A Mighty Endeavor

Chapter Six POSITION STATEMENT

Stepping up to the Government dispatch box for the first time as Prime Minister, Gregory Locock paused to survey the Chamber and marvel at how different it looked from this one particular spot. A night’s frantic negotiation and a series of political compromises put him in this position. The sulking opposition glowering across the way; his own variegated coalition: Country Party, United Australia Party, independents and the little cluster of floor crossing Labor members buried safely deep in the Government backbenches. He was simply the candidate who offended fewest people. A bemused George Bell struggled to look stern as he nodded.

“The House recognizes the Honorable Prime Minister.”

“Mister Speaker, as the first matter of Government business bought before this house, we should like to move a motion reaffirming the state of war that exists between this Commonwealth and Germany along with her allies, principally the Kingdom of Italy.”

The Speaker looked down at the Labor Party frontbench and saw a mix of resignation and simmering resentment, but little opposition. “What say the House?” he demanded “Those in favor, say Aye.” The roar of affirmation rang about the chamber and left little doubt as to the temper of the Parliament that day.

“The Ayes would seem to have it…” A grim faced John Curtin nodded. “The motion is carried by a majority of the House!” concluded Bell under a second roar of approval.

It took several minutes of gavel banging and demands for Order to get the assembly back in its seats. “The Prime Minister retains the floor.”

Locock nodded. “Thank you, Mister Speaker. What the future holds, we do not know; but this we can say with all the confidence we can muster. We will be victorious, however long and hard the road may be. Mister Speaker, it is also my duty to inform the House that certain communications have been received by the Governor General from London in the last twelve hours purporting to be from the Government of Great Britain at the behest of His Majesty. These contradict the clear message from His Majesty in his Daventry broadcast.

“I put the following motion to the House. That in accordance with the Daventry Message, this House accepts the responsibilities delegated to it in that the authority of the Crown will pass through the Governor General to the Australian Parliament, there to be held in trust by them sitting as a Committee of Trustees.”

The roar of “Aye!!!” was deafening.

“What used to be the Commonwealth is now falling into line with the Big Three. Canada, Australia and India have all repudiated Halifax’s armistice. South Africa followed suit this morning and the smaller colonies are doing the same. We’ve still got a war to join, gentlemen.” Cordell Hull had a bold smile on his face. For the first time in the two months since Halifax had signed the notorious armistice, things were running the way he wanted them to. “I still can’t believe that crazy scheme worked.” Secretary Stinson shook his head. “You should be in a British prison, all of you.”

“If it’s crazy and it works, it isn’t crazy.” Hull stared at Stuyvesant who had an innocent expression on his face. Hull had heard that Stuyvesant had been on the aircraft that had pulled off the rescue and he didn’t approve. Not completely, anyway. “The scientific material you brought back alone was worth the risks we took. You might be interested to know that a few other refugees are starting to appear in Canada. We’re not sure how they are coming out, but it does look as if the larger British companies are getting their key designers and engineers out to Canada.”

“My people say there’s a lot of ill-feeling towards Halifax and his administration. It looks like Halifax nearly missed the bus. People were swinging away from an end-the-war way of thinking towards a grim determination to win at all costs. Another couple of weeks and he would have been too late.” Stuyvesant thought carefully about how much to say. “There’s a resistance movement springing up already. Mostly in Scotland and Northern England, but it’s there. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that a lot of companies and research groups are quietly getting their key people and files to safety. Not to mention burying the records on any work that might be of aid to the Germans.”

“So, there is still a war going on. Where do we go from here?”

Stimson was slightly confused by the whole situation. He could see that the simple fact that the British Empire was still in the war, even if Britain itself was not, worked in favor of American interests, but he couldn’t understand what the Dominions were going to do. Just exactly how did the Australians plan to wage war on the Germans?

The same question interested Cordell Hull and Phillip Stuyvesant, but Hull in particular had larger concerns. “Britain’s status within the Commonwealth is now open to dispute. Canada recognized Churchill’s government-in-exile as the legitimate government of Great Britain as soon as Australia and India came out. As far as we can make out, that means that the Halifax government in London has effectively been suspended from membership of the Commonwealth. So, we now have a British Commonwealth that doesn’t include Britain. How that is going to spin out is something that we can’t even begin to guess at, but the economic consequences are grave. We may have to do some propping up there to make sure they stay in business.”

“Military support too. We can start by giving them the aircraft that are clogging up our airfields. We’re finding more of the damned things every day.” Stimson sounded indignant at the amount of American production capacity that had been absorbed by British and French orders while the American forces were crying out for modern equipment.

“Do we really want to do that?” Hull was thoughtful. “The President wants to put an end to the great colonial empires and this is our chance to finish off one of them, at least. It won’t hurt our position to let the political situation mature for a few months. The longer we take to incorporate the orphaned Dominions into our trading sphere, the deeper the economic hole they will be in, and the harder the bargain we can eventually drive when we finally get around to buying them up. The longer we keep things simmering, the more likely it is that something will break our way.”

“Like Germany hitting Russia. That’s the way they’re going.” Stuyvesant looked thoughtful while he assessed the likely consequences of the invasion. “However we cut this, Russia is going to be an ally when the Germans do invade and we’ll be supporting them as well. We could carry the burden of doing that by ourselves, but why? We can use help, even if it isn’t essential. The invasion will change those Dominions from geese waiting to be plucked into useful economic resources.”

“And the longer we wait, the smaller the chance of Britain reestablishing its position at the head of the Empire. No matter what way we look at this, America wins all around by waiting a little. We might even get a modest boost in US economic growth from the number of people who want to buy from us.”

“There’s another side to this whole situation.” Stuyvesant had been thinking about the whole British Empire situation since Achillea, Gusoyn and Eleanor had got back. Coupled with his own and Igrat’s observations, he found the situation interesting. “Pretty much all the Royal Navy that isn’t in the U.K. is placing itself at the disposal of the Dominion governments, and that makes them reasonably potent regional powers. It’s not just the number of ships; it’s the skilled manpower that’s critical. The crews know how to fight their ships and their officers know how to run a naval campaign. What could have been a power vacuum in the region is beginning to fill in. The Indian Navy alone is quite a potent force now, and the Indian Army has never been anything other than potent. If the Indians get their act together and don’t implode economically, we could be seeing the rise of a major regional power there.”

“Which is critical, because Japan is on the move again. They’re demanding that Britain cede Hong Kong to them as of now, quoting their alliance with Germany as making them the regional guardians of the Armistice agreement.” Hull was openly contemptuous. “That’s just the start, of course. They want the whole of the region as part of their ‘Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere’. They’ll get it too, if nobody stands in their way.”

“Well, we’d better find somebody who can.” Stuyvesant sounded uncertain at the prospect, but he had a strong candidate in mind for the job.

“Keep moving. We have a long way to go before you can rest.” The sergeants were encouraging the men on in their usual style. Private Mongkut Chandrapa na Ayuthya resented it. He had actually done his hitch in the Army a few years earlier, but he had been called up from the reserves; part of the process of fleshing out the 11th Infantry and turning it into a battle-worthy formation. He had left his wife, two sons and eleven-year-old daughter back on the farm. They would be able to cope; he felt confident of that. Of course, they would have the rest of his family to help out if they did run into trouble.

“How are you doing, grandpa?” One of the young recruits had put a slightly jeering note into the question. There was a certain level of tension in the unit between the young recruits who were mostly in their late teens or early twenties and the recalled reservists who were at least a decade older. The latter had a level of unofficial authority simply due to their age and their experience was useful; but they had also softened due to their post-military life. Now, they were going through the toughening-up process all over again. The current 40 kilometer, day-long march was part of that process.

“We’ll march you youngsters into the ground any day, you’ll see. Why, during my first time in, we had pleasant little walks like this every day just to get to the mess-hall. And it was uphill both ways!”

There was an appreciative patter of applause from the surrounding troops. Mongkut glanced around; everybody in his vicinity really did seem to be doing quite well. That wasn’t surprising. This was the third long forced march the battalion had been assigned and the training tempo had been picking up steadily over the last month or so. He shifted the Type 45 rifle on his shoulder. That was one thing that hadn’t changed since his first term with the Army; they were still carrying the long Type 45. There were rumors that the Army was shifting to the new, shorter and more powerful German kar98k, but he hadn’t seen any of the new rifles yet. The troops had been issued new helmets, replacing their old-style French ‘Adrian’ helmets with the German coal-scuttle design. They also had Germanstyle webbing now that was much more practical than the old design. The Army’s character had changed too, in subtle and hard to define yet very real ways.

There was something up. Mongkut could sense it. He’d caught surreptitious grins being exchanged between their company officer and the battalion commander. One of the foreign advisors had been around earlier as well. They were the ones responsible for the change in the Army’s character. During Mongkut’s first spell in the ranks, the emphasis had been on doing everything in exactly the way specified by the book and obeying orders without question. Now, everything was orientated on gaining the objectives set and how the troops achieved that was of lesser importance.

His thoughts were interrupted by a crackle of rifle fire. “Everybody, into the ditch!” Mongkut led the way himself, almost dragging the soldiers with him into cover. Most of the other men in the battalion were still milling around on the road, uncertain of what was going on or what they were supposed to be doing.

Mongkut had a strong idea what was happening. This is a tactical exercise, to teach us how to react when ambushed. He worked the bolt on his rifle, cursing the dust cover that was supposed to slide with the bolt but actually just got in the way, and sneaked a look up over the edge of the ditch. There were flashes from a treeline a hundred yards or so away. Mongkut aimed at them and squeezed off a shot. From the recoil of his rifle, they were carrying blank ammunition.

“Come on, shoot at them. Otherwise, they’ll kill us all.” The men around Mongkut followed his example, but the patter of rifle fire seemed paltry compared to the amount of fire coming their way. By the time he and his men had fired off a full clip, bugles were sounding along the road. The firing stopped and the officers started to reassemble the battalion.

“You men. You stand over there.” The Lieutenant had pointed out the small group who had followed Mongkut. They joined another group who had been singled out. Shortly afterwards, a few more men joined them. The rest stayed on the road.

The battalion commander was standing in the back of a small truck and he addressed the bulk of the battalion. “You are all dead. You died because you didn’t think. When you are ambushed, you do not just stand on the road and wave your hands around. You take cover and return fire while your officers get control of the situation and decide what to do. Before anybody complains that you didn’t know there was an ambush planned, what do you expect? The enemy to put up a big sign on the road saying ‘ambush ahead?’ You must learn to think and react for yourselves, just as these men did.”

The battalion commander waved at the small number of men who had been separated out. “They acted like soldiers; they took cover and returned fire. You, there.” The commander pointed at Mongkut. “Your name is Mongkut Chandrapa na Ayuthya and your rank is private. Correct?”

