A Mighty Endeavor

Chapter Ten HEATED WORDS

“I see you’re off to for your afternoon nap. Could I organize a nice cup of cocoa for you?”

The remark sounded impertinent; but, in truth, the Swordfish pilots heading for the briefing room were definitely on the old side compared with the young lieutenants from the ship’s company. But, there was a reason for that. They were hard-core Fleet Air Arm veterans; ones who had started their careers flying the long-forgotten Blackburn Baffin and the almost equally obscure Blackburn Shark. They were low-ranked for their age and service careers; a residual effect of the limited career prospects in a Fleet Air Arm dominated by the Royal Air Force. Yet they had been quietly and diligently pursuing their craft throughout the lean years of the 1930s. The eighteen Swordfish crews on Eagle were probably the finest torpedo bomber pilots in the world. It was a pity their equipment still didn’t match their skills.

“Cheeky little bastard.” Lieutenant James MacFleet growled at the impudent snottie who had dared to remark upon his comparatively advanced age. The youngster stepped to one side as MacFleet bore down upon him.

Inside the briefing room, all eighteen Swordfish crews were assembling.

“Gentlemen, settle down please.” Captain Stuart Munroe tapped his podium with a pointer. “We have a critical mission to perform. We have been informed by Maryland reconnaissance aircraft that the Italian battle fleet is out. A Maryland from Malta confirmed that they had left Taranto yesterday evening and this morning we got confirmation that they are heading our way. They were reported south of Zakynthos at 0920; course one-three-five, speed 20 knots. The Maryland reported three battleships, four heavy cruisers and eight destroyers. If that formation holds course and speed, they will be eightythree miles west of us at 1300. According to our current plans, that is when you gentlemen will sink them. All of them, for preference. I need not tell you that Britain needs a cheerful Christmas present right now.”

MacFleet looked around. Eighteen crews and fifteen ships didn’t augur well for the wholesale destruction Munroe appeared to be expecting.

“Sir, am I to assume that the battleships will be the priority targets?”

Munroe shook his head. “No. The situation is this. The group we will be attacking are the covering force for a large convoy heading for North Africa. There are at least twenty of Italy’s largest merchant ships in that convoy and their loss will be a massive blow to the Italian ability to support operations in North Africa. In addition, there are ships carrying an armored group of the Italian Army. Those ships will split away later on and head for Benghazi, while the supply ships head for Tobruk. It will be the job of Warspite and her cruiser-destroyer group to make sure they do not get there. To do that, we need to clear that covering force out of the way. It is not necessary to sink all the ships in that group, just hurt them badly enough to send them home. We want hits made on as many ships as possible; not a lot of hits on a few of them. Is that clear.”

“Sir. Enemy fighter cover?”

“As far as we can determine, there will be none. Technically we will be just in range of land-based fighters, but coordination between Italian ships at sea and aircraft based on land does not appear to be good. The Marylands are reporting no fighter interference.”

“Sir, do we have any information on which ships are in the group?”

The leader of B-flight, Lieutenant Colwyn Caradoc, was Welsh through and through. His accent added something undefinably melodic to the briefing. It also made a number of the pilots feel homesick. They were all aware that the split between Britain and the rest of the Empire meant it could be a long time before they went home.

“Our information is that it includes the battleships Andrea Doria, Caio Duilio and Conte di Cavour. Heavy cruisers Bolzano, Zara, Fiume and Gorizia. That’s what the Marylands say, anyway.” Munroe added the comment quickly. The ability of RAF crews to recognize warships was not one of their most advanced capabilities. “We don’t know who the destroyers are. One thing I must stress, if Warspite and the group with her can get into the Italian convoy, it will be a catastrophe for the Italians. Not just in terms of ships and supplies sunk, but in the position that their troops in Italy will be left holding. Headquarters now believes almost 100,000 of their men are cut off along the coast between Mektila and Mersah Matruh. They will have to surrender within three or four days at the most, unless a relief effort can be mounted. Every day that passes means that relief effort gets more difficult. We had news this morning that the Australians are moving into Bardia. If that city falls, then the nearest port to the Italians will be Tobruk. We believe that is why the merchant ships are heading for there; the Italians evidently believe that Bardia cannot hold out.”

Munroe stopped speaking as a messenger from the Signals Division entered with a message flimsy. He took it and read the contents. A slow smile of satisfaction spread across his face.

“Gentlemen, I am pleased to inform you that the Italian battleships are continuing to head south at a somewhat higher speed of advance than originally thought. They are currently off Cape Methoni, some 120 miles north west of us. ”

He turned to the map behind him and marked the latest position report on the chart. Then, he drew the connecting line joining their position to that of Eagle and her four escorting destroyers. The navigators in the crews quickly noted down the positions and the course needed for the intercept. “We have 15 Swordfish ready to launch and will hold the remaining three, plus our three Sea Gladiators, in reserve. Man your aircraft, gentlemen; we launch immediately.”

“There are how many Eye-ties in there?” Sergeant Joe Solomon couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

“About 45,000, so the big brass says.” Lieutenant Garry Oswin repeated the numbers he had been given. “With thirteen tanks and about a hundred machine gun carriers. And nearly 300 guns; ranging from our old friend the 65mm mountain howitzer to 150mm heavy guns. All defending an 18-mile perimeter.”

“Strewth.” Solomon was surprised at the sheer size of the force that was trapped in Bardia. “And we’re attacking it with a single battalion?”

“Not us, Joe. Our part in this is a demonstration. The 16th Brigade will be doing the real work, hitting the defenses on the western end of the perimeter. They get the Tillies supporting them. Our job is to draw the attention of the Italian defenses here, in the east. We’ve got some porteed twopounders to back us up if the Eye-tie tanks show up. We’re not supposed to get into a real fight though. Just prevent the Eye-ties from moving any of their troops westwards.”

Solomon snorted, guessing that limiting a fight was hoping for too much. He was about to say so when he was interrupted by an express train roar; one he recognized as inbound 15-inch gunfire. “You didn’t say we had battlewagons in support, sir.”

“We haven’t. That’s the monitor Terror and three gunboats. They were in the Red Sea, but they came through the Canal and have been moving up to support us. Should even things up a little, I reckon. Especially since we captured the plans of this place at Sidi Barrani. We know the exact positions of each one of those bunkers.” Oswin grinned at his Sergeant. “And if the Navy pounders, no less. We may be a demonstration, but we’re not lacking for support. Anyway, get your men ready to move out, Joe, on the whistle.”

Solomon carefully looked at the ground he and his men would have to cross. There was a continuous antitank ditch, with a steep, 200-foot embankment on the opposite side. The slope was festooned with barbed wire and heavily mined. Once at the top, there were company-and platoon-sized strongpoints with antitank and machine guns. Each of them had its own antitank ditch and there was a second line of strongpoints behind them. All in all, it was a well-designed defensive system.

Solomon was glad he and his men wouldn’t have to fight their way through it. All they had to do was to reach the ditch, then use the captured Italian picks and shovels they’d been issued to break down the banks. That would convince the Italians that the Matildas were coming. They would have to move their own forces to match them. Stories of the battles further east and the sight of invincible Matildas plowing through the defenses had spread worldwide; the Matilda was now an iconic image of the war being fought here in the desert.

The huge roar of the 15-inch shells seemed to slacken slightly. The three gunboats more than made up for that by hammering a rapid tattoo of sixinch shells into the Italian defenses. Overhead, Solomon heard the drone of a Lysander circling to spot for the artillery fire. As if the sound was the signal for the attack, a blast of whistles ran along the front. The Australian infantry rose to surge forward. Solomon yelled out “Come on you lazy bastards, we’ve got some digging to do.” There was little need for it. His men were already up and out of their jump-off positions.

By the time they reached the antitank ditch, the Italians were beginning to return fire. There was dead ground from rifle and machine gun fire at the foot of the escarpment, but the 65mm howitzers in the strongpoints at the top dropped shells on to the infantry beneath. Solomon’s men were hard at work. Their picks broke up the hardened sand of the trench sides. Others with shovels spread the dirt out to form ramps for the tanks that they hoped the Italians believed were coming.

The light cracks of the 65mm guns were supplemented by the roar of the Italian big guns. A bit down the line from Solomon’s platoon, 150mm shells slammed into a group of Australians who were working on another section of the ditch. Those that weren’t killed outright were buried in the sand as the shells caved the walls in on them.

“Screw this for a game of soldiers. Up and at ’em, lads.”

Solomon didn’t know who had yelled out the words, but its effects were immediate. His men dropped their picks and shovels. They started climbing the embankment. Some grabbed the posts of the wire entanglements to help them make the ascent.

“Stop, get back here!”

Lieutenant Oswin shouted the command. He was speaking to the backs of his platoon, already swarming up the slope. He shook his head and looked at Solomon helplessly. “We’re in command here. I suppose we’d better follow them.”

“Just as safe to go forward as back,” Solomon agreed. He followed his officer up the slope. The platoons on either side of them had already seen his men starting the climb up; they dropped their tools to follow suit. Off to their left, there was a break in the embankment where the coast road led into Bardia. It was blocked by barbed wire entanglements and a concrete redoubt.

The roadblock was already under assault from the Australians. Whatever the brass had thought about this being a simple demonstration, it was turning into a full-blooded assault on what was probably the most heavily defended part of the Italian perimeter.

It was a hard climb up the embankment. Solomon was gasping for breath by the time he reached the top. When he got there, he could see that the Italians had made a bad mistake. The two rows of strongpoints were individually well-sited, but there was too much space between them. They weren’t mutually supporting. Each could be isolated from assistance and taken. There was a well-established drill for that. Each position would be subjected to six-round concentrations from the artillery, while the infantry moved into place. Then, the Bren gunners would keep the defender’s heads down. The grenadiers would move up and start lobbing grenades into the defenses. The concrete walls would keep the fragments in and turn the positions into death traps. With the defenses silenced by the grenades, the riflemen and Bren gunners would move in and take the position. It was a simple drill; well-tried and very effective.

The Australians were having none of it.

They were simply swarming forward, overwhelming the strongpoints with a mad rush. They jumped the concrete walls and killed the defenders with the bayonet. Solomon was appalled. All it would need to turn this situation into a blood-drenched catastrophe was a single Italian officer with the presence of mind to take a brief pause, compose himself and launch a coordinated counterattack. The Australians would be caught out in the open, between the hammer of the counterattack and the anvil of the remaining strongpoints. They’d be lucky to escape with just a massacre. About the only good thing at this point was that the gunfire from offshore had stopped. The Lysander crew overhead must have seen what was happening and radioed an emergency ceasefire order through to the ships.

Solomon was already up with his men, trying to bring them into some sort of order and start the process of reducing the strongpoints in a rational manner. By which, he meant according to the book. He was quick to realize that the book had already been thrown out of the window. Nothing he or Lieutenant Oswin could do would get it back. The only hope now was to keep up the momentum of the assault and not give the Italian officer he feared the moment he would need to get control of the battle.

A brief look around told him two things. One was the tiny number of figures in khaki lying on the ground. For all the insanity of the assault, so far, the casualties were remarkably few. The other was that the Australian breakthrough was spreading sideways, ripping an ever-larger hole in the Italian defenses. Already, the coastal road was being opened up as the defenses fell to simultaneous attacks from front and rear.

Then Solomon saw what he dreaded. Italian tanks. At least a halfdozen of them rumbled towards the milling mass of Australians. His men had no antitank guns; nothing that could stop them. Now it’s our turn, he thought; remembering how the Matildas had crushed the Italian infantry under their treads. The tanks continued to advance. Solomon tried to get his men under control and into the overrun Italian fortifications. There might be antitank guns or rifles there. Now that’s a slim hope at best.

Over on his left, a Bren gun carrier had seen the risk. It tried to engage one of the tanks with a peppering of machine gun fire. Gallant but useless. He doesn’t stand a chance.

One of the Italian tanks fired its turret gun. The Bren gun carrier exploded into a ball of flame. That told Solomon something else. The tanks were M13/40s; better armed and armored than the M11/39s they’d faced earlier. This time, there are no Matildas here to help.

