General Kurt Student, one of the Luffwaffe’s premier generals, stepped onto the tarmac of a hidden runway and nodded to the man waiting for him under the awning. Almost the entire 1st Fallschirmjäger Division, the paratroopers, was gathered here and in bases on Italy itself, preparing for their most desperate mission. They’d expected to have been used to take Crete, as they had in the original history, but Greek resistance had folded rapidly.
“Heil Hitler,” he snapped, forming a perfect Nazi salute. He dropped it almost as quickly, moving forward to give the man a hug. “Christ, Wilhelm; it’s good to see you again.”
General-Lieutenant Wilhelm Süssmann, commander of the 1st Fallschirmjäger Division, returned the hug. “You too, sir,” he said. “We’re ready and waiting for the command.”
“You go in an hour,” Student said. He tapped the Ritterkreuz, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, he wore. “The victory at Crete proved the superiority of the new tactics, and you know what you’re doing.” He sighed. “I wish I was going with you.”
Süssmann laughed. “I wish you were coming as well, sir,” he said.
Student chuckled. “I always knew you had it in for me,” he said. “Wilhelm, don’t lose this battle, ok?”
Süssmann nodded, suddenly serious. “We’ll do this or die trying,” he said. “Sir, will you address the men?”
Student nodded. Süssmann shouted a command and the men lined up. Student inspected them all proudly. “You are some of the finest men Germany has produced,” he said, and they cheered. “No, you are the finest men, and today you will make Germany proud of you!”
He paced along the lines, looking for a single error by force of habit. “Your task is to take the British Island of Malta and deny it to our enemies,” he said. “You know your mission, so understand; if you lose radio communications, or the commanders, press on anyway. Do not fail; this battle could decide the war!”
He sighed. They’d built as much redundancy into the system as they could, designating no less than fifty commanding officers for the 10’000-strong division. Every transport plane and glider that Student could scrape up was here, new planes and old, ready to descend on the tiny island. He knew he should be confident, but the future history told of the near-defeat of the commandos on Crete. The 7500 troops waiting in Taranto would be useless; despite the plans of the Kriegsmarine, Student knew that they would be unable to cross the sea unless a miracle happened.
“I know that you will all do your duty,” he thundered, and the men cheered again. “Go now and win glory!”
Malta
Mediterranean Sea
10th May 1041
HMS Warspite hung at anchor near Malta. In his stateroom, Admiral Somerville contemplated the reports from the Middle East, and the far more private report from Lord Linlithgow. The battles were punishing the British Army, sometimes quite badly, but it was also forging something new, a new camaraderie between new and old forces. Now that most Contemporary forces had been reequipped, their combat power could only increase, and they were becoming more and more equal to the 2015 forces.
I imagine Smuts will be pleased, Somerville thought absently. He scowled as his pager rang, and then the alarms started to ring. He jumped to his feet as the watch officer called for him to come to the CIC, and then the ship brought up its engines. Somerville, an old sea dog, had no difficulty in keeping his feet, but it added a new urgency to the situation. He made his way along the corridors into the CIC, cursing the sudden change in the ship’s motion.
“Report,” he snapped, as he entered the room. He caught sight of the big display and swore. Red icons were rising up from Italy, dozens of them.
“We have a major raid in progress,” Tom said. The young officer was already hard at work with his beloved computers. “So far, there are at least three hundred German aircraft forming up over Sicily.”
Somerville cursed. He’d read enough of the future history books to have a good idea of what the Germans were trying to do. “It’s an invasion,” he said grimly. “Alert Malta.”
“Already done,” Tom assured him. “They will have received the warning as soon as we did.”
Somerville shook his head. He wasn’t sure what he felt about the automated warning progress, but it was far more effective than telephone calls. “Order them to confirm that they’ve taken defensive positions,” he said. “Warn London and then warn the commander in the Middle East.”
“They’ll have picked up the warning, but I’ll forward it anyway,” Tom said. “Sir, the RAF is scrambling from Tunisia and Ark Royal is launching her Sea Harriers.”
Somerville stared down at the display. No one needed to brief him on the status of his ships; their computers kept his automatically updated. The Italians – he still thought of them that way – wouldn’t take too long to reach Malta, and when they did, they would try to land. He’d studied Crete; he knew why the British had lost in the original history.
“Tom,” he said slowly, “can your radars tell which German aircraft is what type?”
“To within a high degree of probability,” Tom said. “The radars can sort them out… ah, ten minutes until they get here.”
“Germans are very good on the ground,” Somerville said, more to himself. It didn’t seem sporting somehow. “On the other hand, if we designate their transports and gliders for the first targets… they won’t get near the ground.”
“Good thinking,” Tom said. Somerville glared at him. Tom didn’t notice. “I think there are fifty gliders and seventy transport aircraft,” he said. “I’m transmitting orders to the linked batteries now.”
Somerville nodded to himself. It was one of the reasons he liked the CIC; he could issue orders and they would be obeyed at once. Unless a ship was in serious danger, its anti-aircraft weapons would move automatically on his command.
“Fire,” he said. “Sweep the skies clean.”
General-Lieutenant Wilhelm Süssmann barely felt the warm trickle in his pants as a streak of light lanced up at his glider… and swept past them to slam into a transport. The massive transport simply vaporised in a blast of fire; the entire battle was rapidly becoming a nightmare. Strange aircraft swept past, firing madly at the Luffwaffe aircraft, which tried to fight back as best as they could.
They’re picking us off, Süssmann realised, as a burst of tracer fire swept through a glider. He shuddered and closed his eyes as the glider fell out of the sky and plunged towards the ocean before levelling off. The pilot, a Luffwaffe ace, knew what he was doing. Malta rose up ahead of them as the glider swooped down and crash-landed.
“Everyone out, move, move,” Süssmann snapped, grabbing his machine pistol. They had come down on a field; he drew in a breath as he realised how lucky they’d been. It was the last breath he took as the emplaced troops opened fire. Before he could react, the machine guns had fired, and ripped the glider and his troops from end to end. There were no survivors.