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    Real Strategy Requires Cunning

trekaddict

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Aug 15, 2008
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Different class if Aircraft, at leats in AAO. ;)
Well, I believe the M4 can also do what the Mosquito is meant to do.

For the heavy strategic bombers there is a need, because unlike OTL, the TSR2 is a conventional tactical bomber. It is nuclear capable, but mainly meant for interdiction, i.e. conventional, low-level attacks against bridges, depots and the like.

Hence the name I chose. :D
like the roles you mention here. Also why don't you named it Mosquito II in honour of its ww2 counterpart?
 

trekaddict

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Well, I believe the M4 can also do what the Mosquito is meant to do.



like the roles you mention here. Also why don't you named it Mosquito II in honour of its ww2 counterpart?
Putting a number behind the name of the plane to honour a previous one is something certain rebellious and upstart colonials do.
 
Aug 15, 2008
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Putting a number behind the name of the plane to honour a previous one is something certain rebellious and upstart colonials do.
haha, I thought I could trick you into doing it. :p
 

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And I have returned to read more of this wonderful AAR. Shame there is no action in Southern Africa.....
 

trekaddict

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And I have returned to read more of this wonderful AAR. Shame there is no action in Southern Africa.....
Well, maybe there will be once the Axis gets desparate enough.
 

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Ok. Casualties have been high, but, isn't a bit excessive to use nuns as part of the workforce?
Then you've clearly never seen a Nun weld. The only person who can out weld an on-form nun is Mr T.
 

Le Jones

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Then you've clearly never seen a Nun weld. The only person who can out weld an on-form nun is Mr T.
What about schoolgirls? Home Ec class turn to welding!
 

trekaddict

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A few days back I went to visit the Dornier museum near Friedrichshafen, and made some, but not too many pictures. Some samples below, the main thing can be found here.



German Army recce-drone


The new Zep
 

Griffin.Gen

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MISSION FINANCE-CHECK!!! :rofl:
Very nice pictures trek, thanks for sharing.
 

unmerged(85800)

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i'd love to see museums like that. i've been to the imperial war museum and the national air and space museum in washington which had a lot of military hardware, but that was a few years ago and i'd love to expand my horizons now my interest is much stronger.
 

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Chapter 151




10th March 1941

06:33 AM

The blackout was in effect all over Germany, even in areas that were supposedly invincible to the expected British bombing raids that had not come yet. The British were concentrating on easy to find, and therefore hit, industrial targets and their Halifax bombers were coming over Germany at best three times a week, although they were increasingly accurate and had the tendency not to fall for the usual deception methods.[1] There was no curfew, but the adolescent teenager in the uniform of the Hitler Youth was still cautious. Britsh Bombers had recently visited the Zeppelin works on the shores of the Bodensee just outside town and he had spent the night as an Auxilliary Air-raid warden He had spent the night with his mates from the Kameradschaft[2], guarding the hall where the deflated LZ-127 and 129 were stored. He was now on his way home as he had handed the police batons back in that had been issued to them when the lads had reported for duty the evening before. It had been boring. The factory was almost twelve kilometres from the hall that had been built just before the war, and while they had heard the English bombers and seen the explosions, but nothing had happened at their post. Still, it was important to do one's share of work for the Fatherland, and he was happy that he had gotten this opportunity. His mother was not so enthusiastic that the boys were outside during an air-raid, but his mother was less than enthusiastic about the entire war, and that worried him. When he reached the small, two storey house where he lived with his parents, he inspected it with a critical view and nodded appreciatively, this time the blackout curtains were properly in place. His parents did not like it when he lectured them on the subject, but what were petty feelings over the safety of the Fatherland? He used his own key to let himself in and was silently walking towards the staircase that led up to his room under the roof. He saw that a small ray of light came from below the wooden door to the kitchen. He was going to ignore and walk past it, but when he heard a voice coming from the massive wireless set his father had bought a while before the war, he stopped and walked inside. Before he could fully open the door, the voice stopped and when he stepped inside, he saw his parents sitting at the table preparing breakfast. On the stove in a corner a huge pot of Muckefuck[3] was sizzling away in the absence of real coffee.