That made it all the more surprising when one of the M13/40s stopped, black smoke belching from its engine compartment. After briefly contemplating the possibility the sight represented divine intervention, Solomon realized that the portees with their twopounders had arrived. They must have made it up the road, he thought Antitank shots snapped out across the battlefield, knocking out one tank after another. Solomon could only see a single portee, but its gun destroyed four of the M13/40s. Then it was hit, silencing the gun.

A second portee entered the battle. It knocked out a fifth tank, sending a cloud of black smoke high into the sky. That portee was destroyed by fire from the sixth tank; the third portee soon knocked the remaining M13/40 out.

The tanks being knocked out in quick succession broke the remaining Italian infantry. They started surrendering as the Australians swarmed through the remaining defenses. The Italian line caved in completely; the way to Bardia was open.

Solomon led his men forward towards the Italian rear area. An Italian soldier, on one of the strongpoints that had been overrun but not cleared, pulled himself out of the ruins. He took over a Breda light machine gun that had been left there. He fired just three rounds before the machine gun jammed. Two hit Joe Solomon in the back, killing him instantly.

“The strongest position on the western side of the perimeter, with the Italians dug in deep along the top of a wadi, tons of wire, MG’s etc, above an ‘unclimable’ slope and the battalion went straight through them on nothing but pluck, pride and ignorance. God bless the buggers.”

Wavell spoke with something very close to reverential awe. The initial reports from the assault on Bardia were in. They told a very different story from the carefully choreographed plan that had been evolved to counter a resolute defense. The battle had descended into chaos, with multiple assaults breaking through the Italian defenses in a variety of directions. It was truly chaotic; a battle with no discernable shape or form.

Wavell had little doubt that in years to come, the historians would draw lines on a map and explain how the various attacks were supporting each other. They might even speculate as to what his basic plan had been. Wavell knew the truth, though; his basic plan had been thrown out of the window within minutes of the attack starting. The battle was being shaped by the troops on the ground. Privately, he had no objection to that. In the swirling madhouse that was the assault on Bardia, the Italian defenses were dissolving.

“We had some problems with 17th Brigade’s assault.”

Maitland Wilson was having a hard time making up his mind about the formless battle that had developed. On one hand, he gloried in the sheer audacity with which the offensive was shredding the Italian Army. What had been intended as a mere raid for supplies and a spoiling action against a later Italian attack was turning into a major offensive that was ripping apart the Italian position in North Africa. On the other hand, if the Italians got their act together, the situation could swing the other way with frightening speed. “They got pinned down by artillery for a while and took a lot of casualties. The battalion support company eventually got the attack moving and they broke through.”

Maitland Wilson hesitated for a moment. The next part was difficult. “We’re taking a lot of prisoners, Archie; thousands of them, in fact. We’re getting the problems of false surrenders again, though. That led to a bad do all around at Strongpoint 24. A company of the 2/7th, backed up by a couple of Matildas, were attacking the position when the Italians hoisted the white flag. As the prisoners were rounded up, one shot the company commander dead, then threw down his rifle and climbed out of the position; smiling broadly, by all accounts.

“The troops didn’t like that, Archie; not at all. They took the law into their own hands. They shot the bugger with a full magazine from a Bren gun, then threw grenades in with the rest of the Italians and bayoneted any survivors.”

“Just because an Italian will knife you for suggesting he is not a gentleman, doesn’t mean he is one.” Wavell thought carefully. “The Italians put up a white flag and then our troops were fired on when they came forward to take the surrender?”

“That’s one way of putting it, Archie.” Maitland Wilson was wary.

“That’s how the official report will put it. The Italians opened fire from under the cover of a white flag and the troops returned fire. Unofficially, make sure the troops involved get the riot act read to them. We can’t have this sort of thing becoming commonplace. It would have been nice to have hanged that Italian for murder; it might put a stop to this false surrender nonsense.” Wavell’s voice hardened while he was speaking.

“There’s another minor problem. Colonel Godfrey is claiming all the credit for 2/6th Infantry Battalion’s assault. Says he saw the opportunity and took advantage of it. Disgraceful case of a CO seeking to make his mark at the expense of his men. Truth is, he lost control of them and they did the job on their own.”

“Well. If we take him at his word, the assault he ‘planned’ was in defiance of the clear instructions he had received, and against all basic military logic and common sense.” Wavell hesitated, aware of the operational and political implications of the situation. “That’s the trouble with the Australians; they just don’t have the experience to season them. Not yet, anyway. An Indian Army battalion wouldn’t have gone out of control like that. But, they did breach the line; so, we’ll leave Godfrey where he is for a while. Jumbo, I want you to have a word with him and haul him over the coals. Get Iven Mackay to speak with him as well. And his brigade commander. You organize the details, Jumbo; you know the drill.”

Maitland Wilson smiled grimly. A series of reprimands from evermore senior officers would ensure that Godfrey never lost control of his men again; or, if he did so, he wouldn’t try and seize the credit for their success. Idly, Maitland Wilson wondered what would have happened had the attack been the disaster military logic suggested it should have been. Godfrey would have been quick to blame his junior officers he guessed. Sly, devious and cunning; the man bears considerable watching.

“I’ll see to it, Archie. 16th and 17th Brigades are through the defenses by now and consolidating. One of the problems is that all the infantry units are severely under strength from detaching PoW guards. Stan Savige’s 17th Brigade is spread out too far to do much more at the moment. 16th Brigade will be launching a night attack once they’ve consolidated, but they’ll be exhausted by tomorrow evening. Iven says we need to move 19th Brigade up to reinforce them both.”

“He’s the man on the spot. Give him a free hand.”

Maitland Smith nodded and noted down the order. “Dickie O’Connor says that his flying column is already south of Tobruk; a place called Bir al Ghabi. There’s a maze of camel tracks, but the column is steering west by compass. There’s a major wadi to the west that is causing some concern, but the column is still expected to make it to Beda Fomm within a week. Then the Italians will have nowhere left to go.”

The flight of a Swordfish could best be described as stately; its evasive maneuvers could only be called majestic. As Lieutenant James MacFleet was all too aware, those characterizations were hardly complimentary when attacking an enemy battlefleet. Even the light patter of antiaircraft fire coming from the Italian ships seemed to be threatening enough. The volume might be small by British standards, but the closing rate was so slow that the gunners seemed to have plenty of time to correct their aim.

The Swordfish torpedo bombers from Eagle were approaching in a wide arc as their scouting line closed in on the Italian ships. MacFleet had a good idea of what they were up against now; the news was only marginally reassuring. There were fewer ships in the formation that the Maryland crews had reported. Three battleships, two heavy cruisers and six destroyers. MacFleet’s navigator had already identified the two cruisers as the Trento and Trieste. Older ships than the heavy cruisers reported by the RAF crews, with much less effective antiaircraft batteries. The eleven Italian ships had only a handful of 90mm guns and 13.2 mm machine guns between them. The volume of fire that they generated was unimpressive to anybody who had seen the Royal Navy’s eight-barrelled pompoms at work.

Another look at the three battleships showed that they had grown only marginally larger as his Swordfish had closed the range. MacFleet had a strange fear that if the Italians turned into the wind, they would actually outrun his Swordfish. Fortunately, with the British aircraft coming in from ahead of the formation, turning away from him would mean heading towards another group of torpedo bombers. The Swordfish crews had been practicing exactly this kind of attack for almost a decade. They were performing a well-known drill that had been methodically refined and perfected. The only slight differences were that the torpedo hanging under their aircraft were live. So was the ammunition being fired at them.

“We’ll take the nearest cruiser.” MacFleet yelled the remark into his speaking tube and got a thumbs-up from his navigator. The Italian heavy ships formed a V. The three battleships lead, and the two heavy cruisers brought up the rear. MacFleet felt sorry for the lead battleship. No matter what orders said, there was an irresistible tendency for crews to drop on the first enemy ship they came to. With the torpedo planes coming in from ahead, the battleship at the point of the V would attract most attention. He had a feeling she was the Conte di Cavour, but the four rebuilt Italian battleships were so similar, it was hard to tell the difference between them.

He kept weaving his Swordfish, trying to throw off the gunners who were hosing machine-gun fire at him. Every few seconds, there was a thud as one of the machine gun bullets hit his aircraft. That really didn’t concern him too much. The wood and fabric-built Swordfish might seem flimsy, but it was resilient enough to take a lot of punishment.

“We got one!” The navigator yelled out the news with glee.

MacFleet sneaked a quick look over to the head of the formation. A great tower of water rose from the stern of the leading Italian battleship. “Right in the arse. That’s got to hurt.”

MacFleet was surprised how quickly he seemed to be moving as he finally closed in on his target. There was a destroyer between him and his chosen cruiser. Tracer fire streamed from its machine guns. He took a quick look; the midships 4.7-inch twin mount that defined her as a member of the Navigatore class. Another quick glance at the battleships that now seemed terribly close yet were also passing behind him showed that a second tower of water had erupted from the already-injured battleship. He would have held the sight longer, but there was another thud. Something hit his aircraft. This one sounded very different. The deep thud of something important getting hit, not the lighter noise of a bullet passing through wood and fabric.

The vibration told him his engine was hurt. Oil starting to spray on to his windscreen suggested the hit was bad. MacFleet abandoned the idea of going for the cruiser and decided to settle for a destroyer. After all, the attack is supposed to hit as many ships as possible wasn’t it? And my Swordfish might not stay airborne long enough to get into a drop position on the cruiser.

A quick check showed he was barely 300 yards from the destroyer and in a near-perfect position just off the bow. Turning away from him would present the destroyer’s broadside to his torpedo; turning into him would mean that closure speed was so high, the torpedo would hit before the destroyer could escape. He corrected the angle slightly and released the torpedo.

It ran straight and true, hitting the destroyer dead under the midships gun mounting. For a sickening moment, MacFleet thought it had malfunctioned and sunk without exploding. Then the column of water erupted around the destroyer. Only for a second, though. The torpedo hit was perfectly placed to detonate the magazine that fed the midships guns. The destroyer vanished in a black and orange fireball. The blast wave threw the damaged Swordfish out of control and nearly tossed her into the sea. MacFleet only just managed to get her back in hand. He felt sure a wingtip at least had dipped in the water. The aircraft was still flying despite the blast damage and the smoke streaming from its engine.

“Give us a course for home, Harry.” The voice tube at least was still working.

“Try 180 for a few minutes. I’ll give you a course as soon as I get a hit from the ’79.”

That was the Royal Navy’s secret weapon, a homing beacon that would allow her carrier aircraft to make their way back. For a battered and damaged aircraft, it was a gift beyond price. MacFleet wondered if other navies had similar equipment, but dismissed the thought. He had a damaged aircraft to worry about.

Admiral Inigo Campioni hauled himself back on to his feet as the Conte di Cavour rocked from the third torpedo hit she had taken. Off to port, a tower of water beside the Guilio Cesare showed that she too had suffered at the hands of the infernal torpedo-bombers that were breaking his fleet apart.

“Sir, the Nicolo Zeno has blown up!”

The lookout’s report confused Admiral Campioni. They were under air attack. It was supposed to be impossible to torpedo a destroyer moving at full speed and taking evasive action. He looked across the fleet. A black pyre of smoke told him the report was correct. One of the Swordfish torpedo bombers was on fire as it crossed Campioni’s field of vision. He watched the crew jumping from the open cockpit. They were far too low for their parachutes to open and far too high to stand a real chance of surviving the jump without a parachute. He guessed they’d decided it was better to jump than burn. The Swordfish wallowed for a split second and then it bellied into the water. The pyre it made drifted through the formation of ships and was left behind in their wake.

“Brave men.” Campioni did not grudge the tribute to the pilots and crews of the old biplanes. He was under no illusions about the weakness of his antiaircraft fire, but flying so slowly into the tracers still needed cold nerve. The British pilots had that; skill, too. His listing, crippled flagship was a clear tribute to that.

“Sir, Guilio Cesare has been hit again. She’s signalling she is out of control.”