“Yes Sir.”

“No, it is not. Your name is Mongkut Chandrapa na Ayuthya and your rank is corporal. All of you men, you get to ride in trucks back to camp, so you have time to clean your rifles before evening parade. The rest of you will march back. At the double.”

A groan went up from the remainder of the battalion at the thought of double-timing the rest of the way back to camp. Mongkut and his men climbed into the backs of three waiting trucks and felt the drivers start to roll forward. A sergeant swung up into the back of the truck with Mongkut. “You, corporal. You will have a section to command when you get back to camp. See you do it well.” His voice dropped. “And, if you need advice, always ask the other NCOs. Being a corporal is just the start; we’ll help you along.”

“They are suspending us from membership of the Commonwealth?”

Lord Halifax was a shade of deep red that featured significant areas of purple and others of dead white, especially around the eyes. Sir Edward Bridges couldn’t help thinking the communiques from the departing Dominions had brought about a very patriotic reaction from the Prime Minister. He’d gone red, white and blue in that order. Bridges was seriously concerned that Halifax was about to have a heart attack and drop dead on the floor. His mind running along those lines took him to the point where he wondered whether that wouldn’t actually be the best thing to happen, although he recoiled at the thought of the paperwork that would result.

“Not really, Prime Minister, although that is how it might appear to an outsider and how it will doubtless be interpreted outside the Empire. In fact, what they have done is recognized the Government-in-Exile based in Ottawa as being the legitimate government of Great Britain and rejected your own claim to legitimate authority as being based of a usurpation of power. Therefore, since your government is not recognized as being of legitimate authority, it is not a part of the Commonwealth. Great Britain is still in the Commonwealth, it is just that the government headed by you is not.”

The shade of deep crimson that dominated Halifax’s face darkened still further. Bridges could see the veins pulsing on his forehead. “This is an insult; a personal insult. They will be made to pay for this. And His Majesty, what of his part in this? How dare he interfere in the running of the Empire this way?”

“Well, technically, and without putting too fine a point on it, it is his Empire. What is more, the Daventry Message could easily be interpreted as advising the Dominions that they were still subject to the authority of the Cabinet in London. If we assume that the reference to Col/Dom is intended only to identify the Governors of the Colonies and Dominions, then the only Cabinet with a general purview is London. The problem there is that rather defeats the whole purpose of the statement when in context. Obviously this is the interpretation that is preferred here and now, and the text of the message was modified in just that way when we repeated the transmission at midnight. Unfortunately, and against my advice, Central Office rather over egged their pudding by making several other changes to the original. As a result, that midnight retransmission is already known as the ‘Halifax Revision’ and nobody accepts it. It didn’t help its credibility that the BBC sent it in plain language.”

The incoherent anger of Lord Halifax’s face was replaced by suspicion. Ah, the second stage, Bridges thought. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. The first stage is rage at opposition and the second is intense suspicion of anything that may seem to be opposition. The third stage will be preemptive retaliation against those identified in the second phase. “Might I suggest, Prime Minister, that much may be gained now by a show of magnanimity. The actions taken by the Dominions are as much the result of hurt feelings and offended pride as anything else. A generous gesture, a conciliatory address, all will go far to soothe the inflamed situation and quiet the sounds of anger. Think of the Dominions as children who consider themselves unfairly treated and have stormed off to sulk in private. A calm word and generous gesture are the more effective in resolving the situation, while harsh words and actions will but inflame passions still further. Our attitude should be one of addressing them ‘in sorrow, not anger’.”

“You exceed your remit, Sir Edward. This is a matter for the Foreign and Dom/Col Offices and I might say Mister Butler and I are in complete agreement. If we tolerate any dissension from the Dominions, it will strike at the very basis of the Empire. They must be brought to heel, and quickly. They will be shown the rod, Sir Edward, and that will put an end to their pretensions.”

Bridges sighed inaudibly and felt the weight upon his soul increase. Every day that passed with him here in this building made leaving to join the slowly-increasing band of exiles in Canada that much more difficult. For a man who had the depth of experience in Empire affairs that Halifax had, he showed remarkably little understanding of how the administration of the Empire worked. That fact alone made Bridges’ leaving so much harder. It would be irresponsible, a betrayal almost equal to that made by Halifax himself, to depart and leave the conduct of affairs in the hands of a man so manifestly unready to manage them. Bridges knew he would have to stay, simply to try and ameliorate the worst of the disaster that was slowly and steadily opening in front of him.

“And which rod do you presume to show them, Prime Minister?”

“Trade, of course.” Halifax’s irritation was painfully obvious. “The whole Imperial system has been tailored around Britain’s import demands. Without the market represented by our demand for raw materials, the Commonwealth will collapse economically. We have some recourse to external supplies, but the Dominions depend on favorable British trade concessions to underpin their economy. If we shift the direction of our trade patterns to favor other suppliers, they will find it is a cold and lonely world out there. When we cut their currencies off from the sterling pool, they will learn just how worthless they are on the international market.”

“I think you mean to say how worthless their currencies are.” Bridges was horrified at what he was hearing and a cold knot of fear was beginning to tighten in his stomach. “Prime Minister, I must implore you. Think carefully upon what you propose. A trade war with the Commonwealth countries will achieve nothing except the destruction of us all. We have an opportunity here to offer a carrot to the Dominions, one that they will find very difficult to resist. We make them the offer of continuing trade relations on the existing terms and we gain the raw materials we need to revert to a peacetime economy. That leaves them with the decision of whether they wish a return to normality also; the impending collapse of their economies will concentrate their minds wonderfully. They will have no realistic choice other than to recognize the existing state of affairs. The Commonwealth may not be happy with the state of affairs here but it needs the trade too badly to let that get in the way. Once the breach is healed and the present unpleasantness forgotten, the relations between London and the Dominions will be as they always were, to the great benefit of us all.”

Bridges paused, getting the distinct feeling that if looks could kill, he would be stretched out dead on the carpet. Halifax was glaring at him. The problem was that Bridges was sure he had to keep going, not just for the wider good of the Empire, but in the narrower interests of Britain itself. His sleep had been haunted by a ghastly vision of the future; one in which famine had struck Great Britain. It had started when the vicar at his local church had given a sermon based around the parable of the seven years of fat and the seven of lean. From then on, Bridges had seen himself walking down empty streets of British cities, the last survivor of a British nation that had ended through starvation. He shook himself, trying to forget the images that sometimes seemed drawn from a Lovecraft story.

“There is another matter to consider, Prime Minister. That is of our forces abroad. Many of them have cast their lot in with the Dominion Governments and take their orders from them. In doing so, they quote the Daventry Message as authorization from the Crown for their actions.”

“Then let the Crown pay them.” Halifax strode angrily backwards and forwards, his whole body twitching with anger. “Cut them off. If they do not serve this country, then this country should no longer pay them.”

“There is a problem with that, Prime Minister. Some of the serving personnel have deferred portions of their pay to be held as savings against their retirement. The Government also pays a portion, the allotment, of the pay due to personnel on foreign postings to their families here in Britain. To terminate the allotment would leave those families destitute.”

Halifax stopped pacing and turned to face Bridges, his voice and manner suddenly changing. “I had not thought of that. In conscience, we cannot break the agreement we have with our servicemen with regard to their families. I will reconsider what to do about the pay for our troops abroad. No matter what decision we may come to on that issue, the allotments for their families here will continue to be paid. We will also honor their deferred pay and hold it in trust for them. Quite apart from anything else, this will give us a moral claim over UK forces overseas.”

“There is a problem here.” Bridges was relieved; Halifax was not as set on confrontation as his initial comments had made him seem. “We can continue allotments and deferred payment according to the records held here. However, we cannot hope to keep these allotments updated to reflect the men’s own wishes, unless there is regular administrative communication between the forces abroad and ourselves. In the event of hostilities continuing, as they seem set to do so in the Middle East at least, there will be casualties that we would be unable to track.”

Halifax waved his good hand dismissively. “Then we shall institute a standardized ‘Dependant’s Sustenance’ payment to be given out in lieu. This is nothing new; it can work just like any other government pension. We set a base rate with modifiers for number of children, residence status, rent, et cetera. Doing so will keep the people happy and reconcile them to the events of the last few weeks.”

His anger broken, Lord Halifax sighed and looked at Bridges again. “I understand your point about trade and the Commonwealth. I will think on this matter further. There is much to be considered before we make a final decision on these issues.”

“And now we have the problem of the princes. Or, more precisely, the wealth that they control. Putting that to productive use is likely to be a challenge.” Lord Linlithgow wrinkled his nose slightly. “And then we have the related problem of what to do with the Princes themselves.”

“The latter should more properly be considered a matter for consideration at a later date.” Sir Eric Haohoa was concerned by several aspects of the Princes Problem, but none of them compared with the economic problems that seemed about to engulf India. “The princely wealth, on the other hand, relates directly to financial difficulties that are reaching a crisis point. Fortunately, South Africa has come up with what may be at least a partial solution. The basic problem is that the rupturing of the Commonwealth has left us without an umbrella currency. Without it, we are unable to mobilize what economic strength we have. This leaves us with two choices. One is to go back with our tail between our legs and beg pardon while pleading to be allowed to return to the pound sterling basket, with all that implies.”

“Never!” Sir Martyn Sharpe, Lord Linlithgow and Pandit Nehru chorused the denial in perfect harmony. The three men looked at each other in amazement, then burst out laughing.

“You know, I think this political alliance is going to work.” Lord Linlithgow’s observation was dry, but still tinged with unexpected humor. “Sir Eric, perhaps you can cement our friendship still further by proposing the second option?”

“Well, Your Excellency, if we must have an umbrella currency and the pound sterling is unattainable, we are left with but one choice. To create our own. That is what the South Africans propose.”

“And how do they propose we do that? Have they any idea of the complexity of what they suggest? New currencies cannot be waved into existence on a whim.” Harold Hartley shook his head. “How do we back such a currency?”

“But what was the pound sterling? Since Britain moved off the gold standard, it was just another currency based on collective faith as much anything else.” Sir Eric started to count off points on his fingers. “Firstly, we need to replace the sterling as a common standard, Secondly, we need to stop the massive devaluation of our currencies on the international market and thirdly we must get some stability back into the utter chaos that is our international trading position. The current short term flux is undermining our international bargaining position across the board.

“So, the South Africans suggest that we invent a new currency specifically for international trade. Initially at least, it’s not going to have any confidence in the wider market. Unless we can back it properly, such a construct would lack the gravitas to be taken seriously. There is one thing we have in the Commonwealth that we have in bulk. Gold. We’ve got gold mines in South Africa, Australia and here in India. In fact, we control a good portion of the world’s gold supply.