“How was duty tonight?” his father asked. “The English were bombing ZF[4] and the Zeppelin factory again...they didn't come near us this time.” His mother did not say anything, as she knew how much all this meant to her son, and she was not in the mood for another argument just then. Luckily today there was no school despite it being a Monday. The school had been set on fire by stray flack shell splinters and was closed for the rest of the week, so Harald and the rest of his Fähnlein had more than enough time to either do what adolescents did at their age and in these times or, and that was more likely, do some sort of duty or other for the war effort. Harald quickly wolfed down his part of the daily bread ration and just decided to skip the rest and go to bed. When had left the room, his parents listened to him walking up the creaky stairs to his room. When the sound stopped, his mother said silently: “I don't like it..every night he goes out and I have no idea if he comes back in one piece. Every night Karl, every night.” Karl just looked at her and said: “There is nothing we can do. We are at war.” He said nothing more, but his wife knew that he simply was unwilling to see the truth behind it all. The poison dwarf sprouted his poison over the wireless each day, but she did not believe that the British were really hell bent on re-colonizing Germany with 'subhuman imperial peoples' as advertised by the Reichs Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. Germany however would not survive loosing another war though, and because of that she supported Germany. But did that still mean she would have to send off her son, her only child to such duty each night? She sighed and realized, yes it did.

Harald in the meantime was sleeping in his bed. He had taken of his uniform and had skillfully placed it in on his chair. He would need it tomorrow, but alas, there was a massive oil stain on it, and it would need to be washed. Luckily he had been able to afford a second brown shirt, and he would get to experience something that had become all too rare since the war had broken out. He would get to see the Führer. Hitler was due to hold a speech tomorrow before the very Zeppelin hall Harald had guarded tonight and when had left, workers had already been hard at work building a small platform on which the Führer would stand in not even twelve hours. The Hitler Youth would march, the SA would march and the nearby Luftwaffe Fighter base would do several overflights. All in all it would be a superb day. He would only be able to sleep for a few hours before he had to get up and march to the hall again with his friends.

And four hours later, he was standing on the grassy flat ground near the hall. In perfect formation the Hitler Youth and the SA were forming a huge square mass of people that were waiting for the Führer's aircraft to land. The sky was of a dazzling blue and was uncharacteristically cloudless. Kaiserwetter[5] in March. The field was lined with flagpoles from which the swastika flag frew proudly in the slight breeze. Daring to throw a glance at his watch, he saw that it was past ten o'clock already and marching straight on to half past ten. He did not know it, but the Führer was always late. It was part of a clever modus operandi in order to get the crows excited when the Führer was about to arrive, lest they did not show the reaction desired by the newsreel cameramen that followed the Führer everywhere whenever he left Berlin. So it was almost three quarters of an hour beyond the time when they finally heard the roar of aircraft engines in the distance. All traces of tiredness were gone from Harald. Whoever that was, things were about to get exciting. The first thing the men on the field saw was a flight of two Bf-109s that escorted a heavy and ungainly Ju-52 transport plane. The escort was not only for show. The marauding British Mosquitos that scoured the countryside of France and the Low countries in irregular intervals and increasingly big groups had not yet ventured that far into Axis airspace, but Luftwaffe intelligence was sure that they had the range to do so. But Harald did neither know nor would he have cared. The Ju-52 circled the field a few times before coming in to land. It flew a wide curve and then slowly descended to the ground, it's pilot touching it down with perfect ease. When the plane rolled to a stop, a nearby SA band struck up the Horst Wessel Song. The plane finally stopped and the door opened. Hundreds of heads turned and tried to get a glimpse of who was stepping down the stairs that had been lowered from the inside. The first person to leave the plane was a high-ranking SS Officer who had the band of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler on his arm. A wave of disappointment washed through the crowd, but then a second figure emerged. It was the Führer. Clad in the now customary coat made of Wehrmacht uniform cloth, he walked down the steps as a loud “Sieg Heil!” rang form the hundred's of throats on the grassy field. He quickly returned the Nazi salute as he walked up to the podium on which he would speak. Harald, like most of the others, was totally enraptured by the perceived presence of the man that had now reached the podium.

He spoke:

“Men! GERMANS!

At a time when only deeds count and words are of little importance, it is not my intention to appear before you, the elected representatives of the German people, more often than absolutely necessary. The first time I spoke to you was at the outbreak of the war when, thanks to the Anglo-French conspiracy against peace, every attempt at an understanding with Poland, which otherwise would have been possible, had been frustrated.....”





