Against all Odds: The British Empire in World War Two

SotV He's not supposed to come across as some sort of Saturday morning cartoon villain, so some things will eventually go his way. Mind you, I think the end I have planned for him is sufficiently amusing. For us. For him, not so much.

KiMaSa As much as I like the -1701s third officer and Chief Engineer, his Scots accent was horrible. I can say that after having watched lots of British telly.

stevep Funnily enough, I don't know myself yet. What I plan to do is to position the likely candidates for the assault on the Government district and then let the story write itself.

JudgeKing Thanks for that pic. The next chapter of AAO is about a third done, but Nerve of War is on hiatus until I have the time to spare to re-write it in it's entirety.

Kurt_Steiner&JudgeKing The usual Nazi response to this doesn't really work here. They were in the arse-end of nowhere and on German territory to boot.

True enough on both. Except that maybe Doohan's Scots accent is probably not the 'stereotypical' Highlands one.

El Pip said:

I fear they will be disappointed, still you can't hit the jackpot every time. Hopefully he can avoid blowing too many things up too soon, if not people might use that to get paperclip cancelled, which would be a shame as it's probably bringing back lots of other, actually useful, people and equipment.

Plus it is infuriating Heydrich and for that alone it's probably well worth it.

Click to expand...

All true, in all fairness I think that with some guidance and components that are actually built to spec he might have fewer explosions.

Chapter 374​

13th July 1943

The ex-BOAC Dakota had landed at Bruntingthorpe, from where a small Dh.95, escorted by a pair of brand-new Hawker Tempets, took the group to Croydon. By the time the small twin-engine ex-postal plane circled over London to the approach lane it was light, and Sergey Korolev got his first good look at the city. The plane was much too loud to say anything, but it was by far the largest city he had ever seen.

"So, this is the lair of the beast, the beating heart of western Capitalism and Imperialism." he said as they exited the plane and began to walk towards a set of pre-war limousines that awaited them.

"Great, isn't it?" Ian said, happier than anyone present had seen him in months, and for obvious reasons. He may not see them for some time, but just being within twenty miles of his wife and son brightened his mood. "Probably the largest city outside of India, and one that I can never tire of seeing." He had spent most of his early life outside Greater London, but with the Navy and the War he had become a Londoner down to his core. "Also, before the war, home to the best cup of tea west of Suez."

"Oh come on Ian. You only said that because my Sister, who, as I may remind you is your wife as well, has you wrapped around her little finger since the day the two of you met."

"Ah, that, Commander, is only partly true." Ian replied and wiggled his left index finger, "It took at least a month or two."

Both men laughed, and Korolev was amazed. In the Soviet military this sort of familiarity between officers of different rank, even those related by marriage as these two was rare at best, and certainly not something he would have associated with anyone on the 'aristocratic' British officer corps. Oh he didn't doubt that there were always people who fitted the stereotype, as human nature was the same the world over, but from what he'd seen in the week since they had left the unit behind there was far less to the stereotype than he would have expected. And the two of them were living proof of that. Fleming could have fitted the propaganda picture, but Leiter most certainly didn't. He was an American refugee if Korolev was any judge even though they hadn't really shared much personal information, and thus couldn't come from the aristocratic exploiter classes that supposedly ran the British Empire solely for their own benefit.

The Soviet attitude towards the Americans in America and elsewhere was a complicated one. The two countries were not at war, but the ideological break of the 1930s ensured that they would never be allies either even though they were both at war with Japan. There wasn't even an official American Embassy in Moscow, only a Charge d'affairs at the old US Embassy building.

With the expatriates it was even more complicated. They hated any Communist state with a white hot fury. In places where they were fighting against the same enemy as the Soviet Union, namely in the Philippines they were ignored as that would have forced Moscow to admit that the Philippine's "Revolutionary struggle" was nothing of the sort as keeping the UAPR out came second only to killing every Japanese soldier they could find.

For those in British uniforms the situation was relatively straight-forward. Soviet propaganda had labelled them as class traitors, neatly ignoring that Washington had proclaimed the Soviet Union to be the same for their alliance with the Germans.

