtfully. “We expect our soldiers to clean their own lockers and make their own beds, I’m afraid.”
Eisenhower gaped at him. “You seem to be expecting us to be… well, prissy-boys.”
“You would be amazed at the fuss the 3rd Infantry made during the exercise we held last year… sorry, sixty-odd years in the future,” Stirling said. He led the way into the washing rooms. “Hot and cold water is always available here,” he said. “The underground tanks are kept perpetually heated and are available to anyone who asks. Showers are either public, over there” – he waved a hand at the row of open showers – “or private, over there. Legally, we have to provide both options when not at war; its something to do with having female soldiers.”
Eisenhower snorted. “Women would go to pieces on a battlefield,” he said.
“They fight very well,” Stirling said. “About a third of the RAF and the Navy are women. The only department that has only a handful of women is the SAS; while women can join, they need to be ultra-fit and strong.”
He led the way back outside, allowing Eisenhower to see how the building worked; a gigantic cross on the ground. “There are five barracks, arranged like a five-side of a dice,” he said. “Each one can hold a thousand soldiers, and there are more complexes like it in the region. We can accommodate your soldiers, you can train them on the fields or in the woods, depending upon what you want to do.”
“Thank you,” Eisenhower said finally. “These buildings will suit us fine.”
He tried to put a note of lofty condensation into his voice and didn’t quite make it. “What about the ships?”
“We have something of a problem there,” Stirling admitted. “Some of them will have to be based in Ireland until D-Day, but fortunately the Irish have agreed to that in exchange for some assistance in ending their civil war.” He shook his head; the war in Ireland had grown to the point that thousands of Protestants were heading to South Africa, which was accepting all the white men it could find. “The facilities at Scarpa Flow will require years to get them back into what they were, but they won’t be needed for this, I think.”
Eisenhower nodded. “Tell me something, young man,” he said. “If the force in Norway does get into trouble, will your people help out?”
Stirling’s brain whirled. He might work directly for the Prime Minister, and the Oversight Committee, but that hardly qualified him to issue any promises. Rather the opposite, in fact, and he was certain that Eisenhower knew that.
“I imagine that we’d do what we can,” he said finally. “I’m not in any position to…”
“Relax,” Eisenhower said. Stirling lifted an eyebrow. That expression wasn’t contemporary. “I know that you’re not in any position to make promises, but I would be interested in a soldier to soldier discussion.”
Stirling nodded slowly. The entire discussion was being recorded. The Oversight Committee could dissect it later. “We have limited resources,” he said. “I know that a great deal of contingency planning has gone into a rescue mission, but just how feasible it is? I don’t know.”
Eisenhower scowled. “I do know that the RAF is perfectly capable of cutting off Norway from the rest of the German Reich,” he said. “The terrain in Norway favours you more than them, as they won’t have many tanks. You should be able to win, General,” Stirling continued.
“Thank you,” Eisenhower said. “Now… when do we go to London? The first troops are supposed to arrive tomorrow on ships.”
Stirling waved a hand at the tilt-rotor sitting on the helicopter pad. “Right this way,” he said. “They have a formal reception planned; I hear that the King himself will be coming.”
“Oh goody,” Eisenhower said sardonically. Stirling thought of all the homage paid in the future to Kings and Princes, and said nothing.
Camp Tommy/Newcastle
Nr Newcastle, United Kingdom
28th April 1941
The original plan had called for launching the operation in early May, but events had made that impossible. Private Max Shepherd, 1st Marine Corps, didn’t mind at all. The future Britain, if he understood the briefing correctly, was fascinating; it was so… rich. The people seemed to be happy and contented; they had toys and games – and almost everyone had a car – that even the richest people in America lacked.
Shepherd shook his head with awe. Born in Tennessee, he’d rarely used a bathroom and had gone to the toilets in the woods, and the super-luxurious barracks were fantastic. From what he gathered, not all of the Americans were accommodating well to the new situation; expecting to be worshipped by the women had moved to disgust. The women of Britain simply weren’t that impressed with the Americans, those who weren’t paid for the pleasure.
Still, their first week at Camp Tommy wasn’t bad, insofar as the Marine Commander had ordered a full training schedule. Captain Caddell kept them on their toes, forcing them through constant repetition of drills; drills and more drills, practicing loading and unloading the LSTs and their small flotilla of craft on the Newcastle beach, before staggering back to the barracks to catch some sleep. The British had offered them buses to transport them over the five miles to the beach, which had been rigged up as a primitive landing site, but the Commandant had refused.
“We need to remain tough,” he said, and had insisted on the Marines marching to and from the beach, unless they’d been injured. Crowds turned out to gawk at them; shopkeepers tried to sell them their wares. Without a proper exchange rate, the British had settled for loaning each man £100 per week, which was used for private activities. Apparently, a racket had already begun; men trading their pounds for goods from America.