The same time

Mouth of the Western English Channel

All of the ships in the small convoy were British, even though only two of them were actual freighters. The others were troopships that carried a Cavalry Regiment to Northern Africa, while the two RN vessels formed the remnants of the 23rd Escort Flotilla. HMS Ganges had been sunk at anchor. Severn and Fearless now had the task of escorting their charges to the meeting point where they would join a larger troop convoy to North Africa. Normally they would have met up with a larger group of ships, but the Axis Air Forces had bombed harbours and anchorages all over the southern Coast, and the convoy system in the channel had temporary sunken into total chaos. Still, the 23rd Flotilla had managed not only to actually find their part of the cancelled great channel convoy, but also had, so far not been attacked. Ian was snoring away in his chair on the bridge, and his exec had decided to let him sleep. Ian needed it. He had been pacing the forward deck ever since they had anchored of St. Helens, and had not stopped, almost as if he was afraid of going back to his cabin. When hover the siren of the Severn blared and sent the crew to Action stations, he was instantly awake. Deciding not to keel-haul who had let him sleep while they where in Battle, he instead asked: “Where are they?” Lieutenant Ravenwood, the navigator said: “The 271 shows several large blips approaching from the south. Airborne and fast.” “The enemy then. Has Fearless acknowledged?” “Yes, Sir, as we went to action stations.” “Keep a lookout then.” Ian knew without looking that the civilian ships were heading for the British coast, while Fearless took up position behind Severn in order to present the maximum number of guns to the enemy. Waiting was bad. It could be any number of things, but judging from the speed with which the contacts were approaching, it had to be Destroyers or E-Boats. Ian hoped it was the latter. As tough and as heavily armed as Severn might be, she was not meant to fight ships like the Fearless and her sisters – whatever else the Admiralty might believe. Fearless signalled orders for Severn.


HMS Fearless​

The four enemy destroyers were German. In fact they were what was left of the 'Zerstörer 1936' Class, with the two others being lost to one cause or another over the years of war so far. Z17 Dieter von Roeder was taking point, with the others, Z19 Hermann Künne, Z20 Karl Galster and Z22 Anton Schmitt forming a line slightly behind the leader. It was a coincidence that they were running into the convoy Severn and Fearless were escorting, they had been transiting to Brest where they had been supposed to join the coastal Defence forces there. Only one of the ships was equipped with a functioning RDF set, and the relatively green operator missed that the contacts were slowly separating, indicating that these were freighters. They could have attempted to simply ignore the two defiant British warships and try to sink the freighters and troopships before any help from the RAF or RN could arrive, but so they advanced steadfastly towards the warships waiting for them. Turrets were trained and crews stood by. On Severn her portside Oerlikons and heavy machine guns were manned, but unlike Fearless she could not train her torpedo tubes on the enemy, as on Severn the tubes were facing directly forward along the centre line of the ship. What did however face towards the enemy were the two forward 4'' mounts, the rear 3'' and the eyes of those that manned the fire director. Ian was standing outside the bridge. The door was open so that any orders he yelled before coming back in would be heard and stared into the empty sea through his binoculars. The day was as clear as it was over the continent, and soon the dark greyish shapes appeared on the horizon. “Contact!” a lookout yelled and indicated the position. Ian stepped back inside. “Sparks, Fearless. 'Enemy sighted, position..' he included the position and Williams signalled it off through the lamp. The Germans continued to charge ahead to the British. By now they had to have spotted them, and sure enough, slowed their speed. The Germans were doubtless aware of the identity of the British ships and knew the general make of the Thames Class, and so was Ian. Against a single Destroyer a well-handled Thames could easily hold her own, but here the British ships were outnumbered and more than a hundred miles from the mainland, and air cover.

The Germans had slowed, but had not changed direction or formation, and Ian hoped that maybe they underestimated Severn's capabilities. “Range?” he asked.

