Exercise Warhammer: The Beginning
It had seemed like a straightforward assignment - visit the headquarters of British and Commonwealth forces in Germany and provide an inside view of Exercise Warhammer, the largest peacetime British military exercise conducted on the Continent since the war. As Tom Fowler skimmed through the night sky over the woodland of Western Germany in a camouflaged and darkened Bristol Bulldog going altogether rather more quickly and quite a bit lower than would have been his preference, he began to think of how he might have got on his editor's bad side.
Before he could reflect much further, the crew chief tapped him on the shoulder and held up one finger straight in front of his face. That meant they were one minute out from the field headquarters of the British Army of the Rhine at Timeloberg, where his interview with General Sharpe awaited him. If he was lucky.
In the last 24 hours, he'd be blown from pillar to post by the bally autumn wind, soaked to the skin on the North Sea, buzzed by overly-enthusiastic Harriers and come closer than he'd ever wanted to a hungry dragon.
The helicopter began to turn and dip sharply as they approached the landing zone, jolting Tom in his seat and almost bringing up the supper he'd scoffed back at the aerodrome.
Well, here's to hoping his luck was turning
.....................................................................................................................
The SR.N5 hovercraft crested up over the stony beach, came to a juddering halt and slowly settled down as its skirt deflated. Tom jammed his fedora down on his head, picked up his briefcase and made his way towards the exit ramp. The pre-dawn North Sea Air could be charitably described as bracing and its combination with the tang of salt and sting of sand made for something of an unpleasant introduction to this, one of the beauty spots of the Empire, according to the brochure. As if on cue, it began to rain.
He clumped down the ramp alongside the other score or so of press men. Most were fellow Britons or Commonwealth types, but there were a smattering of Jerries, a trio of Yanks, two Dutchies and one rather green-looking Frenchman; the bumpy ride over the last four hours had put the poor fellow clean off his snails.
Waiting for them on the beach was an alarmingly cheerful Royal Navy lieutenant in a great coat carrying a clipboard like he knew how to use it.
"Good morning, good morning! Welcome to Heligoland! I'm Lieutenant Healey-Mattheson, Royal Navy European Squadron Command HQ. If you'll be so good as to follow me, we'll get out of this dratted weather and ready for the briefing. Don’t worry about your baggage; that’ll be sent along where it needs to go."
He spun about and lead the dampening journalists up the beach towards a squat concrete building that abutted the soaring cliff. The rain began to intensify, causing Tom to turn up the collar of his mackintosh and wonder briefly whether the correct collective noun for a group of journalists was a leak as he hurried through the steel blast door. Once out of the weather, his mood began to improve and permitted him to wonder just how deep under the earth and sea they were heading as they bustled down sloping corridors into an elevator room; he'd heard that 'HMS Heligoland' rivalled the Rock itself in this department, but never quite gave it proper credence.
At last they emerged into a cozily appointed meeting room arrayed with dozens of chairs, a plain wooden lectern, a covered briefing screen and no other decoration save for the obligatory portrait of the Queen. This was a room for business, it would seem.
Two ferocious looking tealadies pushed their trolleys in through a door in the opposite wall and began laying out the weapons of their craft - teacups, pots, milk jugs and plates of biscuits. Tom noted that they had merited rich tea and Nice biscuits, which put them slightly above the level of plain digestives (unwanted guests, burglars and Frenchmen) or hobnobs (condemned men and Radical MPs) but below the Jaffa cakes or custard creams one might offer an estranged cousin or postman. In this, the Andrew had probably got things right, he had to admit.
"Very good. Captain Rover will be along directly for the briefing, followed by flights out to your various ships, where you’ll be spending the morning prior to moving onto Hamburg, where Royal Marine Forces Germany will be receiving you for lunch. Do help yourselves to tea, chaps, and smoke them if you've got them, what!" Healey-Mattheson chirped up impossibly cheerily for this ungodly hour, causing a general shuffling towards the beverage facilities.
"You got a light, mac?" One of the Americans had fished out a Camel and turned to a tall, mustachioed fellow.
"No, but I've got a dark brown overcoat." Polite transatlantic incomprehension greeted the bon mot, so he sighed and fished out a lighter and produced a flame for the Yank, who grunted gruffly in thanks before drifting off into the crowd. He looked over at Tom and, seeing that he had witnessed the exchange, smiled in a comradely fashion.
"Americans. Divided by a common language and oceans apart in culture and language, in some ways. Why, once when I was in Korea, an enormous stink got kicked up because one of their officers didn't quite get the implication of a situation being described as 'a bit sticky'.
"Heaven forfend. Still, it could be worse. He could have wanted something other than a light."
"Such as?"
"He could have asked for coffee."
The man shuddered noticeably in distaste. "Then, we would have to ask him politely but firmly to leave."
"The briefing or the Atlantic Pact?"
"Definitely the former. With regard to the latter, I'll have to have a word with Eden and get back to you on that." He held his straight, aghast face for an instant before lapsing into a wry grin. "That's the spirit. Bit of a laugh and a natter and suddenly even a Heligoland morning can seem alright. I'm with The Times. You?"
"Daily Chronicle. Tom Fowler." He extended his hand, which was grasped and shook firmly.
"Simon Bailey. A pleasure to meet you."
Before the pleasantries could proceed further, an imposing figure Tom surmised to be Captain Rover entered the briefing room and strode towards the lectern, followed by a brace of lieutenants carrying an array of maps and charts that they positioned on the screen. Rover stood sternly before them until they quietened and took their seats in an expedited fashion. He extended out a natty pointing rataan pointing cane and rapped it on a large map of the North Sea and its immediate surrounds.
"Thank you, gentlemen. Exercise Warhammer officially began at midnight, with the formal orders for mobilisation and embarkation going out to over 250,000 Army and RAF personnel across the British Isles. A large proportion of manpower and light equipment is being flown across to the Low Countries and Germany by air courtesy of the Air Force and Imperial Reserve Air Fleet, but the majority of heavy vehicles and stores are being transported as they always have - by sea.
Approximately 96,000 personnel and 42,000 vehicles, trailers, tanks, carriers and lorries are to be carried across the Channel and the North Sea to disembark at Antwerp, Rotterdam, Amsterdam, Ostend, Zeebrugge, Calais and Dunkirk by 520 sailings, both of civilian ferries and military transports. Their close escort is being provided by the Channel Squadron operating out of Dover and Chatham and distant support comes from the Grand Fleet at Scapa and Rosyth, but the role of immediate covering force in the North Sea falls to us, the European Squadron.
To that end, operating between the Dogger Bank and here on Heligoland, we have over 50 Royal Navy and Commonwealth warships, including six carriers, two battleships, two guided missile battlecruisers, six cruisers and more than three dozen escorts. For the first time, vessels from Kenya and the West Indies are taking part; you may have seen the destroyer Cuba as you came into harbour. These major ships are augmented by substantial elements of RN Coastal Forces and patrol vessels and of course the minesweeper squadrons based out of Harwich.
Our role in this exercise is provide a protective shell for the movement of men and munitions to Europe and the squadron will subsequently be engaging in a variety of anti-air, anti-submarine and anti-surface drills and exercises against an opposition force provided by the Royal Netherlands Navy and Imperial German Navy. These naval forces provide a substantial proportion of Allied strength in the North Sea in peacetime and it will be very interesting to see how they perform.
Once the major elements of the crossing have been completed, the Squadron will then shift its emphasis to providing gunfire, missile and air support to the Army and Royal Marine forces taking part in the exercise in Germany; for the purposes of Warhammer, our contingency role in support of Allied forces in Denmark and Sweden is set aside.
The Royal Naval Air Service is deploying almost 450 aircraft of Home Command for Warhammer, ranging from the Spectre fighters on continuous CAP over the convoy transit area to the ASW patrol squadrons operating over the North Sea and Channel and the transport units engaged in communications and coordination flights.
As you make it to the Continent, our friendly colleagues in the Army and RAF may well put forward their cases that theirs are the most important roles in the entire exercise, but remember that, as always, it started with the Navy.”
Bailey, seated next to Tom, leaned over almost imperceptibly and whispered to him sotto voce.
“Methinks the Andrew pulled a few strings to make this the first press stop for a reason.”
Rover nodded to himself. “Very good. Now, there will be time for a few questions before you are allotted your ships and flown out to them. Yes, that man.” He indicated one of the Americans.
“Captain, why doesn’t Warhammer involve any other major elements of the Royal Navy?”
“Very simple, sir. If the Grand Fleet mobilised and put to sea at the same time as reinforcing our forces in Germany, it might have a deleterious effect on the broader world situation; likewise if we staged a major Atlantic anti-submarine exercise. Her Majesty’s Government, after consultation with our allies and General Gavin, have decided that we do not want to alarm certain nations.”
“So England is taking care not to offend Moscow?”
Rover gazed at the American coolly.
“No. Next question?”
This time it was one of the Dutch who piped up. “You mentioned the role of the Koninklijke Marine earlier. Can you expand upon it?”
“I can. The Dutch Carrier Strike Group 7 is one of the key elements of Allied naval strength in the North Sea in any potential conflict, both in terms of supporting your Benelux Rapid Deployment Force in Denmark and general sea control. Their part in this exercise will give us an opportunity to see how they perform up against a numerically superior opponent and I have no doubt they will acquit themselves with distinction. Yes, in the back row.”
“Captain, Franz Klugmann, Der Speigel. My question has two parts. Firstly, our navy is taking part in its first major military operation since the War. How does the British Navy regard the prospect of operating alongside its one time enemy? Secondly, can you make any comment on the German fielding of capital ships and carriers?”
“On the first, we welcome all opportunities to work with our allies. On the second, it is not my place to comment on the procurement decisions of other nations.” He coughed pointedly after delivering his pointedly noncommittal answer and looked at his watch. “Very well, that is all we have time for. If you proceed through the doors to your right, you’ll be distributed to your respective vessels for the morning’s operations.”
Without further ado, Rover strode off from whence he came, leaving the press pool to follow in his wake.
“Rather abrupt type, but one tends to find quite a few of them in the fleet at sea. Still, some interesting tidbits there, I should think.” Bailey remarked as they headed through the door.
“Indeed. It explains why Bomber Command isn’t involved in the aerial component.”
“At this time, all but the normal airborne alert bomber force and QRF are taking great pains to show they’re at a normal, peacetime posture and I’d wager the missiles squadrons are doing the same.”
“You’re remarkably well informed, Bailey.”
“You may very well think that; I couldn’t possibly comment.” He smiled as he walked off.
What a curious man, thought Tom.
Exercise Warhammer
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Exercise Warhammer Part 2: The Navy Lark
If Tom had been regretting his assignment on the bitter beach at Heligoland, by now, on board HMS Somme somewhere in the storm-tossed early morning grey of the North Sea, he was seriously lamenting his choice of career. The ride in the back of a Royal Navy Wessex had been fairly rough and ready, but that was nothing for what had come once he had landed on the destroyer, somewhere south of the Great Fisher Bank. Not even the complimentary woolen pullover or the reinforced oilskin coat seemed to keep out the wretched fingers of the freezing cold air or the lashings of dual rain – vertical and horizontal – that had greeted him as he stumbled out onto the helicopter deck. He had barely time to muster a sneeze before the burly chief petty officer had ushered him into the nominal shelter of the hangar, where he had been greeted by a lieutenant so chipper that he made Healey-Mattheson seem like a depressed tree sloth whose wife had just left him.
“Good morning, Mr. Fowler. I’m Lieutenant O’Brien. Welcome onboard the Somme! Beautiful weather, isn’t it? You can’t beat a nice autumn day out on the North Sea, what!”
Tom nodded slowly and sneezed, quite sure in his mind that O’Brien was well and truly out of his.
“Come along and we’ll get you to the wardroom for a spot of tea to warm up, eh?”
“Y..y..yes please.”
“That’s the spirit. After that, the Captain is up on the bridge awaiting you. We’re going to be joining up with the Gander and the Stellenbosch in a bit; the Cloggies have one of their new O boats coming in from Trondheim to test out our screen. Good thing conditions are fine and dandy.”
Tom stared at O’Brien silently in half-drowned journalese, but the beggar didn’t seem to get the message. He contented himself with a final withering gaze before following him through a seeming maze of passageways before they emerged in warm and altogether more salubrious surrounds in the form of the wardroom. It was cramped, certainly, as he was given to understand that most of the Battles were in this day and age, but in a rather homely fashion. Several nautical pictures, a small bookshelf and the customary portrait of Her Majesty adorned the wooden paneled walls, which O’Brien assured him were actually a cunningly treated Bakelite, and, whilst most of the room was taken up by the dining table, there was a nice plush chair partially recessed in an alcove all for him.
He sipped eagerly at the large mug of sweet tea that had been roughly handed to him by a burly steward and began, ever so slowly, to feel alive once more. He’d only been on one Royal Navy ship back in his National Service days, if one could describe HMS Royal Charlotte (or the aircraft carrier HMS Incomparable as it had been known back in her operational days before her depot hulk service at Dover) as an operational vessel; in any case, it had been twenty times bigger than this destroyer and immobile to boot. Yet, even now, he found himself getting more and more used to the motion and roll of the ship.
“Jolly turn-up, isn’t it?” O’Brien beamed at him across the table, having been merrily nattering all the while.
“What is?”
“Ha! You might need to get the old ears checked, Fowler! I said that it is a bally remarkable situation to have a bunch of Jap officers over on KG Five to have a gander at all this fun and games. Old Yamamoto himself – fancy that!”
“I dare say it is. He’ll have a bit to talk about with ABC and Fraser afterwards.” Interesting that the matter of the Japanese would raise its head. His editor had been quite intrigued as to anything he could dig up on their presence, what with relations with Japan still being something of a delicate matter in the view of the everyday Briton on the street, but from what he could tell, the role of their delegation was simply as interested professional observers of the vagaries of modern anti-submarine warfare operations.
"You're not wrong there. Now, if you're ready, Captain Caldicot should have some time to see you."
"Righto. Lead on, Lieutenant."
The bridge of the Somme was thankfully enclosed in glassteel windows, keeping out the worst of the North Sea. It buzzed with activity, with several officers engaged in animated conversation around the glowing map table, whilst the imposing figure of the captain stood at the front of the bridge, alongside his first lieutenant.
"Balderdash, Number One! Those Saffies may have a newer ship, but by thunder, this old girl has something in her yet. We'll get that dashed Dutchman before he knows what's hit him!" He whirled about suddenly, fixing Tom with a cool, steady gaze. "Ah, you must be Fowler. Come on over, now; I was just having a wager with Jimmy here on who'll pick up the first Cloggie boat."
"Thank you. You seem quite confident in your ship's capabilities then?"
"Of course. The upgraded Battles don't have the reputation as the best anti-sub destroyers in the Grand Fleet for nothing, Mr. Fowler, and we've got a few nice bits of gear on this exercise that the boffins have rustled up for us that would boggle Moscow's mind. We can pick him up if he was slipping out of Bergen, if it is all ticketty boo!"
"Can I quote you on that?"
"Certainly. We’re a fair bit better off than in the war."
Part of the purpose of having the press pool go out on the fleet was for each to be given a different idle tidbit of exaggerated technical chatter to put the willies up the GRU, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity to feed the Reds some juicy hummgrummit.
“Is operating with the different Commonwealth escort vessels easier than the other Allied fleets?”
“Undoubtably. It isn’t simply a matter of a shared language, or command structure, interchangeable personnel or even commonality of systems, even though all of those are immense boons. It is…a common naval culture. We know what to expect from each other and how we think, forged from the World Wars, Korea and the Middle East War. It is something we can’t and don’t share with the Yanks or the Dutch, who are the closest of all the others to us.”
“Which would be the most difficult ally to operate alongside?”
“Nice try, Mr. Fowler. On the record, we are all wonderfully happy to cooperate with each other, just as the Ministry of Information is particularly want to say. Off the record, the French.” Caldicott gave him a wry grin with his eyes a-twinkling.
“Oh.” Tom was somewhat taken aback. “I’d have imagined that there would be more trouble working with the Germans.”
“Not particularly. Yes, they were the enemy in each of the big wars, but things are a tad more complex than that. In both cases, their fleets took a fearful beating and lost a gosh-awful fraction of their men; I still don’t believe their officer corps has fully recovered from the effects of Jutland, for example. The new German Navy is just that – brand, sparkling new, albeit with a leavening of the best of the Kriegsmarine’s survivors, and thus with less of the old habits and prejudices to un-learn, if you like.”
“Unlike the French.”
“Yes, unlike the French -” Caldicott began to concur, before First Lieutenant Price launched into a remarkably well timed coughing fit.
“I believe that the Captain meant our close French allies have quite the long tradition and plenty of experience in their ranks.” Price spoke smoothly as he finally stopped coughing.
“Of course. No aspersions on our Gallic comrades in arms; they’ve certainly got their hands full and are doing a good job out in the Orient and down in the Med. We’re all firm allies now and all that – even the First Sea Lord is doing his bit, what with inviting the officers of the French squadron visiting Scapa Flow for une grande reception onboard Agincourt last week.”
“The Marine Royale has a larger role to play in Allied operations in the Atlantic, you see, Fowler. There has even been talk of a French carrier group joining Striking Fleet Atlantic, but with most of their heavies elsewhere, their main contribution is in escorts, and they’re dashed good at it.” observed Price.
“You served in the Battle of the Atlantic, didn’t you, Captain Caldicott?”
“You’ve done your homework. Yes, I was on Tartar for a fair whack of ’40 and ’41 after Norway and Dunkirk.before we headed out to Singers with the fleet to stop the Japs. Tough days, they were. There were a few of the big surface actions we’d all focused on before the war, like the sinking of Bismarck and the Hipper Hunt, but for the most it was convoy duty and anti-U-Boat hunting groups. Long, cold, grey days and nights on the ocean mixed in with the odd moment of sheer terror. Thank goodness those days are over; we’ve got a much better handle on the submarine threat with the Floating Fortresses.”
“Many people regard them as little more than white elephants, though, don’t they?”
“If a white elephant tramples you to death, are you any less flattened? The public are entitled to their own views, but not their own facts. The Fortresses have really closed up the North Atlantic with the coverage of their planes, missiles and sensors, Mr. Fowler, and every fellow with proper naval knowledge – not just amateur dilettante speculators – can tell you that is a huge game changer.”
“Indeed. We’ve come an awfully long way since Exercise Mainbrace, when the submarines had something of an advantage. The hunter hasn’t quite become the hunted, but the prey have grown great big nasty teeth.” said Price with no small amount of pride, showing his own set of sparkling gnashers in the process.
“There you go again, Number One – enthusiastic as ever. There are only two problems with that sunny view, as I’ve said afore. Firstly, that the Soviets have a dashed lot of submarines; and secondly, the nuclear boats have rather changed the nature and scope of the threat.”
“Quite right, sir. The atomic submarines are a tricky mouthful, but our boys down below have their measure.”
“But what of the escorts like the Somme or even the newer Type 12s? What would you say the main difference is for the surface fleet compared to the last war?” Tom tried to steer the conversation back onto his editor’s points.
“Air power.” grunted Caldicott. “Back in those days, we’d have to rely on the MAC ships and escort carriers, the airship or the Stirlings and Sunderlands and there were never enough of them to go around until 1942 or so. Now, every destroyer and frigate has its own helicopter and we’ve got a lot more of the maritime patrol planes, all equipped with very long range planes – enough for a squadron per squadron, as the saying goes.”
“So the surface escort is a secondary weapon then?”
“Certainly not, Fowler. The Air Service may like to call itself the shield of the fleet, but we are the tip of its very sharp sword. We’ve got the new Icarus launcher in place of the Limbo, Sharks for the 4.5” guns, the guided torpedoes and our depth charges. All in all, we’re not bereft of things that make our friends go pompholoogopaphlasmasin.”
Tom nodded in satisfaction at the answer.
If nothing else, this trip had given him one heck of a Scrabble word.
If Tom had been regretting his assignment on the bitter beach at Heligoland, by now, on board HMS Somme somewhere in the storm-tossed early morning grey of the North Sea, he was seriously lamenting his choice of career. The ride in the back of a Royal Navy Wessex had been fairly rough and ready, but that was nothing for what had come once he had landed on the destroyer, somewhere south of the Great Fisher Bank. Not even the complimentary woolen pullover or the reinforced oilskin coat seemed to keep out the wretched fingers of the freezing cold air or the lashings of dual rain – vertical and horizontal – that had greeted him as he stumbled out onto the helicopter deck. He had barely time to muster a sneeze before the burly chief petty officer had ushered him into the nominal shelter of the hangar, where he had been greeted by a lieutenant so chipper that he made Healey-Mattheson seem like a depressed tree sloth whose wife had just left him.
“Good morning, Mr. Fowler. I’m Lieutenant O’Brien. Welcome onboard the Somme! Beautiful weather, isn’t it? You can’t beat a nice autumn day out on the North Sea, what!”
Tom nodded slowly and sneezed, quite sure in his mind that O’Brien was well and truly out of his.
“Come along and we’ll get you to the wardroom for a spot of tea to warm up, eh?”
“Y..y..yes please.”
“That’s the spirit. After that, the Captain is up on the bridge awaiting you. We’re going to be joining up with the Gander and the Stellenbosch in a bit; the Cloggies have one of their new O boats coming in from Trondheim to test out our screen. Good thing conditions are fine and dandy.”
Tom stared at O’Brien silently in half-drowned journalese, but the beggar didn’t seem to get the message. He contented himself with a final withering gaze before following him through a seeming maze of passageways before they emerged in warm and altogether more salubrious surrounds in the form of the wardroom. It was cramped, certainly, as he was given to understand that most of the Battles were in this day and age, but in a rather homely fashion. Several nautical pictures, a small bookshelf and the customary portrait of Her Majesty adorned the wooden paneled walls, which O’Brien assured him were actually a cunningly treated Bakelite, and, whilst most of the room was taken up by the dining table, there was a nice plush chair partially recessed in an alcove all for him.
He sipped eagerly at the large mug of sweet tea that had been roughly handed to him by a burly steward and began, ever so slowly, to feel alive once more. He’d only been on one Royal Navy ship back in his National Service days, if one could describe HMS Royal Charlotte (or the aircraft carrier HMS Incomparable as it had been known back in her operational days before her depot hulk service at Dover) as an operational vessel; in any case, it had been twenty times bigger than this destroyer and immobile to boot. Yet, even now, he found himself getting more and more used to the motion and roll of the ship.
“Jolly turn-up, isn’t it?” O’Brien beamed at him across the table, having been merrily nattering all the while.
“What is?”
“Ha! You might need to get the old ears checked, Fowler! I said that it is a bally remarkable situation to have a bunch of Jap officers over on KG Five to have a gander at all this fun and games. Old Yamamoto himself – fancy that!”
“I dare say it is. He’ll have a bit to talk about with ABC and Fraser afterwards.” Interesting that the matter of the Japanese would raise its head. His editor had been quite intrigued as to anything he could dig up on their presence, what with relations with Japan still being something of a delicate matter in the view of the everyday Briton on the street, but from what he could tell, the role of their delegation was simply as interested professional observers of the vagaries of modern anti-submarine warfare operations.
"You're not wrong there. Now, if you're ready, Captain Caldicot should have some time to see you."
"Righto. Lead on, Lieutenant."
The bridge of the Somme was thankfully enclosed in glassteel windows, keeping out the worst of the North Sea. It buzzed with activity, with several officers engaged in animated conversation around the glowing map table, whilst the imposing figure of the captain stood at the front of the bridge, alongside his first lieutenant.
"Balderdash, Number One! Those Saffies may have a newer ship, but by thunder, this old girl has something in her yet. We'll get that dashed Dutchman before he knows what's hit him!" He whirled about suddenly, fixing Tom with a cool, steady gaze. "Ah, you must be Fowler. Come on over, now; I was just having a wager with Jimmy here on who'll pick up the first Cloggie boat."
"Thank you. You seem quite confident in your ship's capabilities then?"
"Of course. The upgraded Battles don't have the reputation as the best anti-sub destroyers in the Grand Fleet for nothing, Mr. Fowler, and we've got a few nice bits of gear on this exercise that the boffins have rustled up for us that would boggle Moscow's mind. We can pick him up if he was slipping out of Bergen, if it is all ticketty boo!"
"Can I quote you on that?"
"Certainly. We’re a fair bit better off than in the war."
Part of the purpose of having the press pool go out on the fleet was for each to be given a different idle tidbit of exaggerated technical chatter to put the willies up the GRU, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity to feed the Reds some juicy hummgrummit.
“Is operating with the different Commonwealth escort vessels easier than the other Allied fleets?”
“Undoubtably. It isn’t simply a matter of a shared language, or command structure, interchangeable personnel or even commonality of systems, even though all of those are immense boons. It is…a common naval culture. We know what to expect from each other and how we think, forged from the World Wars, Korea and the Middle East War. It is something we can’t and don’t share with the Yanks or the Dutch, who are the closest of all the others to us.”
“Which would be the most difficult ally to operate alongside?”
“Nice try, Mr. Fowler. On the record, we are all wonderfully happy to cooperate with each other, just as the Ministry of Information is particularly want to say. Off the record, the French.” Caldicott gave him a wry grin with his eyes a-twinkling.
“Oh.” Tom was somewhat taken aback. “I’d have imagined that there would be more trouble working with the Germans.”
“Not particularly. Yes, they were the enemy in each of the big wars, but things are a tad more complex than that. In both cases, their fleets took a fearful beating and lost a gosh-awful fraction of their men; I still don’t believe their officer corps has fully recovered from the effects of Jutland, for example. The new German Navy is just that – brand, sparkling new, albeit with a leavening of the best of the Kriegsmarine’s survivors, and thus with less of the old habits and prejudices to un-learn, if you like.”
“Unlike the French.”
“Yes, unlike the French -” Caldicott began to concur, before First Lieutenant Price launched into a remarkably well timed coughing fit.
“I believe that the Captain meant our close French allies have quite the long tradition and plenty of experience in their ranks.” Price spoke smoothly as he finally stopped coughing.
“Of course. No aspersions on our Gallic comrades in arms; they’ve certainly got their hands full and are doing a good job out in the Orient and down in the Med. We’re all firm allies now and all that – even the First Sea Lord is doing his bit, what with inviting the officers of the French squadron visiting Scapa Flow for une grande reception onboard Agincourt last week.”
“The Marine Royale has a larger role to play in Allied operations in the Atlantic, you see, Fowler. There has even been talk of a French carrier group joining Striking Fleet Atlantic, but with most of their heavies elsewhere, their main contribution is in escorts, and they’re dashed good at it.” observed Price.
“You served in the Battle of the Atlantic, didn’t you, Captain Caldicott?”
“You’ve done your homework. Yes, I was on Tartar for a fair whack of ’40 and ’41 after Norway and Dunkirk.before we headed out to Singers with the fleet to stop the Japs. Tough days, they were. There were a few of the big surface actions we’d all focused on before the war, like the sinking of Bismarck and the Hipper Hunt, but for the most it was convoy duty and anti-U-Boat hunting groups. Long, cold, grey days and nights on the ocean mixed in with the odd moment of sheer terror. Thank goodness those days are over; we’ve got a much better handle on the submarine threat with the Floating Fortresses.”
“Many people regard them as little more than white elephants, though, don’t they?”
“If a white elephant tramples you to death, are you any less flattened? The public are entitled to their own views, but not their own facts. The Fortresses have really closed up the North Atlantic with the coverage of their planes, missiles and sensors, Mr. Fowler, and every fellow with proper naval knowledge – not just amateur dilettante speculators – can tell you that is a huge game changer.”
“Indeed. We’ve come an awfully long way since Exercise Mainbrace, when the submarines had something of an advantage. The hunter hasn’t quite become the hunted, but the prey have grown great big nasty teeth.” said Price with no small amount of pride, showing his own set of sparkling gnashers in the process.
“There you go again, Number One – enthusiastic as ever. There are only two problems with that sunny view, as I’ve said afore. Firstly, that the Soviets have a dashed lot of submarines; and secondly, the nuclear boats have rather changed the nature and scope of the threat.”
“Quite right, sir. The atomic submarines are a tricky mouthful, but our boys down below have their measure.”
“But what of the escorts like the Somme or even the newer Type 12s? What would you say the main difference is for the surface fleet compared to the last war?” Tom tried to steer the conversation back onto his editor’s points.
“Air power.” grunted Caldicott. “Back in those days, we’d have to rely on the MAC ships and escort carriers, the airship or the Stirlings and Sunderlands and there were never enough of them to go around until 1942 or so. Now, every destroyer and frigate has its own helicopter and we’ve got a lot more of the maritime patrol planes, all equipped with very long range planes – enough for a squadron per squadron, as the saying goes.”
“So the surface escort is a secondary weapon then?”
“Certainly not, Fowler. The Air Service may like to call itself the shield of the fleet, but we are the tip of its very sharp sword. We’ve got the new Icarus launcher in place of the Limbo, Sharks for the 4.5” guns, the guided torpedoes and our depth charges. All in all, we’re not bereft of things that make our friends go pompholoogopaphlasmasin.”
Tom nodded in satisfaction at the answer.