This was a relatively new approach, as previous Soviet attempts to woo the ex pats to their cause had failed so spectacularly that the people 'responsible' for the policy and who most certainly could in no way actually be Stalin had vanished without a trace.

Korolev knew much of this only from third hand or had deduced it from the little bits of truth one could read between the Pravda's lies, but the comfortable way the 'classic' British officer had accepted them to the point of marrying one sure proved his theories to be true. What was it that British detective had once said? "If one eliminates the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

By the time his attention returned to the real world they had reached the cars and were in the process of getting in. Korolev had surprisingly little luggage, only a few changes of clothes, all of which had already been used, and of course his plans. He didn't know if those would be of any value to the British, but there were the best bargaining tool he had, so he hadn't let them out of his sight.

The inside of the cars was plush, something fit for some big party stooge but his travelling companions seemed to be perfectly at ease. They had all used the time in transit to polish their skills in the other's language wherever they could, but airplanes were loud things, and they all enjoyed the relative silence.

The plan was to go directly to the same safe house where they had interrog... debriefed Admiral Canaris. Going through London could mean traffic delays even in wartime, but not at this time of day, and Ian had felt that it would serve to dispel Korolev's last doubt. Nothing like Nelson's column for that.

For Korolev the drive was interesting, to say the least. Compared to Moscow, London was something else entirely.

The Russian capital had seen massive re-construction during and after the Civil War, with wide avenues and representative roads, while London still sported the crooked, medieval streets that were so obviously not meant for cars. Even in it's slightly dishevelled, wartime state the city oozed a sense of tradition that post-tsarist Moscow completely lacked.

As they left the last buildings of the city behind, Korolev had resolved to one day come back and explore this city to it's fullest.




Stonor House was damn near palatial to him too. He didn't know that the SIS only used it because they knew that being comfortable was known to loosen tongues. As they passed the main checkpoint he could see that it was exactly how he would have imagined an English mansion, right down to the immaculate grounds and the expansive building itself. What spoilt the picture to him were the wireless antennae hidden behind the house and the armed guards patrolling the inner side of the wall that ran around the property, with, he was sure, even more that he couldn't see.

The cars pulled up to the main entrance where Korolev and the others were greeted by a an Army Lieutenant-Colonel who handed Ian a clip-board. Ian and Felix both signed in for a second time and handed over their service pistols.

It was only then that the Lieutenant-Colonel spoke. "I am Lieutenant-Colonel Gallager, Scot's Guards and the military commander of this facility. Sirs, the Admiral has decided that we will have a light luncheon first before we begin, so if you will follow me, please?"


The 'luncheon' turned out to be slightly above standard wartime fare but it was still better and more plentiful food than either the lone Ukrainian at the table or his two British minders had had for the last two weeks, so they ate heartily. At some point during the meal a door opened and in walked... M. Neither Ian nor Felix rose to attention, they knew the Admiral well enough for that, even before M motioned for them to remain as they were and exchanging introductions. He joined them at the table, but didn't eat, he merely poured himself a glass of a pre-war brandy and passed around a packet of almost priceless import cigarettes. Obviously no expenses were spared.

Ian, ever mindful of Sandra's wrath declined, as did Felix, but Korolev didn't, so soon there was a slight haze of smoke in the air, as the men exchanged small talk for a few minutes. But strangely he didn't really say much either except to suggest to them that they had better rest.

So the group re-convened the next morning in the same room in which Canaris had been questioned. Ever the cordial host, M offered tea before bringing the hammer down.


"Now Mr. Korolev, why are you here?" It didn't really surprise Ian that M spoke perfect Muscovite Russian.

Korolev recognized the question for what it was and outlined the story of his defection up until the point where he had met Ian and Felix.

"Believe me, Gospodin Admiral," he said after about five minutes, "when my NKVD 'protectors' started falling around me with bullets in their heads I did expect to be next."

"And Gogol was unknown to you until then?"