“Just under 14.500 yards, Captain.” came the report. Just within firing range of the QF 4 inch Mk V naval guns that poked out of the turrets. The British ships were running a roughly West-South-Westerly course, with the Germans now coming at them in an angle in order to intercept them at a point somewhere along the course that took the Destroyer and the Gunboat, and in the distance the merchantmen and troopships on a parallel course, running for the safety of the convoy and the heavy guns of it's cruiser escorts. The range continued to drop. 14.000 yards, 13.000 yards, 12.000 yards...9.000 yards. As if on cue, the British opened fire. The guns spat 4'' and 4.7'' shells towards the Germans that were startled about the second onslaught. For reasons unknown, they had not opened fire yet, even though they could have. Of Severn's two shells, one struck home, passing harmlessly through the funnel of Z22 before exploding on the surface of the water on the far side. The second one went wide, missing the wireless aerial of the same German Destroyer by mere inches. The gunnery aboard the more experienced HMS Fearless was better. Three shells hit. One was as harmless as the hit on Z22 had been, it merely smashed the auxiliary wireless aerial on Z20. The next shell was rather more lethal. It slammed into one of the rear depth-charge launchers. While it did not explode due to a faulty fuse, it still smashed the launcher and as a result, loose depth charges were rolling around on deck. The third shell however did the most damage. It hit one of the 37mm guns, and making for a short, but spirited ammunition fire. The next weapon unleashed where Fearless' torpedo tubes. Trying to evade non-existant torpedoes threw off their gunnery solutions, which allowed Lieutenant Brody aboard Severn to place a shell right on the thin armour of the forward turret of Z19. It did not detonate or penetrate, but still showered the insides with splinters.

Deprived of one gun Z19 was still the first German destroyer to land a hit. The short salvo straddled Severn, while the other ships, including Fearless and Severn herself had lost their solutions due to the sudden turn to a parallel course of the Germans. One shell of this salvo slammed into Severn's side, between the two foremost .50 calibre Machine Guns. The shell did not fully penetrate the thickest part of Severn's hull armour, but detonated all the same, bending the armour plate and and making a slight crack that was too high up to cause any flooding. The men manning the guns scrambled back to their feet and continued to fire, because by now both sides were close enough to use their secondary weapons. Ironically Severn was better suited to withstand the hailstorm of 20mm and 7.92mm fire than Fearless. Severn had been built with as much of the ship's fucntions and systems hidden away beneath the hull of the main superstructure. The shells dinged harmlessly off the armour as the men manning Severn's own secondary guns hid behind the shields of their guns as well as they could. Fearless on the other hand was built much more open, and therefore took more damage. Enraged at the multi-calibre punishment the flotilla was taking, Beattie launched four torpedoes. The Germans were busy with firing all their guns and dodging that of the British, with multiple hits sustained on both sides, so the fish were not spotted right away. Only two hit. One slammed into the rear area of Z22 which was bringing up the rear. The explosion of the TNT warhead ripped the rear of the German destroyer clean off, bringing her to a stop and leaving her in a sinking condition. The other exploded almost exactly against the middle of the next German forward, Z20. The explosion ripped into a compartment where small arms munitions were stored. These promptly caught fire and exploded. Another German Destroyer went dead in the water. The Germans opened the range somewhat, which allowed both Ian and Beattie to do a quick calculation of the damage their own ships had sustained. Neither Severn nor Fearless had gotten of lightly. Severn's 3'' mount was knocked out, the crew dead and the gun barrel bent uselessly against the sky. All but one of the .50 cals were silent, and one of the Oerliokons had also been knocked out. Luckily the ship itself was undamaged except for that one hit, as the heavier German guns had concentrated on Fearless.

Fearless bore the scars to prove it. Her two rearmost 5'' guns were gone, utterly destroyed, in fact most of her rear area was an utter mess. Her crew was valiantly braving the incoming shells to fight a massive fire to the aft, and the rest of her hull was peppered with shell holes and scars where projectiles had bounced off. The Germans hpwever had also taken damage. When they moved closer again, Ian wiped the blood from a small cut on his left hand away and steeled himself for the fight to come. The Germans however suddenly turned away, and even started to lay smoke. Before he could really ask himself what was going on, Lieutenant Commander Finney, bleeding from his nose like the rest of the Bridge crew pointed North-West where a ship was fast approaching. Ian quickly picked up his binoculars from the floor. He ignored the sprung lens and looked at the ship. The size and the three funnels were unmistakable, it was a British Heavy Cruiser, HMS Dorsetshire. They had reached the Convoy.



HMS Dorsetshire in happier times​








[Notes: I am a firm believer in the Democratic idea. And only battles between capital ships rate the more detailed account.]

[1] With more time available for recce in-between the raids and an as-of-yet uninterceptable mossie...

[2] local cell of the HJ.

[3] Caffeine-free Coffee substitute made from various grains and plants.

[4] Zahnradfabrik Friedrichshafen

[5] Kaiserwetter is a term used for exceptionally fine and sunny weather, termed during the times of the Empire.
 

Griffin.Gen

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Sweet naval battle there. Good job.
 
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Me a bit disappointed that only a CA appeared...
 