If nothing else, this trip had given him one heck of a Scrabble word.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Exercise Warhammer Part 3: Rendevous with the Royals
Thankfully, the ride from the Somme to Germany had been much smoother than that of the morning. Flying in over the Heligoland Bight, he was struck by the sight not so far below them of the North Sea Fleet of the Imperial German Navy steaming out to join in the exercise, their carriers and the huge battleships making the little old Somme seem like a child's toy in comparison. They had been the cause of such a fuss over the last few years, from the fusty old admirals and captains bristling at any sort of German war fleet to the French, but Tom thought that was just so much tosh. They were a threat neither in numbers or capacity, not compared with what the Andrew had, and the small matter of the Soviet Baltic Fleet was more pressing.
"Quite something, aren't they?"
Tom looked up from his musing at his interlocutor, a Canadian fellow named Shafer or something like that who did seem distinctly familiar.
"I dare say they are. Not quite as many missiles or planes as ours, but their battlewagons are newer. You seen anything like it?"
"Seven years ago, in Egypt. Now that was a fleet and a half. We couldn't use any of the pictures until afterwards and the MoD kept us on the tightest of leashes when we landed in Alex. They had really knocked the place for six, but very little of that got out."
"Most of the damage had been repaired by the time I was out there a few years ago during my National Service." Tom was warming to the fellow and a good contact never went astray in the business.
"Probably. Keeping the war correspondents away from the battlefront and Cairo stopped us from seeing most of it. Seems like the Americans are taking a leaf out of that book in South Vietnam; I hear you can get more out of the French in Algiers than them."
"Here's to freedom of the press." Tom said sardonically.
"Amen to that."
After they crossed over the coast, the first sign that he was entering a very different country to old Blighty back home was clearly visible - the missile launchers of the Luftverteidigungskraft lined up like the old shore defence cannons back in the war, overlooking the beach and defending the mouth of the vital Kiel Canal. The Jerries had never rebuilt their big gun defences when they had been allowed an army again back in the 50s and they were barred from doing so on the North Sea coast in any case. Tom remembered reading about them burying old tanks up around Kiel as well as fiddling around with some new self-propelled howitzers. Not that this end of Germany was bereft of big guns; he be seeing some of them later on.
As the Rotodyne flew up the Elbe to the muffled background hum of the quietened engines, there were now more missile sites beneath them, part of the five great circles of Fortress Hamburg, as the Nord Deutscher Zeitung had apparently dubbed it. As far as fortresses went, it wasn't on a par with the Maginot Line or the Berlin Wall, but this was a modern system of field positions, missile sites and anti-tank ditches, with much hidden from observation from the air; in wartime, they would be joined by minefields to channel the enemy into killing zones. He'd seen the old remnants of the British anti-invasion defences of the last war at home while growing up, old overgrown pillboxes and trenches for an enemy who never came. For the Germans down below, this was a real and current threat, not history.
Although his hosts were now the Royal Marines and his taxi-cab provided by the Fleet Air Arm, they landed at RAF Uetersen and, to his relief, the weather that greeted his arrival back on terra firma was bright and clear. The runways were bustling with activity and crowded with aircraft, with the usual pair of Supermarine Sunstar squadrons now joined by Harriers and Merlins and its RAF Regiment defences augmented by a Territorial Army anti-aircraft regiment armed with 40mm Bofors guns. Tom's attention, however, was drawn to the reception committee that awaited
Standing before them was a hulking Royal Marine officer in camouflage battle dress, flanked by several somewhat smaller Marines and three forest green Alvis Sphinx transports.
"Good morning, gentlemen and welcome to Germany. Major Standley, Royal Marine Forces Germany. You'll be relieved to know that you've only got a short ride to go to RM Garstedt for our briefing and then a spot of lunch. If you'd be so kind as to hop aboard, we have the road cleared and ready to go."
As they sped along the gun barrel straight military road at a speed that Tom preferred not to know, he decided that he definitely preferred the solidity of the earth below him over the waves or the skies. Hopefully there wouldn't be any further novel forms of transport awaiting them.
...................................................................................................................................................................
Garstedt had once apparently been a charming German village in the manner of many such in the area, but that was long passed now. An errant RNAS bombing raid one night in 1943 had flattened the poor place with creepback and when the British Army of the Rhine had been re-established two years later, it had been requisitioned for a new garrison. It had been handed over to the Royal Marines in 1951 as they had gained a continental role once again in the Korean War build-up and turned into what it now was - an array of vast barracks, vehicle warehouses and grey concrete behind a series of steel fences.
Upon their arrival in the huge central parade ground, the correspondents were ushered into the mess hall, half of which had been hastily converted into a briefing room. The tantalising smells of delicious cooked meats wafted over the partition, making both Tom and his stomach hope that the presentation would be swift and to the point. Without further ado, the doors opposite them were thrown open and an enormous Marine brigadier came into the room, making the erstwhile Standley look positively tiny in comparison. He proceeded to begin the briefing in a booming voice, talking at a rapid pace.
"Good morning. I am Brigadier Hurricane, Commander RMFG. Now, I can tell you're all bursting for the scran, so I'll keep this short, sharp and shiny. Our role in this exercise is to provide flank defence to the British Army of the Rhine and keep open the lines of communication of Allied forces in Schleswig-Holstein, with a specific role for the defence of the Kiel Canal in conjunction with the Deutsche Marinier-Korps. "
Pulling aside a curtain, he unveiled a large map and whacked at it with his pointing stick in several different locations.
"Here. Here. Here. Here. Each of our four battlegroups is a fully integrated unit of armour, artillery and Royal Marine infantry, fully supported by batteries of anti-aircraft and anti-ship missiles. We are the only brigade in the Royals equipped with the new Hercules heavy armoured amphibious carriers and we've recently been reinforced by 1st Royal Marine Heavy Armoured Regiment with its Super Conqueror heavy battle tanks. Should the enemy come, they will be stopped, make no mistake. Our biggest weapon for stopping them, of course, is our big guns. After lunch, you'll be having a demonstration of their firepower. Conventional of course. Any questions? No? Good."
Hurricane marched away from the podium without even pausing to take questions, clearly with a mission on his mind. Tom's misgivings at the brevity of the briefing were soon dispelled as the partition was pulled aside, revealing a score of tables surrounding four groaning benches, piled high with roast sirloins of beef and soaring Yorkshire puddings, glistening crimson suckling pigs, barons of lamb, massive roast chickens, steaming steak and kidney pies and an array of delectably prepared vegetables. There was something of a rush as the arrayed journalists and Royal Marines descended upon the provender, approvingly observed by the Royal Marine halfling cooks, whose hairy feet seemed to fairly bristle with pride at the appreciation for their culinary handiwork.
Tom, having piled his plate higher than he would have expected possible, (all that tossing and turning on the sea seemed to have had some positive affect on him after all) took found a place at one of the corner tables so that he could observe the goings on around the room when he found him next to a familiar face.
"Halloo there, Mr. Fowler! Enjoy your morning?" It was that friendly newspaperman from the Thunderer, Bailey. He seemed to be quite pleased to remake his acquaintance with Tom.
"I'm not sure anyone ever enjoyed a morning on the Somme, so it seemed hardly sporting to change that."
"Rather; I knew a few chaps back in the last war who did their bit there during the first time around. Damned tough place in every stretch of the word, they said. Five thousand men gone on the first day for barely half a dozen miles...still, we won through in the end, just like last time."
"Where did you serve in the last one?"
"Normandy, Holland, Germany, then Berlin. Much less time in a trench in France than the poor sods in the Great War, but a fairly sticky one at times, at least until the breakout at the end of June from Argentan. Once we were through the Hun, they didn't stop until the Rhine."
Tom nodded thoughtfully, then looked again sharply at Bailey, who was doing terrific execution on a large slice of beef. "Simon Bailey. You're not that Bailey, are you?"
Now his neighbour looked up extremely coolly, even putting down his cutlery. "I'm not at all sure what you mean, old boy."
"Lake Toplitz. Heinrich Himmler. One hundred Waffen SS."
Bailey held his poker face for an instant and then relented, going back to carving his beef. "Honestly, of all the things, of all the places, of all the times...I wager I'll never be rid of it. Anyway, yes, that was I, although the stories are much exaggerated. There were only forty-four of them and I wasn't alone."
"Whatever the circumstances, it is an honour to meet you, sir." Tom went to extend a hand, but Simon waved it away with a wave of the mustard.
"Don't start with all that - you'll get the cousins excited. Anyway, good to see you survived your time on one of Her Majesty's smaller ships; I managed to luck it out on the old Kenya, even if it is under new management. Shame that neither of our 'hosts' sent the Dutchmen flying, as it were."
"That was a bit of a shock to see all three of them sunk so quickly. It was almost as if those new missiles, the Black Bears, had been debuted to maximise their impact. I think that the Admiralty wanted to send a bit of a message to Moscow that they don't just need to worry about Nereus anymore."
"Clever lad. I think you might just be onto something there. If our adversaries are a bit more circumspect about the prospects below the waves in the Atlantic, then they might be a bit more circumspect here on land."
"How does the situation here in Germany strike you? Although there are more troops on the ground in Germany now, the Soviets still outnumber and outgun them."
"So it would seem. For all the talk that we have the edge in technology, and I would contend that we still control that in the key areas and weapon systems, the Red Army is catching up more and more. However, with the edge in the air and the quality of our tanks and those of the Americans, we are out in front, I'd say."
"You'd be the expert on that, after all. Thinking of using what you see here in an update for your book?"
"My, aren't you well read? I wager we'll see a few more of those when we finally get handed over to the Army. It isn't them I've really come to see, though; there's supposed to be a few impressive things to see after luncheon."
..........................................................................................................................................................
Impressive was probably an understatement.
Spread out across scattered wooded copses that dotted the German fields were four huge self-propelled guns, covered in camouflage netting and surrounded by hurrying crews. Barrels over ninety foot long jutted out into the skies and, on cue, roared in unison, sending their mighty shells hurtling towards the east. These were the big guns of the Heavy Siege Batteries of the Royal Marine Artillery, the defenders of the Kiel Canal and the German Baltic Coast, each capable of sinking a battleship or smashing an invasion fleet. They were equipped with both these conventional shells, now slashing through the heights of the atmosphere towards their target range off the coast of Fehmarn, and the nuclear ones carefully protected in the British bases.
Again the guns spoke, a second volley crashing out with a tearing explosive noise so loud that Tom had to cover his ears. Somewhere almost 90 miles away, a colony of seabirds were still squawking in outrage as they flapped northwards to their new hunting grounds, having eventually been persuaded by the enchantments of a shapeshifting Royal Marine wizard. The rumbling guns now moved out from their initial firing positions far faster than Tom would have thought, followed by their escort of self-propelled surface-to-air guided missiles and mobile anti-aircraft guns.
In wartime, would these behemoths be able to get off more than a few rounds? Brigadier Hurricane and the Royal Marines seemed to think they would, dropping a few guarded hints about illusory misdirection dweomers, but Tom wasn't as completely convinced as some of his colleagues. However, those handful of volleys would be more than enough to devastate the enemy. It would really depend upon protecting them from what could come from above.
High, high up in the now-brilliant blue morning skies, flying back towards the west was the now familiar sight of a TSR-2 Eagle.
Now it was the RAF's turn.
Thankfully, the ride from the Somme to Germany had been much smoother than that of the morning. Flying in over the Heligoland Bight, he was struck by the sight not so far below them of the North Sea Fleet of the Imperial German Navy steaming out to join in the exercise, their carriers and the huge battleships making the little old Somme seem like a child's toy in comparison. They had been the cause of such a fuss over the last few years, from the fusty old admirals and captains bristling at any sort of German war fleet to the French, but Tom thought that was just so much tosh. They were a threat neither in numbers or capacity, not compared with what the Andrew had, and the small matter of the Soviet Baltic Fleet was more pressing.
"Quite something, aren't they?"
Tom looked up from his musing at his interlocutor, a Canadian fellow named Shafer or something like that who did seem distinctly familiar.
"I dare say they are. Not quite as many missiles or planes as ours, but their battlewagons are newer. You seen anything like it?"
"Seven years ago, in Egypt. Now that was a fleet and a half. We couldn't use any of the pictures until afterwards and the MoD kept us on the tightest of leashes when we landed in Alex. They had really knocked the place for six, but very little of that got out."
"Most of the damage had been repaired by the time I was out there a few years ago during my National Service." Tom was warming to the fellow and a good contact never went astray in the business.
"Probably. Keeping the war correspondents away from the battlefront and Cairo stopped us from seeing most of it. Seems like the Americans are taking a leaf out of that book in South Vietnam; I hear you can get more out of the French in Algiers than them."
"Here's to freedom of the press." Tom said sardonically.
"Amen to that."
After they crossed over the coast, the first sign that he was entering a very different country to old Blighty back home was clearly visible - the missile launchers of the Luftverteidigungskraft lined up like the old shore defence cannons back in the war, overlooking the beach and defending the mouth of the vital Kiel Canal. The Jerries had never rebuilt their big gun defences when they had been allowed an army again back in the 50s and they were barred from doing so on the North Sea coast in any case. Tom remembered reading about them burying old tanks up around Kiel as well as fiddling around with some new self-propelled howitzers. Not that this end of Germany was bereft of big guns; he be seeing some of them later on.
As the Rotodyne flew up the Elbe to the muffled background hum of the quietened engines, there were now more missile sites beneath them, part of the five great circles of Fortress Hamburg, as the Nord Deutscher Zeitung had apparently dubbed it. As far as fortresses went, it wasn't on a par with the Maginot Line or the Berlin Wall, but this was a modern system of field positions, missile sites and anti-tank ditches, with much hidden from observation from the air; in wartime, they would be joined by minefields to channel the enemy into killing zones. He'd seen the old remnants of the British anti-invasion defences of the last war at home while growing up, old overgrown pillboxes and trenches for an enemy who never came. For the Germans down below, this was a real and current threat, not history.
Although his hosts were now the Royal Marines and his taxi-cab provided by the Fleet Air Arm, they landed at RAF Uetersen and, to his relief, the weather that greeted his arrival back on terra firma was bright and clear. The runways were bustling with activity and crowded with aircraft, with the usual pair of Supermarine Sunstar squadrons now joined by Harriers and Merlins and its RAF Regiment defences augmented by a Territorial Army anti-aircraft regiment armed with 40mm Bofors guns. Tom's attention, however, was drawn to the reception committee that awaited
Standing before them was a hulking Royal Marine officer in camouflage battle dress, flanked by several somewhat smaller Marines and three forest green Alvis Sphinx transports.
"Good morning, gentlemen and welcome to Germany. Major Standley, Royal Marine Forces Germany. You'll be relieved to know that you've only got a short ride to go to RM Garstedt for our briefing and then a spot of lunch. If you'd be so kind as to hop aboard, we have the road cleared and ready to go."
As they sped along the gun barrel straight military road at a speed that Tom preferred not to know, he decided that he definitely preferred the solidity of the earth below him over the waves or the skies. Hopefully there wouldn't be any further novel forms of transport awaiting them.
...................................................................................................................................................................
Garstedt had once apparently been a charming German village in the manner of many such in the area, but that was long passed now. An errant RNAS bombing raid one night in 1943 had flattened the poor place with creepback and when the British Army of the Rhine had been re-established two years later, it had been requisitioned for a new garrison. It had been handed over to the Royal Marines in 1951 as they had gained a continental role once again in the Korean War build-up and turned into what it now was - an array of vast barracks, vehicle warehouses and grey concrete behind a series of steel fences.
Upon their arrival in the huge central parade ground, the correspondents were ushered into the mess hall, half of which had been hastily converted into a briefing room. The tantalising smells of delicious cooked meats wafted over the partition, making both Tom and his stomach hope that the presentation would be swift and to the point. Without further ado, the doors opposite them were thrown open and an enormous Marine brigadier came into the room, making the erstwhile Standley look positively tiny in comparison. He proceeded to begin the briefing in a booming voice, talking at a rapid pace.
"Good morning. I am Brigadier Hurricane, Commander RMFG. Now, I can tell you're all bursting for the scran, so I'll keep this short, sharp and shiny. Our role in this exercise is to provide flank defence to the British Army of the Rhine and keep open the lines of communication of Allied forces in Schleswig-Holstein, with a specific role for the defence of the Kiel Canal in conjunction with the Deutsche Marinier-Korps. "
Pulling aside a curtain, he unveiled a large map and whacked at it with his pointing stick in several different locations.
"Here. Here. Here. Here. Each of our four battlegroups is a fully integrated unit of armour, artillery and Royal Marine infantry, fully supported by batteries of anti-aircraft and anti-ship missiles. We are the only brigade in the Royals equipped with the new Hercules heavy armoured amphibious carriers and we've recently been reinforced by 1st Royal Marine Heavy Armoured Regiment with its Super Conqueror heavy battle tanks. Should the enemy come, they will be stopped, make no mistake. Our biggest weapon for stopping them, of course, is our big guns. After lunch, you'll be having a demonstration of their firepower. Conventional of course. Any questions? No? Good."
Hurricane marched away from the podium without even pausing to take questions, clearly with a mission on his mind. Tom's misgivings at the brevity of the briefing were soon dispelled as the partition was pulled aside, revealing a score of tables surrounding four groaning benches, piled high with roast sirloins of beef and soaring Yorkshire puddings, glistening crimson suckling pigs, barons of lamb, massive roast chickens, steaming steak and kidney pies and an array of delectably prepared vegetables. There was something of a rush as the arrayed journalists and Royal Marines descended upon the provender, approvingly observed by the Royal Marine halfling cooks, whose hairy feet seemed to fairly bristle with pride at the appreciation for their culinary handiwork.
Tom, having piled his plate higher than he would have expected possible, (all that tossing and turning on the sea seemed to have had some positive affect on him after all) took found a place at one of the corner tables so that he could observe the goings on around the room when he found him next to a familiar face.
"Halloo there, Mr. Fowler! Enjoy your morning?" It was that friendly newspaperman from the Thunderer, Bailey. He seemed to be quite pleased to remake his acquaintance with Tom.
"I'm not sure anyone ever enjoyed a morning on the Somme, so it seemed hardly sporting to change that."
"Rather; I knew a few chaps back in the last war who did their bit there during the first time around. Damned tough place in every stretch of the word, they said. Five thousand men gone on the first day for barely half a dozen miles...still, we won through in the end, just like last time."
"Where did you serve in the last one?"
"Normandy, Holland, Germany, then Berlin. Much less time in a trench in France than the poor sods in the Great War, but a fairly sticky one at times, at least until the breakout at the end of June from Argentan. Once we were through the Hun, they didn't stop until the Rhine."
Tom nodded thoughtfully, then looked again sharply at Bailey, who was doing terrific execution on a large slice of beef. "Simon Bailey. You're not that Bailey, are you?"
Now his neighbour looked up extremely coolly, even putting down his cutlery. "I'm not at all sure what you mean, old boy."
"Lake Toplitz. Heinrich Himmler. One hundred Waffen SS."
Bailey held his poker face for an instant and then relented, going back to carving his beef. "Honestly, of all the things, of all the places, of all the times...I wager I'll never be rid of it. Anyway, yes, that was I, although the stories are much exaggerated. There were only forty-four of them and I wasn't alone."
"Whatever the circumstances, it is an honour to meet you, sir." Tom went to extend a hand, but Simon waved it away with a wave of the mustard.
"Don't start with all that - you'll get the cousins excited. Anyway, good to see you survived your time on one of Her Majesty's smaller ships; I managed to luck it out on the old Kenya, even if it is under new management. Shame that neither of our 'hosts' sent the Dutchmen flying, as it were."
"That was a bit of a shock to see all three of them sunk so quickly. It was almost as if those new missiles, the Black Bears, had been debuted to maximise their impact. I think that the Admiralty wanted to send a bit of a message to Moscow that they don't just need to worry about Nereus anymore."
"Clever lad. I think you might just be onto something there. If our adversaries are a bit more circumspect about the prospects below the waves in the Atlantic, then they might be a bit more circumspect here on land."
"How does the situation here in Germany strike you? Although there are more troops on the ground in Germany now, the Soviets still outnumber and outgun them."
"So it would seem. For all the talk that we have the edge in technology, and I would contend that we still control that in the key areas and weapon systems, the Red Army is catching up more and more. However, with the edge in the air and the quality of our tanks and those of the Americans, we are out in front, I'd say."
"You'd be the expert on that, after all. Thinking of using what you see here in an update for your book?"
"My, aren't you well read? I wager we'll see a few more of those when we finally get handed over to the Army. It isn't them I've really come to see, though; there's supposed to be a few impressive things to see after luncheon."
..........................................................................................................................................................
Impressive was probably an understatement.
Spread out across scattered wooded copses that dotted the German fields were four huge self-propelled guns, covered in camouflage netting and surrounded by hurrying crews. Barrels over ninety foot long jutted out into the skies and, on cue, roared in unison, sending their mighty shells hurtling towards the east. These were the big guns of the Heavy Siege Batteries of the Royal Marine Artillery, the defenders of the Kiel Canal and the German Baltic Coast, each capable of sinking a battleship or smashing an invasion fleet. They were equipped with both these conventional shells, now slashing through the heights of the atmosphere towards their target range off the coast of Fehmarn, and the nuclear ones carefully protected in the British bases.
Again the guns spoke, a second volley crashing out with a tearing explosive noise so loud that Tom had to cover his ears. Somewhere almost 90 miles away, a colony of seabirds were still squawking in outrage as they flapped northwards to their new hunting grounds, having eventually been persuaded by the enchantments of a shapeshifting Royal Marine wizard. The rumbling guns now moved out from their initial firing positions far faster than Tom would have thought, followed by their escort of self-propelled surface-to-air guided missiles and mobile anti-aircraft guns.
In wartime, would these behemoths be able to get off more than a few rounds? Brigadier Hurricane and the Royal Marines seemed to think they would, dropping a few guarded hints about illusory misdirection dweomers, but Tom wasn't as completely convinced as some of his colleagues. However, those handful of volleys would be more than enough to devastate the enemy. It would really depend upon protecting them from what could come from above.
High, high up in the now-brilliant blue morning skies, flying back towards the west was the now familiar sight of a TSR-2 Eagle.
Now it was the RAF's turn.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Exercise Warhammer Part 4
The day was looking up, most definitely now that they were back on terra firma, Tom thought. It had been a quick hop of less than half an hour back from Garstedt to Bad Eilsen by Rotodyne and the sight of the sprawling headquarters of RAF Germany provided a curious contrast to the green fields and forests around the charming little town. There were half a dozen airstrips around the central array of buildings, all surrounded by bladewire fences, entrenchments and pillboxes. This was something of a distractor, given that the real base lay somewhere deep under the surrounding hills and woodlands, protected by a hefty layer of armour plate and concrete, but in peacetime conditions, the Air Force was hardly going to give up its comforts in favour of a more dwarven environment.
He would have been quite surprised at the sight of a troop of Super Centurion tanks bearing the roundel of the Royal Air Force Regiment had he not flipped through the glossy leaflet distributed to the journalistic pool prior to their departure from Garstedt, which had devoted a double page spread to the modernization and hardening of the RAF Regiment. Most of the visible defences of Bad Eilsen were quite conventional, mainly consisting of motorised infantry and rather formidable anti-aircraft guns, but he could see glimpses of heavily camouflaged SAGW launchers that he couldn’t quite identify out in the forest around the area and there seemed to be rounded tops of subterranean missile silos dotted around the edge of the airfield complex. It was difficult to focus upon them and his eyes seemed to slip past them if he didn’t make a deliberate effort to concentrate.
The circumstances of the flight had begun in a somewhat bizarre manner. After their return from the field with the Royal Marines, they had been met by a group of RAFG public affairs officers who could have passed for the original Brylcream Boys, smilingly greeted with complimentary chocolates and shepherded onto a flight of camouflaged Rotodynes in a smoothly efficient manner. Tom had always considered the Royal Air Force to be something of a combination between an advertising firm and garage mechanics during his own National Service and these particular Crabs seemed a bit too unctuous. He hadn’t quite been able to put his finger on it until just after they took off when the penny finally dropped.
He had leaned forward and tapped the fellow sitting in front of him on the shoulder to confirm his concern.
“Bailey?” The nice chap from The Times, who seemed to keep bobbing up in the same place as Tom, turned around almost immediately. They could barely hear the hum of the quietened engines from without, something he had become used to on his Rotodyne flights over the years and quite a difference from the old Wessexes.
“Ah, Mr. Fowler. Anything I can help you with?”
“It’s this part in the introduction of the Crab conspectus here. I’ve always thought that RAF Germany had its headquarters in Bielefeld. There’s no mention of it here.”
“I see. Have you ever met anyone from Bielefeld?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been to Bielefeld?”
Tom paused for thought. “No, I can’t say I have.”
“Righto. Do you know anyone who has ever been to Bielefeld?’’
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, there you go. Officially, the offices and administrative buildings are there. Unofficially, I think you might be onto something.” Bailey paused meaningfully.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.”
“Wonderful! You’re learning the rules of the game so fast! Anyway, I’d keep mum about Bielefeld if I were you, old boy. En Svensk Tiger, as my old tomte is want to say.” He gave an infuriating wink and then turned back around to his crossword.
Considering back on it now, there was something strange going on, but he had the kernel of an idea of what it was. Some sort of combination of illusion and repulsion sorcery was being used here, which made sense given the Royal Air Force’s enthusiasm for arcane augmentations and gadgetry. As the newest of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, at least on Earth, the RAF had wholeheartedly embraced both all manner of newfangled technology and the latest in modern sorcery in its efforts to carve out its own niche.
As they trooped off the Rotodyne onto the tarmac, they were met by a grinning squadron leader in dress uniform who stood with that cultivated easy casualness that he had encountered predominantly in the jet pilots of Fighter Command.
“Good afternoon, chaps, Squadron Leader Christopher Blair. Welcome to the Headquarters of RAF Germany. Follow me through to the briefing room we’ve got set up over here and help yourself to a spot of tea, if you like. Air Commodore Warburton has quite the presentation for you.”
The RAF’s briefing room was not cosy and cluttered like the Royal Navy’s on Heligoland, nor an ad hoc conversion as that of the Marines, but rather a well-appointed dedicated facility replete with large mapboards and a crystal screen showing a satellite image of Northern Germany and its immediate environs. The tea was rather good and the RAF’s array of biscuits, ranging from tea cakes and Viennese whirls to Scotch shortbread and jammie dodgers, typified their youthful exhuberant extravagance; they even had coffee at the back of the room, which was pounced upon by the Americans and Continental types with a tad too much enthusiasm, whilst the British contingent looked on with bemusement. As they settled down in their seats, the doors were opened and a party of RAF officers entered, lead by a tall man heavily adorned with gold aiguellettes and a very large array of medal ribbons, reflecting his exploits in the Second World War, Korea and the Middle East.
“Very good, gentlemen. As of this afternoon, RAF Germany fields 1248 combat aircraft in 52 squadrons, close to our full mobilized form, whilst Strike Command stands ready as immediate reinforcement as per our plans. Further forces from Fighter Command and Transport Command are associated in a support role as appropriate. In circumstances outside of the parameters of this exercise, this available force would be increased, naturally. The initial flow of reinforcement aircraft and personnel will be completed within 24 hours from the initiation of Warhammer. We currently have the aircraft of both Royal Canadian Air Force Europe and the forward deployed Commonwealth squadrons under our operational command for the purposes of the exercise.
Our role is fourfold – command and control of 2nd Allied Tactical Air Force, NORTHAG’s aerial defence force; defence of the air approaches to the British Isles through Northern Germany and the Low Countries; aerial strikes against enemy forces in the European theatre; and direct air support of the British Army of the Rhine and other allied land forces. We have dispersed our various tactical air forces from their eighteen peacetime bases to their field locations, which of course will remain unspecified. We have full operational control of Army area air defence assets as part of our coordination role in wartime and our radar stations extend our picture of the potential battlespace well beyond our immediate area of control, providing detailed information for not just the Supreme Allied Commander Europe and the command of Allied Forces Central Europe, but also to Allied commands in Northern and Southern Europe.
In the form of the fighter and interceptor force, the English Electric Lightnings and Supermarine Sunstars, we have the capacity to control the airspace above our tactical area. The Merlin and Spectre strike forces give us long range hitting power that only the Americans can rival and none can better. Our Harrier attack fighter-bombers provide the British Army and our allies with the best close air support in the business and we have full confidence in their capabilities. Whilst the Hawker Hunters and the English Electric Canberras of the Royal Auxiliary Air Force, are regarded by some as a legacy force, both types are in service with our very best squadrons and remain fully capable of carrying out their missions in any conditions.
You have heard from the Royal Navy on their vital role in the execution of Warhammer and no doubt the Army will follow along with their own perspective on the morrow. The Navy and the civilian ships called up have and will transport much of the heavy equipment of the Army from their bases at home, but the Royal Air Force is in the process of moving over 160,000 men, their arms and supplies from the British Isles to the Low Countries and Germany and we are ahead of schedule. The air bridge is firmly defended by home and European based fighters and missiles, allowing the rapid reinforcement of both divisions assigned to the permanently deployed corps of the BAOR. As the Hawker-Siddeley HS.681 enters service with the Royal Air Force in greater numbers, our capacity in this regard will be greatly multiplied, just as the Atlas has already done so.
Whilst the emphasis of much of what you will see and hear in your time with us today will look at our role in the event of war, RAF Germany also plays a significant part in the peacetime life of Germany. We provide a range of support and services to the civilian population of our hosts, ranging from aerial photography and surveying, search and rescue for lost children, communications coordination and aerial transportation in the event of significantly bad weather. It points the way forward for cooperation, not just between our two nations, but between all the countries of the Free World. Now, are the any questions?”