Campioni looked aft towards where Guilio Cesare was starting to circle helplessly. Another ship with a torpedo in the screws. The British pilots aren’t just hitting my ships; they’re putting the torpedoes where they will hurt the most. Damn them. There was a light rattle as machine gun fire struck the bridge. One of the Swordfish had actually had the gall to strafe him as it passed. The single Lewis gun was unlikely to do any real damage. It would take the foulest of foul luck for it to hurt anybody, but it was the thought behind it that counted. He felt the ship shudder slightly under his feet. Campioni thought she had been hit again, but it was the echoes of a distant blow.

“It’s over, sir.” His flag Lieutenant sounded relieved. “We have taken three hits, Guilio Cesare two, Trento two, Trieste one and Nicolo Zeno one. The destroyer has gone and Trento is sinking fast. “

Nine hits out of 15 torpedoes. Just who were those pilots? “How many aircraft did we shoot down?”

“Three sir, with two more seen flying away badly damaged. Andrea Doria is trying to get Guilio Cesare under tow.”

“What about us?” Campioni was shocked at how much damage the small formation of bombers had wrought on his fleet.

“Sir, the damage control crews report that the torpedo protection system has failed completely. All three torpedoes hit the same side and they cannot stop the flooding. We can limit the list if we counterflood but doing so will mean our remaining machinery room will be lost. We’re sinking, sir.” The damage control officer sounded hopeless and defeated. “All we can do is to buy the time needed to get the crew off the ship. The destroyers can pick us up.”

Campioni could feel his ship was going down. The rolling motion under his feet was getting consistently more sluggish. She was rolling reluctantly, but each successive recovery from the rolls was even more reluctant. The list at the end of each was just that little bit worse. Soon, she wouldn’t stop the roll and she would capsize.

“Make it so. Get the men off. Make sure the crew in the engine and boiler rooms know what is to happen. What about Trieste?”

The Flag Officer took over the reports again. “She’s dead in the water now, but Captain Avila reports she should be able to make five knots in a quarter of an hour and fifteen within the hour. He requests permission to head for port since it is proving hard to stop the flooding.”

That should not surprise anybody. The Trentos were built so lightly that they get shaken up by their own guns, let alone torpedo hits. “Tell him to proceed at his own speed and at his own discretion. Andrea Doria is to take Guilio Cesare under tow and make for Taranto. I will transfer my flag to her. With five destroyers left in operational condition and those crowded with survivors, our part in this is over.”

Campioni looked at his mauled fleet again and shook his head, thinking of the crew he had seen jump from their burning Swordfish. God help me, I would be honored to shake the hands of those men.

“Here comes another one!”

The chorus of cheers from the bridge of the carrier marked the appearance of another Swordfish returning from the strike. The first few aircraft back were already below, sitting in the hangar while they were repaired, rearmed and refuelled. The day was still early and there was the possibility of launching another mission. It all depended on what the pilots had to report.

The Swordfish making its approach was in serious trouble. It was streaming thick black smoke from its engine and its progress was unsteady. On Eagle’s flight deck, emergency crews were getting ready to deal with the crash landing that seemed all too probable. The aircraft seemed to slip sideways and lurch down; then it recovered. It shook some more as it crossed the turbulence behind the carrier deck. Again, it seemed to falter, but the pilot caught it just in time. Then, his aircraft dropped on to the flight deck. Its arrester hook snagged a wire. The Swordfish came to a halt, quickly surrounded by emergency crews. They doused the smoking engine with foam. A cheer went up from the watchers lining Goofer’s Gallery as the pilot jumped down. It turned to a roar of appreciative laughter; he knelt down and kissed the deck.

“V4373. That’s Jim MacFleet Take him off the strike list, he won’t be able to fly that kite again today.”

The Pegasus engine on the aircraft was obviously wrecked. It was questionable if a replacement was available. It was rumored that Illustrious and her escorting destroyers had arrived in Gibraltar loaded down with all the spare parts and supplies that could be physically stuffed into them. Despite that, spares were in short supply. Eagle’s aircraft were a quickly-declining asset. Nobody knew for sure what, if anything, would be coming out of Britain or when. The same problem was cropping up in all sorts of unexpected places. Without Britain as a source of supply, there was a slow, creeping paralysis of the equipment that was still in service.

Beneath the Goofer’s Gallery, the damaged Swordfish was already being pushed towards a lift so it could be struck down for repair. On the horizon, another Swordfish was already starting to make its landing approach. Just how long Eagle could continue to operate her aircraft was a question that was starting to worry a lot of people.

“Eagle is claiming two battleships, two cruisers and a destroyer sunk, sir.” The lieutenant had the message flimsy in his hands and was waving it around in what seemed to be near-triumph.

Admiral Cunningham looked at the young officer with a certain level of severity. The Lieutenant was brash, to the point of being insubordinate, and was never afraid to speak his mind. Neither trait seemed to be very favorable to the prospect of a successful naval career. Nevertheless, Cunningham believed that he would go far; it was just that he wasn’t sure whether it would be to the top of His Majesty’s Navy or to one of his prisons. Still, one had to make allowances for anybody cursed with a surname like Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glucksberg. How did a Greek end up with a name like that? he wondered.

“And why is my searchlight officer bringing messages to the bridge?”

“Casting light on the situation, sir.” The lieutenant seemed quite unabashed by the question from the commander of the Mediterranean Fleet. “Signals is swamped, sir, with all the traffic coming in, and are out of runners. I was passing, so I was just helped out.”

“Hmph.” Cunningham wasn’t quite certain whether that was commendable or not, but there was much to be said for an officer who wasn’t reluctant to help out another department in an emergency. Especially with a message as important as this one. “We had another message from the RAF a few minutes ago. They say that the Italian battle squadron is retiring on the naval base at Taranto with three large and five small ships. How do you reconcile the two messages?”

“I’d assume that either the debriefing on Eagle or the RAF made a pig’s breakfast of things, sir. Probably, both of them. The important thing is what they both say; the Italian Battlefleet has been hit hard and is retiring.”

Well, that was probably accurate, if tactless, Cunningham thought. And he got the crux of the matter right. Eaglesent the battle squadron running for port with their tails between their legs. That means that the Italian convoy is wide open.

“Quite. Captain Fisher, make to the rest of the squadron that they are to form on us and prepare for a night action.” Cunningham looked at the four light cruisers and four destroyers that surrounded Warspite and couldn’t help but reflect that the battleship looked rather like a nanny surrounded by her charges. “Make 23 knots and steer to intercept the Italian convoy. We want to hit them after dusk, so we can hunt them all down before dawn. I had expected to spend most of the day beating off air attacks, but we haven’t seen a single aircraft. This is most encouraging. Lieutenant, get to your searchlights and make sure your crews are ready. Much may depend on you tonight.”

“There they are.” Charles Cussans sounded triumphant from his position in the glazed nose of the Maryland. In the gathering gloom, the merchant ships far below were hard to see, but he had managed to spot them. It was, perhaps, symbolic of the rapidly changing fortunes in the Middle East that the Marylands that had been brought in as bombers now spent most of their time as reconnaissance aircraft. The Commonwealth problem now wasn’t beating the Italians; it was finding them, so they could be beaten.

“Get the position.” Relaying it to the fleet was the top priority. In the cockpit, Sean Mannix knew that four cruisers and a round halfdozen destroyers were closing in on that convoy. There were even rumors that they had a battleship along, in case of heavy opposition, and that Andy Cunningham himself was in charge. Even as a long-term, RAF, career professional, he had to admit that the situation had promise.

“Got it.” Cussans read off a string of numbers. They were sent out almost immediately. The message had to go to Cairo, then taken to the Naval section there and retransmitted to the fleet, but that wasn’t going to be a problem. What the numbers essentially said was that the Italian convoy was where it was expected to be.

“They’re firing down there.”

The flash of fire from the antiaircraft guns on the ships down below was almost invisible; the operative word was ‘almost’. Cussans had seen them.

The warning gave Mannix the opportunity for some sudden evasive action. The Maryland bounced from the shell bursts, but none of the explosions inflicted any damage. Below them, the rapidly-approaching night masked the formation of ships. It was time to go home.

“Good job, Cussans. As a special reward, you can natter on the intercom while we head for home.” Mannix smiled to himself. He’d sat in the bombardier’s position on his Maryland and realized just how lonely and isolated it was down there. That was a problem with the Martin aircraft; it was a hot-rod but its fuselage was extremely cramped. The three members of the crew were pretty much isolated from take-off to landing. Chattering on the intercom helped to relieve the isolation. Mannix had written a report for the high-ups drawing attention to the problem and discussing the good and bad points of the American design. He doubted if it would do any good, but one never knew.

He was seeing into the future as well as the nighttime darkness, Admiral Cunningham had no doubt about that. The equipment was crude and its performance needed to improve a lot before it would become an essential aid. More importantly, the Navy would have to learn how to use the tools properly. At the moment, they were still floundering around, trying to get the system perfected. Yet for all that, the radar equipment fitted to Warspite had spotted the enemy convoy and allowed the Commonwealth formation to make its approach unseen. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

“Range to primary target?” The flagship of the convoy was the heavy cruiser Bolzano, presumably along to provide heavy gun cover against a raid.

The covering force, now on its way back to Taranto, was supposed to deal with anything more than a small attack, so a single heavy cruiser was good insurance. Or, so it seemed; Cunningham actually had the gravest doubts about the whole concept of ‘distant cover’. To his way of thinking, the battle would evolve so fast that a ‘distant cover’ squadron wouldn’t be able to react in time.

“Five thousand yards, sir.”

That sounded frighteningly close. The big thing about radar was that didn’t just tell people what was there; it told the lookouts where to concentrate their attention. Technically, lookouts could easily spot a target at this range; on a dark night, with no moon and against blacked-out ships, reality was different from theory. Knowing where to look made all the difference.

“Very well. Open fire.”

What happened next happened so fast and so perfectly that it could only have been the result of long practice and fingers waiting anxiously on firing switches. Warspite’s searchlights snapped on, perfectly illuminating the unsuspecting Italian cruiser. Every detail of her superstructure stood out in the glaring white light. A split second later, Warspite’s four-inch antiaircraft guns cracked out starshells that burst over the cruiser, further bathing her in light. Her eight fifteen-inch guns, already levelled at their target, crashed out, sending the great projectiles slamming into Bolzano’s hull. All eight hit; a spectacular sight that silenced everybody on the bridge. Bolzano staggered under the blows, reeling as they penetrated deep into her. The explosions didn’t just belch orange flame. They sent huge chunks of the ship’s structure spiralling skywards as the blast ripped Bolzano apart at the seams. The cruiser was out of the battle; she would be hard-put to survive.

Down in Warspite’s turrets, a well-ordered drill had started. Hoists lifted the shells themselves and the bags of propellent up to the guns. Rams then pushed them into the breach. As each gun was readied, a green light went on in the fire control room. Tiny realignments shifted the positions of the gun turrets slightly. Then a finger closed the switch; all eight guns fired again. The cycle time had been twenty seconds.

It was only a split second longer than that before the second devastating broadside tore into the dying Italian cruiser. Cunningham saw her gun turrets hurled high into the air by the blast, spinning and spiralling as they flew upwards. Perhaps mercifully, the sight was masked by the sudden shutdown of the searchlights. Bolzano now was only illuminated by the starshells and the red glow of the fires engulfing her.

Cunningham became fixated by the sight. The brilliant glare of the searchlights illuminating a destroyer was a shock. The destroyer seemed to be turning to engage the British battleship. She had been caught by the searchlights halfway through the turn. Warspite’s sixinch secondary battery opened fire. The first salvo straddled the destroyer; the second gave the brilliant red flash of direct hits. The third salvo must have been fired. If it had been, it was lost in the roar of Warspite’s main battery sending its third broadside into the blazing wreck of Bolzano.

“Order the convoy to scatter, immediately.” Rear Admiral Ferdinando Casardi was horrified by the sudden discovery that there was a battleship attacking his convoy. More to the point, battleships never appeared alone. There are cruisers and destroyers out there and they will tear us apart.

“Order the Bande Nere and the destroyers to join us in attacking the enemy and holding them off while the merchant ships make a run for safety.”