Korolev nodded. "Yes. There were rumours... no, there are always rumours that the NKVD and the GRU hate each other. It's one of the USSR's worst-kept secrets. Still not something many talk about, because officially there is no dissent possible between the organs of the state."

"I see." M lit himself a cigarette and made a few notes. "So what you're saying is that the GRU's assistance for you is a power-play between them and the NKVD?"

"I think this likely, yes. You must understand, Gospodin Admiral, that my knowledge of those things is limited by who I am and what Gogol told me."

"Quite." M agreed, "But at the same time, we have little intelligence on those things, and anything you can tell us might be of immense importance to us."

Korolev leaned back in his chair and sighed. This was to be expected, but he wished he had payed more attention to the rumblings before he'd fallen out of favour. Again. "I'm deeply sorry, but you've already heard most of what I know about those things. However... I was getting the impression that Gogol's feeling about the NKVD might not be shared by all of his superiors. Some of them... well, they might have a more intimate connection, shall we say. Yet at the same time I wouldn't be surprised if some of that was fostered by Stalin himself."

"Moles? And I take it the idea is that as long as they plot against each other, they can't plot against him?" Ian asked.

"Likely. The way Stalin is, more than that. Almost certainly."

M filed that away under "might be useful, investigate later" and decided to switch to a topic Korolev knew more about.

"And the Soviet rocket programme?"

"I don't really know how far advanced yours is, but I suspect we are some ways behind you. Aside from myself, Glushko and our assistants the programme consisted only of about a dozen people, far smaller than anything you or the Germans have. Stalin doesn't really trust scientists so he keeps all of us at a very short leash. We still managed a reasonably good copy of your rocket lorries though. Last thing I heard before being flown to Germany is that a factory, probably near Chelyabinsk is gearing up to produce them."

"The Army will certainly be grateful for this piece of intelligence. But what about larger projects?"

"Not quite as advanced as the Germans or, probably, you. The largest rocket we tested before I left was about two-thirds the size the German A-4 project has. We were concentrating on... well, you could call it a large Artillery rocket. Stalin wanted a weapon that could attack England from France without having to risk planes."

The British exchanged a few significant looks.

"Perhaps..." M paused and checked his wristwatch, "Perhaps it's best for us to wait for someone else. He knows more about our own rocketry programme than anyone else."

It didn't take long for the additional person to appear. He seemed to be the caricature of the absent-minded professor, down to the thin glasses and the unkempt hair.

"Gentlemen, this is Professor Beckwit-Smith, the scientific head of our Rocket Programme." M said, switching the conversation to English.

"Gentlemen, Gentlemen, nice to... nice to see you." Beckwit-Smith sat down without invitation and glanced around the table. He picked Korolev for the fellow Scientist and Engineer instantly. "This is a most marvellous opportunity, most marvellous indeed. We have little information on the Soviet Rocket Programme, far less than on the German one and we would love to..."

M held up a hand to interrupt the rambling Professor.

"Mr. Beckwit-Smith, the two of you will have ample opportunity to discuss things. As for you, Captain Fleming and Commander Leiter, your duties are done, and the two of you are officially for a week as of tomorrow before you fly back. Before you protest, you earned it, and I am sure you know something to do with that time?"





The bakery was busy in spite of rationing, and Sandra was so busy checking ration books that she barely heard the door chime as someone came in. She was thankful that the line hadn't extended out the door today, but it was bad enough, especially around Christmas. But then she looked up. The two newcomer's faces were invisible, but the two men wore RN No.2s and the rank insignia...


She abandoned Mrs. Huffington's ration book where it was and ran out from behind the counter, yelling: "IAN!"

"Hello, my love." "Hey, sister."

Most customers had relatives of their own away at the war, so Mrs. Huffington didn't mind to wait a while. Not that Ian or Sandra remembered that anyone else was in the room. "I love you." Ian said and kissed his wife for the first time in far too long. "Same to you, Ian."

Sandra hugged them both for almost five minutes before remembering the lone remaining customer.

"Oh, Mrs. Huffington, I'm so..."

"Never mind that, dear." the old woman replied, "I was the same when my husband came home on leave from Flanders."