One of the Americans shot up out of his seat. “Air Commodore, does RAF Germany have sufficient strength to hold the Red Air Force in a potential conflict?”
“Our position has consistently been that we have full confidence in our capacity to, in association with the other national contingents in Second Allied Tactical Air Force, carry out whatever tasks the Supreme Allied Commander may instruct us to do.” He pointed at a Dutch journalist who had his hand raised in a somewhat more sedate fashion. “Yes?”
“The Koninklijke Luchtmacht plays a significant role in the defence of Northern Germany. What is their role in Exercise Warhammer and what areas require the most significant modernization?”
“We have a very close working relationship with the Dutch, and with the Belgians for that matter. Both are playing support roles in the current exercise and specifically, the Royal Netherlands Air Force will be providing an opposition force for tactical aerial combat simulations tomorrow afternoon. Whilst it is not for us to comment on Dutch military procurement, the Fokker Degen is an absolutely spiffing bit of kit and right up there with the best fighters in Europe; replacement of your Hunters and Deltas with fully modern aircraft, whichever they may be, will be an absolute boon for the entire of our Allied command.”
Bailey leaned over to Tom and raised up his notes to cover his mouth. “Bit of a contrast with the Andrew there. It seems that the Air Ministry is trying to put in a good word for our poor old aircraft manufacturers for the Benelux contracts.”
“With over 300 Dutch and Belgian orders each, I can see why they’d be a bit keen on it. The Yanks and the French are the major competition?”
“So it would seem, but I’ve heard some talk that they may be looking northward as well. In any case, our chaps don’t quite have as much largesse to throw around as our cousins across the water, so a little good word here and there doesn’t go astray.”
“One would hope.” In the midst of their little conversation, Tom had missed the last question, something from the correspondent of the Manchester Guardian about comparative fighter armament; their journalists were always rather warlike and technical in their temperament, what with the paper being one of the most stridently jingoistic of all the British newspapers.
“Thank you, gentlemen. We will now repair outside, where a selection of our aircraft are on display for your inspection. Following on from that, you’ll each be joined up with the squadron that will be hosting you. Group Captain Foyle will distribute the relevant chits to you for all that.”
“It will be interesting to have a look at some of them up close, don’t you think?” Tom asked Bailey as they headed out to the waiting fighters.
“Always tends to be. Planes aren’t really my area of expertise - I leave that to the likes of Bill and John here. What do you fellows think?”
“There won’t be too many surprises, even if RAF Germany gets the pick of the planes and pilots. It won’t be the first time either of us have seen some of them before, either, eh John?” The first chap, presumably Bill, spoke with a soft Canadian accent.
“Not by a long stretch, old man. Now, if they had some of our Tornadoes out here rather than back at the CFE for testing, then it would be interesting. That will be one beauty of a kite.”
“So it really is as good as they say?”
“Yes. Mach 1.5 on the deck and 2.5 up high. Doesn’t quite have the bombload of an F-111 or an Excalibur, but it is a magnificent fighter. Winkle has been trying one out for the Andrew and he said it has the measure of the Phantom in his view; Zura thought so as well when he was back from over the pond.”
“No small part of familial loyalty in that assessment?” Bailey smiled wryly.
“Ha! You would say that, wouldn’t you, Simon. Always looking for an angle. No, this is the plain and simple. Damn good plane. Now, that Thunderbolt that Barnes Wallis has come up with, that is a different case.”
“Oh, come on John. Vickers have done one heck of a job there. I know your lot would have preferred an American-style solution to the issue, but Barnes knows bombers and this is a strike bomber, pure and simple. They needed something to replace the Canberra in the L.B.S.F. and it does that extraordinarily well.”
“And expensively.”
“Like I always say in the Express, we don’t have the economies of scale that the Yanks, Russians or even Chinese have, but we’ve managed to make it so far. A lot of countries out there have Canberras that we won’t or can’t sell TSR-2 to, so Thunderbolt is the best bet.”
“What about the Lion, chaps? Will that be a winner for Gloster?” Bailey ventured into the conversation, eager to shift its focus before it retrod familiar territory.
“Hard to say.” began Bill reflectively “It is more of a niche aeroplane, concentrating on ground attack and smashing up tanks with that big bloody gun. That makes it attractive to some and a bit too specialised for others.”
“Yes, it won’t get much in South America or the Middle East, I’d wager, except maybe Israel. There are a few potentials here on the Continent and bigguns at that - France, Italy, Greece, Austria and Germany. We know the Jerries are working on something in response to the same conundrum, but if an arrangement can be reached, there is some potential.” John mused thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
The first fighter that loomed up in front of them was a de Havilland Spectre. It’s large wings tapered back in a near delta above the large intakes of its twin Gyron engines, whilst four Skyblade missiles were carried on its fuselage and four smaller Firebolt heatseeking missiles sat ready on its inner wing stations. A quartet of 1000lb bombs rounded out its armament, showing that the Spectre truly lived up to its repute as a multi-role fighter-bomber.
“I gather you chaps are pilots of some sort. Have you flown one of these before?” Tom ventured to Bailey’s friends, trying to make conversation. He was naturally a bit perturbed when all three of his erstwhile companions burst out laughing.
“Yes, yes I have. The first one, to be precise.” said John.
The day was looking up, most definitely now that they were back on terra firma, Tom thought. It had been a quick hop of less than half an hour back from Garstedt to Bad Eilsen by Rotodyne and the sight of the sprawling headquarters of RAF Germany provided a curious contrast to the green fields and forests around the charming little town. There were half a dozen airstrips around the central array of buildings, all surrounded by bladewire fences, entrenchments and pillboxes. This was something of a distractor, given that the real base lay somewhere deep under the surrounding hills and woodlands, protected by a hefty layer of armour plate and concrete, but in peacetime conditions, the Air Force was hardly going to give up its comforts in favour of a more dwarven environment.
He would have been quite surprised at the sight of a troop of Super Centurion tanks bearing the roundel of the Royal Air Force Regiment had he not flipped through the glossy leaflet distributed to the journalistic pool prior to their departure from Garstedt, which had devoted a double page spread to the modernization and hardening of the RAF Regiment. Most of the visible defences of Bad Eilsen were quite conventional, mainly consisting of motorised infantry and rather formidable anti-aircraft guns, but he could see glimpses of heavily camouflaged SAGW launchers that he couldn’t quite identify out in the forest around the area and there seemed to be rounded tops of subterranean missile silos dotted around the edge of the airfield complex. It was difficult to focus upon them and his eyes seemed to slip past them if he didn’t make a deliberate effort to concentrate.
The circumstances of the flight had begun in a somewhat bizarre manner. After their return from the field with the Royal Marines, they had been met by a group of RAFG public affairs officers who could have passed for the original Brylcream Boys, smilingly greeted with complimentary chocolates and shepherded onto a flight of camouflaged Rotodynes in a smoothly efficient manner. Tom had always considered the Royal Air Force to be something of a combination between an advertising firm and garage mechanics during his own National Service and these particular Crabs seemed a bit too unctuous. He hadn’t quite been able to put his finger on it until just after they took off when the penny finally dropped.
He had leaned forward and tapped the fellow sitting in front of him on the shoulder to confirm his concern.
“Bailey?” The nice chap from The Times, who seemed to keep bobbing up in the same place as Tom, turned around almost immediately. They could barely hear the hum of the quietened engines from without, something he had become used to on his Rotodyne flights over the years and quite a difference from the old Wessexes.
“Ah, Mr. Fowler. Anything I can help you with?”
“It’s this part in the introduction of the Crab conspectus here. I’ve always thought that RAF Germany had its headquarters in Bielefeld. There’s no mention of it here.”
“I see. Have you ever met anyone from Bielefeld?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been to Bielefeld?”
Tom paused for thought. “No, I can’t say I have.”
“Righto. Do you know anyone who has ever been to Bielefeld?’’
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, there you go. Officially, the offices and administrative buildings are there. Unofficially, I think you might be onto something.” Bailey paused meaningfully.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.”
“Wonderful! You’re learning the rules of the game so fast! Anyway, I’d keep mum about Bielefeld if I were you, old boy. En Svensk Tiger, as my old tomte is want to say.” He gave an infuriating wink and then turned back around to his crossword.
Considering back on it now, there was something strange going on, but he had the kernel of an idea of what it was. Some sort of combination of illusion and repulsion sorcery was being used here, which made sense given the Royal Air Force’s enthusiasm for arcane augmentations and gadgetry. As the newest of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, at least on Earth, the RAF had wholeheartedly embraced both all manner of newfangled technology and the latest in modern sorcery in its efforts to carve out its own niche.
As they trooped off the Rotodyne onto the tarmac, they were met by a grinning squadron leader in dress uniform who stood with that cultivated easy casualness that he had encountered predominantly in the jet pilots of Fighter Command.
“Good afternoon, chaps, Squadron Leader Christopher Blair. Welcome to the Headquarters of RAF Germany. Follow me through to the briefing room we’ve got set up over here and help yourself to a spot of tea, if you like. Air Commodore Warburton has quite the presentation for you.”
The RAF’s briefing room was not cosy and cluttered like the Royal Navy’s on Heligoland, nor an ad hoc conversion as that of the Marines, but rather a well-appointed dedicated facility replete with large mapboards and a crystal screen showing a satellite image of Northern Germany and its immediate environs. The tea was rather good and the RAF’s array of biscuits, ranging from tea cakes and Viennese whirls to Scotch shortbread and jammie dodgers, typified their youthful exhuberant extravagance; they even had coffee at the back of the room, which was pounced upon by the Americans and Continental types with a tad too much enthusiasm, whilst the British contingent looked on with bemusement. As they settled down in their seats, the doors were opened and a party of RAF officers entered, lead by a tall man heavily adorned with gold aiguellettes and a very large array of medal ribbons, reflecting his exploits in the Second World War, Korea and the Middle East.
“Very good, gentlemen. As of this afternoon, RAF Germany fields 1248 combat aircraft in 52 squadrons, close to our full mobilized form, whilst Strike Command stands ready as immediate reinforcement as per our plans. Further forces from Fighter Command and Transport Command are associated in a support role as appropriate. In circumstances outside of the parameters of this exercise, this available force would be increased, naturally. The initial flow of reinforcement aircraft and personnel will be completed within 24 hours from the initiation of Warhammer. We currently have the aircraft of both Royal Canadian Air Force Europe and the forward deployed Commonwealth squadrons under our operational command for the purposes of the exercise.
Our role is fourfold – command and control of 2nd Allied Tactical Air Force, NORTHAG’s aerial defence force; defence of the air approaches to the British Isles through Northern Germany and the Low Countries; aerial strikes against enemy forces in the European theatre; and direct air support of the British Army of the Rhine and other allied land forces. We have dispersed our various tactical air forces from their eighteen peacetime bases to their field locations, which of course will remain unspecified. We have full operational control of Army area air defence assets as part of our coordination role in wartime and our radar stations extend our picture of the potential battlespace well beyond our immediate area of control, providing detailed information for not just the Supreme Allied Commander Europe and the command of Allied Forces Central Europe, but also to Allied commands in Northern and Southern Europe.
In the form of the fighter and interceptor force, the English Electric Lightnings and Supermarine Sunstars, we have the capacity to control the airspace above our tactical area. The Merlin and Spectre strike forces give us long range hitting power that only the Americans can rival and none can better. Our Harrier attack fighter-bombers provide the British Army and our allies with the best close air support in the business and we have full confidence in their capabilities. Whilst the Hawker Hunters and the English Electric Canberras of the Royal Auxiliary Air Force, are regarded by some as a legacy force, both types are in service with our very best squadrons and remain fully capable of carrying out their missions in any conditions.
You have heard from the Royal Navy on their vital role in the execution of Warhammer and no doubt the Army will follow along with their own perspective on the morrow. The Navy and the civilian ships called up have and will transport much of the heavy equipment of the Army from their bases at home, but the Royal Air Force is in the process of moving over 160,000 men, their arms and supplies from the British Isles to the Low Countries and Germany and we are ahead of schedule. The air bridge is firmly defended by home and European based fighters and missiles, allowing the rapid reinforcement of both divisions assigned to the permanently deployed corps of the BAOR. As the Hawker-Siddeley HS.681 enters service with the Royal Air Force in greater numbers, our capacity in this regard will be greatly multiplied, just as the Atlas has already done so.
Whilst the emphasis of much of what you will see and hear in your time with us today will look at our role in the event of war, RAF Germany also plays a significant part in the peacetime life of Germany. We provide a range of support and services to the civilian population of our hosts, ranging from aerial photography and surveying, search and rescue for lost children, communications coordination and aerial transportation in the event of significantly bad weather. It points the way forward for cooperation, not just between our two nations, but between all the countries of the Free World. Now, are the any questions?”
One of the Americans shot up out of his seat. “Air Commodore, does RAF Germany have sufficient strength to hold the Red Air Force in a potential conflict?”
“Our position has consistently been that we have full confidence in our capacity to, in association with the other national contingents in Second Allied Tactical Air Force, carry out whatever tasks the Supreme Allied Commander may instruct us to do.” He pointed at a Dutch journalist who had his hand raised in a somewhat more sedate fashion. “Yes?”
“The Koninklijke Luchtmacht plays a significant role in the defence of Northern Germany. What is their role in Exercise Warhammer and what areas require the most significant modernization?”
“We have a very close working relationship with the Dutch, and with the Belgians for that matter. Both are playing support roles in the current exercise and specifically, the Royal Netherlands Air Force will be providing an opposition force for tactical aerial combat simulations tomorrow afternoon. Whilst it is not for us to comment on Dutch military procurement, the Fokker Degen is an absolutely spiffing bit of kit and right up there with the best fighters in Europe; replacement of your Hunters and Deltas with fully modern aircraft, whichever they may be, will be an absolute boon for the entire of our Allied command.”
Bailey leaned over to Tom and raised up his notes to cover his mouth. “Bit of a contrast with the Andrew there. It seems that the Air Ministry is trying to put in a good word for our poor old aircraft manufacturers for the Benelux contracts.”
“With over 300 Dutch and Belgian orders each, I can see why they’d be a bit keen on it. The Yanks and the French are the major competition?”
“So it would seem, but I’ve heard some talk that they may be looking northward as well. In any case, our chaps don’t quite have as much largesse to throw around as our cousins across the water, so a little good word here and there doesn’t go astray.”
“One would hope.” In the midst of their little conversation, Tom had missed the last question, something from the correspondent of the Manchester Guardian about comparative fighter armament; their journalists were always rather warlike and technical in their temperament, what with the paper being one of the most stridently jingoistic of all the British newspapers.
“Thank you, gentlemen. We will now repair outside, where a selection of our aircraft are on display for your inspection. Following on from that, you’ll each be joined up with the squadron that will be hosting you. Group Captain Foyle will distribute the relevant chits to you for all that.”
“It will be interesting to have a look at some of them up close, don’t you think?” Tom asked Bailey as they headed out to the waiting fighters.
“Always tends to be. Planes aren’t really my area of expertise - I leave that to the likes of Bill and John here. What do you fellows think?”
“There won’t be too many surprises, even if RAF Germany gets the pick of the planes and pilots. It won’t be the first time either of us have seen some of them before, either, eh John?” The first chap, presumably Bill, spoke with a soft Canadian accent.
“Not by a long stretch, old man. Now, if they had some of our Tornadoes out here rather than back at the CFE for testing, then it would be interesting. That will be one beauty of a kite.”
“So it really is as good as they say?”
“Yes. Mach 1.5 on the deck and 2.5 up high. Doesn’t quite have the bombload of an F-111 or an Excalibur, but it is a magnificent fighter. Winkle has been trying one out for the Andrew and he said it has the measure of the Phantom in his view; Zura thought so as well when he was back from over the pond.”
“No small part of familial loyalty in that assessment?” Bailey smiled wryly.
“Ha! You would say that, wouldn’t you, Simon. Always looking for an angle. No, this is the plain and simple. Damn good plane. Now, that Thunderbolt that Barnes Wallis has come up with, that is a different case.”
“Oh, come on John. Vickers have done one heck of a job there. I know your lot would have preferred an American-style solution to the issue, but Barnes knows bombers and this is a strike bomber, pure and simple. They needed something to replace the Canberra in the L.B.S.F. and it does that extraordinarily well.”
“And expensively.”
“Like I always say in the Express, we don’t have the economies of scale that the Yanks, Russians or even Chinese have, but we’ve managed to make it so far. A lot of countries out there have Canberras that we won’t or can’t sell TSR-2 to, so Thunderbolt is the best bet.”
“What about the Lion, chaps? Will that be a winner for Gloster?” Bailey ventured into the conversation, eager to shift its focus before it retrod familiar territory.
“Hard to say.” began Bill reflectively “It is more of a niche aeroplane, concentrating on ground attack and smashing up tanks with that big bloody gun. That makes it attractive to some and a bit too specialised for others.”
“Yes, it won’t get much in South America or the Middle East, I’d wager, except maybe Israel. There are a few potentials here on the Continent and bigguns at that - France, Italy, Greece, Austria and Germany. We know the Jerries are working on something in response to the same conundrum, but if an arrangement can be reached, there is some potential.” John mused thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
The first fighter that loomed up in front of them was a de Havilland Spectre. It’s large wings tapered back in a near delta above the large intakes of its twin Gyron engines, whilst four Skyblade missiles were carried on its fuselage and four smaller Firebolt heatseeking missiles sat ready on its inner wing stations. A quartet of 1000lb bombs rounded out its armament, showing that the Spectre truly lived up to its repute as a multi-role fighter-bomber.
“I gather you chaps are pilots of some sort. Have you flown one of these before?” Tom ventured to Bailey’s friends, trying to make conversation. He was naturally a bit perturbed when all three of his erstwhile companions burst out laughing.
“Yes, yes I have. The first one, to be precise.” said John.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Exercise Warhammer Part 5: Down in Harrier Town
As the hearty laughter died down, Bailey's acquaintances drifted off to the other side of the tarmac to inspect a curious looking helicopter, but Tom's attention was drawn to a very familiar aircraft that stood next to the Spectre. Its sharply swept wings and stretched fuselage identified it as one of the more modern developments of the venerable single engine fighter, but it could not be mistaken for anything other than a Hawker Hunter. This was the jet that had helped win the Korean War, the jet that had ruled the skies over the Middle East back in '56 and the jet that up until recently, had been the most ubiquitous in not only the Royal Air Force, but the Western world. Now, they were waning in numbers, but still provided what many considered the most effective ground attack fighter-bomber in the British arsenal.
Tom’s eye was caught by something on the fighter’s nose. Flags. Two white crescents on green. Two white crescents on red. Two azure dragons on gold. Four red stars within red pentagons. Two red stars. And one black swastika. Well. They had certainly got around.
“Shame they’ll be gone fairly soon. Still, nigh on twenty years is a good innings in anyone’s book, especially in this day and age.”
Tom turned to see a dogged-looking fellow in a grey suit with receding black hair and a sturdy walking stick that he seemed to carry more as a weapon than an aid, who stood looking on at the Hunter thoughtfully.
“What will they do with them all?”
“I dare say the majority will go into storage for the Royal Auxiliary Air Force or the War Emergency Reserve or even the Welsh and Scottish mountains. We don’t quite have the same conditions that the Yanks can call upon, but I'd wager we have ways and ways of keeping our old planes ready.”
Tom nodded. Whilst the precise arrangements of the Royal Air Force's reserve stocks of aircraft were a closely kept secret, there were enough stories going around regarding hundreds of old jets kept deep underground in temperature controlled caverns for there to surely be at least something of substance to them. The RAF was notorious at keeping hold of as much kit as possible, which had lead to one of Tom's more interesting freelance pieces when he'd followed up rumours of an old abandoned airship hanger packed with brand new Spitfires on some remote craggy island off the west coast of Ireland. He'd made it out there before being politely asked to leave by the local constabulary and an unsmiling black-suited fellow who had slapped a D-notice on the whole business and intimated that it would be better for him to not return for a few decades or so.
This chap here was quite right. Oh, the old airfields out in the Empire had much the same as what the Americans did - dozens, if not hundreds of planes plonked out in the middle of carefully chosen deserts in South Africa, Australia and India, but here at home, the weather and the lack of space meant that they usually went inside or underground.
He turned back to the fellow next to him, who seemed to be standing a bit strangely; Tom couldn't quite put his finger on it. Perhaps a bit more inocuous conversation would tease some more snippets out for his piece.
"Quite remarkable to think it first flew in the 40s."
"Yes, we did have quite a few things flying around back then."
"Ah, were you flying back then?"
"Yes, I had one of these girls back in Korea, for one last fling. The Americans do like to talk up their Sabres from back then and they were bloody good kites, but ours could also smash up the Reds on the ground as well as knock them out of the skies. We could also take atom bombs on the Hunter. Damn fine plane. Second best one I've flown."
"What would the best plane be then?"
"The Spitfire, of course. A real pilot's dream. And never, ever call it a plane. It's an aeroplane."
Tom stopped. He now knew who this man was. "Thank you very much, Air Vice-Marshal Bader. What brings you out to Germany?"
"Officially, the Air Ministry called up all of our Shell planes for the air bridge, so I came over to keep an eye on things. Really? Bit of a favour for old Biggles."
"There you are, Mr. Fowler! Ah, Douglas! Warby mentioned that you were stomping around the place. Seeing Marseille and Hartmann later?"
"Maybe, Bailey, maybe. Things seem to get awfully busy these days. Cheerio, old boy."
"Pip pip, Bader." Bailey smiled at the remarkably natural gait of the man as he walked off. "Remarkable fellow. Seen what you were after yet?"
"I don't think my editor was really after too great a depth of technical details. There'll be a time for someone to do the swansong of the Canberra and all that, but I might as well see some of the others before they send us out into the field...to do what, exactly?"
"See how the Harrier squadrons commune with the spirits of nature, apparently. The chaps seem to think that this part of the whole press endeavour is to make sure the Harrier gets frontpage coverage in Germany and seeing Douglas out here confirms it. A few pictures of RAF and Luftwaffe aces next to the planes will get attention from here to Munich. Clever."
"That makes an awful lot of sense. So, what next?"
"How about the Supermarine Sunstar here? It gets a bit forgotten between the Merlins and the Lightning, but I'm sure you could raffle up some guff about the legacy of Mitchell and Smith." Bailey strolled over to the Sunstar, clearly recognisable with its graceful curving wings and twin vertical tail above its pair of reheat Rolls Royce Olympus turbojets. "Beautiful yet deadly and the best in its class."
He was right of course, Tom thought. The English Electric Lightning was the world's best interceptor and the Hawker-Siddeley Merlin had no peer as a long-range strike fighter, but the Sunstar was the powerful and reliable air superiority fighter that the RAF's air defence relied upon. Over Germany and Europe, the triple-layered protection of the British Isles, built as it was upon the outer layer of the Delta IIs and Arrows out over the seas, the Sunstars in the middle zone and the Lightnings and Saro Phoenixes at home, was pared back to only a dual level arrangement, but it was a formidable one nonetheless. The Germans were certainly coming to the same conclusion.
"Wouldn't it make more sense, as some of the American fellows have said, to cut back on the types of planes in service and standardise more, though?"
"On the surface of it, yes. That is why Fighter Command shifted the Merlins and Spectres over to Strike Command and consolidating on the Big 5; even then, there is a fair bit of pressure from the Treasury to cut that back to four, if my sources are correct. Here in Germany, the aim is to field five types - Harriers, Lions, Lightnings, Sunstars and Tornadoes - backed up by the longer range strike aircraft in Third and Fourth TAFs - Merlins, Tornadoes and Thunderbolts. There is a fair bit of industrial policy and politics, both Imperial and domestic, wrapped up in the whole business."
"You left out the Spectres."
"Yes. It is a damn fine kite, as the Brylcream Boys are want to say, but it will be pushing ten years old soon. The sheer bally pace of aircraft development, the 'white heat of science and technology' as that Socialist fellow says, is going at breakneck speed and shows no sign of stopping. The Hunters, the Deltas, the Spectres - they all ruled the roost back in 1956 and even in 1960 were frontline planes. Give it two or three years and they'll be by the wayside and comfortably in reserve."
"In that case, wouldn't it be a better solution to grab the bull by its horns and shear back the extraneous types from the active fleet."
"I wouldn't like your chances of shearing a bull, Mr. Fowler; I must remember to mention that to an old minotaur chum of mine back in Blighty." Bailey smiled irascibly. "All jokes aside, it makes fine sense from the outside, but it would be a brave Air Ministry that would do it in this political environment, both at home and abroad. You'd actually be more likely to see it from Eden than Stanley Barton; you know how he bangs on about supporting our vital industries and their workers as one of the keys to total defence. If Labour get in next year in '64, and it can't be discounted, you could see some surprises, though."
"Such as?"
"I'm hearing a few whispers about Phantom."
"Really? That would be quite a turn-up; I can't remember us buying an American plane since..."
"Since the last war, yes. Apparently, there seems to be something in the works surrounding a quid pro quo to do with Harrier and Phantom that Labour is a bit more open to than the Tories. Just a whisper, though."
A whisper that he had quite adroitly passed onto Tom, slipping it in quite naturally. Fowler had reasonably developed journalistic antennae when it came to a story and what came naturally, but this seemed a bit too convenient. It wasn't the first time he'd been fed a story too delicious not to leak; he could only surmise that there was more to Mr. Simon Bailey than his friendly enthusiasm. Or maybe his heightened paranoia was simply a function of an early start and a lack of strong drink.
Before he could reply or think further, a howl of engines came in from very low as four Harriers streaked across the airfield and hovered down to land in their inimitable fashion. It was time to head out into the field, it seemed.
..........................................................................................................................................
The field headquarters of B Flight, No. 15 Squadron were rather less salubrious than their normal based back at RAF Bückeburg, consisting of a dozen extremely well camouflaged tents, carefully disguised hides for their half dozen Hawker Siddeley jump jets and various vehicles coveted in bushes. Coming in from the air, it had been impossible to spot until they were almost directly overhead, although Tom wagered to himself that the Russians had means beyond the naked eye to observe them with.
This was one of the great raison d’êtres of the Harrier in RAF Germany, this notion of dispersal into the field - or forest, in this case - for the provision of close air support that was not completely contingent upon fixed airfield, which were perceived as early targets for the Red Air Force or Soviet missile strikes. As part of Warhammer, all twenty Harrier squadrons had been dispersed to over one hundred WARLOCs, or war locations, across Western and Central Germany; the similarity of the term to certain other words had apparently lead to the RAF and Air Ministry receiving some interesting predawn visits by the Office of the Witchfinder General, but the matter had been resolved after some intense discussions.
The squadron public relations officer had proved particularly wont to wax lyrical about the multiplicative effect on the RAF’s tactical airpower in the defence of Germany supplied by the Harrier.
“You know, Mr. Fowler, the Harrier really has a, a, a multiplicative effect on our tactical air power in the role of the -“
“The defence of Germany?”
“I say, you’re a clever one, what!” Flight Lieutenant Hamilton-Massingbird granted Tom a look of some approval, as if he’d given him a profitable tip for the Grand National.
Tom silently prayed for the conversation to be interrupted in a decisive yet socially appropriate manner, such as a rook falling on his head or a sudden reversal of the Earth’s magnetic poles, but his entreaties went in vain, for his accompanying journalist now entered the fray. The chap was from the Manchester Guardian, you see. All storm and fury.
“Flight Lieutenant, you’ve been quite explicit about the advantages of Harrier deployment arrangements. What about the disadvantages?”
“Well, being out in the dark and wild forests of Germany isn’t quite as nice as the officer’s mess back at base.” The Royal Air Force man stuck firmly to the script of arrant fop, almost as if the powers that be had decided upon cliche as the best press strategy; it seemed to Tom as if a covey of mandarins (if covey was the best collective noun for the Civil Service; he was leaning more towards 'an interdepartmental dither') had ruminated roundly over brandy and cigars down at t'club one evening that the Foreign Secretary seemed to make an artform of it, so why not make it policy, eh, old boy?
"That's not quite what I meant, sir, and I think you know it. What limitations to operational range and weapons load does VTOL from grass airfields entail, that, say, operating off roads and in small villages."
Hamilton-Massingbird's grin evaporated and even his accent seemed to roughen slightly. "On the first matter, that is classified. On the second point, that is also classified. What I can say is that if we put a flight of fighter-bombers in any one of these charming, lovely German villages around here, it would not only stick out like a dragon in dark sunglasses trying to pass itself off as a winner in Worcestershire midget beauty contest, but it would also result in said charming, lovely village copping it from enemy guns and rockets rather sharpish. There is a lot more space out here, for now."
The Guardian firebrand seemed mollified, or as mollified as they tended to get. "The reinforcing squadrons from Strike Command have a dual role, both here in Germany and also on the northern and southern flanks in Scandinavia and the Med. Have you noticed any difference between their relative acclimatisation and experience in exercises because of this?"
"All of our Harrier units are capable of operating in a variety of climes and circumstances right here in Germany. It is an awfully big place, you know. So, no. There isn't any great gulf noticeable between the home based forces and RAF Germany. There is a great deal of cross-over between us all, really, just like the heavies."
"You're referring to Bomber Command? They're not involved in Warhammer for some reason." Tom was fairly sure of the reason, but allowing a chap to educate an ignorant civvie was one way of getting him to run off a bit too much at the mouth.
"Yes, they are at home and elsewhere for various reasons, including keeping some cards out in the open. In different situations, SACEUR would have the Light Bomber Strike Force in France and so forth, as well as the Valiants and TSR-2s operating from Britain assigned to the Allied Strategic Air Force."
