“There are fishing boats all around the south coast of England,” Philby said carefully. “Any one of them could get us to France; hell, there are reports of Frenchmen using the boats to smuggle stuff in and out of Vichy France. The fishermen haven’t even stopped in time of war. They have kept fishing, and they are feeding part of the south coast through their efforts.”
Skorzeny rolled his eyes.
“You British couldn’t secure a thing,” he said dryly. Philby, who would have privately agreed, said nothing. “In the Reich, we do not allow such behaviour.”
“Without their efforts, the south coast would be much more hungry,” Philby said, half-smiling. “Would you want to be the Government that told millions of people to starve rather than allow the fishermen to continue their trade?”
“Democracy is an alien concept to me,” Skorzeny growled. It was true, Philby knew. The Reich had never been a democratic state and the state before it, the Weimer Republic, had failed spectacularly. They had been meant to vote in a communist government, but instead they had trusted Hitler, a dreadful mistake. “Are you confident that you can get us all out that way?”
“As long as we move quickly, we could be in France within hours,” Philby promised. “I think that we could make it without any major problems.”
“Good,” Skorzeny said. “Now, it’s time to start figuring out the answer to the most important question in the world; how can we get a clear shot at Winston Churchill?”
Chapter Forty-Six
South of Colchester, England
Captain Harry Jackson stood to attention, along with the other officers and men, as the Jeep pulled to a halt in front of them. Monty himself, a tall wiry man, stepped out of the vehicle, followed by a smaller portly man who drew all of their attention to his face and the single defiant cigar poking out from between his lips. They’d all seen photos and the occasional film, but meeting Winston Churchill in person was something different; he was every bit as impressive as they said. The line of soldiers snapped out a salute, which both men returned, and then relaxed as Monty ordered them to stand at ease.
“Thank you, all of you,” Churchill said, his voice ringing out without the use of a loudspeaker. Jackson was silently impressed. Churchill knew how to speak in public. Even the occasional bursts of gunfire to the north were dim in comparison to his voice. “Through your efforts, the British Empire will yet be saved from the Hun, and all of you will be remembered; if England lasts a thousand years, your names will live on as the saviours of the country and the finest fighting men that England has ever produced!”
Jackson smiled to himself. His father had fought in the Great War and had often spoken bitterly of how returning soldiers had been treated. Perhaps it would be different this time, or maybe their sacrifices would be forgotten just as quickly, but it hardly mattered. For now, all that mattered was throwing the Germans back into the sea. He’d been holding the responsibilities of an officer several levels above him and he knew that Monty was trying frantically to reorganise the army before taking the offensive again.
Jackson hoped it wouldn’t be too soon. The infantry he was reorganizing had taken a beating at the hands of the Germans. Even now, a week after the battle, units were still being reconstituted and training together, before being moved up to the lines for patrolling.
The Germans were patrolling much more aggressively than they had before, making life dangerous all along the line. Their infantry remained dug in around Colchester, miles to the north. The fighting might have died down, but it hadn’t stopped altogether; if the Germans suspected that Churchill was at the camp, they might have tried to shell it to get rid of him and a few dozen soldiers… and Monty, of course.
Monty stepped forward as Churchill finished his speech. “Captain Harry Jackson, step forward,” he said. Jackson took a breath and stepped forward, facing Monty directly. “Captain, you have served the Home Guard and the British Army well, and you have earned a promotion,” Monty said. “For your services, it is my pleasure to promote you to the rank of Colonel in the Home Guard, a title that reflects the responsibilities you have been given and discharged with such success. I expect great things from you in future.”
He smiled at Jackson as he stepped back into the line and called on the next officer. He hadn’t expected a promotion so quickly — the Home Guard didn’t promote as rapidly as the regular army — but now he had it, he felt a little strange.
Monty promoted seven more officers, one after the other, before finally stepping back and addressing them all. “I’m proud of you,” he said simply. Jackson felt his heart swelling. “Soon enough, we will advance and take back what’s ours from the Germans and rid our land of their scourge. God save the King!”
“God save the King,” the soldiers echoed.
“Dismissed,” Monty said. Jackson saluted and left the field, heading back to the training ground that held his soldiers and several other companies, or were they all under his command now? He had spent most of his time training new units and getting them to work together.
He made a mental note to pick up his new uniform from the office later. Somehow, the British Army was never short of uniforms, although there were shortages of everything else useful at the moment. He knew from listening to General Barron that they’d fired off too much ammunition and lost too many tanks to take the offensive at once, but replacements were on their way from British factories, Canada and America. Once they arrived and were distributed, he hoped that they could take the offensive and drive the Germans out of the country he loved. Perhaps that would end the war… or perhaps it would go on forever.
Alex DeRiemer watched as Churchill spoke to group after group of British soldiers, reassuring them that their sacrifices were not in vain and that their country would remember them after the war, something that DeRiemer suspected was rather uncertain. Churchill himself had been remembered after the last war, as had Monty and a few others, but most of the common soldiers had been quietly forgotten, their lives something unimportant to the vast majority of people. The struggle to survive had drained that much from the country.
His eyes glanced around the military camp, trying to take in its awesome size. He had never seriously considered the army as a career, not after what had happened to his uncle in the last war, it still surprised him to see just how large the camp actually was. There were thousands of soldiers walking everywhere and carrying massive loads with them; only the quiet surrounding Churchill was noticeable. The camp hummed and throbbed at all hours of the day, with the soldiers desperately preparing for the resumption of the war, something that everyone he’d spoken to expected to come quickly. The Germans might take the offensive again, or maybe they would wait for the British to launch their attack, but either way, both sides knew that the status quo wouldn’t last. If the Germans built up first, they would take the offensive and seek to punch through to London.
He grimaced. London exerted its baleful influence over the fighting; for one side, it was the target they must protect, for the other, it was the place they must take to win the war. DeRiemer knew that Churchill had contingency plans to continue the fighting after London fell, assuming that it did fall, but the blow to British morale would be staggeringly huge. London had been turned, by the BBC, into a fortress that had resisted the worst the Germans could throw at it; God alone knew what would happen if London fell. Would defeatism take the British population, as it had taken the French in 1940, or would they feel a renewed determination to fight on?