Kurt_Steiner

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Thomas Kenobi

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Very interesting naval battle. Good to see some ship vs ship action for the Severn.
 

trekaddict

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Sorry for lack of feedback. The last few days were a bit distracting.


Griffin.Gen Thanks!

gaiasabre11 Well, all larger capital ships are needed to bottle up the Kriegsmarine.

Kurt_Steiner Not yet.


Thomas Kenobi The Severn was not meant for that. I will also use other Thames Class boats later on, in different roles.





Chapter 152


Early March 1941

Early march of that year were dark times for Europe. While the British were for survival against the onslaught by the Axis Air Forces, their ground forces, supported by older-model Soviet Fighters and bombers, smashed through the Yugoslavian lines. By the evening of the 10th the Germans and Italians had started to shell the Yugoslav positions around Zagreb while the mobile units continued to push south. The Serb soldiers in Zagreb itself soon crumpled and surrendered by the late 11th. The Hungarian attack towards Belgrade, paired with a German/Italian attack down the coast towards Split and the areas the Italians claimed as theirs, while at the same time the Italians attacked out of their holdings to the south. At the same time Bulgarian Cavalry also made contact with Italian Alpinis that attacked out of occupied Albania. By now the Yugoslav Government only controlled a bubble of territory around Belgrade and in the south, and for the most part their position was crumbling. When it became clear to the last of them that no help was to be expected from the British, morale within the Government and the Army began to falter and resistance, where it was offered in the first place, became heavily disorganized, and by the second week, the Axis forces controlled most of the major ports and cities of the country. Belgrade was prepared as a fortress, but morale, military situation and the general lack of arms and ammunition were against them. When the commander of the Yugoslav units tasked with the defence of the capital made preparations to defend it anyhow, defeatist factions within the Government force him, with a mixture of persuasion, blackmail and outright threats to open the metaphorical city gates to the Hungarians and the approaching Germans. With this, the Axis powers had what mattered in Yugoslavia in their hands, and the Government surrendered. The Army however refused to give in and melted into the countryside, and continued the fight from there. The Germans however had expected this and continued to cleanse the parts of the country they actually wanted to control, namely infrastructure like communication lines, railroad and road choke-points, the cities and power generation. Crushing the shattered remnants of the few units of the Royal Yugoslav Army that had stayed loyal up to this point was a minor concern left to minor Axis troops while the bulk of the German forces was sent back to Germany. But even though coherent units were no longer in evidence by the end of the month, an armed resistance that surpassed even the French Marquisardes in feriocity and strength.

Like in France, this movement was hampered by the fact that the local Communist Party was discredited by the German Soviet Alliance and was often seen as a pack of traitors by the population even though they were hunted down just as much as the more right-oriented groups. The Problem Yugoslav patriots would face over the next months was not the lack of supplies from the British, a factor negated after Market Garden, but more that most groups would eventually recruit themselves from the various ethnic groups, if they were not outright pro-Axis to begin with. It would take until early 1942 to give the Yugoslav resistance the sort of unified command that the French Resistance enjoyed in the form of the French Government in Algiers. Meanwhile Berlin was content with letting the minor axis nations sort this out among themselves. The Invasion of that country had been to placate them for forcing them to ally themselves with the Soviet Union, something that small and narrow-minded countries like Hungary and Romania simply were incapable of comprehending. In London the news of the fall of Belgrade and with it of most of the country was greeted with a shrug and the knowledge that this was inevitable. The planning for Market Garden had gone too far already to be compromised by a secondary theatre.


15th March 1941

Somewhere in central Quebec, Canada

Two of the agents that had left Boulder City so many days before had been sent to the safehouse without knowing until they had met at a dead drop that had been arranged with the help of the Quebec Communist Party that had quickly oriented itself towards Washington instead of Moscow. The safehouse in their case was the small and impoverished farm of a party stalwart who had been working for the Party even when it had still been aligned to Moscow. The two men had quickly gotten over the surprise after the correct recognition signals had been exchanged. Each of them had been told that they would meet someone at the drop that would help them to the safehouse where they would need each other to get back in. It was that way in order to guard the valuable network as much as possible. Together they boarded a already very filled train towards Quebec City from the small town they were in, about fifty miles from the border. Their legend was that they were metal workers that had worked on one of the Canadian Army bases that were springing up along the border and were now on their way back home. They already posed as Quebecoise citizens, mainly because unlike in the anglophone parts of Canada, Quebec had yet to enact conscription, and this way they could not be arrested for dodging the draft as unskilled workers were not a reserved occupation in Canada. If pressed they would say that they were on the way home in order to volunteer for the Canadian Army, and after that they were usually left alone.