"How would heavy bombers operate in an air combat environment over Germany?" There went the Guardian chap again.
"Like all of our forces, with great care, planning and skill. Operating from home as well as the Harrier dispersal gives more airfield space for the reinforcement air bridge, as well as the contingents from the Commonwealth air forces."
"Can the Commonwealth really get enough strength into the Continent in time to make any difference? There are a lot of calls on their forces, after all, in the Middle East and Far East, for example." Tom thought that he might be onto something here.
"They do and they have. You are forgetting one thing - The Plan. Kicking that into gear again is a key part in our active and reserve capacity."
Of course. The Plan.
Before he could pounce on the idea, his compatriot beat him to the punch.
"What about the Army Air Corps and the Royal Flying Corps? Are the recent increases a factor in the role played by your Harriers?"
"I can't really speak for the Army, but I know someone who can."
"Oh?" Tom was somewhat intrigued. They weren't supposed to hand over to the Army until the morning.
"Yes. Have you ever met a dragon?"
As the hearty laughter died down, Bailey's acquaintances drifted off to the other side of the tarmac to inspect a curious looking helicopter, but Tom's attention was drawn to a very familiar aircraft that stood next to the Spectre. Its sharply swept wings and stretched fuselage identified it as one of the more modern developments of the venerable single engine fighter, but it could not be mistaken for anything other than a Hawker Hunter. This was the jet that had helped win the Korean War, the jet that had ruled the skies over the Middle East back in '56 and the jet that up until recently, had been the most ubiquitous in not only the Royal Air Force, but the Western world. Now, they were waning in numbers, but still provided what many considered the most effective ground attack fighter-bomber in the British arsenal.
Tom’s eye was caught by something on the fighter’s nose. Flags. Two white crescents on green. Two white crescents on red. Two azure dragons on gold. Four red stars within red pentagons. Two red stars. And one black swastika. Well. They had certainly got around.
“Shame they’ll be gone fairly soon. Still, nigh on twenty years is a good innings in anyone’s book, especially in this day and age.”
Tom turned to see a dogged-looking fellow in a grey suit with receding black hair and a sturdy walking stick that he seemed to carry more as a weapon than an aid, who stood looking on at the Hunter thoughtfully.
“What will they do with them all?”
“I dare say the majority will go into storage for the Royal Auxiliary Air Force or the War Emergency Reserve or even the Welsh and Scottish mountains. We don’t quite have the same conditions that the Yanks can call upon, but I'd wager we have ways and ways of keeping our old planes ready.”
Tom nodded. Whilst the precise arrangements of the Royal Air Force's reserve stocks of aircraft were a closely kept secret, there were enough stories going around regarding hundreds of old jets kept deep underground in temperature controlled caverns for there to surely be at least something of substance to them. The RAF was notorious at keeping hold of as much kit as possible, which had lead to one of Tom's more interesting freelance pieces when he'd followed up rumours of an old abandoned airship hanger packed with brand new Spitfires on some remote craggy island off the west coast of Ireland. He'd made it out there before being politely asked to leave by the local constabulary and an unsmiling black-suited fellow who had slapped a D-notice on the whole business and intimated that it would be better for him to not return for a few decades or so.
This chap here was quite right. Oh, the old airfields out in the Empire had much the same as what the Americans did - dozens, if not hundreds of planes plonked out in the middle of carefully chosen deserts in South Africa, Australia and India, but here at home, the weather and the lack of space meant that they usually went inside or underground.
He turned back to the fellow next to him, who seemed to be standing a bit strangely; Tom couldn't quite put his finger on it. Perhaps a bit more inocuous conversation would tease some more snippets out for his piece.
"Quite remarkable to think it first flew in the 40s."
"Yes, we did have quite a few things flying around back then."
"Ah, were you flying back then?"
"Yes, I had one of these girls back in Korea, for one last fling. The Americans do like to talk up their Sabres from back then and they were bloody good kites, but ours could also smash up the Reds on the ground as well as knock them out of the skies. We could also take atom bombs on the Hunter. Damn fine plane. Second best one I've flown."
"What would the best plane be then?"
"The Spitfire, of course. A real pilot's dream. And never, ever call it a plane. It's an aeroplane."
Tom stopped. He now knew who this man was. "Thank you very much, Air Vice-Marshal Bader. What brings you out to Germany?"
"Officially, the Air Ministry called up all of our Shell planes for the air bridge, so I came over to keep an eye on things. Really? Bit of a favour for old Biggles."
"There you are, Mr. Fowler! Ah, Douglas! Warby mentioned that you were stomping around the place. Seeing Marseille and Hartmann later?"
"Maybe, Bailey, maybe. Things seem to get awfully busy these days. Cheerio, old boy."
"Pip pip, Bader." Bailey smiled at the remarkably natural gait of the man as he walked off. "Remarkable fellow. Seen what you were after yet?"
"I don't think my editor was really after too great a depth of technical details. There'll be a time for someone to do the swansong of the Canberra and all that, but I might as well see some of the others before they send us out into the field...to do what, exactly?"
"See how the Harrier squadrons commune with the spirits of nature, apparently. The chaps seem to think that this part of the whole press endeavour is to make sure the Harrier gets frontpage coverage in Germany and seeing Douglas out here confirms it. A few pictures of RAF and Luftwaffe aces next to the planes will get attention from here to Munich. Clever."
"That makes an awful lot of sense. So, what next?"
"How about the Supermarine Sunstar here? It gets a bit forgotten between the Merlins and the Lightning, but I'm sure you could raffle up some guff about the legacy of Mitchell and Smith." Bailey strolled over to the Sunstar, clearly recognisable with its graceful curving wings and twin vertical tail above its pair of reheat Rolls Royce Olympus turbojets. "Beautiful yet deadly and the best in its class."
He was right of course, Tom thought. The English Electric Lightning was the world's best interceptor and the Hawker-Siddeley Merlin had no peer as a long-range strike fighter, but the Sunstar was the powerful and reliable air superiority fighter that the RAF's air defence relied upon. Over Germany and Europe, the triple-layered protection of the British Isles, built as it was upon the outer layer of the Delta IIs and Arrows out over the seas, the Sunstars in the middle zone and the Lightnings and Saro Phoenixes at home, was pared back to only a dual level arrangement, but it was a formidable one nonetheless. The Germans were certainly coming to the same conclusion.
"Wouldn't it make more sense, as some of the American fellows have said, to cut back on the types of planes in service and standardise more, though?"
"On the surface of it, yes. That is why Fighter Command shifted the Merlins and Spectres over to Strike Command and consolidating on the Big 5; even then, there is a fair bit of pressure from the Treasury to cut that back to four, if my sources are correct. Here in Germany, the aim is to field five types - Harriers, Lions, Lightnings, Sunstars and Tornadoes - backed up by the longer range strike aircraft in Third and Fourth TAFs - Merlins, Tornadoes and Thunderbolts. There is a fair bit of industrial policy and politics, both Imperial and domestic, wrapped up in the whole business."
"You left out the Spectres."
"Yes. It is a damn fine kite, as the Brylcream Boys are want to say, but it will be pushing ten years old soon. The sheer bally pace of aircraft development, the 'white heat of science and technology' as that Socialist fellow says, is going at breakneck speed and shows no sign of stopping. The Hunters, the Deltas, the Spectres - they all ruled the roost back in 1956 and even in 1960 were frontline planes. Give it two or three years and they'll be by the wayside and comfortably in reserve."
"In that case, wouldn't it be a better solution to grab the bull by its horns and shear back the extraneous types from the active fleet."
"I wouldn't like your chances of shearing a bull, Mr. Fowler; I must remember to mention that to an old minotaur chum of mine back in Blighty." Bailey smiled irascibly. "All jokes aside, it makes fine sense from the outside, but it would be a brave Air Ministry that would do it in this political environment, both at home and abroad. You'd actually be more likely to see it from Eden than Stanley Barton; you know how he bangs on about supporting our vital industries and their workers as one of the keys to total defence. If Labour get in next year in '64, and it can't be discounted, you could see some surprises, though."
"Such as?"
"I'm hearing a few whispers about Phantom."
"Really? That would be quite a turn-up; I can't remember us buying an American plane since..."
"Since the last war, yes. Apparently, there seems to be something in the works surrounding a quid pro quo to do with Harrier and Phantom that Labour is a bit more open to than the Tories. Just a whisper, though."
A whisper that he had quite adroitly passed onto Tom, slipping it in quite naturally. Fowler had reasonably developed journalistic antennae when it came to a story and what came naturally, but this seemed a bit too convenient. It wasn't the first time he'd been fed a story too delicious not to leak; he could only surmise that there was more to Mr. Simon Bailey than his friendly enthusiasm. Or maybe his heightened paranoia was simply a function of an early start and a lack of strong drink.
Before he could reply or think further, a howl of engines came in from very low as four Harriers streaked across the airfield and hovered down to land in their inimitable fashion. It was time to head out into the field, it seemed.
..........................................................................................................................................
The field headquarters of B Flight, No. 15 Squadron were rather less salubrious than their normal based back at RAF Bückeburg, consisting of a dozen extremely well camouflaged tents, carefully disguised hides for their half dozen Hawker Siddeley jump jets and various vehicles coveted in bushes. Coming in from the air, it had been impossible to spot until they were almost directly overhead, although Tom wagered to himself that the Russians had means beyond the naked eye to observe them with.
This was one of the great raison d’êtres of the Harrier in RAF Germany, this notion of dispersal into the field - or forest, in this case - for the provision of close air support that was not completely contingent upon fixed airfield, which were perceived as early targets for the Red Air Force or Soviet missile strikes. As part of Warhammer, all twenty Harrier squadrons had been dispersed to over one hundred WARLOCs, or war locations, across Western and Central Germany; the similarity of the term to certain other words had apparently lead to the RAF and Air Ministry receiving some interesting predawn visits by the Office of the Witchfinder General, but the matter had been resolved after some intense discussions.
The squadron public relations officer had proved particularly wont to wax lyrical about the multiplicative effect on the RAF’s tactical airpower in the defence of Germany supplied by the Harrier.
“You know, Mr. Fowler, the Harrier really has a, a, a multiplicative effect on our tactical air power in the role of the -“
“The defence of Germany?”
“I say, you’re a clever one, what!” Flight Lieutenant Hamilton-Massingbird granted Tom a look of some approval, as if he’d given him a profitable tip for the Grand National.
Tom silently prayed for the conversation to be interrupted in a decisive yet socially appropriate manner, such as a rook falling on his head or a sudden reversal of the Earth’s magnetic poles, but his entreaties went in vain, for his accompanying journalist now entered the fray. The chap was from the Manchester Guardian, you see. All storm and fury.
“Flight Lieutenant, you’ve been quite explicit about the advantages of Harrier deployment arrangements. What about the disadvantages?”
“Well, being out in the dark and wild forests of Germany isn’t quite as nice as the officer’s mess back at base.” The Royal Air Force man stuck firmly to the script of arrant fop, almost as if the powers that be had decided upon cliche as the best press strategy; it seemed to Tom as if a covey of mandarins (if covey was the best collective noun for the Civil Service; he was leaning more towards 'an interdepartmental dither') had ruminated roundly over brandy and cigars down at t'club one evening that the Foreign Secretary seemed to make an artform of it, so why not make it policy, eh, old boy?
"That's not quite what I meant, sir, and I think you know it. What limitations to operational range and weapons load does VTOL from grass airfields entail, that, say, operating off roads and in small villages."
Hamilton-Massingbird's grin evaporated and even his accent seemed to roughen slightly. "On the first matter, that is classified. On the second point, that is also classified. What I can say is that if we put a flight of fighter-bombers in any one of these charming, lovely German villages around here, it would not only stick out like a dragon in dark sunglasses trying to pass itself off as a winner in Worcestershire midget beauty contest, but it would also result in said charming, lovely village copping it from enemy guns and rockets rather sharpish. There is a lot more space out here, for now."
The Guardian firebrand seemed mollified, or as mollified as they tended to get. "The reinforcing squadrons from Strike Command have a dual role, both here in Germany and also on the northern and southern flanks in Scandinavia and the Med. Have you noticed any difference between their relative acclimatisation and experience in exercises because of this?"
"All of our Harrier units are capable of operating in a variety of climes and circumstances right here in Germany. It is an awfully big place, you know. So, no. There isn't any great gulf noticeable between the home based forces and RAF Germany. There is a great deal of cross-over between us all, really, just like the heavies."
"You're referring to Bomber Command? They're not involved in Warhammer for some reason." Tom was fairly sure of the reason, but allowing a chap to educate an ignorant civvie was one way of getting him to run off a bit too much at the mouth.
"Yes, they are at home and elsewhere for various reasons, including keeping some cards out in the open. In different situations, SACEUR would have the Light Bomber Strike Force in France and so forth, as well as the Valiants and TSR-2s operating from Britain assigned to the Allied Strategic Air Force."
"How would heavy bombers operate in an air combat environment over Germany?" There went the Guardian chap again.
"Like all of our forces, with great care, planning and skill. Operating from home as well as the Harrier dispersal gives more airfield space for the reinforcement air bridge, as well as the contingents from the Commonwealth air forces."
"Can the Commonwealth really get enough strength into the Continent in time to make any difference? There are a lot of calls on their forces, after all, in the Middle East and Far East, for example." Tom thought that he might be onto something here.
"They do and they have. You are forgetting one thing - The Plan. Kicking that into gear again is a key part in our active and reserve capacity."
Of course. The Plan.
Before he could pounce on the idea, his compatriot beat him to the punch.
"What about the Army Air Corps and the Royal Flying Corps? Are the recent increases a factor in the role played by your Harriers?"
"I can't really speak for the Army, but I know someone who can."
"Oh?" Tom was somewhat intrigued. They weren't supposed to hand over to the Army until the morning.
"Yes. Have you ever met a dragon?"
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Exercise Warhammer Part 6: Interview with a Dragon
"No. No, I haven't." Tom gulped.
"Well, I'll tell you what - I'll put in a good word for you and you can go and meet Sagadicius Maximion, the Captain-General of the Royal Flying Corps. He's in the field over here for Warhammer, y'know. That would be quite the interview for a newsman like yourself."
"Oh, wonderful."
"I say, Fowler, that would be one heck of a break! The old creature doesn't give out interviews to almost anyone. I'd give my eyeteeth for a chance at speaking to him on the record." The Guardian chap was obviously much more enthusiastic about the prospect than Tom, who did not particularly relish the notion of a tête-à-tête with a large carnivorous reptile with a reputation for irascibility; the RAF officer had apparently seen this and was beaming at him with no small hint of nastiness to his glistening smile.
"Oh, wonderful."
There was nothing else for it. The RAF officer received clearance from his own superiors, made his way to the communications tree, which apparently was an entirely artificial hollow structure carefully hidden amidst its real counterparts at the WARLOC, and emerged several minutes later that the Royal Flying Corps would be more than happy to receive Mr. Thomas Fowler earlier than scheduled.
The two journalists and their escort of the officer and his two SA-52-toting airmen made their way through the thick copse of trees and the ingeniously camouflaged cleared zone on the other side that would serve as an emergency landing pad for Harriers and helicopters in actual operations into a thinner area of forest that, after a few minutes walk, opened out into a larger clearing.
"Your ride should be here any minute now; they had a few Bulldogs up in the air already that could be quickly redirected."
Tom had the nagging feeling that he was being set up for something, but couldn't quite figure out by whom or why. As he paused to puzzle, a tremendous whooshing sound and scream of jets sent him huddling to the ground as a pair of Harriers streaked overhead, barely feet above the nearby treetops, disappearing out of sight before he could even register their presence.
"Ah, close air support." The RAF man beamed with obvious pleasure.
"Did...did those jets have bayonets on their nose?" asked the Guardian fellow, who had been similarly discombobulated by their overflight.
"Well, our chaps have always emphasised the close part." Hamilton-Massingbird remarked wryly.
"It wouldn't have anything to do with the Royal Flying Corps putting in their bid for a bigger share of said support, would it?"
"Oh, it is quite possible that the Tommyhawks will continue to try their best, but they can't quite compete with us. They've been trying to play catch-up since the Great War."
"So the rivalry is strong?"
"I wouldn't describe them as rivals, anymore than Chichester is a rival of London. Their attempts to get back into the armed fixed-wing game, be it VSTOL or not, are very much in vain."
"Can I quote you on that?"
"Certainly not."
Before Tom had the opportunity to contemplate airmen and their ways, the beating thrum of an approaching helicopter emerged from beyond the green expanse of the wood. It was the familiar sight of one of the ubiquitous Bristol Bulldogs painted in its equally familiar Continental camouflage scheme of green, grey and brown that seemed to ripple and change as it coursed through the overcast sky. The helicopter hovered down and came to a gentle landing on the soft grass of the meadow before them.
"Right, on you go Mr. Fowler. Enjoy your special treat and good luck with the Captain-General!" Hamilton-Massingbird gave a merry wave to see Tom off on his way.
With not a small bit of suspicion, Tom ran forward in that slightly hunched over fashion that one adopted around helicopters that he had learnt back in his own Army days and was shepherded aboard by the crew chief. The interior was comparatively quiet, compared to his previous experiences, and he surmised that the silencing dweomers used on the Rotodynes were gradually trickling down to the more numerous helicopters.
"Good day, sir. You'll be going through to one of our forward operating bases in the field; all of our regular bases have been given over to the reinforcing units from Blighty. We'll have you there in a jiffy." The mustachioed crew chief barked at him as they took off rapidly. He handed Tom a sheet of paper. "This should fill you in on what you need to know."
Tom grunted his gratitude and scanned over the information release, written as it was in fluent Army-ese, that lovely language that mixed bland punctilious detail with an almost dogged determination to avoid disclosure. The Royal Flying Corps was fielding a total of fifty eight regiments in Warhammer, ranging from Rotodynes to Bulldogs and Wessexes, all assigned to the various divisions and corps that the Army had deployed; future plans for further dedicated wings at BAOR headquarters were at this stage still just on paper. These regiments, formerly under the Army Air Corps, were now operational alongside twelve special flying squadrons of the RFC, consisting of its longest serving aerial component.
Dragons.
His editor had been keen on any bits and pieces how the 'old fashion' elements of the Army - cavalry, wizards and dragons among them - worked in this more modern military environment. In Tom's view, this reflected the old man's rather different position of never having seen active service himself back in that brief, brief moment of comparative peace in the mid 1920s; in every war that the British Army had fought in the 20th century, the old and the new had interacted with the practiced smoothness that came only from the experience of battle.
The Royal Flying Corps and its predecessors had come a long way since the last war, when they had primarily operated Lysanders, Austers and helicopters in supporting roles such as aerial observation, forward air control and army cooperation. The rise of the helicopter in Korea and Malaya had transformed their role to incorporate the task of transport, or 'vertical envelopment' as the enthusiasts termed it. They had been used in an armed offensive role in 1956 to an extremely effective extent, although a few Army chaps that Tom had taken a drink with in some dingy West End bars were of the strong opinion that such cannon, bomb and rocket armed helicopters would not be quite as effective against an enemy who had more of an air defence capacity than a few machine guns.
Certainly his own time in the service had reinforced the utility of the British Army's rotary aircraft, with the Fairey Rotodyne truly revolutionising the way that troops in Africa, Malaya and the Middle East had been able to respond with speed, overwhelming force and overwhelming firepower. In particular, in his brief time in the latter area, he had seen how small airmobile strike forces could come down on potential trouble like a terrible swift sword, in conjunction with the supersonic fighters of the Royal Air Force, of course. The merging of the Royal Flying Corps and Army Air Corps back in 1961 came as a harbinger of the massive expansion that followed the Army's return to Germany in force. He'd known some of the more vigorous proponents, who were as in love with the potential of guided missiles that any stable chap could be without listing from enthusiasm into disturbance; full they were with expansive stories of what missile-armed helicopters and Rotodynes could do to Soviet tanks, operating on that forward edge of the battlefield just beyond the Red Army's air defence reach.
Tom hadn't quite drunk fully from their cup, although he could see some of the utility of such developments. In that eternal battle between the sword and the shield, every time that the former gained advantage, the latter would respond in kind. He wagered it had been that way back in his grandfather's day in the Great War, when the machine gun and trench looked to have permanently shifted the balance of power. A machine was just that - a machine. One that could be countered and one that could be destroyed, only as good as the man flying it. Dragons, on the other hand, were something quite different from his perspective. They were not just a platform for weapons, although such they were in some cases. Their very physical character gave them a capacity and unpredictability that made them very, very powerful; at the same time, their rarity made them very, very vulnerable to risk. Perhaps Sagadicius could provide some interesting reflection on that dichotomy.
However long a jiffy actually was, which in Tom's view was approximately seven-twelfths between a trice and the twinkling of an eye, depending on whether it was double summer time, the flight to the RFC base took not much longer than its unspecifiable duration, for the Bulldog now began descending rapidly into a rolling meadow dotted with small copses of trees, around which were arrayed a number of camouflaged tents blending in with the shrubbery. Two Land Rovers sat off near a stand of large spreading oak trees, around which was arrayed an abundance of camouflage netting. Whilst not as well disguised from the air as the Harrier WARLOC, the Forward Operating Base appeared far less permanent in nature. They came to the ground with comparative gentleness and, once the helicopter's blades had come to a halt, Tom was ushered off towards the command post inside the netting.
As he turned through the blind of thick bushes and disguising fabric, Tom's heart skipped a beat. Far from being a small tent within the trees, he beheld a soaring chamber lit by an array of spherical light globes and surrounded by piles of crates, offices, a communications room, two stairwells and a large telescreen. All of these objects and sights, though, seemed slightly less out of place than the vast form of the draconic creature that sat curled in the midset of the room. He thought that it would be easily eighty foot long when extended in full flight and he could really form no decent conception of its height. It's scales shone and sparkled as the electrical light bounced off their silvery-blue hue and it drummed a claw on the floor in apparent vexation. Looking over at Tom, who felt the first shivering signs of wyrmfear course through him, the dragon seemed to give something of a smile, if the sight of dozens of razor-sharp fangs the size of his forearm could be seen as welcoming.
"Ah, Mr. Thomas Fowler, I presume. You know who I am?"
"The Right Honourable Sagadicius Maximion, Captain-General of Her Britannic Majesty's Royal Flying Corps, most fulsome terror of Her enemies and one of England's greatest wyrms!" He replied with chattering teeth, fighting the urge to bolt and trying to lay the flattery on as thickly as possible.
This seemed to please Sagadicius, as he settled back down on whatever he was perched upon, seemed to shrink back in size slightly and dispensed with whatever semi-conscious dweomer of awe that he had been employing. "Very nicely said. I supposed you're wondering why I have deigned to grant you an interview, given that my usual position is to not make any comment to the press." The last word rolled off the dragon's tongue with a sibilant menace and disdain that made him almost sound like a Frenchman.
"N...n..naturally, sirrah."
"Quite simply a matter of returning a family favour, Fowler. Your eight-times grandsire once did me a dashed good turn back in 1772, spotting me a flock of his sheep one morning. We never forget a decent meal, you know."
Tom nodded, remembering some vague tales he had been told as he was toddled on his grandmother's knee. "You have my gratitude, Captain-General. Would it be possible to ask a few questions, Your Munificence?"
"Pray proceed."
"What would you describe the role played by yourselves and your wyrmish brothers and sisters in Exercise Warhammer?"
"To demonstrate exactly how we can participate in modern warfare, of course."
"In what fashion, if I may be so bold?"
The dragon's smile seemed to thin. "Through the provision of aerial support to the Army, the destruction of enemy aircraft and lesser groundling targets and the neutralisation of our kind that dwell in the vile servitude of the Communists."
"And in such, your excellence is most certainly assured, as is our total victory!" That seemed to assuage the beast a bit more.
"Very good, very good. Yes, our role is not just limited to our own extensive capabilities, both natural and arcane, but in the surprise that we can bring to a range of tactical engagements."
"Would anything present a real threat to such formidable treasures of the kingdom, as of course all of you, and Your Greatness in particular, are?"
"We have been exercising with the RAF for some time and we can definitely give as good as we take from the fighters."
"Some more scurrilous correspondents, who I shall not even insult your wondrous ears by naming, have suggested that the Red Army's deployment of new surface-to-air missiles could prove to be somewhat incommodious to your ongoing felicity."
Now Sagadicius ceased smiling altogether and leaned forward, a thin tendril of mist emerging from each huge nostril as it fixed him with the steady glare of its two narrowing eyes. "Let me tell you something, Mister Fowler. If some human on the ground chooses to shoot their little popguns at me, then I shall respond just as I did in Korea and just as I did in Egypt. Do I make myself abundantly clear?"
Tom Fowler had made plenty of mistakes in his life to that point. None of them, by and large, had ever quite threatened his life and limb in any truly serious fashion. Full of the brashness of youth, he made another.
"Of course, O Most Magnificent One. However, would that not be difficult considering the sheer speed of the Red rockets, not to mention the-"
Sagadicius Maximion extended one foreclaw and grasped Tom within it, picking him up off the ground. The interior of the headquarters went deathly silent for a heartbeat as they looked on at the journalist and the angry dragon, then one of the RFC wizards began to edge forward, arms out in a supplicatory fashion.
"Never fear, Master Bournerhys, I will not eat him. This time." It turned back to Tom. "Fowler, This. Interview. Is. OVER!"
With that, our intrepid hero found himself being flicked back out of the headquarters tent with a disgusted gesture of the wyrm's talon. He was pulled to his feet and hustled out by a pair of aides as he heard the Captain-General begin a booming rant on impertinent journalists. The experience was definitely one that he would have rather preferred not to occur, he thought, as they moved towards one of the Land Rovers.
"Mr. Fowler, I think this might be a good time for you to join the Army."
"No. No, I haven't." Tom gulped.
"Well, I'll tell you what - I'll put in a good word for you and you can go and meet Sagadicius Maximion, the Captain-General of the Royal Flying Corps. He's in the field over here for Warhammer, y'know. That would be quite the interview for a newsman like yourself."
"Oh, wonderful."
"I say, Fowler, that would be one heck of a break! The old creature doesn't give out interviews to almost anyone. I'd give my eyeteeth for a chance at speaking to him on the record." The Guardian chap was obviously much more enthusiastic about the prospect than Tom, who did not particularly relish the notion of a tête-à-tête with a large carnivorous reptile with a reputation for irascibility; the RAF officer had apparently seen this and was beaming at him with no small hint of nastiness to his glistening smile.
"Oh, wonderful."
There was nothing else for it. The RAF officer received clearance from his own superiors, made his way to the communications tree, which apparently was an entirely artificial hollow structure carefully hidden amidst its real counterparts at the WARLOC, and emerged several minutes later that the Royal Flying Corps would be more than happy to receive Mr. Thomas Fowler earlier than scheduled.
The two journalists and their escort of the officer and his two SA-52-toting airmen made their way through the thick copse of trees and the ingeniously camouflaged cleared zone on the other side that would serve as an emergency landing pad for Harriers and helicopters in actual operations into a thinner area of forest that, after a few minutes walk, opened out into a larger clearing.
"Your ride should be here any minute now; they had a few Bulldogs up in the air already that could be quickly redirected."
Tom had the nagging feeling that he was being set up for something, but couldn't quite figure out by whom or why. As he paused to puzzle, a tremendous whooshing sound and scream of jets sent him huddling to the ground as a pair of Harriers streaked overhead, barely feet above the nearby treetops, disappearing out of sight before he could even register their presence.
"Ah, close air support." The RAF man beamed with obvious pleasure.
"Did...did those jets have bayonets on their nose?" asked the Guardian fellow, who had been similarly discombobulated by their overflight.
"Well, our chaps have always emphasised the close part." Hamilton-Massingbird remarked wryly.
"It wouldn't have anything to do with the Royal Flying Corps putting in their bid for a bigger share of said support, would it?"
"Oh, it is quite possible that the Tommyhawks will continue to try their best, but they can't quite compete with us. They've been trying to play catch-up since the Great War."
"So the rivalry is strong?"
"I wouldn't describe them as rivals, anymore than Chichester is a rival of London. Their attempts to get back into the armed fixed-wing game, be it VSTOL or not, are very much in vain."
"Can I quote you on that?"
"Certainly not."
Before Tom had the opportunity to contemplate airmen and their ways, the beating thrum of an approaching helicopter emerged from beyond the green expanse of the wood. It was the familiar sight of one of the ubiquitous Bristol Bulldogs painted in its equally familiar Continental camouflage scheme of green, grey and brown that seemed to ripple and change as it coursed through the overcast sky. The helicopter hovered down and came to a gentle landing on the soft grass of the meadow before them.
"Right, on you go Mr. Fowler. Enjoy your special treat and good luck with the Captain-General!" Hamilton-Massingbird gave a merry wave to see Tom off on his way.
With not a small bit of suspicion, Tom ran forward in that slightly hunched over fashion that one adopted around helicopters that he had learnt back in his own Army days and was shepherded aboard by the crew chief. The interior was comparatively quiet, compared to his previous experiences, and he surmised that the silencing dweomers used on the Rotodynes were gradually trickling down to the more numerous helicopters.
"Good day, sir. You'll be going through to one of our forward operating bases in the field; all of our regular bases have been given over to the reinforcing units from Blighty. We'll have you there in a jiffy." The mustachioed crew chief barked at him as they took off rapidly. He handed Tom a sheet of paper. "This should fill you in on what you need to know."