“Sir, Grecale has been hit by fire from the battleship’s secondary batteries.”

And so it begins. Casardi realized that a major disaster was already in the making. Bolzano was a pyre of smoke and flame. Even from this range, he could see her disintegrating as the British battleship pounded her with another salvo. Does that make it four or five full broadsides she has taken? Does it matter? She’s finished.

“Grecale is returning fire.” The lookout was trying to keep his voice under control, but the tinge of sheer, blind panic was already working his way into the reports. “She’s lit up, sir.”

The Italian destroyer was starkly visible in the black of the night, standing out in the white tracks across the water created by the British searchlights. Whoever was operating them was a master of his craft. The searchlights would flick on for a few seconds. Just long enough for the starshell crews to drop their rounds around her and then the searchlights would go off. Once they did so, the battleship seemed to vanish into the night again.

It was Grecale’s turn again. She was already burning. That was her doom; the fires made an excellent point of aim for the British gunners. Grimly, Casardi realized that was the one hope the merchant ships, already turning away from the attack, would have. The first ships to get hit will attract all the fire. That buys time for the rest. There is a sacrifice that has to be made.

“Searchlights on. Bearing oh-nine-oh.”

Casardi had made a quick guess at the position of the British cruisers and destroyers. He wanted his lights on to try and fix a target while he still had the guns to engage them. More importantly, he had to draw the British fire away from the merchantmen.

Bartolomeo Colleoni’s searchlights snapped on, but the sea they illuminated was empty. To some extent, they achieved their purpose, though. For around him, he saw the orange flare of British guns. Eight guns per ship. Does that mean they are eight-inch Counties or sixinch Leanders? And does it matter? My Colleoniwas designed to fight French destroyers, not British cruisers. Our armor won’t keep out either shell. That was when the world got very bright. Casardi realized what the British were up to. The battleship is using her searchlights to illuminate targets and her armor to absorb any fire we can throw at her when she gives her position away by doing so. Meanwhile, the cruisers and destroyers stay in the darkness to fire on us.

He felt Colleoni lurch under his feet. Her guns fired on the muzzle flashes of the British cruisers. She took a deeper and much more serious roll; a pattern of sixinch shells smacked into her amidships. He felt his cruiser dying. The vibration from the engines and the movement of the ship slackened as the hits took out her engine rooms.

“Keep firing under local control.”

There was another brilliant flash from off to port. For a horrible moment, Casardi thought another British battleship had joined the fight. Then he realized that it was the Bande Nere. She’d been torpedoed. The explosion had torn the hull, one optimized for speed, not strength, in two. It was barely five minutes into the action. Already, all three Italian cruisers were crippled or dying.

This was what every cruiser captain lived for. Captain John Augustine Collins watched the eight sixinch guns on his cruiser hammer the Italian ship trapped in the glare of Warspite’s searchlights. He’d fired three half-broadsides, patterns of four shells in quick sequence, that laddered the target and got the guns ranged in. Now he was pouring full eight-gun broadsides into the cruiser’s hull. She was already burning and slowing notably. As she did, the ripples of hits along her hull seemed to grow in intensity, outlining her hull with orange fire. The Italians always made much of the speed of their cruisers, he thought. The day they make one that’s faster than a shell, I’ll believe they have a good idea.

“Is that Eye-tie trying to commit suicide?” Collin’s executive officer seemed bemused by the spectacle.

“He’s drawing our fire. Very well, too. Buying time for the convoy to scatter and escape. A brave man is dying over there, Billy.”

His comment was interrupted by the splash of shell patterns all around him. Sydney’s crew were well-rehearsed. The shooter was illuminated by her searchlights before she could get a second salvo out. Sydney’s four-inch guns fired almost as quickly and with deadly accuracy. Two brilliant red flashes lit up the destroyer’s stern, tearing into the two twin mounts there and starting the dull red glow of fire.

“Cease firing; that’s Mohawk!” Collins had recognized the big destroyer with her eight guns almost as soon as she had been illuminated.

“And get those lights off her.”

It was too late. In the brief seconds Mohawk had been illuminated, an Italian destroyer seized the opportunity to fire her torpedoes. One hit Mohawk directly under the forward gun mounts; the second in the aft machinery spaces.

Columns of water blew skywards, enveloping the ship. Mohawk was finished. Collins knew that; no destroyer built could take two well-placed torpedoes. She was already coming to a halt and settling fast; her crew going over the side in a hurried ‘abandon ship’.

Collins swung his attention back to the light cruiser being hammered by his sixinch guns. She was already silenced and listing rapidly; a floating wreck being left behind as the Commonwealth ships pushed through the Italian screen to the merchant ships beyond. The flares of the sixinch shells hitting her were suddenly swamped by a series of massive explosions, as Warspite brought her 15-inch guns to bear. Then those blasts too were dwarfed; the Italian cruiser’s magazines exploded.

“We can worry about picking up survivors later.”

Nubian and Mohawk had been flotilla mates for a long time, and the crews of the big Tribal class destroyers tended to stick closely together. Leaving the crew of Mohawk behind came hard. Commander Mason tore his eyes away from the sinking wreck of Nubian’s sister-ship and stared into the darkness. The brilliant displays of starshell and searchlights, combined with the angry glare of shells and heavy gunfire, had effectively destroyed his night vision. Even so, the patch of darkness ahead of him seemed a bit more solid than the rest. When the darkness resolved itself into the shape of an Italian destroyer, Mason realized what had happened.

The destroyer saw Mohawk illuminated and fired her torpedoes. Then, she sheered away in an effort to clear the launch point. A sound and sensible maneuver. She couldn’t turn one way because that would bring her into Sydney’s arc of fire so she went the other and that put her right across my bows.

“Stand by for collision. Brace for impact!” Mason only just managed to get the order out. Nubian slammed into the center-section of the Italian destroyer, just aft of the single funnel. For a brief second, Mason saw the letters FG painted on the destroyer’s bows, identifying her as the Folgore. Then the sight was masked out as Nubian’s bows rose over the Italian ship.

Folgore seemed to be writhing under the impact, reminding Mason of a snake being crushed under a boot. Then Nubian slammed down; the Italian destroyer’s back snapped under the stress. Nubian’s momentum carried her forward, completing the job of cutting Folgore in half. Folgore’s own momentum carried her onwards, twisting Nubian’s bows to one side. There was a scream of tortured steel as Nubian’s bows detached. Then silence. Both destroyers were dead in the water. Folgore was already sinking fast. The crew aboard the larger and more toughly-built Nubian swarmed into the ruined bows, trying to reinforce shattered bulkheads and staunch the floods pouring in through the riven forward hull.

“We’re through.” Collins looked at the situation plot with unalloyed pleasure. The chaos of the night battle was falling behind. Warspite, Neptune and Orion, plus the two remaining British destroyers, slugged it out with what was left of the Italian escort. Sydney and Perth, along with five Australian destroyers, were past that battle and racing towards the merchant ships, who were undoubtedly scattering. The task left was simple; hunting the merchant ships down, one by one, and sinking them.

This isn’t a battle; this will be an execution, Collins thought. He wished, for a moment, he and his ships were back in the fight with the escort, facing a real enemy that could defend itself.

“Captain, Waterhen reports she has sighted one of the merchant ships and is firing torpedoes.” There was no need to report a location; off to port, torpedoes exploded against a darkened hull. “And a message from Warspite, sir. The enemy transports are to the west and south of us and we are to form our movements accordingly.”

And so it starts. Collins thought grimly. Twenty-plus defenseless merchant ships loaded with men and supplies being hunted down by two cruisers and five destroyers. This will be bloody. Then he glanced down just in time to see the chronometer click past midnight and in to the next day.

“Merry Christmas, everybody.”

“Rachael, could you come into the kitchen for a moment please?” May Newton stuck her head around the kitchen door, smiling to herself when she saw her son’s guest hastily move a little further away from him. The two women went into the kitchen where the smell of dinner cooking dominated everything else. “I just wanted to show you what we have for Christmas dinner in case there’s anything that will cause you problems. We’ve got vegetable soup to start off with, followed by a chicken with vegetables from Ernie’s allotment and the nearest we could get to a Christmas pudding. I made sure there’s no pork in anything, but I didn’t know what else to look out for. We’ve never had a Jew in the house before.”

“That sounds delicious. You got a chicken? In spite of rationing?” Rachael was impressed.

“Ernie got a load of brussel sprouts and potatoes from his allotment, so we traded them for a chicken. There’s a lot of trading like that going on in small villages like this. Black market, some people call it. We just say we’re going down to the corner. Oh, there’s stuffing for the chicken as well. Bread mixed with onions and chopped-up carrots.” May Newton had left the sausage out of the stuffing in deference to her guest’s religion.

“Could I help you out here?” Rachael was aware that her status as a guest was causing a burden on these people, but she’d been unable to go back down to her parents in London and didn’t want to spend the holiday alone in Nottingham. David Newton’s invitation to come for Christmas dinner had been a blessing in more ways than one.

“If you could help me carry out, that would be wonderful. Mind your dress, though; who knows when clothes will come off the ration.”

The chicken worked out perfectly. David Newton and his father had a leg each, while Rachael and May Newton shared the wings and breast. The bird may have ‘come off the ration,’ but the attitudes generated by rationing and shortages still applied. The chicken was picked clean. Halfway through the meal, Ernie Newton asked a question his son had been quietly dreading.

“Decided who to vote for if there’s another election, Rachael?” David knew that Rachael was either a communist or a very radical socialist. His father was a local Conservative councillor. He could see the prospect for a major argument looming, but Rachael just shook her head sadly. “I could never vote for That Man, after what he did.”

“Aye, there’s a lot around here who think that way. Farmers are conservative folk but they can’t stomach what That Man did. There’ll be many voting Liberal, or even Labour, next election.

Three hours later, the food had been eaten and presents exchanged. It was an austere Christmas; the exchange of gifts had tended towards the severely practical. May Newton gave her husband a spade for his allotment. David Newton had managed to find a box of scented soaps for Rachael. The two women were in the kitchen clearing up, while Newton and his father had quiet drink together. It was the first time that David Newton had been invited to have a whisky with his father.

“That’s a good girl you got there. I’ll be honest, lad; your mother and I were a bit worried when you said you were walking out with a Jewess, but now that we’ve met her, we can see how nice she is.” Ernie Newton was reflective and a little hesitant. “Look, son, man-to-man. Since your brother’s away in North Africa, we’ll put Rachael in his room tonight. There’ll be no creeping around after dark, will there? That would upset your mother.”

“Rachael’s a good Jewish girl, Dad. Very old-fashioned in some ways. You and Mum have nothing to worry about.”

“Glad to hear it. Like I said, you’ve got yourself a nice girl there. Now, call your mother and her in and we’ll listen to the King’s Speech. Or, rather, what That Man will let the King say.”

“Merry Christmas, Mister Secretary.” The Ambassador entered Cordell Hull’s suite at the Oriental Hotel with some brightly-wrapped packages in her arms. “We are all so sorry you are spending the festival away from your family, but we hope it is some consolation that your sacrifices will be of benefit to both our countries.”

Hull watched as she unloaded the presents on the side table. “I didn’t know Buddhist people celebrated Christmas?”

“We don’t, not as a religious event. But, we are a hedonistic people. For us, a good excuse to have a party is not to be wasted.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “And we like to give presents to people. By spreading some joy, we make merit for ourselves and thus improve our status in our next lives.”

“May I open my gifts now?” Hull was actually nonplussed by the situation. He was well aware that he was regarded as a hostile party by the Thais and honest enough to admit they had good cause to adopt that position. “I am afraid I didn’t think to get any gifts for people here.”

“Please go ahead. And do not concern yourself; this is a day for merriment. All over the country, people will be going to visit their friends and gathering in the market places to exchange small gifts and greetings. If you wish, we can go and visit a local market where you can try out some of our local delicacies. Those who own stalls serving food will be making a special effort today.”

The Ambassador looked pointedly at a seat and Hull reprimanded himself for undiplomatic discourtesy. I don’t trust this woman, but rudeness will achieve nothing.