It took another precious two minutes to complement the woman out the door. Sandra ignored the business hours posted on it, swapped the sign to 'closed' and locked the door. She turned on her heels and launched herself at her husband.

"I've missed you, Ian." She kissed him again and he hugged her close.

Felix had retreated to leave them some space and was leaning against the counter. He watched the display in front of him with a wry smile that had only a hint of resignation. Somehow his sister managed to turn Ian, who was as steady and ruthless under fire as anyone he'd seen, into a mushy heap of.. well, husband. As the two of them got reacquainted, Felix continued to watch and couldn't help the images that came before his inner eye. Everything was the same, except he was the one holding...her? He shook it away. That was obviously never going to happen.

He returned to reality and realized that his sister had been speaking to him. She had turned in Ian's arms and asked, again: "I was saying, for how long are you here?"

Felix shook his head, angry at his own stupid fantasies. "A week, Sis, before we have to go back."

Her face made it obvious that she had hoped for longer, but in the middle of a war that didn't look like it was going to end any time soon she would damn well take anything she could get. She would take advantage of this gift.

Ian obviously thought the same as he kissed the top of her head. "So, how's my son?"

Sandra laughed. "At the park with his grandparents. They're doing their level best to spoil him rotten, but I think he deserves at least some of it. I must say, he definitely inherited your sense of humour."

Laughing at that and at the same time feeling a pang that he was missing so much, Ian replied: "Oh dear, I do have to worry then if he is anything like I was at that age."

"Well, that would certainly explain a lot." Sandra said and gave him a slap on the arm, right where the bullet had grazed his arm. It had been a week, and Ian always healed quickly, but he had to have felt that. Still, he didn't show and instead grinned. "Base libel, I tell you. I expected more of you, dear wife of mine."

Not waiting for an answer he rubbed her arms and said: "Now, is there a place somewhere where a man can change out of this uniform? I feel like some civilian clothes for a change."






Felix stood to the side and watched how Ian, Sandra and Sean got reacquainted with each other, and he was happy that his nephew seemed to accept the half-stranger his mother said was daddy. Ian hadn't said anything, but Felix knew him well enough to be able to tell that it had been his greatest fear. Not getting a 'Dear John' letter, or getting killed, but that his own son rejected him. He knew that but for the war, Ian would have left the Navy the moment he knew Sean was on the way, and it pained him to be forced to watch his best friend and brother in all but name being torn between his duty as a Queen's Officer and as a father. 'At least it ensures that he will do his best to end this war as fast as possible.' Felix thought.

"You understand, don't you?" his father said. Jonathan Leiter had served with the U.S. Cavalry for years, and he'd had his own fair share of absences from home.

"No dad, not completely. It might be different if I had kids of my own, but I can only guess how hard it's for Ian. It doesn't help that he's trying his best not to show it to me either."

Jonathan glanced at his son and marvelled at how he had changed. He had been a bit spoilt as a child, but after Annapolis and after everything had gone to hell in the old country he had been forced to fend for himself for long, and years and years of war and god only knew what work he did for the Navy had hardened Felix in a way that Jonathan had barely thought possible. In some ways he regretted the loss of some of the youthful exuberance that had been so important for his personality, but at the same time he also liked this 'new' Felix who probably had a better understanding for how the 'brave new world' worked than he himself.

When he himself had grown up, the United States of America had been on the ascendant, seemingly destined to overhaul the old Empires of Europe, but now Felix was living his life in a world where the tables had been turned once again.

More than once he'd spent hours trying to figure out where everything had started to go wrong. Was it the attempt at President McKinley's life? Was it the Red Scare in the aftermath of the last war? Was it the disgusting way the elections had been handled in the 1930s?

It didn't really matter in the end, at least to him. What was important was that somewhere along those lines America had turned into what it had once hated the most and that his son had managed to thrive in spite of it. Did he even remember the 4th of July any more?

"What's the matter, Dad?" Felix asked, concern evident.

Jonathan shook his head. "Nothing, son, my mind just wandered some..."