Tom grunted his gratitude and scanned over the information release, written as it was in fluent Army-ese, that lovely language that mixed bland punctilious detail with an almost dogged determination to avoid disclosure. The Royal Flying Corps was fielding a total of fifty eight regiments in Warhammer, ranging from Rotodynes to Bulldogs and Wessexes, all assigned to the various divisions and corps that the Army had deployed; future plans for further dedicated wings at BAOR headquarters were at this stage still just on paper. These regiments, formerly under the Army Air Corps, were now operational alongside twelve special flying squadrons of the RFC, consisting of its longest serving aerial component.
Dragons.
His editor had been keen on any bits and pieces how the 'old fashion' elements of the Army - cavalry, wizards and dragons among them - worked in this more modern military environment. In Tom's view, this reflected the old man's rather different position of never having seen active service himself back in that brief, brief moment of comparative peace in the mid 1920s; in every war that the British Army had fought in the 20th century, the old and the new had interacted with the practiced smoothness that came only from the experience of battle.
The Royal Flying Corps and its predecessors had come a long way since the last war, when they had primarily operated Lysanders, Austers and helicopters in supporting roles such as aerial observation, forward air control and army cooperation. The rise of the helicopter in Korea and Malaya had transformed their role to incorporate the task of transport, or 'vertical envelopment' as the enthusiasts termed it. They had been used in an armed offensive role in 1956 to an extremely effective extent, although a few Army chaps that Tom had taken a drink with in some dingy West End bars were of the strong opinion that such cannon, bomb and rocket armed helicopters would not be quite as effective against an enemy who had more of an air defence capacity than a few machine guns.
Certainly his own time in the service had reinforced the utility of the British Army's rotary aircraft, with the Fairey Rotodyne truly revolutionising the way that troops in Africa, Malaya and the Middle East had been able to respond with speed, overwhelming force and overwhelming firepower. In particular, in his brief time in the latter area, he had seen how small airmobile strike forces could come down on potential trouble like a terrible swift sword, in conjunction with the supersonic fighters of the Royal Air Force, of course. The merging of the Royal Flying Corps and Army Air Corps back in 1961 came as a harbinger of the massive expansion that followed the Army's return to Germany in force. He'd known some of the more vigorous proponents, who were as in love with the potential of guided missiles that any stable chap could be without listing from enthusiasm into disturbance; full they were with expansive stories of what missile-armed helicopters and Rotodynes could do to Soviet tanks, operating on that forward edge of the battlefield just beyond the Red Army's air defence reach.
Tom hadn't quite drunk fully from their cup, although he could see some of the utility of such developments. In that eternal battle between the sword and the shield, every time that the former gained advantage, the latter would respond in kind. He wagered it had been that way back in his grandfather's day in the Great War, when the machine gun and trench looked to have permanently shifted the balance of power. A machine was just that - a machine. One that could be countered and one that could be destroyed, only as good as the man flying it. Dragons, on the other hand, were something quite different from his perspective. They were not just a platform for weapons, although such they were in some cases. Their very physical character gave them a capacity and unpredictability that made them very, very powerful; at the same time, their rarity made them very, very vulnerable to risk. Perhaps Sagadicius could provide some interesting reflection on that dichotomy.
However long a jiffy actually was, which in Tom's view was approximately seven-twelfths between a trice and the twinkling of an eye, depending on whether it was double summer time, the flight to the RFC base took not much longer than its unspecifiable duration, for the Bulldog now began descending rapidly into a rolling meadow dotted with small copses of trees, around which were arrayed a number of camouflaged tents blending in with the shrubbery. Two Land Rovers sat off near a stand of large spreading oak trees, around which was arrayed an abundance of camouflage netting. Whilst not as well disguised from the air as the Harrier WARLOC, the Forward Operating Base appeared far less permanent in nature. They came to the ground with comparative gentleness and, once the helicopter's blades had come to a halt, Tom was ushered off towards the command post inside the netting.
As he turned through the blind of thick bushes and disguising fabric, Tom's heart skipped a beat. Far from being a small tent within the trees, he beheld a soaring chamber lit by an array of spherical light globes and surrounded by piles of crates, offices, a communications room, two stairwells and a large telescreen. All of these objects and sights, though, seemed slightly less out of place than the vast form of the draconic creature that sat curled in the midset of the room. He thought that it would be easily eighty foot long when extended in full flight and he could really form no decent conception of its height. It's scales shone and sparkled as the electrical light bounced off their silvery-blue hue and it drummed a claw on the floor in apparent vexation. Looking over at Tom, who felt the first shivering signs of wyrmfear course through him, the dragon seemed to give something of a smile, if the sight of dozens of razor-sharp fangs the size of his forearm could be seen as welcoming.
"Ah, Mr. Thomas Fowler, I presume. You know who I am?"
"The Right Honourable Sagadicius Maximion, Captain-General of Her Britannic Majesty's Royal Flying Corps, most fulsome terror of Her enemies and one of England's greatest wyrms!" He replied with chattering teeth, fighting the urge to bolt and trying to lay the flattery on as thickly as possible.
This seemed to please Sagadicius, as he settled back down on whatever he was perched upon, seemed to shrink back in size slightly and dispensed with whatever semi-conscious dweomer of awe that he had been employing. "Very nicely said. I supposed you're wondering why I have deigned to grant you an interview, given that my usual position is to not make any comment to the press." The last word rolled off the dragon's tongue with a sibilant menace and disdain that made him almost sound like a Frenchman.
"N...n..naturally, sirrah."
"Quite simply a matter of returning a family favour, Fowler. Your eight-times grandsire once did me a dashed good turn back in 1772, spotting me a flock of his sheep one morning. We never forget a decent meal, you know."
Tom nodded, remembering some vague tales he had been told as he was toddled on his grandmother's knee. "You have my gratitude, Captain-General. Would it be possible to ask a few questions, Your Munificence?"
"Pray proceed."
"What would you describe the role played by yourselves and your wyrmish brothers and sisters in Exercise Warhammer?"
"To demonstrate exactly how we can participate in modern warfare, of course."
"In what fashion, if I may be so bold?"
The dragon's smile seemed to thin. "Through the provision of aerial support to the Army, the destruction of enemy aircraft and lesser groundling targets and the neutralisation of our kind that dwell in the vile servitude of the Communists."
"And in such, your excellence is most certainly assured, as is our total victory!" That seemed to assuage the beast a bit more.
"Very good, very good. Yes, our role is not just limited to our own extensive capabilities, both natural and arcane, but in the surprise that we can bring to a range of tactical engagements."
"Would anything present a real threat to such formidable treasures of the kingdom, as of course all of you, and Your Greatness in particular, are?"
"We have been exercising with the RAF for some time and we can definitely give as good as we take from the fighters."
"Some more scurrilous correspondents, who I shall not even insult your wondrous ears by naming, have suggested that the Red Army's deployment of new surface-to-air missiles could prove to be somewhat incommodious to your ongoing felicity."
Now Sagadicius ceased smiling altogether and leaned forward, a thin tendril of mist emerging from each huge nostril as it fixed him with the steady glare of its two narrowing eyes. "Let me tell you something, Mister Fowler. If some human on the ground chooses to shoot their little popguns at me, then I shall respond just as I did in Korea and just as I did in Egypt. Do I make myself abundantly clear?"
Tom Fowler had made plenty of mistakes in his life to that point. None of them, by and large, had ever quite threatened his life and limb in any truly serious fashion. Full of the brashness of youth, he made another.
"Of course, O Most Magnificent One. However, would that not be difficult considering the sheer speed of the Red rockets, not to mention the-"
Sagadicius Maximion extended one foreclaw and grasped Tom within it, picking him up off the ground. The interior of the headquarters went deathly silent for a heartbeat as they looked on at the journalist and the angry dragon, then one of the RFC wizards began to edge forward, arms out in a supplicatory fashion.
"Never fear, Master Bournerhys, I will not eat him. This time." It turned back to Tom. "Fowler, This. Interview. Is. OVER!"
With that, our intrepid hero found himself being flicked back out of the headquarters tent with a disgusted gesture of the wyrm's talon. He was pulled to his feet and hustled out by a pair of aides as he heard the Captain-General begin a booming rant on impertinent journalists. The experience was definitely one that he would have rather preferred not to occur, he thought, as they moved towards one of the Land Rovers.
"Mr. Fowler, I think this might be a good time for you to join the Army."
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Exercise Warhammer Part 7: British Army of the Rhine
Tom felt a lot of emotions as he drove through the woods and fields of Northern Germany as the brisk late afternoon sunshine bore down upon him in the open topped Land Rover. There was fear, of course, for who would not be afraid when picked up by an angry dragon, but also confusion, anger, disgust at the rank indignity of it all and above all else, a sense being manipulated. Questions coruscated within his head, even as he kept a cool visage without that did not betray his inner consternation.
Why had he been chosen for this assignment?
Why had he managed to get an interview with the Captain-General of the Royal Flying Corps?
What game were they playing at?
Who were they?
"Did you hear that sir?" He now became aware of the RFC captain who looked ever to the front as he drove at breakneck pace down this old backtrack to goodness knows where.
"No, sorry, momentarily distracted."
"I said, we should be reaching 1st Armoured Division's rear support perimeter directly. At that point, I'll be handing you over to them. They're good lads, for Tommies. We work with them a lot."
"Oh. Super. That was rather quick."
"We're operating on a forward positioning basis for the purposes of Warhammer. Truth be told, we've still probably got to iron out some of the operational concepts for rotary aviation over the battlefield and how we coordinate with each major field unit. The standard structure of a wing per corps and regiment per division is there, naturally, but what we are doing here will let us know where we need to be, in what strength and therefore where we can base from."
"That would ultimately depend on what the enemy does to counter you, I'd say."
"Quite. Having the Germans as the OPFOR for this exercise is rather good in that way; the Yanks are in their own league and a bit too familiar to us, whilst the French, although both traditional and satisfying as an enemy, wouldn't really be the best warm-up for the Krasnaya Armiya, though, would they. The Germans, on the other hand...fighting against them seems just like old times."
"I can't really say. I was only a boy in the war."
"So was I, old bean, so was I!" laughed the captain. "I got in when the Russians were the Great Big Threat in '49 and so they've been ever since. But with Jerry, it is different. It almost seems traditional, after Round One and Round Two, but now there is something else to it, given that we're on the same side now. My older brother, my uncles, my father...they never liked the Huns, but they did respect 'em. Being out here among them now for the last years, though, you find yourself growing to like them. They're quite like us, you know."
"Yes, I do." Tom had never quite had the same mixed feelings about the Germans in his own time in the Army, but he could see how those slightly older chaps could take some time getting used to the changing world and new allies. It was one thing not to be beastly to the Germans, but quite another to embrace them for a certain generation of Englishmen. He had interviewed old Field Marshal Blimp about it last year and he had waxed quite lyrical about the whole business.
Before their discussion of international amity could bridge the greatest of divides and say something nice about the French, Tom could see a roadblock up ahead manned by a section of British soldiers. Two Austin Champions stood beside the road, their mounted Vickers heavy machine guns trained out towards them and further back in the fields and woods before them, he could see sandbagged foxholes, trenches and an FV-432 Saxon armoured carrier partly hidden in the trees.
The RFC captain pulled up to a halt about fifty yards before the checkpoint.
"This is where I leave you. Good luck."
......................................................................................................................
The Royal Navy had been impressive in their ships and hardware, certainly. The Royal Marines had put their best foot forward, in a rather brash and characteristic fashion, without a doubt. The Royal Air Force tried to live up to their own cultivated image of superiority and almost carried it off in some circumstances. The Royal Flying Corps had even tried to do its level best to show that it was contributing as well. However, within minutes of crossing over into the care of 1st Armoured Division, Tom Fowler was firmly convinced that Exercise Warhammer and the British presence in Germany was very much an Army show, if there had ever been any doubt.
It wasn't just the sheer number of vehicles passing in both directions, although that told a story of its own, as the Land Rover which now bore him forward through the rear lines of the division had to frequently pull over to the side of the road to allow the passage of roaring convoys of Bedford lorries, Leyland Rangers and Alvis Stalwarts all loaded down with men and cargo. He knew that this was only a brief glimpse of what went into supplying and moving a division, given that this was not even a main supply route, but only a secondary back road, not to mention that much of what was going forward would also be carried on the Autobahns and the redoubtable German railway network.
It wasn't even the incongruity of seeing mounted cavalry riding through the fields next to dug-in Saxons and missile positions, although that certainly made him look twice. Similarly, field entrenchments that wouldn't have been out of place during the Hundred Days of 1918 surrounding English Electric Thunderbird SAGW sites covered in camouflage netting and TA 25pdr batteries lying next to stationary war machines struck him as different, but not the absolute sealer on the issue.
No, what did it was the scale. The sheer number of men in the supporting units dotted in the German countryside and in the Regular and TA artillery batteries gave some indication that this was a mighty part of a mighty field army. As they wended their way forward through increasingly winding tracks, past more checkpoints, large entanglements of barbed wire, newly dug anti-tank ditches and what he suspected were actual minefields, Tom could now see whole armoured regiments and mechanised battalions lined up in the fields beside the road or deploying out into their set positions. He had known that each division was scheduled to be reinforced by four Territorial Army anti-aircraft regiments, but the sheer number of older Bofors and newer Marksman and Sharpshooter anti-aircraft guns spread out amongst the tanks, carriers and supply dumps spoke for itself.
As they pulled into the thicker trees surrounding what he presumed was the divisional field headquarters, Tom decided that he couldn't put the sight and experience into a single pithy turn of phrase for his article. This was one of twelve Regular divisions now in the field, albeit a division so heavily reinforced that it had the firepower and capacity to roll through an enemy corps without breaking stride.
"Fowler? Is that you" Tom looked up to see a face that was at first only vaguely familiar, but then grew much more recognisable as it approached out of the shadows of the trees. Clad in a camouflaged Army lieutenant's uniform, body armour and a khaki beret was an old and friendly face, one he knew well from school and then from his own time in the BAOR.
"Sandy Ashton! What are you doing here? I didn't know the Grenadier Guards were with 1st Armoured, just the Scots."
"We're not. I'm in the forward Guards Brigade for Army HQ security."
"And how does that bring you out here?"
"Sorry, old boy, can't really say. Zounds, it is good to see you, Tom! Still making a dishonest living, I see?"
"As ever. The Army wasn't quite the life for me."
"Well, you've chosen a bother of a place to come to then." Sandy said with a wink. "The chaps from the RFC got through to our head shed here earlier, so they've squeezed you in for the special briefing. I couldn't quite believe my ears when I heard how and why you were heading out here. Common sense has never really been one of your common virtues, Tom, getting cheeky to a dragon like that."
"Does everyone know?" Tom winced.
"No, just the division, I'd say. It should take until tomorrow to get through the corps and maybe a bit longer to get through to the Germans and the front page of The Times. Call it three, I'd say." Lieutenant Ashton gave a cruel grin.
"Lovely."
.........................................................................................
The special briefing, as it were, was more of an intimate affair than the expansive ones put on by the Andrew and the RAF, with Tom and half a dozen other journalists at one end of a tent and the 1st Armoured's GSO 1 and a pair of staff officers at the other. The bells and whistles had been dispensed with and they were to suffice with a good old fashioned map board and plainly typed handouts. It almost made Tom nostalgic.
"Righto chaps, welcome formally to 1st Armoured Division. I'm Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart. We are currently I Corps' reserve division, located here." Lethbridge-Stewart thumped the map with his pointer. "Currently, we provide the rearmost combat unit of First Army, but that will change by the morning when the Territorials are up and in place. Our role in this exercise will be to counter any penetrations by the Silver Force and reinforce counterattacks. We are currently up to our full reinforced strength, which gives us considerable combat power in the form of the four TA infantry battalions, two AA regiments, two field artillery regiments and the additional armoured regiment. You've probably seen some of them on your way through our lines.
We'll be supporting the frontline divisions of I Corps with our own divisional artillery and aviation assets as necessary and countering any enemy attempts at disrupting their lines of supply and communication in conjunction with the TA troops attached to Corps HQ. This is real modern defence in depth, gentlemen, using every one of the new weapons systems we've recently acquired. It should be a show for the ages. Now, any questions?"
Tom was beaten to the punch by a Canadian fellow. "Colonel, what role are the Commonwealth troops attached to the Corps to play in Warhammer?"
"The South Africans and Rhodesians will operate as overall corps reserve and I can tell you that they are exceptionally keen to come to grips with the Jerries, sorry, the Silver Force, and give a good account of themselves. I gather that there is something of a competition between them and the Anzacs up with II Corps, the New Avalon forces with III Corps and the West Indians of IV Corps as to which Commonwealth brigade will be the top scorer. Jolly good show and all that."
"Colonel, will this exercise involve any simulation of the use of tactical nuclear weapons?" asked Tom
Lethbridge-Stewart fixed him with a level gaze. "An interesting question, Mr. Fowler. Now, don't be worried, I'm not going to try and bite your head off, unlike some. However, in this case, the answer is a plain 'no'. That is a matter better put to Field Marshal Sharpe."
"How do you think the Chieftains will go up against the German Panthers?"
"Very well indeed. The Army has full confidence that we have the very best tank not just in the Western alliance, but in the entire world. Our own internal exercises have definitively proved that. However, our tanks don't fight by themselves, but as part of highly-tuned and exceptionally coordinated combined arms battle groups. When our infantry, artillery, missiles, air support and tanks come up against anything, we'll win."
"How do you think the new 125mm Light Gun will perform in its first major exercise?"
"Outstandingly. I've seen it employed back home in Blighty and it brings a considerable increase in range and lethality over the good old 25 pounder whilst not sacrificing its rate of fire."
"Do you think that the other Allied nations, such as Germany and the United States, should adopt it?"
"No, I'm not biting at that one."
"Colonel, what is your opinion of the cancellation of the planned Indian Army deployment to take part in Warhammer?"
"I don't have one. The decisions of the Indian Army are those of their own government. Delhi have certainly shown their dedication to the defence of the Free World with what they have on the ground in the Middle East and the Orient and it is up to them and the Imperial Council to determine what role they wish to play in Europe. We've still got out own British Army Gurkha battalions at Corps level for the moment, of course. Now, gentlemen, it is time for dinner, so if you'll follow through the mess tent, we'll see you fed before you go off to your various forward units for the night. Hopefully it will be a restful one."
Tom silently echoed the Colonel's hopes, but trusting his luck, it would be anything but.
Tom felt a lot of emotions as he drove through the woods and fields of Northern Germany as the brisk late afternoon sunshine bore down upon him in the open topped Land Rover. There was fear, of course, for who would not be afraid when picked up by an angry dragon, but also confusion, anger, disgust at the rank indignity of it all and above all else, a sense being manipulated. Questions coruscated within his head, even as he kept a cool visage without that did not betray his inner consternation.
Why had he been chosen for this assignment?
Why had he managed to get an interview with the Captain-General of the Royal Flying Corps?
What game were they playing at?
Who were they?
"Did you hear that sir?" He now became aware of the RFC captain who looked ever to the front as he drove at breakneck pace down this old backtrack to goodness knows where.
"No, sorry, momentarily distracted."
"I said, we should be reaching 1st Armoured Division's rear support perimeter directly. At that point, I'll be handing you over to them. They're good lads, for Tommies. We work with them a lot."
"Oh. Super. That was rather quick."
"We're operating on a forward positioning basis for the purposes of Warhammer. Truth be told, we've still probably got to iron out some of the operational concepts for rotary aviation over the battlefield and how we coordinate with each major field unit. The standard structure of a wing per corps and regiment per division is there, naturally, but what we are doing here will let us know where we need to be, in what strength and therefore where we can base from."
"That would ultimately depend on what the enemy does to counter you, I'd say."
"Quite. Having the Germans as the OPFOR for this exercise is rather good in that way; the Yanks are in their own league and a bit too familiar to us, whilst the French, although both traditional and satisfying as an enemy, wouldn't really be the best warm-up for the Krasnaya Armiya, though, would they. The Germans, on the other hand...fighting against them seems just like old times."
"I can't really say. I was only a boy in the war."
"So was I, old bean, so was I!" laughed the captain. "I got in when the Russians were the Great Big Threat in '49 and so they've been ever since. But with Jerry, it is different. It almost seems traditional, after Round One and Round Two, but now there is something else to it, given that we're on the same side now. My older brother, my uncles, my father...they never liked the Huns, but they did respect 'em. Being out here among them now for the last years, though, you find yourself growing to like them. They're quite like us, you know."
"Yes, I do." Tom had never quite had the same mixed feelings about the Germans in his own time in the Army, but he could see how those slightly older chaps could take some time getting used to the changing world and new allies. It was one thing not to be beastly to the Germans, but quite another to embrace them for a certain generation of Englishmen. He had interviewed old Field Marshal Blimp about it last year and he had waxed quite lyrical about the whole business.
Before their discussion of international amity could bridge the greatest of divides and say something nice about the French, Tom could see a roadblock up ahead manned by a section of British soldiers. Two Austin Champions stood beside the road, their mounted Vickers heavy machine guns trained out towards them and further back in the fields and woods before them, he could see sandbagged foxholes, trenches and an FV-432 Saxon armoured carrier partly hidden in the trees.
The RFC captain pulled up to a halt about fifty yards before the checkpoint.
"This is where I leave you. Good luck."
......................................................................................................................
The Royal Navy had been impressive in their ships and hardware, certainly. The Royal Marines had put their best foot forward, in a rather brash and characteristic fashion, without a doubt. The Royal Air Force tried to live up to their own cultivated image of superiority and almost carried it off in some circumstances. The Royal Flying Corps had even tried to do its level best to show that it was contributing as well. However, within minutes of crossing over into the care of 1st Armoured Division, Tom Fowler was firmly convinced that Exercise Warhammer and the British presence in Germany was very much an Army show, if there had ever been any doubt.
It wasn't just the sheer number of vehicles passing in both directions, although that told a story of its own, as the Land Rover which now bore him forward through the rear lines of the division had to frequently pull over to the side of the road to allow the passage of roaring convoys of Bedford lorries, Leyland Rangers and Alvis Stalwarts all loaded down with men and cargo. He knew that this was only a brief glimpse of what went into supplying and moving a division, given that this was not even a main supply route, but only a secondary back road, not to mention that much of what was going forward would also be carried on the Autobahns and the redoubtable German railway network.
It wasn't even the incongruity of seeing mounted cavalry riding through the fields next to dug-in Saxons and missile positions, although that certainly made him look twice. Similarly, field entrenchments that wouldn't have been out of place during the Hundred Days of 1918 surrounding English Electric Thunderbird SAGW sites covered in camouflage netting and TA 25pdr batteries lying next to stationary war machines struck him as different, but not the absolute sealer on the issue.
No, what did it was the scale. The sheer number of men in the supporting units dotted in the German countryside and in the Regular and TA artillery batteries gave some indication that this was a mighty part of a mighty field army. As they wended their way forward through increasingly winding tracks, past more checkpoints, large entanglements of barbed wire, newly dug anti-tank ditches and what he suspected were actual minefields, Tom could now see whole armoured regiments and mechanised battalions lined up in the fields beside the road or deploying out into their set positions. He had known that each division was scheduled to be reinforced by four Territorial Army anti-aircraft regiments, but the sheer number of older Bofors and newer Marksman and Sharpshooter anti-aircraft guns spread out amongst the tanks, carriers and supply dumps spoke for itself.
As they pulled into the thicker trees surrounding what he presumed was the divisional field headquarters, Tom decided that he couldn't put the sight and experience into a single pithy turn of phrase for his article. This was one of twelve Regular divisions now in the field, albeit a division so heavily reinforced that it had the firepower and capacity to roll through an enemy corps without breaking stride.
"Fowler? Is that you" Tom looked up to see a face that was at first only vaguely familiar, but then grew much more recognisable as it approached out of the shadows of the trees. Clad in a camouflaged Army lieutenant's uniform, body armour and a khaki beret was an old and friendly face, one he knew well from school and then from his own time in the BAOR.
"Sandy Ashton! What are you doing here? I didn't know the Grenadier Guards were with 1st Armoured, just the Scots."
"We're not. I'm in the forward Guards Brigade for Army HQ security."
"And how does that bring you out here?"
"Sorry, old boy, can't really say. Zounds, it is good to see you, Tom! Still making a dishonest living, I see?"
"As ever. The Army wasn't quite the life for me."
"Well, you've chosen a bother of a place to come to then." Sandy said with a wink. "The chaps from the RFC got through to our head shed here earlier, so they've squeezed you in for the special briefing. I couldn't quite believe my ears when I heard how and why you were heading out here. Common sense has never really been one of your common virtues, Tom, getting cheeky to a dragon like that."
"Does everyone know?" Tom winced.
"No, just the division, I'd say. It should take until tomorrow to get through the corps and maybe a bit longer to get through to the Germans and the front page of The Times. Call it three, I'd say." Lieutenant Ashton gave a cruel grin.
"Lovely."
.........................................................................................
The special briefing, as it were, was more of an intimate affair than the expansive ones put on by the Andrew and the RAF, with Tom and half a dozen other journalists at one end of a tent and the 1st Armoured's GSO 1 and a pair of staff officers at the other. The bells and whistles had been dispensed with and they were to suffice with a good old fashioned map board and plainly typed handouts. It almost made Tom nostalgic.
"Righto chaps, welcome formally to 1st Armoured Division. I'm Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart. We are currently I Corps' reserve division, located here." Lethbridge-Stewart thumped the map with his pointer. "Currently, we provide the rearmost combat unit of First Army, but that will change by the morning when the Territorials are up and in place. Our role in this exercise will be to counter any penetrations by the Silver Force and reinforce counterattacks. We are currently up to our full reinforced strength, which gives us considerable combat power in the form of the four TA infantry battalions, two AA regiments, two field artillery regiments and the additional armoured regiment. You've probably seen some of them on your way through our lines.
We'll be supporting the frontline divisions of I Corps with our own divisional artillery and aviation assets as necessary and countering any enemy attempts at disrupting their lines of supply and communication in conjunction with the TA troops attached to Corps HQ. This is real modern defence in depth, gentlemen, using every one of the new weapons systems we've recently acquired. It should be a show for the ages. Now, any questions?"
Tom was beaten to the punch by a Canadian fellow. "Colonel, what role are the Commonwealth troops attached to the Corps to play in Warhammer?"
"The South Africans and Rhodesians will operate as overall corps reserve and I can tell you that they are exceptionally keen to come to grips with the Jerries, sorry, the Silver Force, and give a good account of themselves. I gather that there is something of a competition between them and the Anzacs up with II Corps, the New Avalon forces with III Corps and the West Indians of IV Corps as to which Commonwealth brigade will be the top scorer. Jolly good show and all that."
"Colonel, will this exercise involve any simulation of the use of tactical nuclear weapons?" asked Tom
Lethbridge-Stewart fixed him with a level gaze. "An interesting question, Mr. Fowler. Now, don't be worried, I'm not going to try and bite your head off, unlike some. However, in this case, the answer is a plain 'no'. That is a matter better put to Field Marshal Sharpe."
"How do you think the Chieftains will go up against the German Panthers?"
"Very well indeed. The Army has full confidence that we have the very best tank not just in the Western alliance, but in the entire world. Our own internal exercises have definitively proved that. However, our tanks don't fight by themselves, but as part of highly-tuned and exceptionally coordinated combined arms battle groups. When our infantry, artillery, missiles, air support and tanks come up against anything, we'll win."
"How do you think the new 125mm Light Gun will perform in its first major exercise?"
"Outstandingly. I've seen it employed back home in Blighty and it brings a considerable increase in range and lethality over the good old 25 pounder whilst not sacrificing its rate of fire."
"Do you think that the other Allied nations, such as Germany and the United States, should adopt it?"
"No, I'm not biting at that one."
"Colonel, what is your opinion of the cancellation of the planned Indian Army deployment to take part in Warhammer?"
"I don't have one. The decisions of the Indian Army are those of their own government. Delhi have certainly shown their dedication to the defence of the Free World with what they have on the ground in the Middle East and the Orient and it is up to them and the Imperial Council to determine what role they wish to play in Europe. We've still got out own British Army Gurkha battalions at Corps level for the moment, of course. Now, gentlemen, it is time for dinner, so if you'll follow through the mess tent, we'll see you fed before you go off to your various forward units for the night. Hopefully it will be a restful one."
Tom silently echoed the Colonel's hopes, but trusting his luck, it would be anything but.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Exercise Warhammer Part 8: Night Attack
The field mess tent was packed with the assorted staff, journalists and attached exchange and liaison officers as Tom Fowler sat down at the long table with his dinner. For some reason, he had a strange feeling it might be his last time at table for several days, so he had hooked right into the scoff on offer with gusto. It was good, solid Army cooking rather than the deliberately excessive spread of luncheon, but the level sophistication indicated that this was definitely staff food. Looking around the room as he worked his way through his meat, he could identify the field uniforms of the Royal Navy, RAF, Royal Marines, Canadian Army, U.S. Army and ze Germans, as could most young men of his generation, but it took him a double take and a few quiet questions to work out the Swedes and the Free Poles and he couldn't, for the life of him, work out why the Swiss had a chap here.
"One of the umpires." Tom looked up at the officer who popped himself down next to him, a tall fellow with short hair and the uniform of the Irish Guards.
"Hmm?"
"Saw you looking at old boy over there in the field grey trying to place him. The Swiss are umpiring the whole exercise, you see, after neither us nor Jerry could agree on the French."
"I should have thought that if there was one thing that we and the Germans could agree upon, it would be the French."