“Please take a seat, Madam Ambassador. You have been most kind; I really don’t know what to say. May I offer you some refreshments? I can send down for some.”

“I think you will find that room service is somewhat below its usual self today.” The Ambassador’s voice was droll. “The staff will also be celebrating. The working people of this country have little enough time off; perhaps we should let them enjoy it?”

Hull bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “A considerate thought, madam. How did you know my preferred brands of cigars and whisky?”

“I am expected to know such things. But, we did include one thing that is perhaps a little undiplomatic. We understand your father made his own whiskey, so we included a bottle of the whiskey we brew here. We thought you might like to compare the products of our moonshiners with yours.”

Hull chuckled delightedly. “An excellent idea, madam. Perhaps, when I return home, I could send you some jars of… ”

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He picked it up, listened for a few seconds and then handed the receiver over. “It is your office, Madam Ambassador. They apologize, but say it is very urgent.”

The Ambassador took the receiver and listened carefully. Her face froze into an expressionless mask. Eventually, she put the receiver down and spoke, slowly and carefully, with a complete lack of intonation. “We have just received the promised reply to your diplomatic initiative from the French authorities in Indochina. Four French Farman bombers have just dropped ten tons of bombs on the border town of Aranyaprathet. The bombs hit the marketplace that was crowded with people celebrating Christmas. There are many killed and wounded; how many, I do not yet know. Please excuse me, Mister Secretary, I must go there immediately.”

“May I come with you?” Hull was shocked by the news. If what I have just been told is true, it puts an entirely new slant on the whole situation. This is what the Japanese are doing in China.

The Ambassador hesitated, slightly confused by the sudden change in events. She had been expecting a French-inspired incident, ever since Hull had sent his diplomatic message to Hanoi a week earlier. She had not expected a bombing raid on Christmas Day. Once again, she marvelled at the way the French authorities appeared to be cooperating with their own destruction. “I think so. I’ll have to arrange fighter escort for the transport aircraft, if you are on board.”

She picked up the telephone again and dialled a number; speaking quickly once the receiver had been lifted at the other end. Listening, Hull caught the change in her voice. The polite, deferential tone was dropped and orders were snapped out. He had noticed this before with Thai women; once, in a very rare while, their mask of polite deference dropped and they gave orders that were to be obeyed. Things were not as they seemed on the surface; Hull was the happier for knowing that.

“There will be a Boeing 247 waiting for us at Don Muang. It is being loaded with emergency medical supplies for Aranyaprathet. The seats are being taken out so it can carry more. We will have to sit on the boxes. I hope that is all right? Also, our elite fighter squadron, FKP60, is getting three of its Hawk 75 fighters flown here to escort us, as soon as they can get the pilots in from their leave. We will depart as soon as they arrive.

“Sitting on the boxes will be fine, Madam.” Hull hesitated. “May I use the telephone, please? I wish to call our Consulate and arrange for the United States to donate some additional aid to the victims at Aranyaprathet.”

Suriyothai nodded. “That is a very kind gesture, Mister Secretary. On behalf of my people, I thank you.” Inwardly, Suriyothai felt a fierce glee. One more piece had just fallen into place.

“Christmas presents, Archie.” Maitland Wilson had a beaming smile on his face. “Lots of Christmas presents.”

“Do tell, Jumbo. What have we got?”

“Well, from 6th Australian we have Bardia. The Italian garrison capitulated last night. According to Division, they’ve captured seven acres of officers and 22 acres of other ranks. We’re pushing 200,000 prisoners now; how we’re going to feed them all, I don’t know. Then, we have a nice package from 7th Armoured Division. They have surrounded Tobruk, while their flying column has seized Beda Fomm. The whole of the Italian North African Army is now surrounded in Cyrenaica with their ports of supply either captured or under siege.

“Let’s see, what else have we? Oh yes, Andy Cunningham has reported in. The Navy really did give the Italians a trousering in the Strait of Otranto. Sank a battleship, four cruisers and five destroyers, with another battleship and two more destroyers badly hurt. We lost a destroyer and three aircraft, with a cruiser and another destroyer in a bad way. The Italian convoy got scuppered; at least a dozen merchant ships sunk and more damaged. Bill Slim’s Indians have broken through at Keren and are advancing quickly on Asmara. We’ll have Eritrea wrapped up in a day or so. Ethiopia? Well, the South Africans are advancing on Addis Abeba from the south and the Indians from the north. We’re expecting one or both to get there in a day or so. Kenya is cleared; all the Somalilands are occupied. It’s a clean sweep, Archie. In two weeks, we’ve pretty much destroyed the Italian position in North and East Africa.”

Wavell stood and stared at the map on the wall of his office, a great sense of relief pervading his soul. The tremendous gamble he had taken had paid off. Egypt was secure. That meant the Noth Plan had taken a serious blow, with its southern supporting thrust neutralized. After losses like the ones the Italian Army had taken, they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a long time.

“I got a message from London, Jumbo. Very impolite one, as it happens. According to London, all our operations here are in defiance of their specific orders and contravene common sense.”

“Well, Archie, we can’t really disagree with the first part and Operation Compass in particular does look insane, unless one realizes that only armored and motorized units matter in desert warfare. So I would say That Man has a point, so far.” Maitland Wilson beamed owlishly at Wavell.

“Perhaps, Jumbo; perhaps. But he demands we cease operations immediately before, and I quote, ‘you are sent running like rats.’ End of quote. It looks like the final break with London is very near.”

“Rats, eh. That explains something; the contents of that telegram must have leaked out. Have you seen the new insignia for aircraft?” Wavell shook his head. Maitland Wilson produced a series of pictures.

“Basically, the Commonwealth nations have agreed on new markings for our aircraft. We’re all keeping the traditional blue, white and red roundel, but replacing the red dot in the middle with a stylized red symbol for each nation. A maple leaf for Canada, a gazelle for South Africa, a kangaroo for Australia, a kiwi for New Zealand, a Chakra for India and so on. And, for us…”

Maitland Wilson held up the picture. “A jerboa. We’re now officially the Desert Rats.”

“There is a motorized column approaching.” Subedar Shabeg Singh spoke thoughtfully. “I might suspect it was Italian, since Sululta is of critical importance, but I might also think that care is of the highest importance here. We are drawn to Sululta for the same reasons that the Italians would wish to defend it, but those same reasons again will draw the South Africans here.”

4th Battalion of the 11th Sikh Regiment was on a small hill, just over a mile from the town. The position towered some 200 feet over the surrounding terrain; it gave a panoramic view of the countryside. That view showed why Sululta was so important. The town was built around a five-way crossroads and had two independent sources of water. It also occupied a pass through the low mountain ridges that ran across the terrain. A combined pass, water source and communications center; that made it a worthy prize.

“What do you think we should do now, Shabeg?” Major Joel Hamby was looking at the column with interest.

“I am thinking that this is a good time to let the situation mature. If the column is hostile, it may well stop in the town. That would give us only one target to attack. If it does not stop in the town, waiting will bring it in closer to us and make our initial attack more effective. If it is friendly, it will occupy the town with some fighting and save us the trouble. All the ways I think of this, I see only benefit from waiting and none from pressing the issue.”

“I agree.” Hamby nodded. “To let the situation mature is the best decision. It nearly always is. The column has lorries and armored cars. Fourwheeled armored cars.”

“I think that makes it likely to be South African. The Italians would have those little tankettes. But it is still better to allow the situation to mature. Perhaps it might be in order to alert the men, so that we can move to the aid of the South Africans if they run into trouble down there.” Singh looked again. “I am certain those are Morris armored cars.”

“I think you’re right. I’d say that column is going to attack the encampment, wouldn’t you?”

No reply was necessary. The lorries and armored cars were already spreading out south of the tree-shrouded encampment that dominated the southern approach to Sululta. It was hard to make out the exact details of what was happening due to the dust and heat shimmer, but Singh could imagine the infantry leaving their lorries and spreading out to attack the position. The only thing that puzzled him was why they were taking so long about it. The answer to that question was quickly forthcoming; the drone of aircraft engines.

Six Blenheims skimmed over the ridge to the south of Sululta and made straight for the encampment. The attack had obviously been carefully planned. The pattern of bombs exploded all over the presumably Italian position. It vanished in a cloud of dirt and smoke. One or two of the bombs had overshot the position and exploded in the housing areas beyond. Measured against the vast expanse of Africa, the little hundred-pounders seemed to be insignificant. Singh doubted the recipients felt that way about them.

The South Africans started to move forward as soon as the bombs fell. Their armored cars snapped out bursts from their machine guns and rounds from their Boys Rifles. Singh was so busy watching the attack in progress, he forgot about the Blenheims. Hamby discretely drew his attention back to one of them; one that was circling the position of the 11th Sikhs on the hill.

“I suspect a recognition flare might be in order right now, old chap. Red then blue.”

Singh got out the flare gun, checked the cartridge was of the correct type and then loaded it into the flare gun. The Blenheim overhead had reached the end of its run. It turned back to inspect the troops in more detail. The flare arched upwards, at first brilliant red, then turning to a dark blue. It was hard to see against the sky, so he loaded and fired a second flare. The Blenheim pilot was obviously confused. He circled the hilltop. Singh was about to fire a third flare when Hamby put his hand over the flaregun.

“I wouldn’t do that. He can’t see the blue flare against the sky and he’s only got the red part to go by. I bet he’s not sure whether it is a recognition flare or tracer fire from the ground. The more flares we put up, the more likely it is he’ll decide they are tracers.”

“I am thinking the man who decided on blue flares was a fatherless fool.” Singh watched the Blenheim make another circuit of his position.

“I am thinking you are right.”

Overhead the Blenheim straightened out. The pilot waggled his wings before heading south. Hamby and Singh breathed a sigh of relief. They took a look at the scene down by the encampment. While they had been dealing with the suspicious Blenheim, the Italians had surrendered. The South Africans were occupying the encampment and spreading into the town.

“We had better go down there and introduce ourselves.”

A few minutes later, the leading section of the Sikh battalion was driving into Sululta. The South Africans had their vehicles parked in the shade. That left the Sikhs to park theirs on the sunny side of the street. Singh and Hamby got out and walked over to the South Africans, who were relaxing. As soon as they approached, the relaxed attitude vanished. One South African jumped to his feet and saluted smartly.

“Sir, Sergeant Dirk Klaas, Natal Mounted Rifles. Welcome to Sululta. The crabs warned us you were coming.

“Crabs?” Singh asked quietly.

“Royal Air Force.” Hamby replied equally quietly. “Major Hamby and Subadar Singh, 4th Battalion, 11th Sikhs. My compliments on a wellexecuted attack, Sergeant; we were watching from the hill.”

“The Italians aren’t resisting too much, sir. They’re afraid if they drive us back, the kaffir irregulars will get them.” Klaas realized what he had said and flushed slightly. “Sorry, sir. But the Italians are deathly afraid of the irregulars. We’ve seen a couple of them who’d been taken prisoner by the… irregulars. What was left, it didn’t look human. Poor bastards had been skinned alive and that was just the start of it. We shot them; only merciful thing to do.”

“When you’re wounded and layin’ on the Afghan Plains.” Singh quoted the line from Kipling. “We know what you mean, Sergeant. I am thinking, who really wants this place?”

The stench of burned wood and charred flesh surrounded the party as they left the trucks that had brought them in from the airfield. The market place had been devastated. Smoke from the explosions mingled with the smell of explosives. What made the sight worse were the remains of the decorations; colored paper streamers still fluttered in the wreckage. Cordell Hull had seen the effects of bombing raids on cities before, first in Spain and then in China, but the Christmas decorations were a heartbreaking touch he had not expected. Troops moved slowly through the wreckage, trying to find survivors in the shattered ruins of market stalls and food stands.

“We have had word from Nakhon Phanom.” The Ambassador was standing in the shade, watching the troops at work. “Four Potez bombers hit our market place there with three tons of bombs. There is no doubt in my mind that this was a deliberate attack on our civilians. This, here, might have been an accident. Two such attacks, no. They knew our families would be gathered here today.”