Right now they were walking outside of the city down a dirt road that led them north, to the farm. It was to be about ten miles outside Quebec City in the middle of a small wooded area. The Farmer farmed the patch he had freed from the trees and now and then sold one of his trees. Ironically since the war had started the Canadian Army was his best customer in this regard as many of his trees were of the type of wood needed to make the Rifle, No. 4 Mk I that equipped the expanding Canadian Army. He did not like it, but it was the best cover you could get in this part of occupied Quebec, and the mission came always before what you had to do to maintain your cover. It was in the nature of a sleeper agent not to act on his true mission and/or identity for years at a time, so when he had received the codeword in a telegram coming from a non-existant aunt in Vancouver, he had been understandably surprised. He was however not surprised when the two men approached him as he was hacking the wood he needed for the next winter, but that changed when they used a pre-arranged code word that he had not heard since the distant days of his recruitment and training for the QCP a few years before. He stopped what he was doing and led them into the house. There the two sat down and only then did he begin to talk.

“The deliveries arrived during the last two weeks.” The older of the two Agents turned his head and asked: “Can we see them?” “Yes, yes, but not in daylight. Sometimes people are driving past on the road you took, and sometimes these people belong to the regime.” The older agent nodded and decided that the sleeper had a point and was professional enough to know his priorities during the preparations for an operation. “Comrades, you must be hungry!” the farmer said jovially. “The agents smiled and allowed themselves this small display of emotion. “I thought so.” With this the farmer disappeared behind a door into what had to be the kitchen and rummaged through the compartments and drawers there, while the two agents began to unpack the little luggage bags they had brought with them. Operational standards required that they waited until they were alone to discuss the particulars of their mission, but that was virtually impossible in a house as small as this one. So they elected to wait. When the farmer reappeared, he said: “Did you meet any Army convoys on your way here? The regime is really expanding their northern Naval Base, and a lot of the stuff going there goes through here, especially all sorts of wood.” The older agent shook his head. “We did not see any.” The Farmer in turn nodded and started to serve the agents a Pâté chinois[2] each, and even though they had never eaten this particular dish, they quickly wolfed it down, for they had not eaten since leaving Quebec City. The farmer went back outside and cleared away the wood on the lawn while they ate. He did not rush them, he knew how it was when you had not eaten in a long time, and he needed prepare some things anyway. When he went back in, the men had finished eating were waiting for him to arrive. By now it was dark enough to show them what they had come for. As they walked to the location using nothing but a small storm lamp, the farmer talked. “You are my nephews, coming from down south and are here to find work at one of the shipyards where the regime is building ships for their puppet masters. If all works out though, no one will get to see you and you and your share of the goods will be out of here in two days.”

“So you hid it?” The Farmer nodded in response and continued to lead them down a dirtpath just wide enough for a lorry. After about ten minutes they reached a clearing where trees were sparse and small, freshly planted in fact. Here moved earth would not arouse any suspicions, and only someone in on the secret would find the spot. The Farmer walked up to a tree trunk that had been left standing, obviously too heavy to move. There he moved around on his knees and suddenly opened a trapdoor that was hidden under fresh dirt and climbed down the ladder with the two American Agents behind him. He lit two more storm lamps and only now they could see what was in it. “The British and the regime found a similar cache a few years ago over near Halifax, that's why this was so short notice. We are grateful for your Government's contribution, Comrades. But we could not take the risk.”

When they looked around it was clear why. The cache that had been found then was small compared to this, and it was only one of them. Rows upon rows of shelves filled with weapons of every description filled the room, enough to equip an Infantry battalion.[3] Rifles, machine guns, hand grenades and even several Infantry mortars, all of it American make. The cache was meant to equip a number of troops and the agents were to take only enough for one with them. “Has transportation been arranged?” the younger one asked. “Yes. Our comrades will arrive the day after tomorrow, at night.” “Good.”

With this they left the cache, doused the lights, closed the door and walked back to the farm. Normally they would have taken one of the rifles with them to try them out, but the Farmer's talk about the Canadian Convoys near here discouraged them. Someone might come by and hear the shot, or even worse, see one of them pulling the trigger, and so they would have to make do with taking a good look at them tomorrow night. For now they needed sleep, and lot's of it. The next weeks would be hard for them at best.