"Ha! Good one, that, and probably true to boot. Lieutenant Shawn Fynn, 2nd Irish Guards."
"Tom Fowler, the press."
"Egad. Not going to use me as a source for a juicy quote, are you?"
"What happens at the dinner table, stays at the dinner table." Tom lied smoothly, seeing the opportunity to get something out of someone that wasn't as potted as the shrimps in front of him. Get them comfortable, fed and then push for it. "I say, this is a sight better than what they had back when I was in the Army a few years ago, and I'd thought it quite spiffing then."
"Certainly better than school dinners, old man. Truth be told, they're filling us up now, for on the morrow, it will be field rations in cosy trenches and muddy foxholes when we kick off. Can't wait to give Fritz a good walloping."
"I thought we were friends with the Germans now. Allies at least."
"We are, by and large, but old habits die hard, not to mention that they beat us in that football friendly back in March. Damn cheek, beating us at our national game."
"Well, it is only fair, really. We beat them at their national sport twice in fifty years."
Fynn guffawed and cut into his roast beef. "They're not that bad, the Krauts, not these days. Got some damn nice gear that they're awfully proud of. Their Jaguars are decent fast tanks and they've heavier guns than us in every division."
"You think that is the way forward."
"Wiser heads than me say its been that way since Korea, if not Siam, but we stick by the 25pdr for our reasons, as you'd well know, being an ex-Army fellow."
Tom nodded. The British Army was fairly closely wedded to the notion of artillery fire as suppression and had kept to the 25pdr throughout the Second World War in preference to the 105mm field artillery pieces preferred by the Americans, French and Germans due to its superior rate of fire and range. Those days were changing, with the 125mm replacing the old standby, but even that new gun fired a shell half the weight of the German artillery. Warhammer would see the first large scale examination of the two competing philosophies on a European battlefield and the results would be quite influential.
"Interesting to meet a member of the Heavy Mob from the Guards. I thought you chaps set yourselves apart from the PBI."
"Times change, Fowler, even for us. We're not all devoted to the Trooping of the Colour or the Victory Day Parades, as you wags in the rags would put it. Our battalion just got back to Blighty from a tour in Rhodesia two months ago."
"How was it?"
"Hard. The Simbas coming over from the Congo are bloody persistent blighters, I'll say that, and rather nasty in what they do to captives and civvies alike. We saw quite a bit of horrid stuff when going across the border in hot pursuit; 'aggressive defence', as they call it. So much so that the magisters gave considerable thought to bringing in the W.G.'s department."
"That...that would violate the Hague, Geneva and Stockholm Conventions!"
"And half a dozen others to boot. But when you see what those blasted butchering savages do to a mission school, suddenly the idea of burning them and all that doesn't seem quite so beyond the pale. And that wasn't even the worst of it."
This had definitely taken a much darker turn than he had anticipated. And none of it would make it past the MoI censors. "Fascinating. Well, if you will excuse me, Lieutenant, I think I will -"
Tom's excuse was cut off by the harsh braying of a claxon and an immediate eruption of activity as the room's occupants abandoned their meals, grabbed their weapons and ran outside. He followed, half-stumbling over the upturned chairs into the chill night air and sprinting for the nearest bunker that he'd eyeballed before dinner. It was good that most of his momentum was arrested, as he was met by a pair of very sharp bayonets, three leveled submachine guns and a very large Webley held by Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart.
Trust his luck to choose the damn command post, he thought as he was bundled into the corner after the Colonel's grudging nod of recognition.
"What do we know, Captain?" Lethbridge-Stewart barked down the radiophone.
"Jerry has kicked off 12 hours earlier than scheduled, sir. Full attack across the corps front, interdiction fires on our LoCs and reported airmobile strikes on our reserves. We're currently engaging an allround attack on the division, with inbound contacts on the CP."
"Clever. But not clever enough. Carry on." He put it down, straightened his battledress and looked over at Tom. "We've got a few surprises of our own, Mr. Fowler, even if our German friends have stolen a march on us. In 90 seconds time, our rocket regiments will begin a simulated strike on their pre-registered targets, even though they're probably empty fields; but ten minutes after that, the rearward GW batteries will launch their Silver Swords on what we can find."
"...They weren't supposed to be deployed until D+4, according to your schedule."
"We've always made a point of having a few aces up our sleeves. Now, to deal with the incoming visitors, who are just about to arrive...now." He looked up from the crystal screen on the bunker table with a wan smile and, within a second, a tremendous cacophany of anti-aircraft fire could be heard from all around the post.
"Sir, the RDF shows smaller, faster inbounds than just the helos."
"Hmm. Jetpacks or rocketwings. The rumours are true. All posts, engage with small arms." He picked up his swagger stick and turned to Tom with a pleasant smile. "Fancy a bit of night air?"
Out they strode, into the night, which was now lit up as bright as noon by blazing searchlights and crackling with the sounds of rapid archie. Dozens of men were out next to their bunkers and foxholes, firing into the sky with machine guns and rifles at silhouetted targets. Lethbridge-Stewart looked up and spotted something that he indicated with his stick.
"Jenkins! Chap with the wings there. Five rounds rapid."
..............................................................................................
As the column of FV-432 Saxons and Chieftain tanks rumbled forward through the cold night at their bumpily breathtaking speed of almost thirty six miles a hour, Tom pulled his field jacket close and huddled down in his hard seat, determined to find what comfort remained whilst on the move. He'd never seen action during his stint in the Army, but the utility - nay, necessity - of getting whatever rest and easement he could get had been drilled into him until it was second nature.
From what he had gathered from the rushed and garbled reports streaming into 1st Armoured Division's field HQ, the initial German attack had succeeded in achieving tactical surprise and had knocked several holes in I Corps front, but although the defending divisions shifted and withdrew, they did not break. A similar story was taking place down in II Corps, while III Corps was being firmly held in place by a diversionary attack. The full force of the corps reserve was now being committed to reinforce the frontline positions, whilst 1st Armoured Division began what had only been called Plan Hamilcar. Tom didn't know which direction they were headed, only that it seemed to be away from the sound of guns.
Outside, the rolling thunder of artillery and the faint scream of fighter jets echoed through the darkness as both sides went at it warhammer and tongs. The telltale sounds of Royalists and Scimitars speeding past considerably faster could be heard occasionally, along with Sentinel armoured cars tearing past even them; only two other armoured cars in the world were faster than them and it jolly well sounded like it. That much was familiar, even within the battle track, punctuated by the irregular sound of Rotodynes and helicopters heading for the front. Here and there came the sound of multiple rocket launchers sending volley after volley screaming into the blackness; he pitied any poor German civvies in the exercise area on this night.
The Jerry 1st Feldarmee CINC, Feldmarschall Kurt Steiner, and his corps commanders de Maziere, Schnez, Gericke and Bennecke had definitely stolen a march on the British Army of the Rhine. The ground combat component of the exercise was ostensibly not supposed to kick off until midday tomorrow, although Tom had begun to have his doubts that everything was as it seemed. There was no doubt that the German units would give a sterling account of themselves and not just because they were playing on their home wicket; each of their corps had four divisions compared to three of their British counterparts and all of them had a fair bit of sticking power. Whether the British had enough aces up their sleeves to counter the early attack, if it was truly a surprise, would remain to be seen. He had noted that there had been no mention of IV Corps during the hurried briefing and garbled information earlier that evening; it was supposed to still be deploying.
In any event, now that Warhammer has kicked off in earnest, it seemed as if the previous eagerness that had been displayed by all and sundry to court him and feed him with information had been replaced by the cool diffidence of the impersonal killing machine he knew so well from his own time in the colours. A few of his fellow press men seemed to share his reaction, but the majority of the dozen who had been hastily herded in here with him seemed to be rather more overwhelmed by being part of an army on the march. One nagging thought seemed to stick with him, although he couldn't quite put it together. Fynn was supposed to be from the 2nd Irish Guards, a nominally independent battalion. The brigade insignia of an ever-open eye suggested something else, though, not to mention Sandy Ashton being around earlier...
His train of thought, even as it was on the right track on the correct and pulling into the station marked Sudden and Profound Realisation, was disrupted by a sudden alteration of circumstance. Before Tom could process the abrupt change, their Saxon had pulled out of the column and off the road, thumping across rutted ground before seeming to lurch downwards for several yards before coming to a halt. Several of the more unsuspecting chaps almost went bumping around the track and what sounded like a Spanish fellow let fly with an impressive string of oaths, curses and general execration upon all those responsible and their maternal relatives unto the tenth generation after rattling his noggin in the process. The rear hatch was flung open, revealing a harsh artificial light that left Tom and his compatriots quite bedazzled.
“Righto, chaps, out we get, if you please.” A staff officer in battle dress snapped with perfunctory courtesy as he waved them towards an open door. They were in some sort of underground cavern and Tom realised they had drive down a steep ramp. Around them were several other battletracks, also disgorging their occupants.
“Where are we?” asked a somehow familiar voice from across the cavern.
“Yeah, what’s the deal here?” echoed another in a hard New York accent, indicating that at least some of the journalists from the other side of the pond were in this pool.
The rather harried looking staff officer, a very tall cove with a neat black moustache, gave a slight twitch and then put on the type of broad, menacing smile that a certain type reserved for the afflicted and the foreign.
“Very well, very well! Gentlemen, sirs, Americans, welcome to Forward Support Base Alma. I am Captain Fawlty, HQ British Army of the Rhine and if you follow me through to the viewing bunker, we’re going to let you see our counteroffensive kick off, courtesy of the Royal Space Force, 1st Armoured and the Guards Division. Complimentary tea! Complimentary tea! Come along, one foot in front of the other - they call it walking!”
Fawlty, towering over most of the slowly moving press, began to shepherd the milling mob in to the promised offerings, Tom Fowler among them.
“The pieces seem to be falling into place now, eh?” The familiar voice came again as they walked into the bunker.
“Bailey?”
The field mess tent was packed with the assorted staff, journalists and attached exchange and liaison officers as Tom Fowler sat down at the long table with his dinner. For some reason, he had a strange feeling it might be his last time at table for several days, so he had hooked right into the scoff on offer with gusto. It was good, solid Army cooking rather than the deliberately excessive spread of luncheon, but the level sophistication indicated that this was definitely staff food. Looking around the room as he worked his way through his meat, he could identify the field uniforms of the Royal Navy, RAF, Royal Marines, Canadian Army, U.S. Army and ze Germans, as could most young men of his generation, but it took him a double take and a few quiet questions to work out the Swedes and the Free Poles and he couldn't, for the life of him, work out why the Swiss had a chap here.
"One of the umpires." Tom looked up at the officer who popped himself down next to him, a tall fellow with short hair and the uniform of the Irish Guards.
"Hmm?"
"Saw you looking at old boy over there in the field grey trying to place him. The Swiss are umpiring the whole exercise, you see, after neither us nor Jerry could agree on the French."
"I should have thought that if there was one thing that we and the Germans could agree upon, it would be the French."
"Ha! Good one, that, and probably true to boot. Lieutenant Shawn Fynn, 2nd Irish Guards."
"Tom Fowler, the press."
"Egad. Not going to use me as a source for a juicy quote, are you?"
"What happens at the dinner table, stays at the dinner table." Tom lied smoothly, seeing the opportunity to get something out of someone that wasn't as potted as the shrimps in front of him. Get them comfortable, fed and then push for it. "I say, this is a sight better than what they had back when I was in the Army a few years ago, and I'd thought it quite spiffing then."
"Certainly better than school dinners, old man. Truth be told, they're filling us up now, for on the morrow, it will be field rations in cosy trenches and muddy foxholes when we kick off. Can't wait to give Fritz a good walloping."
"I thought we were friends with the Germans now. Allies at least."
"We are, by and large, but old habits die hard, not to mention that they beat us in that football friendly back in March. Damn cheek, beating us at our national game."
"Well, it is only fair, really. We beat them at their national sport twice in fifty years."
Fynn guffawed and cut into his roast beef. "They're not that bad, the Krauts, not these days. Got some damn nice gear that they're awfully proud of. Their Jaguars are decent fast tanks and they've heavier guns than us in every division."
"You think that is the way forward."
"Wiser heads than me say its been that way since Korea, if not Siam, but we stick by the 25pdr for our reasons, as you'd well know, being an ex-Army fellow."
Tom nodded. The British Army was fairly closely wedded to the notion of artillery fire as suppression and had kept to the 25pdr throughout the Second World War in preference to the 105mm field artillery pieces preferred by the Americans, French and Germans due to its superior rate of fire and range. Those days were changing, with the 125mm replacing the old standby, but even that new gun fired a shell half the weight of the German artillery. Warhammer would see the first large scale examination of the two competing philosophies on a European battlefield and the results would be quite influential.
"Interesting to meet a member of the Heavy Mob from the Guards. I thought you chaps set yourselves apart from the PBI."
"Times change, Fowler, even for us. We're not all devoted to the Trooping of the Colour or the Victory Day Parades, as you wags in the rags would put it. Our battalion just got back to Blighty from a tour in Rhodesia two months ago."
"How was it?"
"Hard. The Simbas coming over from the Congo are bloody persistent blighters, I'll say that, and rather nasty in what they do to captives and civvies alike. We saw quite a bit of horrid stuff when going across the border in hot pursuit; 'aggressive defence', as they call it. So much so that the magisters gave considerable thought to bringing in the W.G.'s department."
"That...that would violate the Hague, Geneva and Stockholm Conventions!"
"And half a dozen others to boot. But when you see what those blasted butchering savages do to a mission school, suddenly the idea of burning them and all that doesn't seem quite so beyond the pale. And that wasn't even the worst of it."
This had definitely taken a much darker turn than he had anticipated. And none of it would make it past the MoI censors. "Fascinating. Well, if you will excuse me, Lieutenant, I think I will -"
Tom's excuse was cut off by the harsh braying of a claxon and an immediate eruption of activity as the room's occupants abandoned their meals, grabbed their weapons and ran outside. He followed, half-stumbling over the upturned chairs into the chill night air and sprinting for the nearest bunker that he'd eyeballed before dinner. It was good that most of his momentum was arrested, as he was met by a pair of very sharp bayonets, three leveled submachine guns and a very large Webley held by Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart.
Trust his luck to choose the damn command post, he thought as he was bundled into the corner after the Colonel's grudging nod of recognition.
"What do we know, Captain?" Lethbridge-Stewart barked down the radiophone.
"Jerry has kicked off 12 hours earlier than scheduled, sir. Full attack across the corps front, interdiction fires on our LoCs and reported airmobile strikes on our reserves. We're currently engaging an allround attack on the division, with inbound contacts on the CP."
"Clever. But not clever enough. Carry on." He put it down, straightened his battledress and looked over at Tom. "We've got a few surprises of our own, Mr. Fowler, even if our German friends have stolen a march on us. In 90 seconds time, our rocket regiments will begin a simulated strike on their pre-registered targets, even though they're probably empty fields; but ten minutes after that, the rearward GW batteries will launch their Silver Swords on what we can find."
"...They weren't supposed to be deployed until D+4, according to your schedule."
"We've always made a point of having a few aces up our sleeves. Now, to deal with the incoming visitors, who are just about to arrive...now." He looked up from the crystal screen on the bunker table with a wan smile and, within a second, a tremendous cacophany of anti-aircraft fire could be heard from all around the post.
"Sir, the RDF shows smaller, faster inbounds than just the helos."
"Hmm. Jetpacks or rocketwings. The rumours are true. All posts, engage with small arms." He picked up his swagger stick and turned to Tom with a pleasant smile. "Fancy a bit of night air?"
Out they strode, into the night, which was now lit up as bright as noon by blazing searchlights and crackling with the sounds of rapid archie. Dozens of men were out next to their bunkers and foxholes, firing into the sky with machine guns and rifles at silhouetted targets. Lethbridge-Stewart looked up and spotted something that he indicated with his stick.
"Jenkins! Chap with the wings there. Five rounds rapid."
..............................................................................................
As the column of FV-432 Saxons and Chieftain tanks rumbled forward through the cold night at their bumpily breathtaking speed of almost thirty six miles a hour, Tom pulled his field jacket close and huddled down in his hard seat, determined to find what comfort remained whilst on the move. He'd never seen action during his stint in the Army, but the utility - nay, necessity - of getting whatever rest and easement he could get had been drilled into him until it was second nature.
From what he had gathered from the rushed and garbled reports streaming into 1st Armoured Division's field HQ, the initial German attack had succeeded in achieving tactical surprise and had knocked several holes in I Corps front, but although the defending divisions shifted and withdrew, they did not break. A similar story was taking place down in II Corps, while III Corps was being firmly held in place by a diversionary attack. The full force of the corps reserve was now being committed to reinforce the frontline positions, whilst 1st Armoured Division began what had only been called Plan Hamilcar. Tom didn't know which direction they were headed, only that it seemed to be away from the sound of guns.
Outside, the rolling thunder of artillery and the faint scream of fighter jets echoed through the darkness as both sides went at it warhammer and tongs. The telltale sounds of Royalists and Scimitars speeding past considerably faster could be heard occasionally, along with Sentinel armoured cars tearing past even them; only two other armoured cars in the world were faster than them and it jolly well sounded like it. That much was familiar, even within the battle track, punctuated by the irregular sound of Rotodynes and helicopters heading for the front. Here and there came the sound of multiple rocket launchers sending volley after volley screaming into the blackness; he pitied any poor German civvies in the exercise area on this night.
The Jerry 1st Feldarmee CINC, Feldmarschall Kurt Steiner, and his corps commanders de Maziere, Schnez, Gericke and Bennecke had definitely stolen a march on the British Army of the Rhine. The ground combat component of the exercise was ostensibly not supposed to kick off until midday tomorrow, although Tom had begun to have his doubts that everything was as it seemed. There was no doubt that the German units would give a sterling account of themselves and not just because they were playing on their home wicket; each of their corps had four divisions compared to three of their British counterparts and all of them had a fair bit of sticking power. Whether the British had enough aces up their sleeves to counter the early attack, if it was truly a surprise, would remain to be seen. He had noted that there had been no mention of IV Corps during the hurried briefing and garbled information earlier that evening; it was supposed to still be deploying.
In any event, now that Warhammer has kicked off in earnest, it seemed as if the previous eagerness that had been displayed by all and sundry to court him and feed him with information had been replaced by the cool diffidence of the impersonal killing machine he knew so well from his own time in the colours. A few of his fellow press men seemed to share his reaction, but the majority of the dozen who had been hastily herded in here with him seemed to be rather more overwhelmed by being part of an army on the march. One nagging thought seemed to stick with him, although he couldn't quite put it together. Fynn was supposed to be from the 2nd Irish Guards, a nominally independent battalion. The brigade insignia of an ever-open eye suggested something else, though, not to mention Sandy Ashton being around earlier...
His train of thought, even as it was on the right track on the correct and pulling into the station marked Sudden and Profound Realisation, was disrupted by a sudden alteration of circumstance. Before Tom could process the abrupt change, their Saxon had pulled out of the column and off the road, thumping across rutted ground before seeming to lurch downwards for several yards before coming to a halt. Several of the more unsuspecting chaps almost went bumping around the track and what sounded like a Spanish fellow let fly with an impressive string of oaths, curses and general execration upon all those responsible and their maternal relatives unto the tenth generation after rattling his noggin in the process. The rear hatch was flung open, revealing a harsh artificial light that left Tom and his compatriots quite bedazzled.
“Righto, chaps, out we get, if you please.” A staff officer in battle dress snapped with perfunctory courtesy as he waved them towards an open door. They were in some sort of underground cavern and Tom realised they had drive down a steep ramp. Around them were several other battletracks, also disgorging their occupants.
“Where are we?” asked a somehow familiar voice from across the cavern.
“Yeah, what’s the deal here?” echoed another in a hard New York accent, indicating that at least some of the journalists from the other side of the pond were in this pool.
The rather harried looking staff officer, a very tall cove with a neat black moustache, gave a slight twitch and then put on the type of broad, menacing smile that a certain type reserved for the afflicted and the foreign.
“Very well, very well! Gentlemen, sirs, Americans, welcome to Forward Support Base Alma. I am Captain Fawlty, HQ British Army of the Rhine and if you follow me through to the viewing bunker, we’re going to let you see our counteroffensive kick off, courtesy of the Royal Space Force, 1st Armoured and the Guards Division. Complimentary tea! Complimentary tea! Come along, one foot in front of the other - they call it walking!”
Fawlty, towering over most of the slowly moving press, began to shepherd the milling mob in to the promised offerings, Tom Fowler among them.
“The pieces seem to be falling into place now, eh?” The familiar voice came again as they walked into the bunker.
“Bailey?”
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Exercise Warhammer Part 9: Counterstrike
"One and the same, Mr. Fowler. Going to stand around all night, or come in and have a gander? I for one am looking forward to casting an eye over the pictures. Fancy it - live footage of a major armoured attack in progress! We haven't had the chance to see one of those since the end of Korea and the newsreels back then were quite patchy."
"I'd imagine there would have been scope for something back in 1956 if we'd allowed journalists into the war zone."
Bailey gave Tom a queer look. "There were many good reasons why there wasn't a press free-for-all in Musketeer, chief of which that it happened in the shadow of what looked to be World War 3 mounting up in Europe and the Far East. Everything happened so dashed quickly. At such time, the priority was swift and overwhelming victory, which we achieved in the Middle East in just six days - that's what they call it over there, apparently."
"Is that the full story?"
"Naturally, dear boy."
"Nothing to do with the reports from European and South American scientists of ionising radiation consistent with several nuclear initiations?"
"I really don't have a clue what you're talking about, Tom. Now, lead on before the Americans get all the good seats."
Alas, Bailey's fear came to pass and they were forced to make do with a couple of chairs right at the back, behind a hulking German chap and an equally imposing Nordic fellow who were engaged in animated conversation regarding the new Imperial German Army service rifle.
"I tell you, it is the best in Europe, the Sturmgewehr-63! Fast, accurate and with the 7.92 Mauser, it is the most powerful gun in its class in the world entire!"
"That does seem a little enthusiastic." his companion replied in a Danish lilt.
"It could take down a Tyrannosaurus Rex!"
"Now there, I think our German friend might be going a bit far. T-Rexes are nasty big brutes, particularly on the charge with their blood up." Bailey whispered sotto voce. "I know a chap who once had to fight one with a .577 Nitro Express elephant gun down in the Congo years ago; it took a bazooka to bring it down. With what we know about the Chinese experiments..."
Now here was something new. "What do you mean by that?"
Bailey continued without skipping a beat. "That a 7.92 x 57mm rifle is not going to drop any dinosaur, old or new. Now, shhh."
Captain Fawlty now mounted the stage, hushed the audience with an imperiously manic gesture of his arms and indicated the lightening screen.
"Thank you gentlemen, thank you! You will now see something previously reserved for generals and Prime Ministers: live televisual footage of a major military offensive. The precise location, length and content of each segment is in the control of the Royal Space Force boffins up on Britannia Station, so no requests or interruptions if you please!"
With that, Fawlty leapt back and the blurs on the screen now coalesced into recognisable images. They were viewing the edge of a field, seemingly from only a few hundred feet above, yet as distinct as day. Arrayed in the trees were the white shapes of several dozen tanks, infantry personnel carriers and assorted armoured vehicles, all visible in clear detail with the heat of their engines giving off a sort of luminescence. Suddenly, the view panned out to show the much broader front erupting in white explosions from an enormous barrage of artillery and rocket fire that rolled forward across the fields at tremendous pace. The tanks then surged forward, brushing aside the camouflaging undergrowth that had been sorcerously placed before them and breaking out like silent tin models in a child's petty magicked game. The imagery then shifted to show defensive positions being hammered by a merciless rain of artillery, but it was clear that this was not all one way traffic. Jerry was firing back. The screen then blurred.
“There you have it, chaps. The opening stages of Hamilcar and Falconer, our little surprises for the fine Teutons of the Silver Force.” A new voice rich in burr and deeply sonorous yet tinged with humour, now spoke from the edge of the stage. Fawlty had given way to a new gaggle of staff officers lead by a tall brigadier.
“Brigadier Cowley, BAOR Intelligence. Jerry thought to catch us kipping, but that simply opened them up. We are fighting fire with fire! That first footage was of the Guards leading right from the front, attacking straight into the centre of the German advance; the second was from the middle of II and III Corps’ forward battle area, where the Royal Artillery Division is conducting the largest preparatory bombardment you’re ever likely to see.
And now, we should be able to see 1st Armoured down somewhere near here.”
The screen came to life once more to show dozens of tanks streaming across a field, this time exchanging fire with German positions on the far side. Flashing shapes hurtled in the skies above, hitting the defensive line with bombs and rockets; although the aerial bombardments were conducted with simulated ammunition, their effects seemed extremely realistic to Tom. The fighter-bomber strikes were then followed by a series of very large explosions, which he took to be the division's heavy guns conducting a final plastering of the enemy lines. The attacking Chieftains began to be struck by tiny white explosions, but they did not seem to slow them appreciably or knock any out. As they began to return fire, the screen faded back out.
"What you are seeing is a typical counter to a substantial enemy penetration in the middle of our defensive area, in the form of decisive and responsive localised attacks on the enemy utilising heavy mechanised forces. This initial battle and the subsequent engagements provides an opportunity for us to demonstrate both our defensive and offensive strategies in a high intensity combat situation. The current battle can be described as fluid, which is appropriate given its early stage, but we've certainly been able to counter the initial German surprise at this time. There will be no questions for the moment, but there will be a detailed press release after breakfast following the morning briefing. You will now get your promised tea, then be conducted to the barracks wing to get a few hours kip before then. Thank you, gentlemen.“
As Tom sipped from his hot mug of strong, sweet Army tea, he pondered the performance they had witnessed. Oh, the nature of the footage and it’s sheer precision was noteworthy enough, both in terms of what it depicted and the message being sent out by publicly unveiling such capacity. Nor was it simply a case of the Army showing itself off whilst it was the centre of attention, as all of the services had taken every opportunity to do over the course of yesterday, although there was definitely an element of that at play. This was something far more subtle, yet just as significant, he decided: indirect communication across the Iron Wall to send a message to Moscow. So much of this exercise and the various associated shows of strength were seemingly designed to give pause to the Red Army across the Oder, both in terms of what they knew and what they did not.
“Penny for them?”
Mr. Bailey again. There was clearly more to him than immediately met the eye; Tom had his own suspicion as to the actual purpose of their interaction, but he had long since decided to let the matter play out rather than address it overtly. The nature of this particular stately quadrille (although it bore just as much resemblance to blindfolded lawn tennis) was a subtle one and he was fairly sure he could muddle out the steps.
“Just pondering on how the Russians would be processing all of this; it is for their benefit, after all.”
Ball’s in your court, old boy.
“Hmm. Very interesting. I’d say it would be giving them a bit of food for thought and not necessarily a pleasant mouthful - they like to think of themselves as the grandmasters of cerebral zakuskis. As long as it gets them thinking rather than getting itchy feet, then it has worked. Deception is the key, after all. Any dashed fool can calculate strength, as you well know - give some chaps a copy of Janes and a few papers and they suddenly think they’re Nelson. But calculating what you can’t see? That is the art.”
“Sounds like an interesting line of work.” Tom lobbed that little hand grenade up in the air, trying to entice Simon into something.
“I could imagine.” Bailey returned the serve blandly, resisting the temptation.
“There was something else as well, moreso on the field of battle rather than the stage of state, as it were. The counteroffensive footage was more notable for what it left out rather than what they showed. Two set piece armoured counterattacks right in the middle of the line doesn’t really make sense, particularly in terms of where 1st Armoured was located yesterday afternoon. It is like the sleight of hand games pulled by street illusionists - they conjure up some flashy imagery to distract the eye whilst the real trick is going on in the other hand.”
“And what do you think is the illusion here?”
“In this sense, locations. I’d say we’re actually hitting the Germans in a pincer move. If they realise it, then they’ve got more of an opportunity to reinforce their flanks or pull back from our front whilst bringing up their own reserves to hit our boys in the process.”
“Given that they are the Reichsheer, not the Albanians or the Portuguese, they would be able to puzzle that out as well in rather short order. Very perceptive of you, Fowler. I think that there might be something at play with the Royal Artillery Division. Notice how they slipped mention of that in quite neatly?”
“Yes, after it had been given next to no attention in all the preliminary publicity. Wheels within wheels, as I believe the phrase goes.”
Tom had used to consider the Royal Artillery Division to be something of an atavistic throwback to the massed positional battles of the World Wars and Korea during his days in the colours, what with them being cast aside by the French and Americans after 1945, apart from the latter’s interesting 50s experiment. Modern warfare was all about mobility, survivability and flexibility and only the British and Soviets still fielded full artillery divisions However, a rather fascinating natter with a sozzled cove one evening at his club back in Blighty last year had moderated his view somewhat. Five hundred guns and rocket launchers may not be very wieldy or agile, but it did have a fair bit of brute power and could concentrate this over a small area to devastating effect. Oh, they could fight in the defensive as well, but a sledgehammer wasn’t the ideal tool for that type of thing. That it had come to the fore now would obviously give the impression of a massive counter blow being concentrated in its vicinity.
And that was precisely what the BAOR wanted the enemy to think, dragging enemy attention to the centre of their front, rather than the flanks. A fairly elementary gambit with an effective lifespan of hours up against a top line opposition like the Germans, but its utilisation as a diversion was aimed above and beyond them at a particular future potential foe. Bailey hadn't even touched upon the casual mention and subsequent careful avoidance of the matter of the Guards Division and precisely where they were at present; Tom thought some of the vegetation had looked naggingly familiar, as much as it could in black and white imagery. It was enough to give a chap a migraine.