“We’ve even been playing with names for the new currency. The South Africans suggested the Krugerrand of course, but the sovereign has much more support. We can mint sovereigns in South Africa, here and Australia but mostly we print them on paper using the gold still in the ground as collateral. And diamonds, rubies, emeralds, anything we can get that has value. Then, we peg all the Commonwealth currencies to the sovereign as they were to the sterling.”

“You’re putting us back on the gold standard?” HH was shocked.

“At a much reduced value to bullion, yes. We have no choice. Being a hard, gold-backed currency, the sovereign has immediate respect, while wartime restrictions on currency speculation around the world will stop us getting raped in the process. The sterling pool will be replaced by a free market that is not subject to the dreadful standing of our individual currencies. Best of all, it will hold off the Americans who are sitting in Washington, waiting for us to go bankrupt so they can essentially buy us up on the cheap. Pandit, what could mark India’s independence more clearly that abandoning the pound sterling?”

“My God. Creating a new currency, even a limited use one, is a massive undertaking even under benign conditions and these conditions are anything but benign. I simply don’t think it can be done.” HH shook his head in awed disbelief at the suggestion. “The whole problem here is the extent to which the collapse of the UK kicks the center out of the Commonwealth system. The problem with establishing any collective position is that a collective position needs to have a lead voice to present that position. Who is going to be that lead voice? This is a question we must think about with care, because whoever that lead voice is will become the de facto head of the nonBritish Commonwealth. I would suggest to you that such thoughts have already occurred to the Boers in Pretoria.”

“They almost certainly have.” Nehru spoke carefully, keeping his own deep feelings about the Boers well under control. “They would be foolish not to. But I do not see this as a great problem. India will leave the Commonwealth at some point, that much is certain. It is also certain that Britain will return to it once Halifax and his clique have been removed and they will resume their previous position as its head. Leadership of the Commonwealth will be a sought-after prize but I feel it will turn to dust in the hands of the winner.”

“Be that as it may; but something dramatic and solid is needed quickly if we are to survive. The sovereign is one of, if not the most, widely distributed bullion currencies in the world. We’ve already got the dies to make it and it’s something everyone understands. Politically, it’s also a sign of solidarity with the Crown. Which further puts the skids under Halifax.” Sir Martyn nodded as he spoke; the idea of a new currency was indeed seductive. “I will say this; going back to a gold standard, however diluted, is going to cause some severe problems all around.”

“It will. But it is severe problems in the future or an economic disaster now.” Sir Eric shook his head. “The Boers may have their own motivations, but that doesn’t stop them being right. A new currency basket based around our gold-backed sovereign is the only way to go.”

Lord Linlithgow sighed deeply. “I agree. Gentlemen of the Cabinet, I put it to the vote, shall we establish a committee to evaluate the issues arising from the South African proposal and determine the measures necessary to support the relaunch of the sovereign? Those in favor, please raise their hands.”

There was a pause as Lord Linlithgow counted the votes. Nine in favor, seven against, one absent. “The motion is passed by a majority of two. This brings us back to the issue of the princely wealth. How do we make best use of that resource for the benefit of the country as a whole?”

“There is a point we must bear in mind here.” Sir Martyn spoke precisely and with great care. “We are talking about six hundred or so of the best educated and most influential families in India. They do have a useful amount of cash. In a wider context, many have positions of social and religious power and they certainly do have an interest in India’s future. The princely wealth will only be a brief palliative factor if we confiscate it in full, and once gone, it will never return. I would venture to suggest that rather than be used to defray the expenses of the Government, we should consider it as seed money India is going to need at some point.

“In this regard, I see three broad options open to us. One is that we confiscate the money outright or take possession of it via extraordinary taxation. Secondly, we can strip away the income that it generates and leave the capital in the hands of the princes. The third option is to harness that money to a useful end by coercing them to invest their capital in suitable enterprises and thus generate long term income.”

“Perhaps the sale of war bonds might be a good start.” Personally, Nehru was all for the outright confiscation solution leaving penniless princes sitting in the ruins of their moldering palaces, but he recognized that was impossible, now at least. “There has been the usual measure of patriotic fund raising by the princes anyway, so we add to it by converting their savings pool into war bonds. Perhaps some gentle words from this administration about how the evil Congress Party wishes to confiscate everything and only an enthusiastic response to the war bond drive can hold them at bay?”

A ripple of laughter ran around the conference room. Nehru smiled at the approving nods he received. “Of course, we must keep leaning on them to extract all the rainy day funds they have hidden away. A small tactful reminder now and then about how the hidden account with their name on it seems to have been overlooked in the latest bond drive? And always the reminder about how those Congress Party fanatics want to tax any private wealth over one rupee?”

This time, the laughter was a full-blooded guffaw in appreciation of Nehru’s excessively innocent expression. Sir Eric Haohoa took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “I think this could work. The Princes will see that things could be a lot worse and at least the bonds will offer a reasonable rate of return. As the situation stabilizes, they will begin to look safer and safer. Who knows? They may even be grateful that we steered them to such a sound investment.”

“I think we have a workable plan here, gentlemen. I do not think this needs a vote, since it is already within the remit of the Treasury. Pandit, I note that Sir Richard Cardew has once again declined to honor us with his presence. Since he obviously does not share the opinions of this Cabinet and does not intend to take part in our deliberations, might I propose to you that he be invited to reconsider his position and Sir Eric Haohoa be appointed in his place?”

Pandit Nehru gave every appearance of thinking hard, although in reality the matter had already been discussed and decided before the meeting took place. “Sir Eric has spoken well concerning the complexities we face and the views of the Cabinet Office should be reflected here. Since Sir Richard has declined to do so, and if Sir Eric is prepared to take on this onerous responsibility, then the Cabinet would benefit from the change.”

“Well, Sir Eric? Would you assume the responsibilities of Cabinet Secretary?”

“Your trust honors me, Your Excellency. I would be delighted to do so.”

“It is intolerable; quite intolerable.” Every hair of Sir Richard Cardew’s moustache bristled with indignation. “First, His Excellency defies perfectly clear-cut and unambiguous instructions from DomCol. Then he appoints that damned communist Nehru as his deputy. It is too much I say.”

“And your removal as the Cabinet Secretary has nothing to do with your indignation, I suppose?” Lieutenant Colonel Pierce Harvey Garry took a sip of his whisky soda and was amused to note that his sarcasm went so far over Cardew’s head that it didn’t even ruffle his hair as it passed.

“Nothing at all. I made my position on this quite clear from the outset. DomCol is the ruling authority and our responsibility is to see that its commands are carried out. Why, your battalion was due to set sail for the Middle East, was it not?”

Garry glanced around. The orders that had assigned the Third Battalion (Duke of Cornwall’s Own) of the 7th Rajput Rifles to East Africa were supposed to be secret, although everybody knew what they were.

“We were, but those orders and our movement have been suspended. Can’t say I’m sorry. The sepoys are always a bit twitchy over crossing the sea. Loss of caste, you see.”

“Well, there you are then. Orders issued by the War Department through DomCol are just suspended without a by-your-leave to London. All because of some native superstitions. What more need I say?”

Hmm, we have some contradictions here, Garry thought. On one hand, complaining about India not dropping out of the war at London’s command and on the other complaining about stopping the movement of a battalion to the area where fighting is still going on. “Loss of caste is no superstition, Sir Richard, Its consequences are very real. My sepoys have every right to be concerned.”

“Well, if Linlithgow and those jumped-up guttersnipes Sharpe and Haohoa knew their duty, your Sepoys wouldn’t have to worry about losing their precious caste.”

Hang on a minute, old fellow. You’ve just finished criticizing the Marquess for staying the transit order. At least get your story straight. “Caste is precious to them. When the news spread that we were sailing for East Africa, we started to get a desertion problem. Not many, but a few here and there. As soon as Nehru joined the Cabinet and the sailing orders were stayed, the problem went away. In fact, some of the men have already come back. Shamefaced at not having been true to their salt.”

“I trust you made an example of them.”

“Good Lord, no. I gave them a severe talking-to, more in sorrow than in anger, you know, then sent them back to their platoon. Their own shame at having betrayed their salt will punish them worse than anything I could award. Their fellows will treat them as outcasts until they’ve redeemed themselves.”

“Well, you know best, I suppose. Still, we have to ask what do we do now?”

“What do you mean?” Garry was suddenly very suspicious and very careful.

“We owe it to the better people here in India to restore our relationship with London as quickly as possible. If that means installing a new Viceroy who knows and understands his duty, then so be it.”

Are you totally insane? Garry stared at Cardew in shock. Have you forgotten what happened the last time the Indian Army rose in mutiny? And you want to risk bringing that horror back? When he replied, he did so very slowly and very carefully.

“I do not think there is a legal mechanism for removing a Viceroy other than to have London recall him. And, if I understand the situation correctly, any such order from London would be considered invalid. I believe the Cabinet here holds that the government in exile sitting in Ottawa is the legitimate government of Great Britain. Is this not so? Now if we can get an order from them, replacing Marquess Linlithgow as Viceroy, you may be on to something.”

“Of course, of course.” Cardew gulped down his brandy. “Pleasure to meet you, Colonel.”

Garry nodded as Cardew rose to his feet and stomped off. He waved to a steward and had another whisky-soda delivered. That gave him a few minutes to think the disturbing meeting over. By the time his second glass was empty, he had decided it was time to seek a meeting with Sir Eric Haohoa.

“Are you planning to cancel all our contracts?” Reuben H. Fleet put on a good show of polite courtesy, while inside he was boiling with fury. “We have a lot of production capacity here, you know. It seems a pity to let it go unused.”

“I don’t think that will happen. I happen to know the Navy is ordering a lot more Catalina flying boats. The problem is range. With Britain out of the war, we can’t rely on having foreign bases any more. So, the PB2Y is a dead duck; it doesn’t have the range we need. Nor does the XB-24.” Phillip Stuyvesant sounded eminently reasonable as well.

“The XB-24 has more range than the B-17. A lot more and it carries a heavier bombload as well. We’ve got six of them sitting on the ramp right now. The French ordered them. Now they’re just sitting there. That’s my company’s money sitting in the sun, doing nothing.”

“Had things panned out differently, the XB-24 might have been really something, that I grant you. But it doesn’t have the range we need. Nor does the XB-32, so that will have to go as well. If it’s any consolation, Boeing’s XB29 is being cut back. But, it’s not the cancellations I’m here to talk about. It’s the long-range bomber. You and Boeing are competing for that one as well. Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

Fleet pulled a file out from a drawer and ran down the list of names cleared to see Consolidated Aircraft’s long range bomber proposal. “Right, Mr. Stuyvesant, you are cleared to see the work we’re doing. Come with me.”

