Prologue
In the early morning hours of the ninth of September in 2016, a platoon of British soldiers were making their way along the coastline of eastern Kent, not far from Sandwich Bay. All they knew was that they’d been put on the highest of alerts, and with the first light coming up over the southern tip of the North Sea they had been able to spot the dark shapes of jet fighters speeding back and forth way up above. With no traffic at this time of day their up-armoured Land Rovers found no obstacles, but there were plenty of anxious faces peering at them from the windows they passed by. “Never had I felt so eerie,” commented one man later. As this small unit of the Royal Kent Regiment approached Sandwich Bay, they heard the first crackled shouts of alarm tear from the radios. The clock had just struck six. And then in the near-distance a sudden flash of orange light, before a fireball rose up to engulf an electricity pylon halfway to the horizon. The convoy shuddered to a halt and every man watched as the tower buckled, then toppled over onto the field it stood in. All at once they saw a wave of darkness wipe towards them as houselights went out. Meanwhile smoke rose up amongst the downed pylon. Further in the distance more flashes of light, followed by pillars of smoke, were emerging. The platoon’s commander, Lieutenant Daisy Mogg, broke the silence as she yelled into her radio for the convoy to keep going. Along the battered country road it continued, heading right for Sandwich Bay. The Home Guard would, hopefully, be ready when they arrived. The soldiers could swear the black silhouettes of incoming missiles were visible against the dark grey sky. Far more obvious were the shapes of aircraft heading out to sea. On the horizon, beyond the water, some could even see plumes of white smoke beginning to twist this way and that in a tell-tale sign of airborne fighting. All the while the radio kept screaming.
Keeping close to the Belgian coast, the squadron finally got the word it was waiting for. Operation Charlemagne had begun. The three leading destroyers turned hard starboard and, sirens blaring internally, the rest of the flotilla did the same. To the southwest, more destroyers would screen the Strait of Dover, but for now there was no sign of the Royal Navy. The group of 50,000 tonne amphibious assault ships followed in the wake of the destroyers, their iron bodies moaning with the exertion to turn so hard. Even now, with the sun only barely risen, the telltale signs of black smoke on the horizon told the assorted crewmen all they needed to know. The danger of attack from the air remained, but all hoped that the interdiction of their own aircrews had lessened the threat. This particular unit had the distinction of landing further south than any of their comrades, with Sandwich Bay in their sights. Now glory offered an outstretched hand for them all. As they waited, many looked towards the fluttering swastika. And they smiled.
In the early morning hours of the ninth of September in 2016, a platoon of British soldiers were making their way along the coastline of eastern Kent, not far from Sandwich Bay. All they knew was that they’d been put on the highest of alerts, and with the first light coming up over the southern tip of the North Sea they had been able to spot the dark shapes of jet fighters speeding back and forth way up above. With no traffic at this time of day their up-armoured Land Rovers found no obstacles, but there were plenty of anxious faces peering at them from the windows they passed by. “Never had I felt so eerie,” commented one man later. As this small unit of the Royal Kent Regiment approached Sandwich Bay, they heard the first crackled shouts of alarm tear from the radios. The clock had just struck six. And then in the near-distance a sudden flash of orange light, before a fireball rose up to engulf an electricity pylon halfway to the horizon. The convoy shuddered to a halt and every man watched as the tower buckled, then toppled over onto the field it stood in. All at once they saw a wave of darkness wipe towards them as houselights went out. Meanwhile smoke rose up amongst the downed pylon. Further in the distance more flashes of light, followed by pillars of smoke, were emerging. The platoon’s commander, Lieutenant Daisy Mogg, broke the silence as she yelled into her radio for the convoy to keep going. Along the battered country road it continued, heading right for Sandwich Bay. The Home Guard would, hopefully, be ready when they arrived. The soldiers could swear the black silhouettes of incoming missiles were visible against the dark grey sky. Far more obvious were the shapes of aircraft heading out to sea. On the horizon, beyond the water, some could even see plumes of white smoke beginning to twist this way and that in a tell-tale sign of airborne fighting. All the while the radio kept screaming.
Keeping close to the Belgian coast, the squadron finally got the word it was waiting for. Operation Charlemagne had begun. The three leading destroyers turned hard starboard and, sirens blaring internally, the rest of the flotilla did the same. To the southwest, more destroyers would screen the Strait of Dover, but for now there was no sign of the Royal Navy. The group of 50,000 tonne amphibious assault ships followed in the wake of the destroyers, their iron bodies moaning with the exertion to turn so hard. Even now, with the sun only barely risen, the telltale signs of black smoke on the horizon told the assorted crewmen all they needed to know. The danger of attack from the air remained, but all hoped that the interdiction of their own aircrews had lessened the threat. This particular unit had the distinction of landing further south than any of their comrades, with Sandwich Bay in their sights. Now glory offered an outstretched hand for them all. As they waited, many looked towards the fluttering swastika. And they smiled.