“How many?” That was all Hull was able to say, but The Ambassador understood him.

“So far, six dead, forty wounded. Some of those have lost arms and legs. In Nakhon Phanom, only two dead, but about thirty wounded. We are lucky there was no fire here.”

Hull nodded. He picked his way to the center of the market square. He could hear crying and whimpering from the wreckage and hurried to help shift some of the debris. A market stand had collapsed, but the wreckage had formed a triangle. The victims were in the safe zone. A soldier grabbed the other end of a wooden beam and helped Hull get it clear. There were two young children beside the stand; dirty, terrified but unhurt. They blinked in the afternoon sun, then saw the elderly European who had rescued them. Almost by instinct, they made deep wais to their saviors. The boy placed a hand on the back of his younger sister, helping her bow to the correct depth for their relative status. Hull carefully returned the gesture. His throat seized up and his eyes started to moisten as the soldier led them away.

He cleared his throat and turned to The Ambassador. “There were no antiaircraft guns here, no fighters?”

“Antiaircraft guns? No. Why should there be? This is a harmless market town. As for fighters, this is too close to the border. If they were based here, they would be caught on the ground by any attack. They are based further inland. Hawk IIIs. Our version of your BF2C. They were too slow to get here. The bombers had gone.” She looked at Hull curiously, seeing the tears trickling down his cheeks. It is time to tread very, very gently.

“If you had faster fighters, they could have reached here?” Hull was having difficulty speaking.

“Probably not.” The Ambassador spoke carefully. If he feels too much guilt, he will become defensive and self-justifying. “Aranyaprathet is too close to the border to be defended. That is why the French insisted the border be where it is; so that our towns could be held hostage. This is not your fault, Mister Secretary. It is the French authorities in Hanoi who ordered this raid and the one at Nakhon Phanom. We were lucky that the casualties were so few.”

Hull looked again and the shattered market. A woman sat in one corner, rocking backwards and forwards while she wept. He didn’t need to speak Thai to understand what she was moaning. Her husband was one of the six dead. Now she didn’t know what to do next. For her, the casualties were not few; nor had the day been lucky.

“They weren’t so few for her.”

He was about to go to comfort her when he felt the Ambassador’s

hand on his arm. “No, Mister Secretary. Pay attention to her now, and she is too stricken with her grief to show you proper respect. Later, that memory will shame her. Leave her to her family; they will look after her. If you wish, you can see her in a day or so when the family will be ready to receive guests.”

“I must return home. I have already been away too long.” Hull looked around the devastated market place and whispered the next words. “This is like China. And Guernica.”

The Ambassador stamped down her doubts over whether Guernica had actually been bombed the way the story said and put on her best sincerely-grave expression. “The Vichy authorities are allies of the Germans and the Hanoi administration is aligned with the Japanese. Is this so surprising? Or is it so surprising we consider all those people to be our enemies?”

Hull shook his head, convincing himself that the wetness on his cheeks was the result of the smoke and smell irritating his eyes. “Madam Ambassador. I will be candid. I do not like your military government and I do not like the way that government rules this country. But, I am convinced that this country has the ability and the desire to change and outgrow its present system. You have convinced me that your government shares that desire to grow and mature. Put together a list of the equipment your country needs to defend itself. It will be supplied. And do what you must to make sure this kind of atrocity does not happen again.”

“The situation in North Africa is a catastrophe.” General Badoglio stared at the map that dominated the room, trying to absorb the speed and extent to which the situation had suddenly become dreadful. Almost 200,000 Italian soldiers had already either been taken prisoner or had been cut off in Cyrenaica. The only options for the latter were to break out or be added to the total number of Italians sitting in prisoner of war camps.

“The only reason why the situation in East Africa is less catastrophic is that we had fewer forces out there to lose. Ethiopia is gone. Somaliland is gone. Eritrea is gone. Italian East Africa no longer exists, except as a few scattered forces and isolated outposts. But for all that, North Africa is still the main disaster.”

“We have received more approaches from the Halifax government in London, Duce. They are offering us a ceasefire and a return to pre-war borders in exchange for a non-aggression pact.” Count Gian Galeazzo Ciano looked across at the room. “This would be a very satisfactory ending for us, were the offer to be of even the slightest importance.”

“It is another ruse de guerre?” Badoglio was mildly amused by the idea of the Halifax government actually doing something effective.

Ciano thought carefully. He owed his position to having married Il Duce’s daughter Edda, but that didn’t change the fact he was an astute and skillful diplomat. “I do not believe Halifax’s messages are a ruse de guerre. I believe they are sincerely meant and reflected the perceptions of the situation as seen from London. I now believe that those perceptions are wholly mistaken. There are, in effect, two British governments. There is the Halifax government in London and the Churchill government in Ottawa. The question, to which we must find an answer, is to which of these governments do the British forces in Egypt owe allegience? To answer that, we must look at their actions. We see they have ignored every message that comes out of London and gone their own way. So they obviously do not regard Halifax as being their head of state.”

“So they have transferred their allegience to Churchill.” Badoglio thought about that for a moment. “What is the position there?”

“I’m not so sure they have.” Ciano seemed almost in despair. I’m a diplomat and I have nobody to diplome with. I’m ready to lie, cheat and steal with the best of them but I can’t find anybody to do it with. A lifetime of preparing for this job and nobody will play with me. It really is too bad.

“As far as I can work out, General Wavell is taking his orders very literally. His job is to defend the Suez Canal and I think he believes he has to do that until the situation between Halifax and Churchill is resolved. He is defending the Canal so effectively that he’ll be in Tripoli by the end of January, unless we are really careful.”

Badoglio looked across the great table at where Benito Mussolini sat. In theory, at least, chairing the meeting. In reality, he was completely silent and motionless. “But it’s not just Wavell is it? The whole Commonwealth is there. They’ve sent their best units, their best aircraft, their finest ships to the Middle East.

“Why? What do they hope to gain?”

“I don’t know.” Ciano’s desperation was almost comical. “Nothing about this makes sense. The British Commonwealth has become the Commonwealth of Nations, but that’s just a change of name. It doesn’t mean anything, except that Britain isn’t the head any more. But, they’re pouring troops into the Middle East as if their very lives depended on it. One would expect them to look to defending their home countries first, but there’s no sign of that. This doesn’t make any kind of sense. General, I’m not a military man. You tell me what Australia and India and South Africa are doing in the Middle East? Because I don’t know.”

Badoglio started to speak and then stopped. He thought for a few seconds, started again and then stopped. Eventually he sighed with a level of despair that equalled Ciano’s own. “I don’t know. There’s no great strategic need for them to be there. Persia and Iraq I can see, for the oil. But they have no need to be in the Middle East or East Africa at all. It’s as if they perceive their major threat as coming through there and they are determined to preempt it. I think that isn’t important, though. What is essential is that we take action to stop Wavell’s rampage westwards. East Africa is gone; we must accept that. What is left is to try and save Libya. The naval expedition we sent to do that was a disastrous failure.”

That is an understatement. One battleship sunk; one so badly damaged it will take months if not years to repair. A third with lesser damage. Half our heavy cruisers lost or damaged. Our best merchant ships sunk or bombed in harbor. Wherever we look, we see disaster. Ciano shuddered slightly.

“We cannot do this on our own resources. We have to get help from Germany. I have sent them a message, asking for mobile troops. Armored and motorized divisions are all that counts in the desert. The British have taught us that all too well. And aircraft. Those American Tomahawks have driven our colonial air force out of the battle, just as our CR.42s drove away the British colonial aircraft. German Messerschmitts will quickly put an end to them and restore air superiority.”

“And what do the Germans say?”

“I have received no reply as yet. I was expecting one and hoped to have it for this meeting. My staff are on orders to bring the message over as soon as it arrives. I am very hopeful though; at this point a little assistance will go a long way. For all the achievements of the British in Africa, the forces they have available to them are very small. Given some aid, we can reverse this situation.”

“I hope so.” Badoglio sounded unconvinced. “I can see no way of recovering from this disaster without it. The aircraft are key. The Tomahawks are greatly superior to any fighters we have, but they are equally inferior to the Messerschmitt 109. Once we have recovered air superiority, we will be able to stop the bombing raids on our troops and consolidate our positions.”

Badoglio had been intending to continue. He was stopped by the telephone ringing. Ciano picked it up, listened for a few seconds and then covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “The German Ambassador has arrived with the reply to our request for assistance.”

“Well, get him up here.” Badoglio sounded impatient; as, indeed, he was.

Hans Georg von Mackensen was an almost stereotypical picture of a German aristocrat and ambassador. Even so, he seemed exceptionally embarrassed at being asked to present the reply from Berlin personally. That alone gave Ciano a sinking feeling. von Mackensen’s first words reinforced that sensation.

“Il Duce, gentlemen, I must stress that this is the reply I have received from Herr Ribbentrop himself. These are his words and are counter to the advice I provided. Herr Ribbentrop says ‘Failure has had the healthy effect of once more compressing Italian claims to within the natural boundaries of Italian capabilities. You made your bed; now go whore in it.’ I am sorry, both for the refusal of assistance and the unpardonable manner in which the refusal was made. I do not know what else to say.”

There was a long pause during which complete silence dominated the room. Von Mackensen stood there, shifting from foot to foot in embarrassment; for all the world, looking as if he urgently needed to urinate. Eventually, Ciano sighed and shook his head.

“Thank you, Hans. There is no need to delay you further.”

After von Mackensen had left, Badoglio spoke very quietly. “So that’s it then. We have just been told that Germany considers Britain to be of greater value to its future plans than we are. The Commonwealth squadrons, with their Tomahawks and Marylands, control the air. The British Navy, and its aircraft carriers, controls the Mediterranean. Our forces in North Africa are doomed unless we can arrange an immediate ceasefire. We must contact London immediately.”

“Not London.” Ciano was emphatic. “Cairo. We have already discussed how General Wavell appears to have struck out on his own. We cannot be certain that any military orders Lord Halifax and his government issue will be obeyed by the armed forces they nominally control. There is only one person with whom we can negotiate and that is General Wavell himself. We must ask him for a ceasefire and save what we can.”

The silence returned to the room, broken only by the scrape of a chair as Benito Mussolini got to his feet and quietly left the room. A split second later, there was a muffled thud from outside the door. A guard threw the door open in blind, undiluted panic.

“Summon assistance immediately. Il Duce had collapsed and is unconscious. I think he has had a stroke.”

The radio crackled. The rolling tones of the speech were masked by the atmospherics, but there was no doubt that Winston Churchill was in full rhetorical voice.

“Rather more than half of a year has passed since the new Government came into power by nefarious and underhanded means. What a cataract of disaster has poured out upon us since then! The whole of Europe, from the North Cape to the Spanish frontier, is now in German hands; all the ports, all the airfields, all the resources of this immense block now stand against us. The perfidy of That Man and his betrayal of our gallant French allies has led to a period of horror and disaster which could challenge our conviction of final victory, were it not burning unquenchable in our hearts. Few would have believed we could survive; none would have believed that we should today not only feel stronger, but should actually be stronger, than we have ever been before.

“The countries that once formed the core of the British Empire, finding themselves alone, stood undismayed against disaster. Not one of them flinched or wavered; nay, some who formerly thought of peace, now think only of war. The banner may have fallen from Britain’s hands, but it has been taken up by the Commonwealth of Nations and waved defiantly in the face of our enemies. Our people are united and resolved, as they have never been before. Death and ruin have become small things compared with erasing the shame of our defeat and our failure in duty. We cannot tell what lies ahead. It may be that even greater ordeals lie before us. We shall face whatever is coming to us. We are sure of ourselves and of our cause, and that is the supreme fact which has emerged in these months of trial.