He led the way to another section of the building, one which had armed guards in the corridors and combination locks on the access doors. Eventually, he opened a door to a room that contained models and drawings. “Let’s start with this.”

‘This’ was a model of a huge flying boat, powered by six engines. Stuyvesant looked at it curiously. “Why are the engines in the back of the wings?”

“Pusher configuration. It reduces drag. Everything about this flying boat is designed to reduce drag to a minimum. We used the Davis Wing design on the XB-24 due to its low-drag characteristics and that’s the primary reason why it outperforms the B-17. We’ve got a transport version of the XB-24 designed, by the way; one that might be very useful.”

“So, your proposed long-range bomber is a flying boat.” Stuyvesant was thoughtful. The idea made sense; all the long-range passenger aircraft in the world were flying boats.

“Good Lord, no. This is our proposal for the Pan American SuperClipper; the aircraft they want to replace the Boeing 314. If they listen to us, we can give them an airliner that can carry at least a hundred people for six thousand nautical miles with a fuel burn comparable to that of the 314. It will revolutionize air transport, but Juan Trippe won’t bite.”

“Why not?” Stuyvesant frowned. “It seems like a major leap forward.”

“Two reasons. One is that the original specification was overambitious and Trippe has doubts about whether it would be possible to fill an aircraft this big with passengers. The other is that he has this picture of air transport as being some sort of super-luxury way of travel. Now, there is a good reason for that. The Pan-Am Clippers are relatively slow, so people are stuck in cramped surroundings for many hours. It’s not like traveling by sea, where people can walk around the ship and forget they are at sea. So, Trippe believes his passengers need the luxury to compensate for the discomfort of a small aircraft. We think he’s wrong; people will accept cramped conditions and a level of discomfort for a cheap and fast means of traveling between countries. But, he’s the customer.

“Anyway, we designed a really efficient wing for the SuperClipper, one that makes even the XB-24 look primitive. We’ve designed a downsized version of the SuperClipper, the XP4Y, for the Navy as a Catalina replacement. We’re waiting to hear if the Navy will bite. We used the same aircraft as a test-bed for our bomber. We took the full-size SuperClipper wings and tail and mated them to a new fuselage, one that is optimized as a land-based bomber. ”

Fleet put down the model of the flying boat and picked up another one. “Here she is. And she’s a monster; more than twice the size of Boeing’s B29. I don’t want to bad-mouth another company, but I think Boeing is making a bad mistake with the B-29. They’re using a lot of advanced building techniques and unproven design art to get the performance they claim in the airframe size they want. There’s too much there that can go wrong. We’re sticking to design art we know: structural technology proven with our flying boats and the Davis Wing from the XB-24. The only really new thing we have, other than sheer size, is the pusher engine installation. We call this the Model 35.”

Stuyvesant took the model and inspected it carefully. He noted the smoothly contoured nose and the great twin fins and rudders at the back. Turning it upside down, his eyebrows rose at the sheer size of the bomb bay. “This aircraft will fulfill the long range bomber specifications we issued?”

“Fill and exceed.” Fleet’s pride was obvious. “The Model 35 will be able to hit targets five thousand nautical miles away with ten thousand pounds of bombs and return. It’s a truly intercontinental bomber.”

Stuyvesant looked carefully at the model again. “You know, Boeing is tied down with the B-29; they don’t have any design resources to spare. Jack Northrop is pushing a flying wing but that’s a step too far. Douglas, they have the same design staff problems that Boeing has. Frankly, this is the only convincing design that I’ve seen so far.”

Fleet grinned proudly. “And the Material Division agrees with you. They’ve endorsed our design. The Army Air Force has even given us a number for her. She’s going to be the B-36.”

“We have the foundations of a great navy here.” Captain Edgar Porteous Woollcombe looked around the crowded wardroom and noted the mix of dark blue, light blue and khaki uniforms. “And a great Army and Air Force to go with it.”

“Well said.” General Auchinleck responded enthusiastically. “The Indian Army has always been the mainstay of the Empire and now we have the sea power to go with it.”

Admiral James F. Summerville coughed slightly. “Gentlemen, before we get too carried away with what we have, and while I also second Captain Woollcombe’s statements, we must pay due diligence to what we lack.”

“And that is air power.” Despite Captain Woollcombe’s enthusiasm, Squadron Leader Baldwin was almost abashed at the slight force he brought to the meeting. The fact that he, a lowly squadron leader, was the senior RAF officer present said much.

“We have three squadrons of Indian Air Force aircraft here: two with Westland Wapitis and one with Audaxes. Mostly they have Royal Air Force personnel, but 16 officers and 144 other ranks are Indian. That’s about a third of the total. We’ve got a small training establishment with Tiger Moths, but we were left out of the Empire Air Training Scheme. The RAF in India adds six more squadrons to the total. One has Wapitis, two Audaxes, one Lysanders and one Blenheim bombers. We also have a squadron of Valentia transports. No fighters at all.”

“What about Singapore and Malaya?” Woollcombe looked at the appendages to India. “Do we have fighters there? And can we use them?”

“We have four squadrons of bombers in Singapore. 36 and 100 Squadrons have Vildebeest torpedo bombers; 34 and 60 Squadrons have Blenheims. There’s another squadron, 62, in Malaya with Blenheims. Nothing in Burma worthy of note.”

“We have no fighters in Singapore?” Woollcombe sounded incredulous.

“None.” Baldwin was defensive. “With the war in Europe, our modern fighters were concentrated there. Frankly, we didn’t take the Japanese very seriously. I do have some good news though. We’ve been searching around and we’ve managed to organize six Coastal Defense Flights with a mix of old aircraft we found in storage or used as hacks. Mostly Hawker Harts and Audaxes, but one CDF flight has six Blenheim Is. And we have the Short Singapore flying boats, of course. We actually have a round dozen of them.”

Summerville nodded. The situation was as bad as he and Auchinleck had feared. “We can add a little to that. We have HMS Hermes, of course; she has nine Swordfish on board. We also have the float planes on the cruisers and here on Valiant. That adds two Walrus and six Seafox. But…”

Auchinleck finished the phrase for him. “That still means there is not a single fighter in the whole of India. We have no air defenses; none at all.”

“I would suggest that we can shift our forces around a little to make better use of them. We can reassign the Wapitis from Number 1 squadron to the Coastal Defense Flights and replace them with the Audaxes in those flights. The Wapiti will be as useful for patrolling the sea as the Audax, but the Audaxes will be much superior for army cooperation flights.” Baldwin thought for a second. “Before That Man took Britain out of the war, we were converting some of the Blenheims back home into fighters. This meant fitting a four-Browning gun pack under the belly and taking out some of the equipment not needed for the fighter role. Perhaps we could do the same thing here? 27 Squadron has Blenheims suitable for the conversion. That would give us some fighters, at least. We can also see to training Number Six CDF, they’re the ones with Blenheims, to support the fleet. Admiral, may I ask the aid of your Fleet Air Arm pilots in doing so?”

There was a profound silence in the room. The idea of the Royal Air Force offering aid to the other services and asking for their guidance seemed shocking. In the middle of the room, Summerville and Auchinleck were speaking quietly to each other. Eventually, Auchinleck spoke to the meeting as a whole. “Squadron Leader, your comments and proposals are well-said and well-taken. We need to expand the Indian Air Force to meet the demands placed upon it. Your energy and initiative commend you to the command of the enlarged force. I am therefore, on my authority alone, going to promote you to the rank of Wing Commander with immediate effect. You understand that this promotion has only my personal authority behind it and it may be rescinded by higher authorities should they emerge when the political situation changes. Your first responsibility is to organize the conversion of 27 Squadron’s Blenheim bombers into fighters. This must take the highest priority.”

There was a murmur of approval at the decision, but few eyes were not focussed on the map of India that dominated the wall.

The man wouldn’t have been out of place on any street corner. In the dining room of the Peninsula Hotel, he stood out like a farmer in his dowdy go-to-town best, attending opening night at the opera. Igrat noticed him, of course. She always noticed everything going on around her, even if she gave no outward sign of doing so. She also noted that nobody else seemed to remark on the stocky middle aged man with a head full of slicked down sandy hair in a plain grey suit, so she concentrated on the superb breakfast instead. Her curiosity re-emerged when the same drab fellow appeared again the PanAm terminal. He was sitting quietly in a corner with a newspaper and pot of tea as they waited to board the Clipper.

It wasn’t until the Pan-American Hotel on Wake Island that their paths crossed again. In the early pre-dawn the silence awakened Igrat more than anything. If she strained every muscle, there was a faint throb that might be a distant generator; otherwise, there was only the rattling of palm fronds and slap of the sea on sand. On her journeys out to Asia, she had discovered an enchantment about the dawn here. The isolation, the peace, was something to be savored. Dressing hurriedly, she slipped out of the Pan-Am Hotel and down the path to the beach.

It was still dark between the stunted palm trees. Although Igrat had no difficulty staying on the path, she didn’t see the still figure standing at the head of the strand until she was far too close to back away. The man turned at the sound of her slippers. She recognized him as the curious ‘grey farmer’ from Manila.

“Good morning, Miss.”

Igrat saw a square pugnacious face that could have been quite threatening if it wasn’t offset by an unusually high forehead. There was something else as well, a strange feeling as if a light was flickering softly in the back of her mind.

“Oh, good morning” returned Igrat “I am sorry if I disturbed you.”

“No, you stay as you are, Missie. I’ll move off if you’re looking for some room.” The voice had a gentle fatherly gruffness, although she couldn’t place the accent. “Not that I’d object to a bit of company either.”

With any illusion of solitude shattered, Igrat decided to satisfy her curiosity instead. The light in her mind was still there and she was sure what it meant. “Oh I couldn’t ask you to do that. You were here first. Anyway, I like company.”

“No trouble,” returned the man. “There’s enough island for the two of us.”

“Barely,” laughed Igrat.

“Ay,” he agreed. “And there’s not much here, either.”

“Except the sunsets and the dawn”

“I’ve seen worse.” he nodded. “There’s far worse to be had, that’s for certain. You’ll have to pardon me. Lewis, Essington Lewis; my friends call me Essie for obvious reasons.”

The hand he extended was warm and dry; the handshake firm but not hard. Igrat took it in the same fashion. She’d already decided not to vamp this man. There was something about him she found attractive and, anyway, there was always the light flickering in her mind.

“Irene Shapiro. I’m an actress.”

“Well pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Shapiro, and I’d take Irene over Essington any day of the week. Oh, look out, here she comes.” He nodded at the horizon where the sky was turning a magnificent deep mauve. There was the tiniest spot of light forming where the sky met the sea. Before she could remark on it, a long streak of brilliant green leapt skywards. It formed a distinct pillar for a few seconds and then vanished as the leading edge of the sun’s disk peeped over the horizon.

