Dark Earth: Exercise Warhammer

Steve,

There won’t be too many profound changes to the class system, but one of the functions of the different society since the 1850s (driven in large part by the Imperial Space Programme) is that it is considerably more meritocratic and has some significant differences to the education system.

You are right on the money regarding Edward/David. He is viewed as a “what if” figure by some, but the nature of his injury took him out of a lot of public circulation as the 1920s went on.

Simon

First good update as always simon darkshade.

Second can we have a T-rex as pet.

Then what about velociraptors, if there are any in the Darkearth verse.

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Now they were in the field and the exercise had begun, the previous panoply of pleasing provender had been replaced by more prosaic rations, which nonetheless hit the spot quite nicely.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on the table and he had a gander whilst he broke his fast, if but to see the official line that was even now outdated by events.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."

It isn’t so much an update as an ending to that tale and a prequel to Space. Being able to finish a piece off is a good feeling; hopefully there are a few more to follow.