“Nowhere has our renewed spirit been more apparent than in Africa. The countries of the Commonwealth of Nations have stood together and ferried to the African theater an immense mass of munitions of all kinds: cannon, rifles, machine guns, cartridges and shell, all safely landed there without the loss of a gun or a round. The Commwealth Nations, led by Australia, India, New Zealand, South Africa and all the other members of our far-flung family, have poured forth troops into the theater. The great battle, which has been in progress in North Africa for the last few weeks, has recently attained a high intensity. It is too soon to attempt to assign limits, either to its scale or to its duration, but the victory won by the Commonwealth of Nations is already great beyond our poor imagination. Undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, they are turning the tide of the World War by their prowess and their devotion. The lands liberated from cruel oppression, the sight of the columns of Italian prisoners and the mountains of captured war materials now in the hands of our gallant Commonwealth soldiers, is unparalleled. Never in the field of human conflict was so much surrendered by so many to so few.

“How much more might we have achieved if our cause had not been betrayed by Lord Halifax and his minions? The effect of their treason is an account that is already overdue and claiming payment is the task which lies before us. It is a task at once more practical, more simple and more stern that simply achieving victory. I hope - indeed, I pray - that we shall not be found unworthy of our victory if, after toil and tribulation, it is granted to us. With the aid of our Commonwealth brothers, we have to gain the victory and exact due and dispassionate penalties on those who betrayed us. That is our task and our privilege.”

Maitland Wilson turned the radio off and took a deep breath. “Winnie certainly knows how to play on the heartstrings, doesn’t he? The question is, where does that leave us?”

Wavell was having his work cut out stopping himself from laughing. “Beneath that bombast beats a political heart, Jumbo. When we get the transcript of that broadcast, read it carefully. He’s recognized that the Commonwealth of Nations has replaced the British Commonwealth and paid tribute to all we have achieved over the last six months. Then, he deftly inserts himself as the leader of that Commonwealth and thus positions himself to take the credit. It’s a classic ‘I am their leader, I must follow them’ gambit. I’d hate to play him at bridge.”

“He’s half-American. He probably prefers poker.” Maitland Wilson opened the file he had brought with him. “The Italians have tried to break out through our blocking force at Beda Fomm. Our Flying Column arrived at the Benghazi — Tripoli road and set up roadblocks just 30 minutes before the leading elements of the Italian Tenth Army arrived. The Italians threw some 20,000 troops and a hundred tanks against what was little more than a reinforced battalion. The fighting was close and often hand-to-hand. At one point, a regimental sergeant major captured an Italian light tank by hitting the commander over the head with a rifle-butt.”

Maitland Wilson paused for a second to think about that and shuddered. “The final Italian effort came this morning. The last twenty Italian M13/40 tanks broke through the thin cordon of riflemen and antitank guns. But even this breakthrough was ultimately stopped by the fire of our field guns, located just a few yards from regimental HQ. Our blocking force has been reinforced by additional elements of the 7th Armoured Division, but it doesn’t really matter. The Italian Tenth Army is breaking up and surrendering. God knows how we’re going to cope with all the prisoners on top of the ones we have already got.”

Wavell wasn’t really worried. “Jumbo, that’s going to be a nonproblem. We’ve had an approach from Rome. They are offering an Armistice leading to a peace treaty. They’ll write off East Africa, in exchange for us pulling back to the Libyan-Egypt border and returning their prisoners of war. They’ll return the few of ours they hold, of course.”

“Can we rely on them? Or are we ourselves committing the same sin as That Man?”

That caused Wavell to stop dead. “It is a hell of a thing; isn’t it, Jumbo? We hesitate to make peace and end a war on favorable terms, in case it is seen as following the example laid down by That Man. I can’t think of anything more telling as an example of the damage he has caused. No, I don’t think we are doing the same thing at all. If anything, we have reversed the positions. Now we are the ones who will be dictating terms and the Italians are the supplicants.”

“Getting out of Cyrenaica is a good thing, Archie. The whole area is a deadly trap. It has to be occupied because that’s where all the ports are, but anybody can push a mobile force across the desert and cut them off the way we did. I would advise we include an agreement on force levels in Libya and a demilitarized zone along the border to secure our position and then we’ll be fine.”

Wavell nodded. “I’ll send the reply to Ciano in Rome.”

Maitland Wilson grinned. “And a copy to London?”

“Why on earth would I want to do that? Send one to Ottawa though. Calcutta of course, and Canberra. In fact, Jumbo, everybody but That Man.”

“We’ve won.” Victor Alexander John Hope, 2nd Marquess of Linlithgow and Prime Minister pro tem of India sounded disbelieving. “India has won. With a little assistance, of course.”

General Auchinleck made a polite choking noise. “I think, Your Excellency, that we had just a bit more than a little assistance from the Commonwealth of Nations.”

“Not as far as our people are concerned.” Pandit Nehru, Deputy Prime Minister pro tem of India, sounded more than thoughtful. “We have won a great victory over Italy and occupied Eritrea. It is with India that Italy is negotiating the surrender of that colony and its liberation under our tutelage. It is an absolute recognition of our status and independence. Our people recognize this and they rejoice in it.”

“Not you, Pandit.”

“Not Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru.” Nehru sighed again. “I had dreams of an India that would stand for freedom, for peace and justice. An India that would use its power and authority to end wars and create a world of peace. Instead, India is becoming an imperial power, exerting its influence by force of arms. We have won a victory but it was one by our Jawans, not the force of our arguments. And my fellow Indians rejoice in this. Excuse my sadness, for this is indeed an auspicious day.”

General Auchinleck forbore the temptation to quote the old adage about artillery being the final argument of kings. Instead he sought and found an argument that would reconcile Nehru to the fact that being an independent country had its penalties as well as virtues. One of the former was the need to resort to military force now and then.

“Pandit, what matters surely is the moral compass that guides us, regardless of the means we adopt. If our aim is justice and we moderate the means so that we do not compromise that end, is not that the objective that you seek? Our objective is freedom, peace and justice for all. Our arms have won that for the Eritreans. We have not become their colonial overlord; we have freed them just as we freed ourselves. We may not be happy with the means but our moral compass remains intact.”

“Thank you, General. Your words comfort me a little, but they also highlight something that has been disturbing me for some time. The last six months have shown me how complex the problems facing our country are. They also show how ill-prepared I and my colleagues are to take over running the country in the face of these problems. General, you spoke of a moral compass. Mine must be the good of India and the proper rule of this country.

“Our original agreement was a two-year transition period from the colonial administration to an all-Indian government. I would like to modify that agreement to remove the time limit inherent within it. I believe we can achieve far more if we work together as the situation requires than if we try to comply with an artificial timetable. Also, I am not yet qualified to lead the government. I would like to suggest that Doctor Rajendra Prasad be considered as the first President of India, when the time comes. He is well-respected by every faction and a knowledgeable man of the world. We can present this change as a result of our victory in Eritrea; holding to the opinion that it shows how powerful India has become, provided all who live here work together.”

The Marquess of Linlithgow was silenced by the enormity of the gesture he had just heard. In effect, Nehru was surrendering the goals and achievements of a lifetime in order to enhance India’s chance of making it to a viable nationhood. In some ways, he thought, that must be just about the most remarkable thing I have ever heard.

“Pandit, India is indeed guided by a moral compass and I do not fear for its integrity, as long as it is in hands such as yours. Thank you for enlightening us and setting an example that the future will hold dear.”

Once again, silence fell on the meeting room. For the first time, the Cabinet gathered was united; even the hold-outs who had supported Sir Richard Cardew were silenced by the magnaminity of Nehru’s words.

Eventually, Sir Martyn Sharpe coughed quietly. “If I might move to the next item on the agenda. We have been in discussion with William Pawley, the head of the Central Aircraft Manufacturing Company (CAMCO). Their position in China has become untenable and they have agreed to move their operations to Bangalore. The move is being funded by an Australian businessman, a Mr. Essington Lewis, who recently gained access to substantial American investment funds. The new company will be known as Hindustan Aircraft Limited and will be 50 percent owned by the Indian Government.” Sir Martyn gave a quick nod to Pandit Nehru at that.

“With them, they bring licenses to build two aircraft. One is the Hawk 75 that we already have in our inventory as the Mohawk. The other is the Vultee V-11 light attack aircraft. We are placing an order for 48 V-11s and for the same number of Hawk 75s. The first aircraft will, of course, be assembled from kits supplied by Curtiss and Vultee. However, as a result of a detailed memorandum from one of our American advisors, a Mr. Boyington, a new version of the Hawk 75 will be built. This will be powered by the R1820-86 engine rated at 1,450 hp and will be armed with six .303 machine guns. This aircraft will be called the Mohawk V; with its reduced weight and extra power, it will be the equal of any fighter in the region. The contract calls for the first Indian-built machines to fly on April 3, 1942. These are, of course, not just the first combat aircraft to be built in India; they are the first miltary aircraft to be ordered by independent India.”

Sir Martyn’s statement was capped by a thunderous burst of applause; the more enthusiastic pounded on the table. George Edward Parkes reached over and shook Nehru warmly by the hand. Watching the celebration, Sir Eric Haohoa realized that the crisis over India’s continued existence had been weathered.

Whatever happened now, a newly independent India had been born.

“He has, of course, been properly treated?” Sir Eric Haohoa asked the question politely, but the prison governor took offense anyway.

“Of course he has, sir. We may be well removed from the center of administration down here, but we know what is right and what is not. I’ll not say he is the most popular prisoner we have ever had, especially after our Jawans took down the Eye-ties in East Africa, but he has received every courtesy due to his previous rank and position.”

Jawans, thought Sir Eric. Not so long ago, no British civil servant would have considered using the Indian word for an enlisted soldier. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a lock rattling and the creak of the cell door opening.

“Have you come to gloat, you wretched little guttersnipe?” Sir Richard Cardew spoke words loaded with venom. The hatred in his glare was so intense, Sir Eric actually felt himself taking a half-step backwards.

“No, sir; I have not. In fact, I have come to release you. The Cabinet has decided that it is no longer necessary to hold you in custody, nor would it be legal to do so without bringing you to trial. That option was seriously considered, since your actions caused the deaths of many good and honorable men. However, Deputy Prime Minister Nehru himself suggested that the disruption caused by bringing you to trial would far outweigh any benefits it might bring. So, on his initiative, it was decided that you should be released. You may remain in India if you so wish, or you may return to Britain. The choice is yours.”

“I will not stay silent. I will fight you. I represent the true government of India and the true feelings of the better people here. I will not be silent.”

Sir Eric smiled, just a little sadly. “You may do as you wish, Richard. It does not matter. You see, you have no constituency here. You have no power base, no support structure. While you have sat here, India has become a real country at last; one that stands on its own feet and whose voice is heard in the world. We have won great military victories and the Government of Italy is negotiating directly with us to end our war against them. With us, Richard; not London. The break with London is complete and final and even those who might once have had some sympathy for you are now swept up with the issues involved in ruling an independent country. Your voice, should you choose to raise it, will be an echo of the past.”

“The Empire still stands… ”

“No, Richard, it does not. You do not understand what I am telling you. Italy is negotiating directly with us; with Australia and South Africa. Canada has given its recognition to the Churchill government in Ottawa. The West Indies have struck out on their own as well. The Empire has gone; the British Commonwealth is now the Commonwealth of Nations and Britain’s voice is not heard in its councils. Richard, we are a new nation that has already won respect. We have an Army with a record of victories won in its own name. We have a Navy that is enough to give even the strongest of enemies cause to pause for thought. We have an air force that grows in strength and power every day. Six months ago, there was not a single fighter aircraft east of Suez. Now, we have four squadrons; tomorrow, we will stand up a fifth. That squadron will be stationed in Singapore. We have bombers; we have transport aircraft, flying boats and our own training school. Compared with all that, your voice is a very poor and insignificant thing.”

“You want to destroy the Empire. You treasonous, seditious, disloyal, subversive swine.” Sir Richard was foaming at the mouth with almost uncontained fury.

For the first time, Sir Eric’s voice lost its dispassionate tone. “Destroy the Empire? Never. My family have loyally served the Empire for three centuries; since a time when the Cardews were still stealing sheep from farms in Wales. It is Halifax and his cronies in London who have destroyed the Empire. It was always our policy that, in the event of Britain being occupied or forced to surrender, the rest of the Empire would fight on. The consequences of that policy, a policy that stemmed from and was promulgated by London, you will remember, were never realized until the situation actually arose and we had to deal with it.