“A green flash!” Igrat’s voice was awed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of those. Do you think it will bring us good luck?”

“I think it already has, for me anyway.” Lewis was looking at her oddly and a bit guardedly. Igrat knew why, but it was a subject that would have to wait for another time.

“Just what is this?” Rachael looked at the meal on offer from the student’s canteen very doubtfully.

“Bubble and squeak.” David Newton sounded as doubtful as Rachael. “It’s a mixture of leftovers, mostly potatoes and cabbage, all mashed up together and deep fried with sausage. The fat from the sausages flavors the vegetables, you see.”

“Oh dear.” The truth was, Rachael was very hungry and had been looking forward to having something to eat.

“I’m sorry, love.” The woman behind the serving counter was genuinely apologetic. “It’s the rationing, see; we have to use every bit of everything we have. Can’t afford to throw anything away. More than our job’s worth to get caught wasting food. We put some potato and cabbage aside for you, though. Best we could do.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Rachael gave the cooking ladies a great beaming smile. In her heart, she guessed that the food that they had put aside had been ladled out with the pork fat soaked spoons that had been used elsewhere. Still, she didn’t know that was the case and ignorance was an acceptable excuse. But to mention such things would be to insult the ladies who had tried to help here. Rachael didn’t believe in knowingly giving offense to anybody, especially those who were doing their best to cope. She took the plate with the vegetables. “Thank you so much for being so thoughtful.”

When she joined her friends at their customary table, there was an air that she couldn’t quite understand. Almost conspiratorial. Colin Thomas looked at her plate and shook his head. “That doesn’t look very filling, Rachael. Why don’t you try this?”

He pushed a large bag over. She opened it curiously. Her heart skipped a beat when she started to smell the contents. It was a full kosher meal: a bowl of beef tsimmes, a noodle kugel and an apple-date Bundt cake. She was barely able to stop herself drooling.

“How? How did you manage this?”

“One of us knows a Jewish family that lives close our folks. So, our mam asked them what we should get for you. They spoke to some friends of theirs and they spoke to friends and, well, things got arranged and this turned up for you an hour or so ago. It’s cold I’m afraid, but at least you can eat it all. We’ll hide the other stuff so our cooks won’t be offended.”

Newton grinned as Rachael gave way to hunger and started to wolf down the meal that some kind-hearted friends-of-friends-of-friends had sent over for her. Then, he wondered at the spirit of humanity shown by people who would give up a portion of their scarce rations so that a girl they didn’t know could have a decent meal.

“The armed forces are taking inventory of our assets now, Your Excellency. Put bluntly, we have an excellent Army, a small but capable Navy but no air force worth speaking about. We have not one single fighter aircraft in the region. Nor do we have any prospect of building any.”

The Marquess of Linlithgow took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

With every day that passed, the manifest unpreparedness of India to exist as an independent country was becoming more obvious. What had seemed like an intoxicating project eight weeks earlier was now a desperate struggle for survival. Even Nehru and his cohort from the Indian Congress Party were beginning to be demoralized by the sheer number of problems piling up.

“There are some Indian forces in the Middle East; can’t we withdraw them from there? That would solve at least some of the political problems we face as well as reinforcing us here.”

Sir Eric Haohoa shook his head. “The troops there are involved in stabilizing the administration in Egypt and the Horn of Africa. If we pull them out now, we will be inviting chaos in that region. This brings us to another problem that has so far gone unmentioned. There are a lot of Dominion personnel in the U.K. whose position is very uncertain, to say the least. There are not a few senior officers in the British defense establishment who come from Dominion backgrounds. This doesn’t affect us too much as far as the Air Force and the Navy are concerned, but there are many alumni of the Indian Army in the upper echelons of the British Army and their position is decidedly uncomfortable. I would say that whatever Halifax and his allies might wish government policy to be, I can’t see any of the services looking at the Empire and kicking it over the side without a qualm, if they can avoid it.

“I think it is safe to say that there is a widespread feeling in the War Office and Admiralty that they want to see us right. Oh, I doubt they will actively oppose Halifax at this time and openly defy the government to help out the Empire, but I can see a back room consensus developing, within the Imperial General Staff, and elsewhere, to try and do their best to set us up in terms of self defense. With Halifax cutting us off and leaving us out in the cold, I think they’d have a lot of support in that too.

“As far as the Dominion personnel in the UK are concerned, I think there will be a move to form them up into independent units and train them like any other British formation until forced to repatriate them. When they do come home, they’ll be arriving as useful units, if not equipped ones. That makes the aircraft purchased by London but currently held in the USA of critical value. The Australians, Canadians and New Zealanders will have trained fighter pilots to fly them. So will the South Africans. We’re out on a limb here. The fact we didn’t participate in the Empire Air Training Scheme means that we won’t have those cadres to build on.”

“We have had word from General Wavell on the matter of the security of Egypt and the Canal Zone. Our intelligence has projected an invasion of those areas by Italy at several times in the last two months. According to General Wavell’s staff, the order to invade was actually given ten days ago, on August 8th. The physical invasion is expected at any time. The same sources tell us that Herr Hitler is not supporting Mussolini in this matter, since he values the Armistice with Britain more than the alliance with Italy. Sir Eric, the Italians have reached almost fifty miles inside Kenya and General Wavell regards the Fourth and Fifth Indian Divisions there as being critical to maintaining the situation in that theater. We can’t withdraw them. Nor can we ignore the air component there. At the moment, Commonwealth forces in East Africa are fighting modern Italian warplanes with obsolete biplanes from the early 1930s. I believe the South Africans are even flying Hawker Furies there.”

“I think, Your Excellency, that Wing Commander Baldwin would look upon Hawker Furies as manna from Heaven. His best offering in the air defense sector is to convert some of the Blenheim bombers to fighters. I can think of nothing that more highlights how much we need those American aircraft.”

“So, it appears, do the rest of the Dominions. There will be a hard fight over them and that assumes they will indeed be made available to us. This may be an awkward question, Sir Eric, but who actually owns those aircraft?”

Sir Eric consulted the papers he had brought with him. They constituted an extensive file, one several inches thick. Fortunately, the lawyers who had prepared them had also made an executive summary. “That is an interesting question, Your Excellency. The aircraft were purchased by the French Government in the period 1937–1939 and the British Government from 1938 onwards. These aircraft were paid for in gold; the monies placed in an escrow account, from which funds were released by the escrow administration at agreed stages. In most cases, this represented 25 percent when construction of aircraft started, 25 percent when the aircraft was completed and the balance when they were accepted by the national authorities. Therefore, although the aircraft have actually been paid for, the manufacturing companies have only received half of the agreed sums. The rest is still sitting in escrow until somebody accepts those aircraft.

“Now, the question is, who owns those aircraft? The obvious answer is the British and French Governments. That then gives rise to a further question, who are the French and British governments? The United States officially recognizes the Vichy government of France as a successor to the Paris Government, but this is disputed by General De Gaulle, who has proclaimed himself the head of the Free French Government. He also has a claim to the French-ordered aircraft, although where he would put them is a very good question. The French overseas possessions have fallen in line with the orders from Vichy almost to a man. So, if delivery of those aircraft to the Vichy government is ruled out, there is no obvious successor to take possession of them. We stand as good a chance of getting them as anybody.

“With us, the situation is completely different. The Daventry Message clearly transfers authority and legitimate government away from London and places it in the hands of the Dominions and Colonies under the authority of their Governor-General. That is our interpretation of it, at least. Therefore, the ownership of the British aircraft goes with the legitimacy of the government and that means they are ours. How we divide them up between us is theoretically up to us, although I would suggest the Americans might have something to say about that.

“However, there is another complicating factor. The aircraft have not been delivered or paid for in full. Technically, both the British and French governments are in default on their payments for those aircraft and their actual owner is remains the companies that built them Primarily, that is Curtiss with the Model 75 and Model 81 fighters, Douglas with the DB-7 light bombers and Lockheed with the Hudson patrol aircraft. Not to mention Consolidated with the Catalina flying boats and the LB-30 long-range bombers. If any one of those companies went to war with us today, they’d win.

“Finally, there is the question of the interest on the funds held in escrow. Who does that belong to?”

“There needs to be a conference.” Lord Linlithgow shook his head.

“These things need to be resolved face-to-face. The question is where? Whoever hosts that conference will be in a good position to claim leadership of the Commonwealth, pro-tem at least.”

“We’d better make sure it is either us or on neutral ground then. The Canadians and Australians will be locking horns over just that issue and the last thing we want is either of them lording it over us.”

“With respect, Sir, these aren’t our aircraft.”

Squadron Leader Joseph Alleyne looked at the line of twelve Sunderland Mark I flying boats. They were brand new, pristine and shining. A year earlier, Number 10 Squadron’s Sunderlands had looked just like that, but a year of hard service patrolling around Great Britain had taken the gloss off their paint and the smell of newness from their cabin.

“They are now. Ruling from the Air Ministry. The Australian Government paid for a squadron of brand new Sunderlands, not a squadron that have already seen extensive service. So, you are to swap your used aircraft for an equivalent number of new-manufacture Sunderlands intended for 95 Squadron and then leave the country before anybody says otherwise. There’ll be some passengers coming down for you to take with you.”

Air Marshal Sir Frederick Bowhill frowned mightily at the young Australian officer. In his opinion, the Commonwealth forces left much to be desired where conventional standards of discipline were concerned. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for their streak of rebelliousness, the whole Empire might have caved in when Halifax pulled the blanket out.

“Where do we go? What do we do?” Alleyne was bewildered and felt frighteningly lost. Suddenly, he remembered an event long ago, when a lost dog had attached itself to him and followed him home. The look in the dog’s eyes all those years ago had been an eerie foreshadowing of how Alleyne felt at this moment. Lonely, dazed, disorientated, abandoned and vulnerable. When they had reached home, he’d seen a hopeless, forlorn look in the animal’s eyes; the expectation that he would, once again, be chased away. That was what Alleyne had expected his mother to do. But she took one look at the poor hound, took him in and fed him. Alleyne also remembered how the expression in the dog’s eyes had changed to joy at the realization he was, at long last, somebody’s dog again. Will we be that lucky? Or will we end up wandering lost and homeless?

“Away from here, as soon as possible. We have telegraphed the Australian Government, telling them that you and your aircraft have been

ordered to leave Great Britain with immediate effect. If you receive no orders to the contrary, I would suggest you head for Gibraltar first, refuel there and then make your way to Alexandria. You can find a home there, for a while at least. General Wavell has repudiated the Armistice Agreement in view of Italian attacks on Egypt and the Sudan.