Felix didn't look particularly re-assured, but decided not to say anything more.

"So, is mom back yet?"

"Not so far."

Caroline Leiter was touring the few shops that were still open, blowing a huge chunk of her ration book in order to provide at least one proper meal since, as mothers were wont to, she felt that her son was too thin and needed fattening up.

Not that either Ian or Felix minded, the both of them had missed Caroline's cooking. Even with wartime restriction it had to be better than the Officer's mess at their base.

"How are things down there?"

The question surprised Felix only in it's timing, as his father had to know that the newspapers never told the full story. It wasn't as bad as in Germany or the USSR, but as the Prime Minister had said, in war the truth needed to be guarded by a troop of lies. Or half-truths.

"Depends, dad. I'm not the Field Marshal, but if you ask me, I think the 1943 campaign season is all but over. The poles are plenty angry that Alexander's halted their drive on Warsaw, but they're in a pretty dangerous bulge. We won't take Prague this year either. But by the same token the enemy won't be going anywhere too. We're still relatively deep into Bavaria in most places."

"It's that bad?"

Felix shook his head. "No, but it can be if we go on. I mean look at it, most of our units have been in damn near constant combat for months, and the Army is tired. It's no better for them."

His son didn't say anything more, but he knew that whatever momentum the breakout from below the Alps had generated was gone, and it would not be until 1944 that anything about that could be changed.






tbc

Now obviously, I couldn't let them go to the UK without letting them go home. As for the rockets, I'll put in a detailed factdump update sometime over the course of 1944, but it would have interrupted the flow from where I wanted all this to go. The next update will be a special, the first of several to smooth you over the timeskip.

stevep Britain as a whole is better off TTL, but they don't know how comparatively good they have it as they don't know how it was IOTL. The U-Boats are very much a declining threat (in Germany resources are increasingly directed to the Heer, in the USSR the Red Navy can consider itself lucky when they can put a dozen subs to sea, the RN has more escorts to begin with) and even without the US to do the supplying, in the UK rations are slightly larger than OTL in 1943, thanks to an Allied Merchant Marine that is in much, much better shape and also somewhat larger (impounded ex-US ships, most of the French, Belgian, Dutch Merchant fleets).


As for Felix settling down, I have someone in mind already, but that will have to wait until later in 1944.

Stalin won't come to terms with the British. Hard to explain why without extensive spoilers, but let's just say that in 1944 things will happen that change the internal political situation in the USSR so that Stalin can't afford to be seen as weak, never mind that he will be even more crazy. Besides, unlike the Germans, the Soviets have enough manpower left to all but double the Red Army in size, if they can train them in time that is. The campaign to defeat the Soviets will be a long and difficult one. (Remember Tube Alloys?)


And Stalin blaming others: I've found this to be a common feature in totalitarian systems, besides, this is all part of a greater plan.

Agent Larkin Well, they do need a break from Paperclip, and they deserve a breather, because 1944 will be a chinese-type interesting year for them.


Kurt_Steiner Monty? You mean that second-rater who is holding the North-West Frontier? :laugh:

ViperhawkZ That's partly my fault. I wager that today I could fight the same campaign with far fewer losses. By that time in the game I had something like 23 MP left.... For the purposes of this story I vastly understated the losses I took in the game.

I did indeed invent that name. Mr. Crow on the other hand is pretty much doing his OTL work, after all, someone needs to develop the first-generation guided Air-to-Air Missiles.

Mr. Stevens on the other hand I had no idea existed. Thanks for pointing him out to me, as I will have need for a character like that in the future.


You do realize I was joking about Monty being a second-rater, right? While I admit that he'll never be my favourite British General, I do know he did a good job rebuilding the 8th Army OTL, and I also just happen to believe that the North-West Frontier is more suited to his talents. (Since I wrote those updates I read up more on him and have revised my opinions)

True, but by this time Singapore isn't really threatened (and won't ever be seriously threatened again, the 1945 bit I mentioned a while ago is some ways away yet and not all that dangerous in the grand scheme of things) and the North-West Frontier is exactly his sort of thing.