Bailey seemed to sense his discomfiture and offered a sympathetic tilt of the head. “I know the feeling. There are some aspects of this all that do that to all of us; for me, it’s mobilisation.”
“I once did a bit of work on that for a Saturday feature. By a bit, I mean several jolly days worth, trawling through interminable monographs and endless tables. Then it was shelved in favour of a piece on dwarven hill villages in the Lake District.”
“Egad, that would have been a rather rum go. You’d be able to understand the issues behind it all. It is what makes a lot of this rather interesting for me, as well as adding to a certain sense of scepticism. Getting the bulk of the Army and RAF over here so quickly in a real crisis could well end up a lot more difficult than this little performance.”
“Rather.” Tom warmed to the topic. “Part of the whole contrivance of the exercise in my view.”
“The War Office, for all their sins, are neither blind nor stupid. They will be examining how Warhammer works, where it doesn’t and what bottlenecks stand in the way of future efficiency.”
“I dare say some of the more creative workarounds would not be possible in a real crisis.”
“You are most probably right, Fowler, in more ways than one. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll to my bed. Burning the midnight oil like this is a practice I prefer to leave to younger and bolder men at my time of life. Good night to you.”
“Good night, Bailey.”
Later, as Tom began to drift off on his surprisingly comfortable camp bed, his thoughts began to wander over the events of the day and then back to the latest pieces in the puzzle. Bailey had been a bit more forthcoming, but there had been a few matters that even he had not touched upon in his candid conversing.
He went to sleep dreaming of trees.
"One and the same, Mr. Fowler. Going to stand around all night, or come in and have a gander? I for one am looking forward to casting an eye over the pictures. Fancy it - live footage of a major armoured attack in progress! We haven't had the chance to see one of those since the end of Korea and the newsreels back then were quite patchy."
"I'd imagine there would have been scope for something back in 1956 if we'd allowed journalists into the war zone."
Bailey gave Tom a queer look. "There were many good reasons why there wasn't a press free-for-all in Musketeer, chief of which that it happened in the shadow of what looked to be World War 3 mounting up in Europe and the Far East. Everything happened so dashed quickly. At such time, the priority was swift and overwhelming victory, which we achieved in the Middle East in just six days - that's what they call it over there, apparently."
"Is that the full story?"
"Naturally, dear boy."
"Nothing to do with the reports from European and South American scientists of ionising radiation consistent with several nuclear initiations?"
"I really don't have a clue what you're talking about, Tom. Now, lead on before the Americans get all the good seats."
Alas, Bailey's fear came to pass and they were forced to make do with a couple of chairs right at the back, behind a hulking German chap and an equally imposing Nordic fellow who were engaged in animated conversation regarding the new Imperial German Army service rifle.
"I tell you, it is the best in Europe, the Sturmgewehr-63! Fast, accurate and with the 7.92 Mauser, it is the most powerful gun in its class in the world entire!"
"That does seem a little enthusiastic." his companion replied in a Danish lilt.
"It could take down a Tyrannosaurus Rex!"
"Now there, I think our German friend might be going a bit far. T-Rexes are nasty big brutes, particularly on the charge with their blood up." Bailey whispered sotto voce. "I know a chap who once had to fight one with a .577 Nitro Express elephant gun down in the Congo years ago; it took a bazooka to bring it down. With what we know about the Chinese experiments..."
Now here was something new. "What do you mean by that?"
Bailey continued without skipping a beat. "That a 7.92 x 57mm rifle is not going to drop any dinosaur, old or new. Now, shhh."
Captain Fawlty now mounted the stage, hushed the audience with an imperiously manic gesture of his arms and indicated the lightening screen.
"Thank you gentlemen, thank you! You will now see something previously reserved for generals and Prime Ministers: live televisual footage of a major military offensive. The precise location, length and content of each segment is in the control of the Royal Space Force boffins up on Britannia Station, so no requests or interruptions if you please!"
With that, Fawlty leapt back and the blurs on the screen now coalesced into recognisable images. They were viewing the edge of a field, seemingly from only a few hundred feet above, yet as distinct as day. Arrayed in the trees were the white shapes of several dozen tanks, infantry personnel carriers and assorted armoured vehicles, all visible in clear detail with the heat of their engines giving off a sort of luminescence. Suddenly, the view panned out to show the much broader front erupting in white explosions from an enormous barrage of artillery and rocket fire that rolled forward across the fields at tremendous pace. The tanks then surged forward, brushing aside the camouflaging undergrowth that had been sorcerously placed before them and breaking out like silent tin models in a child's petty magicked game. The imagery then shifted to show defensive positions being hammered by a merciless rain of artillery, but it was clear that this was not all one way traffic. Jerry was firing back. The screen then blurred.
“There you have it, chaps. The opening stages of Hamilcar and Falconer, our little surprises for the fine Teutons of the Silver Force.” A new voice rich in burr and deeply sonorous yet tinged with humour, now spoke from the edge of the stage. Fawlty had given way to a new gaggle of staff officers lead by a tall brigadier.
“Brigadier Cowley, BAOR Intelligence. Jerry thought to catch us kipping, but that simply opened them up. We are fighting fire with fire! That first footage was of the Guards leading right from the front, attacking straight into the centre of the German advance; the second was from the middle of II and III Corps’ forward battle area, where the Royal Artillery Division is conducting the largest preparatory bombardment you’re ever likely to see.
And now, we should be able to see 1st Armoured down somewhere near here.”
The screen came to life once more to show dozens of tanks streaming across a field, this time exchanging fire with German positions on the far side. Flashing shapes hurtled in the skies above, hitting the defensive line with bombs and rockets; although the aerial bombardments were conducted with simulated ammunition, their effects seemed extremely realistic to Tom. The fighter-bomber strikes were then followed by a series of very large explosions, which he took to be the division's heavy guns conducting a final plastering of the enemy lines. The attacking Chieftains began to be struck by tiny white explosions, but they did not seem to slow them appreciably or knock any out. As they began to return fire, the screen faded back out.
"What you are seeing is a typical counter to a substantial enemy penetration in the middle of our defensive area, in the form of decisive and responsive localised attacks on the enemy utilising heavy mechanised forces. This initial battle and the subsequent engagements provides an opportunity for us to demonstrate both our defensive and offensive strategies in a high intensity combat situation. The current battle can be described as fluid, which is appropriate given its early stage, but we've certainly been able to counter the initial German surprise at this time. There will be no questions for the moment, but there will be a detailed press release after breakfast following the morning briefing. You will now get your promised tea, then be conducted to the barracks wing to get a few hours kip before then. Thank you, gentlemen.“
As Tom sipped from his hot mug of strong, sweet Army tea, he pondered the performance they had witnessed. Oh, the nature of the footage and it’s sheer precision was noteworthy enough, both in terms of what it depicted and the message being sent out by publicly unveiling such capacity. Nor was it simply a case of the Army showing itself off whilst it was the centre of attention, as all of the services had taken every opportunity to do over the course of yesterday, although there was definitely an element of that at play. This was something far more subtle, yet just as significant, he decided: indirect communication across the Iron Wall to send a message to Moscow. So much of this exercise and the various associated shows of strength were seemingly designed to give pause to the Red Army across the Oder, both in terms of what they knew and what they did not.
“Penny for them?”
Mr. Bailey again. There was clearly more to him than immediately met the eye; Tom had his own suspicion as to the actual purpose of their interaction, but he had long since decided to let the matter play out rather than address it overtly. The nature of this particular stately quadrille (although it bore just as much resemblance to blindfolded lawn tennis) was a subtle one and he was fairly sure he could muddle out the steps.
“Just pondering on how the Russians would be processing all of this; it is for their benefit, after all.”
Ball’s in your court, old boy.
“Hmm. Very interesting. I’d say it would be giving them a bit of food for thought and not necessarily a pleasant mouthful - they like to think of themselves as the grandmasters of cerebral zakuskis. As long as it gets them thinking rather than getting itchy feet, then it has worked. Deception is the key, after all. Any dashed fool can calculate strength, as you well know - give some chaps a copy of Janes and a few papers and they suddenly think they’re Nelson. But calculating what you can’t see? That is the art.”
“Sounds like an interesting line of work.” Tom lobbed that little hand grenade up in the air, trying to entice Simon into something.
“I could imagine.” Bailey returned the serve blandly, resisting the temptation.
“There was something else as well, moreso on the field of battle rather than the stage of state, as it were. The counteroffensive footage was more notable for what it left out rather than what they showed. Two set piece armoured counterattacks right in the middle of the line doesn’t really make sense, particularly in terms of where 1st Armoured was located yesterday afternoon. It is like the sleight of hand games pulled by street illusionists - they conjure up some flashy imagery to distract the eye whilst the real trick is going on in the other hand.”
“And what do you think is the illusion here?”
“In this sense, locations. I’d say we’re actually hitting the Germans in a pincer move. If they realise it, then they’ve got more of an opportunity to reinforce their flanks or pull back from our front whilst bringing up their own reserves to hit our boys in the process.”
“Given that they are the Reichsheer, not the Albanians or the Portuguese, they would be able to puzzle that out as well in rather short order. Very perceptive of you, Fowler. I think that there might be something at play with the Royal Artillery Division. Notice how they slipped mention of that in quite neatly?”
“Yes, after it had been given next to no attention in all the preliminary publicity. Wheels within wheels, as I believe the phrase goes.”
Tom had used to consider the Royal Artillery Division to be something of an atavistic throwback to the massed positional battles of the World Wars and Korea during his days in the colours, what with them being cast aside by the French and Americans after 1945, apart from the latter’s interesting 50s experiment. Modern warfare was all about mobility, survivability and flexibility and only the British and Soviets still fielded full artillery divisions However, a rather fascinating natter with a sozzled cove one evening at his club back in Blighty last year had moderated his view somewhat. Five hundred guns and rocket launchers may not be very wieldy or agile, but it did have a fair bit of brute power and could concentrate this over a small area to devastating effect. Oh, they could fight in the defensive as well, but a sledgehammer wasn’t the ideal tool for that type of thing. That it had come to the fore now would obviously give the impression of a massive counter blow being concentrated in its vicinity.
And that was precisely what the BAOR wanted the enemy to think, dragging enemy attention to the centre of their front, rather than the flanks. A fairly elementary gambit with an effective lifespan of hours up against a top line opposition like the Germans, but its utilisation as a diversion was aimed above and beyond them at a particular future potential foe. Bailey hadn't even touched upon the casual mention and subsequent careful avoidance of the matter of the Guards Division and precisely where they were at present; Tom thought some of the vegetation had looked naggingly familiar, as much as it could in black and white imagery. It was enough to give a chap a migraine.
Bailey seemed to sense his discomfiture and offered a sympathetic tilt of the head. “I know the feeling. There are some aspects of this all that do that to all of us; for me, it’s mobilisation.”
“I once did a bit of work on that for a Saturday feature. By a bit, I mean several jolly days worth, trawling through interminable monographs and endless tables. Then it was shelved in favour of a piece on dwarven hill villages in the Lake District.”
“Egad, that would have been a rather rum go. You’d be able to understand the issues behind it all. It is what makes a lot of this rather interesting for me, as well as adding to a certain sense of scepticism. Getting the bulk of the Army and RAF over here so quickly in a real crisis could well end up a lot more difficult than this little performance.”
“Rather.” Tom warmed to the topic. “Part of the whole contrivance of the exercise in my view.”
“The War Office, for all their sins, are neither blind nor stupid. They will be examining how Warhammer works, where it doesn’t and what bottlenecks stand in the way of future efficiency.”
“I dare say some of the more creative workarounds would not be possible in a real crisis.”
“You are most probably right, Fowler, in more ways than one. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll to my bed. Burning the midnight oil like this is a practice I prefer to leave to younger and bolder men at my time of life. Good night to you.”
“Good night, Bailey.”
Later, as Tom began to drift off on his surprisingly comfortable camp bed, his thoughts began to wander over the events of the day and then back to the latest pieces in the puzzle. Bailey had been a bit more forthcoming, but there had been a few matters that even he had not touched upon in his candid conversing.
He went to sleep dreaming of trees.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Exercise Warhammer Part 10: The End
The morning came far too early for Tom's tastes, although whether it was precisely morning or not was somewhat difficult to tell in the bunkers that made up FSB Alma. At least they didn't blast them awake with bugle calls or anything quite so enthusiastic as that, as some American units he'd visited had been want to do, preferring the more civilised methodology of the aroma of bacon and tea. Thus it was that, after a splash of freezing cold water and what not, he followed the gathering throng to the mess hall, which was adjacent to the viewing bunker that had provided the erudition of several hours previous. The buzz of conversation was relatively low, reflecting the less than salubrious hour, but some of the assorted newsmen were gradually gathering themselves to their duties and beginning to speculate on what would come to pass.
Now they were in the field and the exercise had begun, the previous panoply of pleasing provender had been replaced by more prosaic rations, which nonetheless hit the spot quite nicely. Tom found a free space at the far end of one of the benches and dug right into his scrambled eggs, bubble and squeak and bacon whilst waiting for his strong, sweet tea to cool down to a temperature resembling magma. The provender seemed to assuage any grumblings from the assorted press pool and allowed some degree of morningtide contemplation. There were some spare Warhammer briefing sheets scattered conveniently on the table and he had a gander whilst he broke his fast, if but to see the official line that was even now outdated by events.
As of 1800 yesterday, 18 hours after the initiation of the exercise, over a third of the planned sailings and sea transportation had been successfully completed; Tom wagered that there was one heck of a traffic jam being sorted out in the Netherlands and Belgium. The air bridge was lauded for its efficiency, with the majority of the frontline combat reinforcements being delivered to their receiving aerodromes in Western Germany and the supporting forces continuing to land at a rate of several thousand per hour, which translated in his rough mental arithmetic to somewhere between 20 and 30 flights. The logistical deployment side of the exercise would actually go on longer than the simulated combat, which showed ultimately where the Army's priorities lay. There was some mention of all the bridges across the Rhine being declared out of action from D+1, which seemingly would have been brought forward. This was somewhat at odds with the exclusion of long range strike bombers and missiles from the operational parameters of Warhammer, but as he had surmised in his conversation with Bailey back on Heligoland, that was driven by the desire to avoid any potential for escalation.
The overall impression he received from the rather glib collection of facts was that it was predicated on everything going according to timetable without substantive deviations and thus the rather effective German bending of the exercise rules would have thrown a rather nasty spanner in the works; it just didn't seem like characteristic German behaviour in his experience, though. If he had to guess, it seemed like an agreed complication imposed by the higher ups in the Imperial General Staff to see how the BAOR could cope with chaos, although he kept this speculation to himself. The side games around the exercise, be they political or something more shadowy, were more convoluted than these more prosaic military concerns. Tom wondered, not for the first time, whether they would actually succeed in their multifarious objectives or if the Kremlin, Washington and Paris wouldn't quite behave in the manner that had been predicted of them. He shook his head reflexively at all the bally spinning wheels. He was here to get an interview and write a pithy article that pay his bills for the next month and hopefully get him on at The Chronicle full time, not uncover the mysteries of all the silly carry-on of the backroom players.
"This seat taken at all?"
"No, go ahead." He responded reflexively before looking up. To his surprise, it wasn't the seemingly ubiquitous Bailey but a new, rather younger chap who looked disgustingly bright-eyed and disgracefully bushy-tailed for this time of morning. He plonked down his plate and pulled in his chair before extending a confident hand across the table.
"Roger Sanderson, The Economist. Charmed."
"Tom Fowler, The Daily Chronicle. Economist, eh? What's the radical free trade angle on Warhammer?"
"Oh, tish pish posh. We're not all cut from the exact same lock-stock cloth, you know, Fowler. We're not the Manchester Guardian."
"I can tell that - you're not dressed in camouflage, chewing on a raw steak and calling the Prime Minister a raving pinko." Tom gave a meaningful glance down the other end of the table, where the Guardian mob, clad in fatigue jackets and battle dress as was their want, were charging through their morning sirloins at a rate of knots; they had yet to engage in vigorous political analysis, but most chaps were a bit slow of a morning.
"Sometimes, if the shoe fits..."
Both men laughed briefly and then returned to the process of breaking their fast, the ice now broken sufficiently for idle conversation.
"Heard anything new?"
"Jerry seems to be reacting rather quickly and still forcing back our boys in the middle in a steady manner. The radio and television updates on the counteroffensive are crediting them with 'remarkable success', but they would say that."
"Probably the best they could do in terms of scripting a response so quickly."
"Well, Fritz has hardly played along to his assigned role in the script, as it were. This was supposed to be a 12 day combat sequence after the 48 hours of emergency mobilisation and movement, after all."
"Yes, dash those unpredictable Germans." Tom tried, with general success, to keep even a hint of sarcasm from his tone.
"We've got to get around to being able to predict them and the other European allies, Fowler. We can't sit off behind the Channel and pretend we're not part of it for too much longer, regardless of the comfortable delusions of the Establishment types stuck in 1940."
"If you're referring to Eden, all well enough. But it isn't as if the other fellow is quite the Monnetist; you can accuse Stanley Barton of a few things, but liking Europe isn't really one of them. Unless you think the Liberals will get up."
"We can only hope. In any event, that is a bit beyond the here and now. I think this has shown up a few flaws in the assumptions about any fighting here."
"Yes, that struck me as well. A wee bit of a convenient complication, but that might be a case of seeing shadows everywhere. Too early to say anything about the gear, isn't it?"'
"Rather. If we don't end up wiping the floor with them in whatever they are doing for armoured combat simulation, then there might be a few questions asked about the way the Chieftain has been lauded to high heaven for the last few years. Well, see you at the briefing."
"You too." Interesting. Nice enough chap, no apparent agenda, no hanging about, no overt nationalism. Almost refreshing.
Finishing off his repast, Tom moved across to the milling crowd in the briefing room and grabbed a seat. He could not see hide nor hair of Bailey anywhere about the place, but Cowley and his entourage took the stage before he could consider the matter any further.
"Good morning, gentlemen. The second day of Exercise Warhammer has seen no dramatic developments at the front. Neither the Silver Force nor our own Blue Force have achieved any significant breakthroughs in the first 12 hours of combat. The initial opposition advance has ground to a halt on our secondary defensive lines as our reserves have come into play. Coordination between the Army and RAF has been solid overnight and we will see further evidence of the carefully organised air support system during the first full daylight combat simulations today. Our commanders in the field report that our use of defence in depth has been effective and at this time, we are clearly winning the artillery battle. The current situation can be seen here."
His assistants unveiled a large map of the exercise area that showed, albeit very slowly, animated movements of the front. The Germans had put a large bulge in the centre of the line in II Corps and three smaller ones in I Corps and III Corps on either side of it. The Royal Artillery Division was smack bang in the middle and, if Tom squinted just the right way, he could even see the simulated bombardment missions impacting on the German lines. IV Corps was shown as still forming well behind the combat area, but the most notable elements were the large British flanking movements to the north and south of the central battle, showing the Guards Division advancing in a substantial left hook and the 1st Armoured Division making strong penetrations on the right. Further to the north of the Guards, the insignia of two Royal Marine brigades were shown pushing forward well clear of any German - sorry, Silver Force - units. This unveiling lead to an immediate hubbub of exclamations, buzzing conversation and shouted questions. For Tom, it was a moment of triumph. He knew it. The Guards and Royals were operating well to the north, up in Pomerania, where he had learned the landscape well in a walking holiday back in his boyhood. It had been the trees that gave it away. This satisfaction was drowned out, however, by the general hue and cry and Cowley's booming voice.
"Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! There will be time now for a few questions, but only if there is some sense of order and quiet." The room simmered back down to an acceptable level and Cowley inclined his head obligingly. "That is better. Yes, sir. You in the fourth row."
"Carl Kolchak, Associated Press. Is the employment of the Guards Division, which if I remember correctly was not supposed to be involved in Warhammer, a legitimate tactic?"
"I thought that one might come up." Polite laughter tittered across the room. "The public parameters of the exercise are somewhat different to the private agreements reached between the two parties. Each would be permitted two 'surprises' that would play out over the first four days and that particular situation was one of ours. Yes, chap at the front." He indicated a bright faced blond young man who sat eagerly before him.
"Tintin, Le Vingtième Siècle. What impact are the interdiction strikes on the supply zone in Belgium and Netherlands having on the fighting efficiency of the BAOR?"
"Clever question. There has been a certain diminution of our logistical flow, causing us to focus a greater proportion of our air defence assets and air superiority fighters to defend against them. This is once again something of a contrivance for the exercise, as in a real combat situation, there would be appropriate coverage from Fighter Command over the areas in question. We've just got time for a few more. Young lady there on the side."
"Sarah Jane Smith, Punch." She was an earnest young woman with flowing brown hair and a look that said she had seen a few things along the road. "What was our other surprise and have we seen the other German wild card yet?”
Cowley smiled. “In the first case, we’ll find out over the next 72 hours and in the latter circumstance, who knows? Last question now for the morning and then I’ll hand you back over to Captain Fawlty.”
Tom’s hand shot up and Cowley seemed to shift his attention straight at him, but that would have been too lucky. “Yes, fellow in the third row.”
“Roger Sanderson The Economist. Do you have any information on the simulated casualty levels as of this time?”
“Whilst specific figures are not yet available, the general ratio has been at approximately 2:1. Thank you, lady and gentlemen. There will be a further briefing at 1600. In the interim, there will be specific detachments to field forces and staff units as appropriate. Now, Captain Fawlty will outline the groups for today’s activities.”
A firm hand fell upon Tom’s shoulder. It was a pair of nondescript staff officers who stared blandly him straight in the eye.
“Fowler? It’s time. Come along with us please.”
.........................................................................
The Bulldog came to a smooth landing that belied their rather rough approach. The lightening greyness was increasingly covered by an almost unnatural fog that made for a rather hairy flying experience only slightly ameliorated by Timeloberg Headquarters really didn’t seem like anything to shake a stick at, most of the hill being covered by a thick forest interspersed with a few clearings, one of which provided the carefully camouflaged landing ground. Through the shadows of the trees, he could just about see the outlines of darting figures in the predawn greyness. The guard force, presumably.
His escorting officers jumped down onto the wet grass and lead Tom on the jog into the trees through the foggy dew to what appeared to be a door in a large oak tree. Upon entering, he went down a winding flight of stairs and along a twisting passageway to a stark concrete chamber, all the while being struck by the claustrophobic nature of the entrance. From here, an elevator shaft went down deep into the earth, well past the point where he could reasonably estimate their depth; it seemed to be several hundred feet by the time of their journey, which also involved several strange sensations akin to electrical shocks that he presumed were the protective spells. Once they had completed the trip down, Tom was ushered through several rooms that already buzzed with activity, barely dodging the continual flow of men who rushed back and forth, into a cavernous room.
In the centre of the room was a large sand table representing the German front and about it were various terminals and analytical engines busily operated by uniformed female computers feeding in data through electronic typewriters. Clocks, crystal screens and large television sets constantly running with relayed battle footage in turn surrounded these. However, the most notable feature of the chamber the massive animated wall that dominated one whole side of the room, displaying Germany and Central Europe in intricate detail, from the ships of the naval task forces in the North Sea to the flashing blue, yellow, red and green aircraft images that represented each fighter squadron in the air or on the ground. This then was the famous Big Board of the War Room and it matched the stories that Tom had overheard over the years.
One of his escorts broke away to approach a gaggle of senior officers, speaking quietly to a tall man with sandy hair in a khaki pullover and battledress. He turned around to face Tom, fixing him with an inquisitive stare from bright blue eyes and a slightly wry grin slightly twisted by the deep scar on his right cheek breaking out across his tanned, lean face. This could mean only one thing - he was in the presence of the highest ranking British Army officer on the Continent - Field Marshal Sir Richard Sharpe, V.C., Commander-in-Chief of the Northern Allied Army Group and of the British Army of the Rhine.
"You're Fowler? Right, you've come at a lucky time, lad. Come on through to the office and you can ask your questions."
.................................................................................................................................
Tom Fowler sat back against the wall and appreciated the relative darkness and dinginess of this particular Hanoverian pub, bierkeller or whatever the locals termed it. Warhammer had come to a conclusion yesterday afternoon and, by the sound of some of the British and German soldiers across the other side of the room, the 'debriefing' would go on for a while yet for those lucky enough to get a spot of leave. He gathered that some of them were one time foes, not just from the last fortnight, but from the last war as well. That seemed to have gone by the by, with both the strong, dark local beer and the comradeship of defending against a common foe now creating a bond between fighting men, between free men and between men who both wanted a better tomorrow.
The result?
A diplomatically convenient draw, with the Silver Force pulling back from the double envelopment of the British armour and establishing a firm line that held through until the end of the exercise. Despite some bally difficult bottlenecks, the flow of supplies from Blighty to the battlefront had been kept up on land, sea and air. The Royal Navy had did their bit well and also made their most of their brief moment in the sun with a series of carrier air strikes in the final days of the exercise that stopped Jerry cold. The boys in blue had played a blinder as well, at least as far as their own propaganda put it; if they'd truly won the air battle, then he rather thought that they would have had more impact in putting the blitz on the Fritz. Both the British and German armies, along with all the supporting troops from dozens of other nations, had played their parts well and given as much as they had taken.
If Tom's old housemaster had been doing the write-up, he would have used that old chestnut of 'all boys played well'. Everything seemed to have gone fine and dandy. His articles had been extremely well received back home by the editor and the feeling of cold, hard cash was an extremely gratifying one; his little interview in particular had lead to some interested noises from a few other newspapers and journals, which would hardly go astray.
"Room for one more?" A friendly and by now familiar voice asked from off to his side.
"Certainly. Have a seat, Simon."
"Thanks muchly, old bean. Fancy running into you here!"
"Oh, I wouldn't quite think it was that much of an accident or coincidence, Mr. Bailey, if that is your real name."
"It is, actually. Makes for a more effective way of doing things, you see."
"I see. Well, how do we go about this? Is there some sort of test? A written exam? An interview with mime?"
"The last few weeks have been the first stage of your test, in a way, Tom. Some of the other bits and pieces will come later if you want to take the next step."
"I never really thought of running away and joining the Circus before."
"And you won't be, my dear fellow. Different firm, you see." Bailey reached over and turned Tom's fruit knife upside down.
Ah.
"Interesting. Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes."
"Wonderful. There is a job we've got on the horizon, you see, something of the far horizon. We think you'd fill the right space for us."
"What next?"
Bailey passed him a card. "Memorise that. Done? Excellent." He then pulled out a box of matches and burnt the card in the ashtray. "Come there on Monday. If everything goes right, then we'll let you know what happens next."
"Everything? More tests? A doctor's examination?"
"Well, the Doctor could stick his head in, yes."
"Super. I hope the job is interesting."
"Oh, you'll love it. It's really out of this world."
The morning came far too early for Tom's tastes, although whether it was precisely morning or not was somewhat difficult to tell in the bunkers that made up FSB Alma. At least they didn't blast them awake with bugle calls or anything quite so enthusiastic as that, as some American units he'd visited had been want to do, preferring the more civilised methodology of the aroma of bacon and tea. Thus it was that, after a splash of freezing cold water and what not, he followed the gathering throng to the mess hall, which was adjacent to the viewing bunker that had provided the erudition of several hours previous. The buzz of conversation was relatively low, reflecting the less than salubrious hour, but some of the assorted newsmen were gradually gathering themselves to their duties and beginning to speculate on what would come to pass.
Now they were in the field and the exercise had begun, the previous panoply of pleasing provender had been replaced by more prosaic rations, which nonetheless hit the spot quite nicely. Tom found a free space at the far end of one of the benches and dug right into his scrambled eggs, bubble and squeak and bacon whilst waiting for his strong, sweet tea to cool down to a temperature resembling magma. The provender seemed to assuage any grumblings from the assorted press pool and allowed some degree of morningtide contemplation. There were some spare Warhammer briefing sheets scattered conveniently on the table and he had a gander whilst he broke his fast, if but to see the official line that was even now outdated by events.
As of 1800 yesterday, 18 hours after the initiation of the exercise, over a third of the planned sailings and sea transportation had been successfully completed; Tom wagered that there was one heck of a traffic jam being sorted out in the Netherlands and Belgium. The air bridge was lauded for its efficiency, with the majority of the frontline combat reinforcements being delivered to their receiving aerodromes in Western Germany and the supporting forces continuing to land at a rate of several thousand per hour, which translated in his rough mental arithmetic to somewhere between 20 and 30 flights. The logistical deployment side of the exercise would actually go on longer than the simulated combat, which showed ultimately where the Army's priorities lay. There was some mention of all the bridges across the Rhine being declared out of action from D+1, which seemingly would have been brought forward. This was somewhat at odds with the exclusion of long range strike bombers and missiles from the operational parameters of Warhammer, but as he had surmised in his conversation with Bailey back on Heligoland, that was driven by the desire to avoid any potential for escalation.
