“What the hell are we fighting?” The driver asked. “They’re mad!”
“I think our tactics need work,” Northcott observed. “That could have been very nasty.”
War Room
Canberra, Australia
15th April 1942
HMS Ocean had been damaged in the Battle of the Indian Ocean, but she had been repaired and pressed into service again with the Royal Marines. As Turtledove watched on the display, the Marines slammed into Truk, firing madly as they assaulted the Japanese base.
He scowled grimly. It wasn’t that Truk wasn’t a priority target; it was that Menzies wanted it as a naval base for the Royal Australian Navy or the Commonwealth Navy, depending on the outcome. Menzies had been like a man who saw the future; Australia’s best hope lay with the new Commonwealth, and he’d worked hard for the Commonwealth Protocols.
Turtledove shrugged and turned to scowl at the reports from New Guinea. The Japanese had fought like mad bastards – how else – and they’d nearly stymied the first assault. Even the massive aerial bombardment hadn’t shaken them enough for the tankers to dig them out; even now, one of the large bombers was delivering a MOAB to the main Japanese base.
“You’re not happy, Admiral?” Menzies said. Turtledove blinked; the Prime Minister had a gift for wandering around quietly. “Has the attack failed?”
Turtledove studied the display for a long moment. The icons for the Marines were closing in on the main Japanese centre of resistance. “No, Prime Minister,” he said, acknowledging the irony. “The attack is going better than I dared expect.” He smiled. “If they’d hit us on the beaches, they could have seriously embarrassed us, but digging into mountains is useless when we can bomb them out.”
Menzies nodded. Turtledove, who’d known that some people had suggested the use of nerve gas, was relieved. The edict from Prime Minister Hanover forbidding its use had remained in place. “And you have concerns,” Menzies said.
“This is a land grab,” Turtledove said, taking his career in his hands. Menzies said nothing. “You’re using your soldiers to grab territory for future use.”
Menzies nodded. “There is a limited window of opportunity to solve two problems at one time,” he said. He gazed at the map. “In the future, the richest countries are the ones with access to resources and Australia needs the resources of the East Indies,” he said. “At the same time, despite their wealth, the… ah, Indonesia posed a constant threat to Australian security. If we take control and help to develop a democratic state, we might just succeed in averting that problem.”
Turtledove frowned. He had to admit that the logic was compelling. How much of this had been Atwell’s idea? The man had written books about how Australia should impose a peace on Indonesia; it had been why he’d been sent to Britain. The Australian Government might have found the logic compelling as well, but the world of 2015 would not have tolerated it.
He blinked. Would the world of 1942?
“The submarines are on their way in, Prime Minister,” he said, changing the subject. “In a couple of weeks, the entire force will have exterminated the Japanese merchant fleet.”
Menzies smiled. “And secured Australia’s dominance over the Pacific,” he said. “That’s worth fighting for, I think.”
Chapter Fourteen: New Choices
Fuhrerbunker
Berlin, Germany
18th April 1942
Field Marshal Kesselring was never certain why he had agreed to work with Himmler, rather than accept the offer of honourable retirement. Certainly, Himmler was easier to work for than the late lamented Adolf Hitler, who had been practically canonised by the SS, but at the same time he was chilling to be near. The man who had overseen the activities in Poland and the Balkans, who had set the Reich and Stalin’s so-called worker’s paradise to work together, was chilling. A single word from him could end a career – or a life.
No, he knew what he told himself; that Himmler had no military experience and would surely have led Germany to disaster – greater disaster – without someone to advise him. If that was the truth, Kesselring himself didn’t know; he didn’t understand himself.
“The Americans are doing better than we feared,” he said, indicating the lines of the American advance through Sweden. Their new tactics, literally shelling the German strongpoints to death, weren’t as… neat as the blitzkrieg techniques, but they were undeniably effective. Without significant air cover, the Germans were doomed to lose Sweden… and the forces holding down Stockholm would be trapped.
Himmler nodded slowly, studying the map with a thoughtful impression. Unlike Hitler, there was no doubt that he understood it – and the sheer power of the driving will of General Patton. Patton might not have been a strategic genius, but there was nothing wrong with his tactics.
“Our allies can do nothing?” Himmler asked finally. He studied the marked Soviet forces, positioned in the north of Sweden and Norway, where they’d evicted the Americans from in the winter.
“General” – Kesselring’s mouth stumbled over the name – “Koniev has launched a series of attacks against American positions,” he said. He hated to give the Russians any credit; he was certain that Stalin would turn on them when it suited him. “Unfortunately, moving forces across American positions… has not proven easy.”
He indicated the red lines of advance. Koniev hadn’t learned much, although, to be fair, the terrain of Norway didn’t give him much chance to learn about manoeuvre warfare. He’d slammed into American positions with considerable force… and then the American and British bombers had gotten to work. They might make it to Trondheim – he didn’t think that they would get to where they had to be; Oslo and Bergen.
“I see,” Himmler said. His voice was deathly cold; Kesselring wondered who would be thrown to the wolves as punishment for the failure. “How would you recommend that we salvage the situation?”
Kesselring blinked. Hitler had rarely asked for suggestions, choosing to depend on his own considerable abilities at looking inside his opponent’s head and luck. In the future that would never be, the ability had finally deserted him – if he’d had it in the first place.
He paused a moment to consider. “We cannot hold on to Sweden,” he said. “I propose withdrawing the forces in Stockholm and allowing the Russians to take over there. Even with aerial interdiction – the new rockets have worked very well – we can have them at Malmo within a week and evacuate them from Sweden.”
Himmler considered. “You would suggest abandoning territory?” He asked. His tone was mild. “Is it not a principle that territory held by the Reich should never be abandoned?”
“A strategic retreat,” Kesselring said, taking his life in his hands. “If the new weapons work, we can retake Sweden later – after a few months of Soviet occupation, they might be glad to see us. If they stay there, Mien Fuhrer, they will be destroyed?”
Himmler’s gaze swept up to the former commander of SS Das Reich, Ernst Barkmann. His war wounds, suffered during the attempt to retake Turkey, were bad, but there was nothing wrong with his mind. Kesselring felt mild relief; the man might be – was – an SS fanatic, but he had genuine combat experience. Future history said so.
“The Field Marshal is right,” Barkmann said. His voice had been damaged by the FAE bomb that had torn the heart out of Das Reich. “We cannot hold the country. Let the Untermensch have it; that will teach them to be good Aryans.”