[Notes: I could probably have sent them some units, but I decided not to bother. Sorry for the many jumps in location...Also not ( much ;) ) offence meant to the French, but the French AI needs to be punished. ]




[2] Click me.

[3] Rougly 800 men in WW2 Britain.
 
Last edited:

Griffin.Gen

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Yes! Finally, uprising in Quebec! (Only to be crushed by the RCA of course)
This is gonna be awesome! Keep it up!
 

trekaddict

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Chapter 153

17th March 1941

RCMP/Canadian Army checkpoint, near Compton Army Base


A small hut on the left side of the road was bathed in darkness. On the other side a sandbagged post with a heavy Vickers Machine gun was equally unlighted. Inside the hut however two RCMP NCOs and two privates of the Canadian Army, commanded by a Lance Corporal were playing cards. The two privates were supposed to man the machine gun, but this deep into Canada and near an Army base that was not finished let alone in use, so routine and boredom had taken their toll, with the total lack of traffic except a single lorry a few days ago did not help either. The darkness was total and the men were fully immersed in their card game, and had not one of them answered the call of nature just then, the history of Canada might have been different.

He was just deciding to go inside before lighting another cigarette when he saw that a vehicle came slowly driving down the road. He grabbed his Enfield from his shoulder and yelled for the other men in the hut to come outside. The most Senior RCMP man, a Corporal, ran back inside and snatched a flashlight from the table. When he came back outside, the lorry had already stopped at the imaginary line between the hut and the machine gun nest. He walked up to the cabin and directed the thin beam of light inside. It were the same two that had driven this lorry through here before, only that back then there had been no machine gun. What was new were the two other men in the cabin. “This is my cousin.” the driver asked upon being challenged. “Right, and why is he here?” “Oh, better work here than out west, Corporal.” The Corporal nodded. He was with the Force for close to fifteen years now, and something here did not smell right. For one, the lorry was laden with a weight that had the rear tires almost scratching the flat bed in the back and had the lorry ride low on his springs. Secondly the driver seemed unduly nervous about what was happening, and the the new man didn't look anything like a lumberjack. He did not show his doubts on his face and simply asked for the papers of the four men. When he saw that instead of reaching into their pockets for them they just looked at each other, he stepped back and wished he had not let his pistol laying on the table in the hut. The CA Lance Corporal walked to the back of the lorry to look what was loaded on it. The mounty did not look at him, but when a short rattle of automatic gunfire pierced the night. The head of the Corporal whipped around, and he looked at the gunbarrel the driver was sticking in the face. Next he saw a bright white flash, then never anything again. Meanwhile the rest of the mounties and soldiers rushed outside at the sound of the shooting, only to be cut down by short bursts from the machine pistols and guns the Communists carried. The lorry was full with weapons from the cache and they were on their way to the small logging company whose lorry this was. The driver was the owner, and he had been using it as a front for the QCP from the beginning. The firm's small logging hall was used for the nightly meetings of the QCP that, since being banned, was monitored by the regime, hence the need for secrecy even before this mission had been planned. The men disembarked and quickly dragged the bodies into the hut lest they be seen by a casual observer and quickly motored off. The driver drove as fast as he dared on this road, as he wanted to get as much ground between them and the checkpoint before the sun rose. When the sun rose and the change of the guards discovered the bodies at the checkpoint, the lorry was standing safely under the roof of the hall. All the workers at the firm were members of the QCP and therefore were immediately set to work unloading the weapons. The lorry contained everything that had been found in the cache: Rifles, Machine Pistols, Machine Guns and even a solitary, small calibre mortar. Most of the people that were supposed to be armed with these weapons were already here but the driver, who was called Adrien Bouteiller, the chief of the local cell. “Is everything ready?” he asked one of his men. “No, Comrade Bouteiller, Comrade Vaux is still out getting the ammunition. He should be back any moment.” As if on cue, a second lorry arrived. This one was loaded with .30-06 loose rounds in boxes, the same on belts and five cases of mortar bombs, enough to start a small war.

Bouteiller and Vaux slapped each other on the back and went with the two American agents into the small Office that was to be used for planning. There they told the story of the checkpoint.