“Even then, we were in denial until the abuse from London reached a point where we had no choices left. Complying with agreed Imperial policy and continuing the war meant we had to stand on our own and become truly independent countries. In requiring that, they destroyed the Empire. We have acted with sadness and reluctance; we have left the doors open, so that when we are victorious, we can rebuild what was torn down. That is a question for the future.

“Here, now and in this present, your opinions are just those of a relic from a bygone age and have no significance. How insignificant? You are not the only person being released today. I might mention Prithvi Singh Azad, for example; or Priyada Chakraborty. You might have heard of Achyut Ghatak or Adhir Kumar Nag. They also are being released today and many more of their supporters. You are just one more prisoner; one released as an act of clemency by a government that views you as completely unimportant. ”

“But, those men. They organized an insurrection against the legal government!” Sir Richard was appalled at the list of released prisoners.

“And you didn’t, Richard?

“Now, come along. The warden wants to see you before you leave for home.” And I want you out of this prison before the idea of martyring yourself by suicide occurs to you.

“They ignored us.” Lord Halifax stared at the Foreign Office telegram with barely-contained fury. “They just ignored us.”

And so our chickens come home to roost. Sir Edward Bridges looked at the Prime Minister with some shreds of sympathy. “Prime Minister, the Italians had to negotiate with those who held almost 200,000 of their men prisoner. Whatever their preferences, they had little choice in the matter.”

“I speak not of the Italians, but of the traitors in Cairo. They ignored every message we sent them; they treated our instructions with contempt. They have betrayed everything that they are supposed to hold dear. Then, they signed an agreement with the Italians, without as much as a by-your-leave to us. I want them court-martialled and broken.”

They did not treat your messages with contempt; they treated youin that manner. And, signing agreements with an enemy without as much as a byyour-leave is exactly what you did to them. Chickens returning to roost indeed.

“That is a serious problem, Prime Minister. General Wavell is an officer in the Indian Army, not the British Army. At any court-martial, he would simply claim that as an Indian Army officer, orders from Calcutta overrode any orders he received from London. Indeed, he could well argue that a British court martial no longer has any jurisdiction over an Indian Army officer. I believe the court would look sympathetically on that claim, especially since the result of his decision was a remarkable feat of arms, leading to a stunning military victory. Such successes traditionally justify the means by which they were achieved. The traditional Army verdict on such circumstances is, I believe, ‘Well done and don’t ever do it again.’ I would advise, Prime Minister, that you adopt the same approach.”

“You can’t do that, Prime Minister.” Butler’s voice was its suave self; Bridges was reminded of the times he had seen oil slicks spreading across water. “It will be showing weakness. The time has come, I think, to put a bit of stick about. Wavell and his cronies must be brought to heel and we must assert our authority over British forces outside these Islands.”

Halifax looked desperate. For a moment, Bridges felt sorry for him. He was out of his depth and clutching for straws of support wherever he could find them. “Prime Minister, there is another Army principle it might be worth bearing in mind. ‘Never issue an order unless one is sure it will be obeyed.’ That applies with great force here. At the moment, our authority over the forces abroad is tenuous and disputed. As long as we do nothing to bring the matter to a head, that is how it will remain. But, if we bring about a major confrontation with Middle East Command, a dispute which we cannot win, then all doubt will be removed and any authority we have left will be erased.”

“Sir Edward, perhaps we have cause to doubt your loyalty?” Butler’s voice was still oily-smooth, but there was a distinctly threatening element to it.

Bridges looked at Halifax and his lips formed a distinct phrase. “The Stone.” That was all it took to cause Halifax to backtrack very quickly.

“Richard, there is no need to impugn Sir Edward’s loyalty. It is his duty to raise issues that we might consider unpalatable.” Butler nodded abruptly, but Bridges was in no doubt that he had just acquired a new and dangerous enemy. Halifax seemed distressed and uncertain as he continued speaking.

“Is there nothing good that can come of this situation?”

Butler took the opportunity with both hands. “We understand that the Italians asked for German help in resisting the forces commanded by General Wavell. They were refused in a message of unprecedented discourtesy. This makes it clear that Germany regards us as its most important ally in Europe and our position with regard to them is greatly strengthened.”

“We are not an ally of Nazi Germany, Richard, and our interests only temporarily converge with theirs. Great Britain has decided to remain neutral; that is all.”

“My apologies, Prime Minister.” Am I alone in hearing a note of derision in those words? thought Bridges. “I mis-spoke. I did not mean to imply we should consider ourselves an ally of Germany; merely a country with whom Germany maintains friendly relations. However, we must take due note of the fact that the danger of Bolshevism means that our interests and those of Germany may be greater than you suppose.”

Bridges was interested to note that Halifax did not look at all at ease with the line Butler was following. The Prime Minister quickly shifted back towards the subject of Wavell and the status of Middle East Command. “So what do we do about Wavell’s insubordination?”

“Well, Prime Minister, the traditional options are that we recall him for court martial and cashier him, reassign him to another post of such little importance that he will resign in disgust, ignore him completely or claim all the credit for his achievements and imply his contributions were of little import. He will ignore the first and second, take advantage of the third to further consolidate his position and it is already too late for the fourth. The fact that we, and the rest of the Commonwealth, are on divergent courses puts us in terra incognita here, Prime Minister. Anything we do will establish a precedent. May I suggest that a suitable one would be masterly inactivity?”

“Perhaps, Sir Edward. Please leave us now. The Foreign Secretary and I have party business to discuss.”

That is a reasonable excuse to ask me to withdraw. But why do I not like the expression on Butler’s face? Sir Edward Bridges backed out of the Cabinet Office and made a thoughtful progress down the stairs to the front door of Number Ten. Two of Butler’s Auxiliaries were on guard, each armed with a Thompson submachine gun. I wonder how long we will be able to get ammunition for them? It’s been a long time since I had a drink with old Murray. I’ll invite him over one evening, soon.

There was an addition to that thought that Sir Edward Bridges resolutely kept even from himself. Sir Murray Prestcote was a long-retired veteran of the British Army in India. But, he had been very active in keeping in contact with the service and had many friends there. If somebody knew how to warn General Wavell to watch his back, it would be him.

“What are the terms of our agreement with the Commonwealth of Nations?”

Graziani, Badoglio, Ciano and the other occupants of the Army supreme command had expected Benito Mussolini to return either screaming with fury or venting bombastic nonsense. Instead, after almost two weeks sequestered in his private apartments, he sounded quiet and uncharacteristically unpretentious. The doctors said he had suffered from a severe stroke and complete nervous prostration.

Had the combination of the two made such a difference to the man’s character? Ciano thought to himself. Brought on by catastrophic military defeat and abandonment by our closest ally? That would be enough to dull the spirit of any man. Or restore humility to him.

“Duce, we have secured Libya at its pre-war boundaries and the return of our prisoners of war. The Commonwealth will withdraw from Cyrenaica, but they will retain all the equipment and supplies they have captured. We have agreed to a 20-kilometer wide demilitarized zone on each side of the border; into which no military forces may enter, except by our joint agreement. The Commonwealth has agreed to joint patrols to ensure that these terms are observed. We have had to sacrifice Ethiopia, which has returned to its previous administration. Eritrea and Somaliland will be administered by the Commonwealth of Nations as if they were League of Nations trusts. In summary, we have managed to retain Libya, but at the cost of all our other African possessions.” Now order me shot. I have done my best for Italy and I will be content with that.

“We kept Libya, but have lost the rest of our North African possessions.” Mussolini paused and took a deep breath. The voice had changed as well; the ringing aggression and bouncing self-confidence were gone completely. Now there was an almost thoughtful overtone; the tone of a philosopher, rather than a dictator.

“Well, I have decided I am not a collector of deserts. We can bid farewell to possessions that never benefitted us. Now is the time to look forward, not back. Our treatment at the hands of Herr Hitler has shown us that we can only become strong, I feel, when we have no friends upon whom to lean, or to look to for moral guidance. To continue this war would be national suicide. We must never consider the possibility of suicide; national or personal. We must despise and reject it. Rather, we must see these events as a part of life. As Italians, we must accept what life brings us and learn to love it. Our life should be high and full, lived for oneself, but not that above all; for we must also consider others. Those who are at hand and those who are far distant, contemporaries, and those who will come after us; their interests too we must consider.

“We have learned that Italy is not for export by force of arms. Instead, we must build the best and most beautiful Italy we can, and export Italy by those who choose to follow our example.”

There was a long silence as Mussolini’s words echoed around the room. He stood. The havoc the stroke had wrought becoming obvious as he wavered unsteadily on his feet. The left side of his body had been hit worst; his left hand was largely paralysed and he limped on his left leg. The left corner of his mouth was slack and every so often he dabbed at it with a handkerchief. “Galeazzo, you have done well. I commend you. Now, you must ensure that it is understood that Italy will maintain a policy of strict neutrality. We will expend our efforts on improving ourselves and our country. Our watchwords will be ‘All within the state, nothing outside the state, nothing against the state.’ Is this clearly understood? We will be neutral in any future conflict. There will be no more military commitments outside Italy.”

Badoglio could hardly believe the change that was taking place in front of his eyes. If Mussolini was true to his words, this was the Italy he had always wanted. Perhaps the disaster in North and East Africa wasn’t such a disaster after all. Il Duce may be right, that we must accept what life brings us and learn to love it; for the benefits it bestows may not be immediately obvious and what seems unbearable today may well be the seed of a better tomorrow. That left just one question in his mind.

“What will Herr Hitler have to say about this?”

“That horrible sexual degenerate? Egli può vaffanculo e morire come un uomo per una volta.”

“Italy out of the war. The Commonwealth of Nations is off to a good start.” Henry Stimson looked inordinately pleased with himself. The airfields in America were clearing rapidly as the aircraft originally ordered by the French and British were delivered instead to the Commonwealth countries.

“Not economically. India is staggering along from day to day, but Australia and New Zealand are sliding into an economic depression very quickly.” Henry Morgenthau sounded deeply concerned. “They will need some additional help propping up their economies and need it quickly. I suspect New Zealand is beyond saving. I have already heard whispers that the Australians are considering absorbing them as an alternative to seeing them go bankrupt. There was provision for that in their constitution, you know.”

“We must do what we must.” Cordell Hull sounded detached and almost disinterested. “And no more.”

“How did your trip to the Far East go?” Phillip Stuyvesant sounded mildly interested, concealing his real feelings carefully. He wasn’t certain whether Hull’s trip taking so much longer than originally planned was a good or a bad thing.

“I confirmed much that I already believed. The Siamese have a military government and is ruled by a regime supported by the force of arms. I deplore that regime and everything it represents. However, I do believe there is both room and desire for change and we should enable that change to whatever extent we are able. If we aid them, they may well evolve into a country we can support. But, if we do not, they will surely side with our enemies. At the moment, their enemies are our enemies. We must recognize that. I will withdraw my objections to the delivery of armaments to them, conditional upon them making the democratic development we expect.”

Stimson interrupted him. “Cordell, we owe the Thais some aircraft. P64 fighters and A-27 light bombers. How can we make good on the order?”

“Have we no equivalent aircraft we can give them in lieu?”

Stimson thought. “The A-27s are no problem. Northrop is building the A-24 for the Army. It’s a version of the Navy SBD. The Army doesn’t like it though; they think it’s too slow, underarmed and its range is too short. They won’t miss a couple of dozen for the Thais. For all its problems, it’s actually a better aircraft than the A-27.”

“Fighters; they need fighters. If you’d seen that market place, you wouldn’t be worrying about the bombers.”

Stuyvesant lifted a pencil. “The Indians have more Hawk 75s than they can absorb at this time and they have a more advanced version coming down the pike. Why don’t we suggest they transfer a couple of dozen of their existing aircraft to Thailand and we give them a credit for the value they can use to buy other equipment they need?”

Stimson nodded. “That works for us. Means we keep the hard cash, the Thais get the aircraft and India gets more equipment it needs. You agree, Cordell?”

Hull nodded. “It sounds fair. And it gives us a chance to see if current Siamese words will match their future intentions.”