The overall impression he received from the rather glib collection of facts was that it was predicated on everything going according to timetable without substantive deviations and thus the rather effective German bending of the exercise rules would have thrown a rather nasty spanner in the works; it just didn't seem like characteristic German behaviour in his experience, though. If he had to guess, it seemed like an agreed complication imposed by the higher ups in the Imperial General Staff to see how the BAOR could cope with chaos, although he kept this speculation to himself. The side games around the exercise, be they political or something more shadowy, were more convoluted than these more prosaic military concerns. Tom wondered, not for the first time, whether they would actually succeed in their multifarious objectives or if the Kremlin, Washington and Paris wouldn't quite behave in the manner that had been predicted of them. He shook his head reflexively at all the bally spinning wheels. He was here to get an interview and write a pithy article that pay his bills for the next month and hopefully get him on at The Chronicle full time, not uncover the mysteries of all the silly carry-on of the backroom players.
"This seat taken at all?"
"No, go ahead." He responded reflexively before looking up. To his surprise, it wasn't the seemingly ubiquitous Bailey but a new, rather younger chap who looked disgustingly bright-eyed and disgracefully bushy-tailed for this time of morning. He plonked down his plate and pulled in his chair before extending a confident hand across the table.
"Roger Sanderson, The Economist. Charmed."
"Tom Fowler, The Daily Chronicle. Economist, eh? What's the radical free trade angle on Warhammer?"
"Oh, tish pish posh. We're not all cut from the exact same lock-stock cloth, you know, Fowler. We're not the Manchester Guardian."
"I can tell that - you're not dressed in camouflage, chewing on a raw steak and calling the Prime Minister a raving pinko." Tom gave a meaningful glance down the other end of the table, where the Guardian mob, clad in fatigue jackets and battle dress as was their want, were charging through their morning sirloins at a rate of knots; they had yet to engage in vigorous political analysis, but most chaps were a bit slow of a morning.
"Sometimes, if the shoe fits..."
Both men laughed briefly and then returned to the process of breaking their fast, the ice now broken sufficiently for idle conversation.
"Heard anything new?"
"Jerry seems to be reacting rather quickly and still forcing back our boys in the middle in a steady manner. The radio and television updates on the counteroffensive are crediting them with 'remarkable success', but they would say that."
"Probably the best they could do in terms of scripting a response so quickly."
"Well, Fritz has hardly played along to his assigned role in the script, as it were. This was supposed to be a 12 day combat sequence after the 48 hours of emergency mobilisation and movement, after all."
"Yes, dash those unpredictable Germans." Tom tried, with general success, to keep even a hint of sarcasm from his tone.
"We've got to get around to being able to predict them and the other European allies, Fowler. We can't sit off behind the Channel and pretend we're not part of it for too much longer, regardless of the comfortable delusions of the Establishment types stuck in 1940."
"If you're referring to Eden, all well enough. But it isn't as if the other fellow is quite the Monnetist; you can accuse Stanley Barton of a few things, but liking Europe isn't really one of them. Unless you think the Liberals will get up."
"We can only hope. In any event, that is a bit beyond the here and now. I think this has shown up a few flaws in the assumptions about any fighting here."
"Yes, that struck me as well. A wee bit of a convenient complication, but that might be a case of seeing shadows everywhere. Too early to say anything about the gear, isn't it?"'
"Rather. If we don't end up wiping the floor with them in whatever they are doing for armoured combat simulation, then there might be a few questions asked about the way the Chieftain has been lauded to high heaven for the last few years. Well, see you at the briefing."
"You too." Interesting. Nice enough chap, no apparent agenda, no hanging about, no overt nationalism. Almost refreshing.
Finishing off his repast, Tom moved across to the milling crowd in the briefing room and grabbed a seat. He could not see hide nor hair of Bailey anywhere about the place, but Cowley and his entourage took the stage before he could consider the matter any further.
"Good morning, gentlemen. The second day of Exercise Warhammer has seen no dramatic developments at the front. Neither the Silver Force nor our own Blue Force have achieved any significant breakthroughs in the first 12 hours of combat. The initial opposition advance has ground to a halt on our secondary defensive lines as our reserves have come into play. Coordination between the Army and RAF has been solid overnight and we will see further evidence of the carefully organised air support system during the first full daylight combat simulations today. Our commanders in the field report that our use of defence in depth has been effective and at this time, we are clearly winning the artillery battle. The current situation can be seen here."
His assistants unveiled a large map of the exercise area that showed, albeit very slowly, animated movements of the front. The Germans had put a large bulge in the centre of the line in II Corps and three smaller ones in I Corps and III Corps on either side of it. The Royal Artillery Division was smack bang in the middle and, if Tom squinted just the right way, he could even see the simulated bombardment missions impacting on the German lines. IV Corps was shown as still forming well behind the combat area, but the most notable elements were the large British flanking movements to the north and south of the central battle, showing the Guards Division advancing in a substantial left hook and the 1st Armoured Division making strong penetrations on the right. Further to the north of the Guards, the insignia of two Royal Marine brigades were shown pushing forward well clear of any German - sorry, Silver Force - units. This unveiling lead to an immediate hubbub of exclamations, buzzing conversation and shouted questions. For Tom, it was a moment of triumph. He knew it. The Guards and Royals were operating well to the north, up in Pomerania, where he had learned the landscape well in a walking holiday back in his boyhood. It had been the trees that gave it away. This satisfaction was drowned out, however, by the general hue and cry and Cowley's booming voice.
"Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! There will be time now for a few questions, but only if there is some sense of order and quiet." The room simmered back down to an acceptable level and Cowley inclined his head obligingly. "That is better. Yes, sir. You in the fourth row."
"Carl Kolchak, Associated Press. Is the employment of the Guards Division, which if I remember correctly was not supposed to be involved in Warhammer, a legitimate tactic?"
"I thought that one might come up." Polite laughter tittered across the room. "The public parameters of the exercise are somewhat different to the private agreements reached between the two parties. Each would be permitted two 'surprises' that would play out over the first four days and that particular situation was one of ours. Yes, chap at the front." He indicated a bright faced blond young man who sat eagerly before him.
"Tintin, Le Vingtième Siècle. What impact are the interdiction strikes on the supply zone in Belgium and Netherlands having on the fighting efficiency of the BAOR?"
"Clever question. There has been a certain diminution of our logistical flow, causing us to focus a greater proportion of our air defence assets and air superiority fighters to defend against them. This is once again something of a contrivance for the exercise, as in a real combat situation, there would be appropriate coverage from Fighter Command over the areas in question. We've just got time for a few more. Young lady there on the side."
"Sarah Jane Smith, Punch." She was an earnest young woman with flowing brown hair and a look that said she had seen a few things along the road. "What was our other surprise and have we seen the other German wild card yet?”
Cowley smiled. “In the first case, we’ll find out over the next 72 hours and in the latter circumstance, who knows? Last question now for the morning and then I’ll hand you back over to Captain Fawlty.”
Tom’s hand shot up and Cowley seemed to shift his attention straight at him, but that would have been too lucky. “Yes, fellow in the third row.”
“Roger Sanderson The Economist. Do you have any information on the simulated casualty levels as of this time?”
“Whilst specific figures are not yet available, the general ratio has been at approximately 2:1. Thank you, lady and gentlemen. There will be a further briefing at 1600. In the interim, there will be specific detachments to field forces and staff units as appropriate. Now, Captain Fawlty will outline the groups for today’s activities.”
A firm hand fell upon Tom’s shoulder. It was a pair of nondescript staff officers who stared blandly him straight in the eye.
“Fowler? It’s time. Come along with us please.”
.........................................................................
The Bulldog came to a smooth landing that belied their rather rough approach. The lightening greyness was increasingly covered by an almost unnatural fog that made for a rather hairy flying experience only slightly ameliorated by Timeloberg Headquarters really didn’t seem like anything to shake a stick at, most of the hill being covered by a thick forest interspersed with a few clearings, one of which provided the carefully camouflaged landing ground. Through the shadows of the trees, he could just about see the outlines of darting figures in the predawn greyness. The guard force, presumably.
His escorting officers jumped down onto the wet grass and lead Tom on the jog into the trees through the foggy dew to what appeared to be a door in a large oak tree. Upon entering, he went down a winding flight of stairs and along a twisting passageway to a stark concrete chamber, all the while being struck by the claustrophobic nature of the entrance. From here, an elevator shaft went down deep into the earth, well past the point where he could reasonably estimate their depth; it seemed to be several hundred feet by the time of their journey, which also involved several strange sensations akin to electrical shocks that he presumed were the protective spells. Once they had completed the trip down, Tom was ushered through several rooms that already buzzed with activity, barely dodging the continual flow of men who rushed back and forth, into a cavernous room.
In the centre of the room was a large sand table representing the German front and about it were various terminals and analytical engines busily operated by uniformed female computers feeding in data through electronic typewriters. Clocks, crystal screens and large television sets constantly running with relayed battle footage in turn surrounded these. However, the most notable feature of the chamber the massive animated wall that dominated one whole side of the room, displaying Germany and Central Europe in intricate detail, from the ships of the naval task forces in the North Sea to the flashing blue, yellow, red and green aircraft images that represented each fighter squadron in the air or on the ground. This then was the famous Big Board of the War Room and it matched the stories that Tom had overheard over the years.
One of his escorts broke away to approach a gaggle of senior officers, speaking quietly to a tall man with sandy hair in a khaki pullover and battledress. He turned around to face Tom, fixing him with an inquisitive stare from bright blue eyes and a slightly wry grin slightly twisted by the deep scar on his right cheek breaking out across his tanned, lean face. This could mean only one thing - he was in the presence of the highest ranking British Army officer on the Continent - Field Marshal Sir Richard Sharpe, V.C., Commander-in-Chief of the Northern Allied Army Group and of the British Army of the Rhine.
"You're Fowler? Right, you've come at a lucky time, lad. Come on through to the office and you can ask your questions."
.................................................................................................................................
Tom Fowler sat back against the wall and appreciated the relative darkness and dinginess of this particular Hanoverian pub, bierkeller or whatever the locals termed it. Warhammer had come to a conclusion yesterday afternoon and, by the sound of some of the British and German soldiers across the other side of the room, the 'debriefing' would go on for a while yet for those lucky enough to get a spot of leave. He gathered that some of them were one time foes, not just from the last fortnight, but from the last war as well. That seemed to have gone by the by, with both the strong, dark local beer and the comradeship of defending against a common foe now creating a bond between fighting men, between free men and between men who both wanted a better tomorrow.
The result?
A diplomatically convenient draw, with the Silver Force pulling back from the double envelopment of the British armour and establishing a firm line that held through until the end of the exercise. Despite some bally difficult bottlenecks, the flow of supplies from Blighty to the battlefront had been kept up on land, sea and air. The Royal Navy had did their bit well and also made their most of their brief moment in the sun with a series of carrier air strikes in the final days of the exercise that stopped Jerry cold. The boys in blue had played a blinder as well, at least as far as their own propaganda put it; if they'd truly won the air battle, then he rather thought that they would have had more impact in putting the blitz on the Fritz. Both the British and German armies, along with all the supporting troops from dozens of other nations, had played their parts well and given as much as they had taken.
If Tom's old housemaster had been doing the write-up, he would have used that old chestnut of 'all boys played well'. Everything seemed to have gone fine and dandy. His articles had been extremely well received back home by the editor and the feeling of cold, hard cash was an extremely gratifying one; his little interview in particular had lead to some interested noises from a few other newspapers and journals, which would hardly go astray.
"Room for one more?" A friendly and by now familiar voice asked from off to his side.
"Certainly. Have a seat, Simon."
"Thanks muchly, old bean. Fancy running into you here!"
"Oh, I wouldn't quite think it was that much of an accident or coincidence, Mr. Bailey, if that is your real name."
"It is, actually. Makes for a more effective way of doing things, you see."
"I see. Well, how do we go about this? Is there some sort of test? A written exam? An interview with mime?"
"The last few weeks have been the first stage of your test, in a way, Tom. Some of the other bits and pieces will come later if you want to take the next step."
"I never really thought of running away and joining the Circus before."
"And you won't be, my dear fellow. Different firm, you see." Bailey reached over and turned Tom's fruit knife upside down.
Ah.
"Interesting. Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes."
"Wonderful. There is a job we've got on the horizon, you see, something of the far horizon. We think you'd fill the right space for us."
"What next?"
Bailey passed him a card. "Memorise that. Done? Excellent." He then pulled out a box of matches and burnt the card in the ashtray. "Come there on Monday. If everything goes right, then we'll let you know what happens next."
"Everything? More tests? A doctor's examination?"
"Well, the Doctor could stick his head in, yes."
"Super. I hope the job is interesting."
"Oh, you'll love it. It's really out of this world."
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Warhammer Lessons Learned:
Exercise Warhammer was the largest British Army exercise since the war. It showed a number of areas where our tactics, equipment, preparations and general strategy were efficient and highlighted a number of areas of need for improvement.
The central problem explored in Warhammer was the defence of the British sector of the front along the Oder-Neisse Line, better known as the Iron Wall. At present, this comprises 50 of the 470 total miles of the border, located in West Pomerania and Mecklenburg. To its north, the Benelux sector along the coast covers 25 miles inland and to the south are the sectors held by the German 1st and 2nd Field Armies. Two corps (each with two forward divisions and one reserve division, providing for a divisional frontage of 12 miles) are to deploy along the front, supported by one corps each in immediate reserve and a further corps held in reserve in the rear. The first 15 miles is designated the covering force area, followed by the 60 mile thick main battle area and the 50 miles of the rear battle area; beyond this lies the rear support zone in Hanover and the LOC/supply zone in the Low Countries. The force concentration deployed is seen as sufficient to prevent being overrun by superior enemy numbers, but short of strategic reserves for a decisive counterattack; this was the role played in part by the Guards Division in Warhammer.
The main type of operations trained and prepared for are quite naturally heavy armoured warfare. The Chieftain was the best tank in the world five years ago but new Soviet developments threaten to change that status. Additionally, the tanks of our allies have caught up and we can no longer rest on our laurels. To this end, we need upgraded faster tanks with improved fire control and new ammunition. Increased armoured regimental strength is but part of the overall solution.
To screen the border and forward area of the battle zone, we used lighter armour based around the armoured reconnaissance forces from each corps. It is recommended that this capacity be doubled and supported by reserve units so that it is not eliminated in the early stage of any engagement.
Infantry cannot fight from the Saxon to their full capacity. The gun cannot counter an MBT and it is lightly protected. The MICV is needed to restore a heavier edge to the infantry and give them greater firepower. Extra ‘leg infantry’ worked very well. There can never really be enough of it, particularly when properly armed and mobile. It permits defence in depth and proper rear area security. With the exception of screening forces and units attached to the heavier divisions, no higher echelon infantry forces should be fielded.
More reserve forces will allow for flexibility and immediate reinforcement of beleaguered units. This should take the form of combined arms regiments and brigades at a minimum and preferably be based on integrated battle groups for defence and armour heavy task forces for offence.It is envisaged that this force would be that which is deployed by sea from the British Isles and assigned to BAOR level command so that it could be used as necessary. This central reserve would be the equivalent of 20-24 battalion sized units.
The utilisation of modernised cavalry for rear area security saw mixed results. Ultimately, there were limited locations in Northern Germany where motorised forces could not operate or patrol. No significant advantage in capabilities was derived from mounted forces, nor was there any clear benefit derived from forces being deployed to other roles. Given the particular nature of the geography of Mecklenburg, there are certain constraints on the use of mechanised and motorised forces, but the postulated solution of cavalry does not appear to have been a panacea.
Divisional artillery should be concentrated on the 6” heavier weapons for weight of fire and impact. The 125mm Light Gun worked well and has a role to play. Field artillery units routinely conducted fire missions at a range of 25 miles and beyond, whilst heavier guns and rockets achieved ranges more than double that. Improvements in engagement of enemy armour at long range would add to the capacity of artillery units. Finally, the introduction of improved conventional munitions should be prioritised.
The entire scenario and indeed British strategy is built on the capacity to reinforce over time, requiring strategic warning. Without that, we would be fighting with I and II Corps and the Canadians for a difficult period of up to 5 days whilst the remaining two corps and round out units are deployed. It is considered that the minimum warning would be 48-72 hours using Soviet and Warsaw Pact forces already across the Elbe in Poland, but that is not viewed as likely. Therefore, there would be some capacity to reinforce, but potentially not enough.
The key bottlenecks that constrain our deployment are the ports of the Low Countries and the bridges over the Rhine. These represent the key nodes in the flow of troops and supplies and require greater defence. This particularly takes the form of air defences, but also ground troops to cover the threat of enemy commando and special forces attacks. Use of French Channel ports as well as Dutch and Belgian ones would be advantageous. Existing logistical stockpiles of fuel, oil and lubricants, missiles, ammunition and medical supplies in Germany and Europe should be tripled at a minimum. There is a need for the prepositioning of divisional unit sets in Germany that can be rapidly combined with troops flown in from Britain. If equipment for 4-6 heavy divisions could be preplaced, then the logistical bottleneck in the Low Countries could be eased.
Construction of further air bases in Western Germany would allow for the flow of reinforcements and materiel whilst not impeding the operations of RAF Germany tactical aircraft nor those of German and other Allied air forces. These would need to be positioned and coordinated with the road and rail supply network. Development of satellite airfields for the dispersal of RAF Germany fighters is also recommended to complicate enemy targeting requirements. These would need to camouflaged and disguised appropriately. They would be in addition with the use of small airfields and general aviation facilities.
The Harrier performed extremely effectively both in terms of general close air support and the circumstance of their forward operating bases in the field. Losses were not as high as anticipated, but this would be different against an enemy with different air defence capabilities and strategies. It is recommended that additional planes be assigned to RAF Germany and that [REDACTED].
Close air support demonstrated the ability to counter tactical disadvantage in numbers on the ground and provide flexible firepower beyond the range of most conventional artillery. The experimental employment of armed helicopters equipped with autocannon, air to ground rockets and anti-tank guided missiles was judged as a general success; extended range weapons, electronic jamming and other defensive measures are judged as vital to allow operations against light AAA and SAGWs.
RMF Germany is currently envisaged as a covering force for the juncture between the Benelux Army in Pomerania and Allied Forces in Schleswig-Holstein. It’s use as a mobile offensive force as in Warhammer is not considered a likely contingency, but the mobility of RMFG is considered necessary to respond to Warsaw Pact amphibious and airborne threats. In order to break open the Baltic, the enemy must neutralise Southern Sweden and Pomerania and then seize Jutland; the presence of the Royal Marines considerably complicates this task.
Canadian troops did not take part in Warhammer, yet provide the largest Commonwealth contingent of the BAOR. It is recommended that they be fully integrated into future exercises, regardless of the perceived political cost and potential for Soviet misinterpretation. Brigade sized forces for other Commonwealth armies acquitted themselves admirably but ultimately provide only a token commitment that lies beyond their ideal operational area. It is understood that this is a political matter, but a token force does not present more than a minor gain in capacity at this time.
There was not a huge opportunity for fighting in built up areas during Warhammer, but Northern Germany remains an area of some civil density in the form of villages, towns and moderate-sized cities. Additional infantry forces and appropriate equipment should be allotted to the BAOR for such operations, but the provision of entire light-medium infantry divisions is not seen as necessary. It is further not thought of as advisable to deploy airborne or air assault forces in large numbers in Northern Germany due to the heavily mechanised nature of the enemy and our own forces.
Exercise Warhammer was the largest British Army exercise since the war. It showed a number of areas where our tactics, equipment, preparations and general strategy were efficient and highlighted a number of areas of need for improvement.
The central problem explored in Warhammer was the defence of the British sector of the front along the Oder-Neisse Line, better known as the Iron Wall. At present, this comprises 50 of the 470 total miles of the border, located in West Pomerania and Mecklenburg. To its north, the Benelux sector along the coast covers 25 miles inland and to the south are the sectors held by the German 1st and 2nd Field Armies. Two corps (each with two forward divisions and one reserve division, providing for a divisional frontage of 12 miles) are to deploy along the front, supported by one corps each in immediate reserve and a further corps held in reserve in the rear. The first 15 miles is designated the covering force area, followed by the 60 mile thick main battle area and the 50 miles of the rear battle area; beyond this lies the rear support zone in Hanover and the LOC/supply zone in the Low Countries. The force concentration deployed is seen as sufficient to prevent being overrun by superior enemy numbers, but short of strategic reserves for a decisive counterattack; this was the role played in part by the Guards Division in Warhammer.
The main type of operations trained and prepared for are quite naturally heavy armoured warfare. The Chieftain was the best tank in the world five years ago but new Soviet developments threaten to change that status. Additionally, the tanks of our allies have caught up and we can no longer rest on our laurels. To this end, we need upgraded faster tanks with improved fire control and new ammunition. Increased armoured regimental strength is but part of the overall solution.
To screen the border and forward area of the battle zone, we used lighter armour based around the armoured reconnaissance forces from each corps. It is recommended that this capacity be doubled and supported by reserve units so that it is not eliminated in the early stage of any engagement.
Infantry cannot fight from the Saxon to their full capacity. The gun cannot counter an MBT and it is lightly protected. The MICV is needed to restore a heavier edge to the infantry and give them greater firepower. Extra ‘leg infantry’ worked very well. There can never really be enough of it, particularly when properly armed and mobile. It permits defence in depth and proper rear area security. With the exception of screening forces and units attached to the heavier divisions, no higher echelon infantry forces should be fielded.
More reserve forces will allow for flexibility and immediate reinforcement of beleaguered units. This should take the form of combined arms regiments and brigades at a minimum and preferably be based on integrated battle groups for defence and armour heavy task forces for offence.It is envisaged that this force would be that which is deployed by sea from the British Isles and assigned to BAOR level command so that it could be used as necessary. This central reserve would be the equivalent of 20-24 battalion sized units.
The utilisation of modernised cavalry for rear area security saw mixed results. Ultimately, there were limited locations in Northern Germany where motorised forces could not operate or patrol. No significant advantage in capabilities was derived from mounted forces, nor was there any clear benefit derived from forces being deployed to other roles. Given the particular nature of the geography of Mecklenburg, there are certain constraints on the use of mechanised and motorised forces, but the postulated solution of cavalry does not appear to have been a panacea.
Divisional artillery should be concentrated on the 6” heavier weapons for weight of fire and impact. The 125mm Light Gun worked well and has a role to play. Field artillery units routinely conducted fire missions at a range of 25 miles and beyond, whilst heavier guns and rockets achieved ranges more than double that. Improvements in engagement of enemy armour at long range would add to the capacity of artillery units. Finally, the introduction of improved conventional munitions should be prioritised.
The entire scenario and indeed British strategy is built on the capacity to reinforce over time, requiring strategic warning. Without that, we would be fighting with I and II Corps and the Canadians for a difficult period of up to 5 days whilst the remaining two corps and round out units are deployed. It is considered that the minimum warning would be 48-72 hours using Soviet and Warsaw Pact forces already across the Elbe in Poland, but that is not viewed as likely. Therefore, there would be some capacity to reinforce, but potentially not enough.
The key bottlenecks that constrain our deployment are the ports of the Low Countries and the bridges over the Rhine. These represent the key nodes in the flow of troops and supplies and require greater defence. This particularly takes the form of air defences, but also ground troops to cover the threat of enemy commando and special forces attacks. Use of French Channel ports as well as Dutch and Belgian ones would be advantageous. Existing logistical stockpiles of fuel, oil and lubricants, missiles, ammunition and medical supplies in Germany and Europe should be tripled at a minimum. There is a need for the prepositioning of divisional unit sets in Germany that can be rapidly combined with troops flown in from Britain. If equipment for 4-6 heavy divisions could be preplaced, then the logistical bottleneck in the Low Countries could be eased.
Construction of further air bases in Western Germany would allow for the flow of reinforcements and materiel whilst not impeding the operations of RAF Germany tactical aircraft nor those of German and other Allied air forces. These would need to be positioned and coordinated with the road and rail supply network. Development of satellite airfields for the dispersal of RAF Germany fighters is also recommended to complicate enemy targeting requirements. These would need to camouflaged and disguised appropriately. They would be in addition with the use of small airfields and general aviation facilities.
The Harrier performed extremely effectively both in terms of general close air support and the circumstance of their forward operating bases in the field. Losses were not as high as anticipated, but this would be different against an enemy with different air defence capabilities and strategies. It is recommended that additional planes be assigned to RAF Germany and that [REDACTED].
Close air support demonstrated the ability to counter tactical disadvantage in numbers on the ground and provide flexible firepower beyond the range of most conventional artillery. The experimental employment of armed helicopters equipped with autocannon, air to ground rockets and anti-tank guided missiles was judged as a general success; extended range weapons, electronic jamming and other defensive measures are judged as vital to allow operations against light AAA and SAGWs.
RMF Germany is currently envisaged as a covering force for the juncture between the Benelux Army in Pomerania and Allied Forces in Schleswig-Holstein. It’s use as a mobile offensive force as in Warhammer is not considered a likely contingency, but the mobility of RMFG is considered necessary to respond to Warsaw Pact amphibious and airborne threats. In order to break open the Baltic, the enemy must neutralise Southern Sweden and Pomerania and then seize Jutland; the presence of the Royal Marines considerably complicates this task.
Canadian troops did not take part in Warhammer, yet provide the largest Commonwealth contingent of the BAOR. It is recommended that they be fully integrated into future exercises, regardless of the perceived political cost and potential for Soviet misinterpretation. Brigade sized forces for other Commonwealth armies acquitted themselves admirably but ultimately provide only a token commitment that lies beyond their ideal operational area. It is understood that this is a political matter, but a token force does not present more than a minor gain in capacity at this time.
There was not a huge opportunity for fighting in built up areas during Warhammer, but Northern Germany remains an area of some civil density in the form of villages, towns and moderate-sized cities. Additional infantry forces and appropriate equipment should be allotted to the BAOR for such operations, but the provision of entire light-medium infantry divisions is not seen as necessary. It is further not thought of as advisable to deploy airborne or air assault forces in large numbers in Northern Germany due to the heavily mechanised nature of the enemy and our own forces.
-
Belushi TD
- Posts: 852
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 11:20 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
I have always wondered what the reversed butter knife meant.
I enjoyed this when it first came out, but I was always a little bit confused. Being able to read them in succession without gaps of other comments and gaps between posts made it hard to follow at times.
However, as always, a smashing good yarn.
What, praytell, does bally mean?
Belushi TD
I enjoyed this when it first came out, but I was always a little bit confused. Being able to read them in succession without gaps of other comments and gaps between posts made it hard to follow at times.
However, as always, a smashing good yarn.
What, praytell, does bally mean?
Belushi TD
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Belushi,
The reversed knife is an indication of the emblem of Special Operations Executive:
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of ... cutive.png
The loss of the comments and explanations is definitely a detriment to contextualising the story, but needs must when the vagaries of internet back ups come into play.
‘Bally’ is a British minced oath that stands in for ‘bloody’. It was more common in the first few decades of the 20th century, so it’s employment in 1963 is a sign of a different language/idiolect and culture.
Simon
The reversed knife is an indication of the emblem of Special Operations Executive:
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of ... cutive.png
The loss of the comments and explanations is definitely a detriment to contextualising the story, but needs must when the vagaries of internet back ups come into play.
‘Bally’ is a British minced oath that stands in for ‘bloody’. It was more common in the first few decades of the 20th century, so it’s employment in 1963 is a sign of a different language/idiolect and culture.
Simon
-
Belushi TD
- Posts: 852
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 11:20 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Looking back at my comment, it appears that I managed to word it poorly enough that my meaning was reversed.
I actually found it far easier to follow this story when all the parts were posted one after another than when it was posted the first time. As I recall, each part was posted several days to a couple weeks apart, and there were lots of other stories posted between, because this one was old enough that it predates Stuart giving you your own section in the old board.
So, I like it much better this time than I did last time. Don't get me wrong, I still liked it last time, but this time was better.
Belushi TD
I actually found it far easier to follow this story when all the parts were posted one after another than when it was posted the first time. As I recall, each part was posted several days to a couple weeks apart, and there were lots of other stories posted between, because this one was old enough that it predates Stuart giving you your own section in the old board.
So, I like it much better this time than I did last time. Don't get me wrong, I still liked it last time, but this time was better.
Belushi TD
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
In that case, I’m glad you were able to enjoy it more clearly and to the extent of being moved to comment on it.
Warhammer is based on the historical Exercise Lionheart of 1984 and provides (hopefully) a nice little snapshot of the mid 1960s British Armed Forces.
I do have a planned exercise in 1972 that will be as large as Lionheart, but incorporating some different elements from the 1964-1972 rearmament period, but am slightly iffy on whether to do a narrative story or a newspaper article. I’m leaning towards the latter as it is a good means of trying some different styles and formats without revisiting too much old ground. I don’t want to start that one before I finish Return to Charlotteville, but between sleep and work, I have scant hours for writing!
Warhammer is based on the historical Exercise Lionheart of 1984 and provides (hopefully) a nice little snapshot of the mid 1960s British Armed Forces.
I do have a planned exercise in 1972 that will be as large as Lionheart, but incorporating some different elements from the 1964-1972 rearmament period, but am slightly iffy on whether to do a narrative story or a newspaper article. I’m leaning towards the latter as it is a good means of trying some different styles and formats without revisiting too much old ground. I don’t want to start that one before I finish Return to Charlotteville, but between sleep and work, I have scant hours for writing!
-
Belushi TD
- Posts: 852
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 11:20 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
It is truly the curse of the writer who has not made it to the big time that the job that keeps body and soul together frequently prevents them from pursuing their passion.
Belushi TD
Belushi TD
-
Bernard Woolley
- Posts: 693
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 4:06 pm
- Location: Earth
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Yeah, boo to work and needing money! When is the post-scarcity society coming? 
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Exercise Warhammer
Probably just after it would apply to us, based on the way things go. But needs must.