“Luckily we strike tomorrow.” the older American agent said, “Are your people ready?” Bouteiller nodded. “They are, Comrade. Our people are yearning to do away with the regime in Ottawa, and we will defeat them. Quebec shall be free!” All those present were true believers, so this talk was taken serious. “Let us get to work then.” the older agent said. The job of the two Americans was not to train the men. That had been done by the QCP and others before. They were here to advise their leaders, to help them make a stand, even though the leaders back in Washington were doubtful over the eventual outcome. The agents did not know this and continued on, walking outside where the men were assembled.

“Comrades, fellow Quebecoise citizens! The hour of our liberation has come! Tomorrow we will go, tomorrow we will fight! Never in the Americas has an event of such extraordinary character, with such deep roots and such far-reaching consequences for the destiny of the continent's progressive movements taken place as our impending revolutionary war. Our revolution, unorthodox in its forms and manifestations, will nevertheless follow the general lines of all the great historical events of this century that are characterized by antiimperialist struggles and the transition toward socialism. Nevertheless some sectors, whether out of self-interest or in good faith, claim to see in the Quebec Revolution exceptional origins and features they claim will spell doom for us, compel us to live within this Canadian federation forever! They speak of the exceptionalism of the Quebec Revolution as compared with the course of other progressive parties in America. They conclude that the form and road of the Quebec Revolution are unique and that in the other countries of the Americas the historical transition will be different. This is not true! We will have freedom! We will have justice! Justice remains the tool of a few powerful interests; legal interpretations will continue to be made to suit the convenience of the oppressor powers unless we change this state of affairs as change we will! No one will hinder us in our fight to liberate the Socialist Republic of Quebec!” A row of cheers went through the roughly ninety men present. The leaders of the Val d'Or No.12 cell, one of only five around that city, then left the stage and prepared themselves. Maps needed to be studied, arms needed to be handed out and plans needed to be made to plunge Quebec and Canada into the most bloody period of their short history. It did not occur to any of them that the plan was incredibly rushed, and if it would have they would have ignored it. Later that night in a scene repeated all over Quebec, the men were standing in a long line that stretched through the hall. Each man received a rifle, a certain quantity of rounds, a bag with five hand grenades and certain other supplies that had been secretly acquired on the free market, sometimes even before the war. Overall the Quebec fighters would be equipped reasonably well for such an ad-hoc Army.



Citadelle of Quebec, that same night

Like most of the Canadian Army the Royal 22e Régiment was down south. It was administratively part of the 1st Canadian Infantry Division, earmarked for service either with the British in Europe or with the Canadian contribution to the CANZAC Army. In peacetime it was based here, but now there was a war on and Canada was in it. The two men rushing over the unlighted plaza in the middle of the star fortress were not on their way to the residence of the Governor General, as likely as it may have seemed given that they were QCP operatives. No, their destination was the central powder magazine in building No.15, where the Royal 22e Régiment still stored ammunition that had been left behind when they had moved out. The two men were long-time sleeper agents infiltrated into the civilian support staff for the single mission they were carrying out now. The backpack one of them carried two time bombs, set for ten and fifteen minutes. The first would go into the ammunition stockpile, the second one through a back window into the Governor General's residence. These two explosions would be the signal for the uprising that would herald the downfall of the occupation regime. The square was cleared of the heavy snow usual snow at this time of the year, so they made good speed. None talked, and when they reached the door into No.15, they disappeared inside it, placing the bomb under several crates of mortar bombs. They ran back up the stairs and over to the side of the residence. They had opened the window earlier on and simply lowered the ticking package through. Now it was time to leave, as in ten minutes two massive explosions would rock the fort. After leaving through the civilian employee's entrance, the made their way to a nearby pub. On the upper level guns and a hot cup of coffee would wait for them. Just as they stepped through the door, two massive blasts rocked the city. All over Quebec city groups emerged, and proceeded to seize important strongpoints and Government buildings. Wireless stations, the police Headquarters and were captured, mostly without resistance. By the time the day dawned, the city was in the hands of the communists and the local CBC office was used to transmit this declaration:

“Today is a great day for our glorious nation! Finally, after 300 years we can finally free ourselves from the British Impieralists! Today, Comrades, the Communist Party of Quebec proclaims the Socialist Republic of Québec! It is time to rise against the oppressive British Empire and their Anglo-Canadian Puppets!
LONG LIVE A FREE QUEBEC UNDER SOCIALISM!”

[Notes: Massive cudos for Griffin.Gen for his help in making this and being willing to listen to my crazy insane ramblings on the whole plotline, for giving me the idea in the first place. Many thanks. He also wrote the proclamation.]