“As for what you do, you will have to consult your Government on that. As far as we are concerned, they have gone their own way.”

“Refuel, sir?”

“These aircraft are still technically assigned to 95 Squadron. All their paperwork refers to 95 Squadron. When you arrive in Gibraltar, you will be, as far as anybody knows, 95 Squadron. Any fuel you requisition will be charged to 95 Squadron. By the time the real 95 Squadron gets here, which will be 48 hours after we get word from Gibraltar that they have apparently arrived there, you should be well clear.”

Alleyne had a hard job stopping himself laughing. This was a deception worthy of anything he and his men had pulled off over the years.

“Very good, Sir. Gibraltar and then Alexandria it is.”

“Good man. One other thing. Three G-class Empire flying boats will be going along with you. As far as anybody is concerned, they are route testing for the resumption of Imperial Airways flying boat services. When do you plan to leave?”

“Tomorrow morning, Sir. At dawn.”

“They’ll be here. Look after them, Squadron Leader.”

“The next item on the agenda is raising monies needed for the operation of the Government and investment in our national infrastructure.”

Lord Linlithgow looked around the room. “I need hardly add that this is a most pressing problem and one that is critical for our success as an independent nation.”

“If I might make a proposal to the Cabinet, I believe that it might go some small way towards addressing this grave problem, while also righting an injustice that afflicts so many of our fellow countrymen.” Nehru spoke gravely; his eyes flickered around the Cabinet. With the departure of Sir Richard Cardew, the most outspoken opposition to the presence of the Indian Congress Party in Cabinet had gone, but there were other, less overt opponents. “I refer, of course to the activities of money-lenders in every small village and town across India. Their depredations bring poverty and hunger wherever they go. They drain away the lifeblood of our farmers and keep them in perpetual debt bondage. They are an evil that we must remove from our midst.”

“Surely you overstate the harm these people do?” George Edward Parkes was responsible for agriculture in the Indian Central Legislative Assembly. In Nehru’s eyes, the very fact that he could say that showed how out-of-touch he was with the sector of the economy he was supposed to oversee.

“I think not,” Nehru was speaking slowly and carefully. This was, after all, his first substantive contribution to a Cabinet meeting. “In the farming villages, the money lenders advance the cost of the seed to the farmers. They take payment of that loan in the form of a share of the crops grown from that seed. That share is never less than half and is often two-thirds or three-quarters of the total crop.

“What is left is barely enough to keep the farmers and their families alive through the rest of the year until the next crop comes in. They are unable to save money or seed for their next crop. So, once again, they must return to the money lenders. And where do the money lenders get the seed they sell to the farmers with the funds they so expensively loan? Why, from the share of the crop that they took the year before! These men do nothing but live off the labors of others. It is time we ended their activities, once and for all.”

“Up to threequarters, you say?” Parkes was shaken by the revelation.

“That does sound excessive. Damned excessive, if you ask me. But how will doing something about this raise money for the Government?”

“The key to the power of the money-lenders is that they have a grip on the seed for the next year’s crop and can charge what they will for it. In a nutshell, they lend money and then take it straight back as payment for the seed. Now, few of those money-lenders pay the proper tax on their incomes. If we inspect their declared earnings, we will find that they only allow for interest rates of perhaps ten percent instead of several hundred.

“So, before the next planting, we audit those money-lenders and confiscate their supplies of seed in lieu of payment on back-taxes owed. We distribute that seed, free of charges, to the farmers explaining to them that this is a once-only compensation for prior over-payment. Come the harvest season, the share of the crop that would once have been taken by the money-lenders is now theirs. Some, they will store as seed for the next harvest. The rest they will sell and turn into money. Ahh, my friends, but what will they do with that money? They will wish to save it, but where?”

“A bank, of course.” To Parkes, that was an obvious answer, but it was one that again showed he understood little of the living conditions of the Indian country dwellers.

“There are no banks outside the big cities.” Nehru astonished himself by how patient he could be. “But there is one thing that is in every village. A post office. I propose we set up a system of post office savings accounts. They will be suited to the small investor and will pay a small but reliable rate of interest. After all, the money-lenders are, I am ashamed to say, Indians. But, when an Indian wishes to make a solemn oath, he will say ‘I give you the word of an Englishman.’ A savings account backed by the word of the English will be considered as safe as gold. The farmers will save their money in the post offices, where it will earn interest. While it is there, we can use it for our own purposes, paying off any withdrawals with monies deposited by others.”

“That’s called a Ponzi scheme. I rather think it is illegal.” Sir Eric Haohoa was impressed by the idea. The money coming into those post office accounts would not be any great sum individually, but there would be millions of such accounts and cumulatively they would provide a healthy income.

“In the final analysis, is not every government a Ponzi scheme?” Nehru looked around the cabinet room with a broad smile on his face.”

“Yes, but it’s not considered good form to say so too loudly.” Lord Linlithgow sounded amused. “This scheme does sound as if it would solve some of our problems. I move that the Treasury and Post Office form a joint committee to adopt and enact Pandit’s suggestion. Any objections?

“Very well. So moved.”

“The smoked trout please, followed by the breast of pigeon.” Sir Edward Bridges put down the menu and looked over at his host. Reading the elaborate menu had been a formality for him; the trout and pigeon were his established favorites here.

Sir Desmond Glasebrooke was hard put to make his decision. Eventually, he ordered the potted shrimps and applewood smoked venison. The wine waiter had brought the first of their bottles and poured for them. Then, they were discretely left on their own.

“Edward, old chap, how are things going in Downing Street?” Sir Desmond gave a strong impression of a walrus that had just learned of the death of a much-loved relative.

Bridges shook his head sadly. “Very difficult, I fear, Desmond. The truth is, I don’t think that the Prime Minister quite understands how everything fits together. He really isn’t one of us, you know.”

Glasebrooke shook his head sadly. “Between us, Edward, the chaps in the City aren’t terribly happy with the current course of events. I might even go as far to say the chaps are perturbed.”

Bridges put down his fork. “As bad as that? They’re not concerned, are they?”

Seconds ticked by while Glasebrooke thought very carefully before answering. “No, not concerned. Not yet. If things don’t settle down soon, though, they might reach that point. A major row like this within the Commonwealth, well, it makes the chaps unhappy. Some of them are beginning to think that the current administration may well be just a little bit unsound.”

“My word.” Bridges was shocked. “I had no idea things had reached that point. The dispute with the Dom/Col isn’t that serious. It’s more a matter of insensitivity at this end and trampled toes on theirs.”

“I’m sorry, Edward, but I really must beg permission to differ on that point. This whole affair might have started that way, but it has gone beyond that point. The situation with Dom/Col is getting serious. Are you aware that they are beginning to move their financial reserves out of London? And that the Australian Division that was heading for Britain has been diverted to the Middle East?”

“That is serious.” Bridges hesitated himself, concealing the uncertainty about what he could say by carefully anointing a piece of smoked trout with roasted lemon jelly. “We knew about the South African Division going to Kenya, of course. That was no great worry; the IGS might have diverted them there anyway. The Italians have advanced at least fifty miles into Kenya and the presence of the South Africans there will stabilize that situation. The P.M. is more worried about the Canadian Division. Technically, they are still at war with Germany and he thinks they could bring down the armistice. He is considering ordering them home. And that would be another breach with the Commonwealth. One that would be much harder for all the parties involved to accept. But, if Dom/Col are moving their funds out of the City, it would be very serious.”

“What is happening with the armies really doesn’t worry the chaps too much.” Glasebrooke waved his fork around dismissively. “The financial thing is perturbing them much more. Ever since the turn of the century, the hard core of Britain’s wealth has been in global finance and investment. We own, or have serious interests in, sewers, water, electrical, telegraph, telephone, rail, shipping, warehousing, banks and retail companies all across the world. The chaps really don’t think that is too much affected by where a division goes or what happens to a squadron of flying boats. The split in the Commonwealth is quite different; quite different. If this goes on, the Prime Minister will be handing all our investments abroad to our competition on a plate.”

There was a long pause while the waiters cleared the first set of plates away and brought the next course, along with the appropriate wine. Glasebrooke waited until they had withdrawn before continuing. “Take Malaya. Because the Japanese will. Does the Prime Minister really want to hand over all that rubber and palm oil to the Japanese? The economic loss to the chaps in the City would be stupendous and it won’t stop there. I don’t want to sound excitable, Edward, but the chaps really do think this is vital.”

Bridges sighed. “I understand all this, Desmond; I really do. You’re preaching to the choir. I think most of the Civil Service knows that. The problem is that HE doesn’t see it that way. To him, the Commonwealth is a bunch of unruly children who need to be sent to bed without any supper. No matter what anybody says, he won’t change his mind on that.”

“But this is madness!” The bereaved walrus had just found he’d been cut out of the family will. If Glasebrooke could have looked any more depressed, Bridges was unable to work out how.

“I know Desmond, but HE won’t listen to me. He won’t listen to anybody outside his own small circle of trusted advisors. They all agree with everything he says; because if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be part of that circle.”

Bridges sighed and moodily ate some of his pigeon breast, reflecting that it was a good thing rationing did not apply to meals eaten in restaurants. How long that would continue was another matter. The whole issue of food rationing was beginning to raise its ugly head, with people asking why it was still being imposed when the war was over. For a brief second, Bridges had a flash of his nightmare where he walked down the streets of a Britain that had died from starvation.

“Desmond, may we put that to one side for a moment? There’s another matter I wish to raise with you. Food imports. How do we substitute for supplies from the Commonwealth?”

“We can’t.” Glasebrooke was emphatic on that point. “We need Australian and New Zealand meat and dairy products, Indian tea and rice, Canadian wheat, West Indian sugar. All the rest. Fortunately, we won’t have to. The chaps have already had discrete inquiries from the Dom/Col about us continuing to buy their products. They need to sell to us as much as we need to buy from them. In fact, I would venture to say that if they were allowed to do so, they would actually increase food exports to us.”

“That is something of a relief. I am beginning to believe that we need to build up our food reserves here against any future trade disruptions.”

“Future, Edward? The trade disruptions already exist and are costing the chaps a lot of money. As to increasing food imports, the problem is that the Dom/Col want to be paid in gold for their products. You know they are going to introduce their own currency?”

Bridges was aghast. “They can’t do that. It would mean the end of the Commonwealth!” Then the implications of what he had just said sunk in.

“Oh.”

“That’s what the chaps said when they heard. That’s why they are perturbed. The Dom/Col are set on reintroducing the Sovereign, gold-backed no less, as an international trading currency. One that excludes the pound sterling. If that currency succeeds in establishing itself, then the City will be sidelined as a major financial center. I can think of at least one other country that would be very pleased to see that happen.”

“The Americans.” Bridges spoke with heavy certainty.

“Of course. They may well support the Sovereign, at least at first, simply to downgrade the importance of the City and increase that of New York. I needn’t tell you what the chaps think about that idea. There is another whisper as well.” Glasebrooke looked around, making sure that he could not be overheard. “There are whispers that the Hongs are on the move.”

“Are they, indeed? I suppose, with the future of Hong Kong in doubt, they must be considering some preparations.”

“The future of Hong Kong is in doubt?” Glasebrooke opened his eyes wide. “That is indeed serious. I believe that is enough to make the chaps quite concerned. It would explain the whispers we have been hearing, though. It has been suggested that the Hongs plan to move their headquarters to Chongqing, Kunming or Bombay. Two of those are outside the Commonwealth. That does have the chaps perturbed as well. If the Hongs move, they’ll take their access to the Chinese business community, the internal communications system it thrives upon and the wealth it represents, with them.”

“The Japanese are making noises to the effect that, as the regional allies of Germany, they will become the responsible power for our Dom/Col in the area. The Germans have officially expressed no comment on that claim, but we have every reason to believe they are quietly supporting it as part of their agreement with Japan. A move on Hong Kong is, we believe, only a matter of time. The Hongs have much better intelligence than we do. If they are preparing to move, then they must be aware of the probability as well.”

“If the Japanese successfully move on Hong Kong, then they won’t stop there.” Glasebrooke shook his head. “This really is very serious indeed. Malaya and Singapore will be next and India cannot be far behind. You must get the PM to make a stand on this.”

“He won’t.” Bridges sighed and waited while the plates were again cleared away. He settled on a banana crème brulee for dessert. When it arrived, the sommelier leaned forward confidentially.

“Gentlemen, we have a rather fine Psersigberg Gewurstraminer Grand Cru 1932 desert wine if you wish to complete your enjoyment?”

Glasebrooke sighed again. “That sounds very good; we’ll indulge ourselves. A half-bottle perhaps?”

Once the sommelier had departed, Glasebrooke leaned forward to Bridges. “After all, I rather think that we should get used to drinking German wine, don’t you? We may not have a choice much longer.”

“Squadron Leader Alleyne?”

The figure was in civilian clothes, but Alleyne had an almostirresistible urge to jump to attention. The man gave a slightly twisted grin and shook his head. “No formalities, please. The less obvious our departure is, the better for all concerned.”

Sir Wilfred Freeman smiled sadly at the young Australian who was helping him leave the country and service to which he had devoted his life. Somehow, it didn’t help matters to know that he wasn’t the only one who had made this particular decision or that he had been helped by the abrupt closure of his department. He had been responsible for selecting the aircraft that would form the basis of the Royal Air Force’s reequipment program. Now that program also had been abruptly terminated. Literally everything he had worked for was either abandoned or rated as being of little account. Looking at the waiting Sunderland flying boat, he asked himself whether his departure really was a call of duty to aid the Commonwealth countries that remained in the fight or merely a response to wounded pride.

“We’re glad to have you on board, Sir.” Alleyne refrained from saluting, but he felt a surge of respect for the grandfatherly man before him who had made what must have been an agonizing decision. Behind them, boxes of files and other documents were being loaded into the Sunderland. Then, Alleyne saw another one of his passengers and the bottom seemed to suddenly fall out of his world.

“General Smuts, Sir….”

“Quiet boy. We said no formalities.” The voice was gruff; its South African accent sounded harsh in the soft pre-dawn light, but the words had an amused timbre to them that took any sting out of his phrasing. Jan Smuts looked more than a little amused at the situation. “You are Captain of this particular ship and we all defer to you.”

The third member of the party looked as if he might have disagreed with that, but any comment he might have had was preempted by Jan Smuts.

He frowned mightily as he introduced himself. “Air Vice Marshal Arthur Harris, Officer Commanding 5 Group, Bomber Command.”

Alleyne took an instant dislike to the man. There was something about him that contrasted sharply with the gentlemanly demeanor of the other two members of the party he would be carrying to Gibraltar and Alexandria. He gave no sign of the impression, though. “Will you all be going all the way to Alexandria with us?”

Smuts nodded. “Harris and I will be leaving you there, though, and going back to South Africa. Wilfred will be going to Alexandria and then on to Australia. I hope he will do for your aircraft industry what he managed to achieve for us here. And that his life’s work will see a more satisfactory conclusion than it was fated to receive here.”

“Perhaps we will have the honor of flying you there, Sir.” Privately, Alleyne doubted that. He already had a strong suspicion that his flying boats would be a key part of the power equation now being written in the Middle East.

His suspicions were confirmed when Freeman shook his head. “I strongly suspect you will be remaining in the Middle East for some time to come, Squadron Leader. Whatever the future may hold, and I sadly suspect that future is grim indeed, the Middle East at this point is time is the single most crucial area in play. It is the actual point of action and will remain so until the Italian question there is resolved.”

Smuts nodded magisterially. “Deterrence against further aggression has to be the bed rock of the Commonwealth position. We have to face the truth; we are a collection of weak powers looking to assume a mantle of strength, and that can only be achieved through success in war. The Middle East is a running litmus test of our real resolve, both internally and internationally. It is our collective shop window and we’ll be judged to a large extent by our deeds there. If we limp-wrist the conflict with Italy, we not only look weak to the rest of the world, but we’ll also feel weak as a collective and with the individual dominions, and so be weak.

“Squadron Leader, the Dominions rejecting Halifax was just words. The Middle East is the critical point for the Commonwealth where we must turn words into deeds.” Suddenly Smuts smiled. “It is not often that a mere Squadron Leader hears such matters of great political strategy discussed. But then, it is not often that a mere Squadron Leader gets to be a critical part in such strategic considerations. Your twelve flying boats may well become the key to all our futures.”

“What bomb load do you carry?” Harris sounded as if he hadn’t bothered to listen to Smuts.

“On paper, two thousand pounds Sir, but Shorts are very conservative in their loaded weight figures. As long as we don’t exceed maximum take off weight, we can carry up to five thousand pounds of warload. Usually depth charges but we have carried mines and torpedoes.”

Harris grunted. “And the Italian ports in North Africa are within range of Alexandria.” Without further word, he climbed into the barge that was ready to take the passengers out to the anchored Sunderland.

“What do we do with them? Somebody better come up with an idea fast before Congress finds out about them and makes us take them.”

“We impounded all of them on the grounds that the United States believes delivery to the governments in London and Vichy would be destabilizing to European security.”

“With all due respect, Cordell, that’s just made matters that much worse.” Henry Stinson and Cordell Hull glared at each other.

“There are really two problems here.”

“Just two? You do realize that if the manufacturers don’t get paid for those aircraft, they’ll go bankrupt and that won’t do our aircraft industry any good at all?” Phillip Stuyvesant smiled benignly at Robert Jackson, who glared back in response. Casting an eye around the meeting, Stuyvesant noted that everybody seemed to be glaring at everybody else. This meeting he thought has promise.

Attorney-General Jackson was actually grinding his teeth. “I said two problems. There are two categories of aircraft: one owned by the British and the other by the French. The French and British orders represent entirely different legal situations. Both countries have actually paid for the aircraft in question, although the final payment for them is still in escrow. The British case is easy. In the Daventry Message, King George VI, who is the legitimate head of state in Great Britain, transferred authority and legitimacy from London to the Governor-Generals in the Empire. So, the various bits of the Empire own the aircraft and they have to settle amongst themselves who owns what. Nothing to do with us. As soon as they’ve made their minds up, the aircraft get delivered, the remaining funds are released from escrow and your precious aircraft manufacturers, Stuyvesant, get their money. It’s the French that are the problem.”

“Aren’t they always?” Stimson was staring at the ceiling. He looked around, caught Stuyvesant’s eye, and gave him a surreptitious wink.

“Henry, please.” Jackson was getting exasperated. “The Vichy government has no legitimate successors outside Metropolitan France. Therefore there is nobody to whom we can deliver the impounded French orders. Indeed, we cannot deliver them to anybody without legally purchasing them. We can refund the purchase money to the French and hold that in escrow until there’s a government over there we approve of, or a legitimate alternative arises. But we’re still stuck with the aircraft. And Congress might find them.”

Henry Morgenthau pressed his fingertips together. “There is a way around this. We refund the monies paid by the French, thus transferring the aircraft to our control. We can then sell them to the British Empire countries, thus ensuring that they are used against Nazi Germany, the purpose for which they were produced.”

“The Dominions can’t afford them.” Cordell Hull shook his head. He knew all too well that the now-severed parts of the British Empire were in desperate financial straits.

“Then loan them the money.” Jackson was impassioned. “We loan them the money in dollars, but allow them to make repayment in these new Sovereigns they are announcing. In doing so, we support their new currency and wean them away from the pound sterling and thus put a pistol shot through the head of the British Empire. We also give them the tools they need to reinforce their independence and stabilize their economies.”

“The latter is too much to ask.” Morgenthau shook his head. “Their economies need a lot more than a few dollars to stabilize them. They need industry, investment and so on. There’s a killing to be made there for the right people. For a far-sighted man who is prepared to wait for a return on his investment, the rewards will be rich indeed. But I agree with the basic proposal. We make a very soft loan to any of the Dominions that are prepared to buy the ex-French aircraft from us. Low rate of interest; we loan money in dollars, accept payment in Sovereigns.

“This way, those aircraft get put to good use.” Morgenthau’s voice hardened; a note of almost fanatical hatred came into it. “And anything that hurts the Nazis is a good use. They must suffer for what they have done. Germania delenda est. Phillip, I look to you for knowledge on how to reduce Germany to a desert.”

“I’ll do my best, Henry.”

“Australia? Everything is poisonous there.” Igrat put a note of distress into her voice.

“The salt water crocodiles and great white sharks aren’t.” Stuyvesant sounded remarkably unimpressed by his daughter’s feigned misery. “But what really upsets you is that there are no decent shops in that part of the world.”

“Well, that too.” Igrat looked at her father and lifted her eyebrows.

“But, no shops for me to spend my travelling companion’s money in means half my cover is gone before I even start. Who do you want me to see, anyway?”

“There is a man called Mister Essington Lewis, who runs Broken Hill Proprietary Company. He’s an odd character, Iggie. You’ll have to be careful in how you approach him. He’s strictly formal and he hates using the telephone. That’s why I want you to go and see him personally. He makes an absolute fetish of punctuality, so bear that in mind when you make appointments.”

“That’s how, not why.” Igrat made the observation completely deadpan.

“Lewis is a gifted operator. He knows the steel and mining industries inside out; and, more importantly, knows how to make companies in that sector work. I want to offer him a partnership. We’ll provide backing for a joint investment in India. If that country is going to succeed in standing on its own feet, it will need its own heavy industry, something it painfully lacks at the moment. The country even lacks the people needed to work out what it needs. So, Lewis is the right person to get involved out there. If we get in on the ground floor, the investment we make will grow. I happen to know that he wants to see the Commonwealth as the largest steel producer outside North America.”

“How do you know that?” Igrat’s curiosity was piqued by the offhand comment.

“There was a major confrontation between BHP and a group called Hoskins. Basically Hoskins was a front for a consortium of the big British steel makers who didn’t like the rise of BHP and wanted to kill it. Their attitude was that if they couldn’t stop Australia making steel, then they wanted to control the way that steel was sold. Lewis believed in constantly reequipping his factories so that they were at the leading edge of technology. As a result, Australian steel was the cheapest in the world. Even with shipping charges, it was cheap enough to be a major threat in the UK home market. Anyway, the British steelmakers put a lot of money into setting up their rival to BHP but lost out.

“The important thing from our point of view is that, once they had won the trade battle, BHP cut a deal with the British backers. BHP would take over their raw steel production and go into partnership with them in a new joint venture to make alloys steels in Australia. That was typical. BHP has a long track history of amicably swallowing its competition rather than killing it. I think they can look at the Indian steel industry the same way. It will be a long, long time before India’s steel production will meet the country’s full needs and BHP would be happy to fill the difference in a cooperative manner. From India’s point of view, BHP doesn’t just supply product and better quality raw materials than can be sourced in India, but technology. BHP has been in the game long enough to start its own R&D; making its own developments and building its own plant when it had something better than it could buy. As a result, BHP is scrapping more plant in a year than India can buy at this stage. I think Lewis and his BHP can provide India with a useful mentor, and see a profit in doing it. BHP like profit, they like it a very great deal, and they do think long term. So they’re a good partner for us.

“So, give Lewis the proposal packet and the word on how we see things and why. Make sure Lewis knows that we’re in this long-term. He doesn’t need to know what we mean by long term, of course. This is part of another investment I’m planning. I’ve got a guy called William Pawley of the Intercontinental Aircraft Corporation of New York looking into setting up an aviation company in India. Pawley has been a primary exporter of American aircraft to India and I’ve arranged for him to obtain a large number of machinetools and equipment from here. If India is going to get a big pile of ex-British and ex-French military aircraft, they’ll need to maintain them. That’s an opportunity for us. Lillith’s done the financial projections and she’s rubbing her hands with glee.”

“Doing well by doing good again?” Igrat firmly believed that virtue brought its own rewards, although her definition of virtue was rather different from the accepted norms.

“Politically, yes. The policy of the present United States government is that the old colonial empires should be dismantled and their constituent countries placed on a firm economic footing.” Stuyvesant paused for a second, then continued. “The empires falling will happen anyway and its better they go quietly than fighting the process every step of the way. We’re helping the inevitable along by investing in the economic development of the Commonwealth countries. If it does us some good in the process, so much the better.”

The fifteen flying boats were spread out in a loose gaggle; the three G-class boats in the middle with the dozen Sunderlands surrounding them. The first leg of the flight from Great Britain to Gibraltar had gone very smoothly, as had the refuelling at the naval base. That had simply taken time, although they had been fortunate there were specially designed refuelling barges manned by trained marine crews at Gibraltar. The great naval base was equipped to refuel many flying boats during the course of the day, so a full squadron in transit had been only an inconvenience.

Privately, Alleyne believed that this would be the last time they might see such luxuries. In the future, operating from extemporized bases would mean refuelling from drums or unpowered barges. That would take hours. Lack of properly trained ground crews would put the work of handling of the fuel nozzles and opening/closing the aircraft fuel tanks in the hands of his own crews. The bellies of the Sunderlands were stuffed with oil supplies and minor spares, while their accommodation was occupied by the squadron’s immediate ground crews. All that meant they would be able to operate, for a while at least, away from any fixed base.

“Gunners, keep your eyes open for hostile fighters. We’re getting into range of Italian airbases by now.”

“Do you really think that the Italians will attack us?” Sir Wilfred Freeman was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, looking out across the Mediterranean.

“If they know we’re Australian, yes. We’re still painted up in 95 Squadron markings, but how long the ruse will hold, I don’t know. There’s fighting going on in East Africa; if Italy hasn’t invaded Egypt yet, she will soon. I was half-expecting to hear that the invasion had started before we left Gibraltar. Come to think of it.” Alleyne keyed his radio. “All aircraft, drop down to one thousand feet. Say again, one thousand feet. Keep your eyes skinned for wop fighters.”

Without knowing quite why, Freeman was suddenly positive they would be attacked. He scanned the sky, certain in his own mind that the appearance of Italian fighters was a question of when, not if. It was with almost a sense of relief that he spotted a group of six shadows against the clouds scattering the sky above them.

“Squadron Leader, two o’clock high.”

“Got them.” Alleyne was terse. “All aircraft, we have hostiles coming in. Drop down to two hundred feet and tighten the formation up. BOAC aircraft, try and stay out of the way. We’ll put up a screen around you.”

“Ever so grateful, old chap.” The voice on the radio was impossibly British.

“I don’t envy them.” Freeman sounded sympathetic. “Unarmed aircraft, waiting for fighters to attack them.”

“They’ll have to get past us first and the Eye-ties will be in for a nasty surprise when they try. They can’t get underneath us; that’s why we came down so low. And they’ll have a hell of a time from our turrets and beam guns.” Alleyne was confident of that. His Sunderlands had twin .303inch machine guns in nose, dorsal and beam positions, a quadruple .303inch tail turret, and four fixed .303s in the nose. They’d already proved they could give a good account of themselves against the best the Luftwaffe could offer. Once again, his stomach clenched slightly at the thought of the work his squadron had volunteered for and then been forced to leave undone.

Above them, a flight of six Italian fighters were peeling off to dive.

Alleyne looked hard at them; radial-engined monoplanes with a curious humpbacked design,. Fiat G.50s. Agile as all hell, but lightly armed and no armor. They are in for a nasty surprise.

The Italian pilots were inexperienced when it came to attacking heavilyarmed, multi-seat aircraft. They’d done the traditional peel off maneuver; each aircraft taking its turn to do a wingover and enter its dive. As a result, they were coming in from the stern quarter in single file. Each fighter in turn would be the target of the concentrated firepower of at least three flying boats.

The Australian gunners were experienced. They’d fought fighters before and knew how to go about driving them off. They held their fire until the lead fighter was in close. Then they filled the sky around it with bullets.

Looking over his shoulder, Alleyne guessed that at least 16 machine guns were firing on the leader. He was almost masked from sight by the hail of tracer fire. The Italian fighter burst into flames and continued its dive downwards to plunge into the sea.

Behind him, the Italian number two was also lost in the glare of the massed tracers. Its path was marked by a black stream of smoke. It first turned orange as it mixed with fire, then ended in an explosion of ruptured fuel tanks.

The third fighter saw what had happened to the two leaders. He skidded away as the machine guns tracked in on it. Alleyne guessed it had been hit. His gunners stopped firing when it veered away. Ammunition on the Sunderlands was too precious to waste on aircraft that had already broken off their attacks.

That left four fighters circling the formation of flying boats. The Italian fighter pilots didn’t lack courage, but they had the sense to realize they were up against something much more capable than the aircraft they were accustomed to facing. Two split away and came at Alleyne’s Sunderland from head-on. That was a bad mistake.

Alleyne swung his nose slightly and opened fire with the four fixed

nose guns, reinforced by the twin guns in his upper and nose turrets. Tracer fire envelopd the attacking fighters. They sheered away. One developed a thin stream of whitish gray smoke from its engine. It was last seen heading away, losing altitude.

Three fighters left.

The fate of their flight-mates left the remaining fighter pilots wary.

They tried a few more tentative probes. Fierce return fire drove them off each time. Eventually, they turned away and headed for home. Italian fighters were very short-ranged, Alleyne had read in the intelligence briefings, and they lacked combat endurance.

“Any damage to report?”

There were a few holes from long-range .50-caliber machine gun fire, but the flying boats were essentially undamaged. Critically, the fighters had never even got close to the big G-class boats in the center of the formation. Beside him, Freeman was nodding contentedly. “Nicely done, Squadron Leader. I wonder if they’ll come back with their friends?”

“I think that’s very probable, Sir.”

His rifle had its bolt carefully wrapped in cloth to stop it rattling. All his other equipment was either wedged in place or carefully padded to avoid giving warning to the troops waiting in the defensive position ahead of them. Before setting out, he and his men had jumped up and down to make sure than there wouldn’t be the slightest sound to betray the assault. It had looked strange, but there was good sense behind it. Noise was the enemy as much as the ‘troops’ in the dugout.

Corporal Mongkut Chandrapa na Ayuthya felt the thin white tape laid out by the reconnaissance squads in no-man’s land. He was leading his section forward to its bounce-off point some hundred meters short of the enemy defenses. He had the picture in his mind: the zig-zag trenches, machine guns carefully positioned to cover the wire with an impenetrable hail of fire. Their instructors had been quite clear about what would happen if there was a deliberate assault on the position in daylight. The machine guns would slowly swing backwards and forwards, spraying the barbed wire entanglements while the troops struggled to get through. If the machine gunners did their job, the men would die on the wire. Some of the instructors had told stories of a great battle in far-away France, at a place called the Somme. A place where 60,000 men had fallen in a single day because the wire had held and the machine gunners had been skilled at their work. Mongkut couldn’t even begin to conceive of that many men dying in a single day. It was almost his entire Army being wiped out.

The instructors had explained that night attacks were one way the devastating effects of barbed wire and machine guns could be offset. They had also explained that coordinating and mounting a night attack was one of the most difficult and complicated operations an Army could undertake. Faced with the alternatives of heavy casualties in assaulting fixed positions or learning the skills needed to fight at night, the Army elected to take the latter route. That was why Mongkut was following the white tapes in the middle of the night.

His hand felt the knots in the tape. His section reached their assembly point. His men spread out beside him, crawling close to the ground in case observers from the enemy should see them. Any second now, the assault would start. The seconds stretched into minutes. Mongkut felt the coldness of the night bite into his bones. Even in a tropical climate, the night air could have a chill to it. Especially for men lying motionless on the ground.

After what seemed to be hours, the horizon behind him lit up. A roar marked the guns firing. Mongkut recognized the howl overhead as outbound artillery fire. Shells crashed into the positions in front of him. It was real artillery fire. Live shells filled the air with fragments. That was the signal for the assault. He pushed hard with his feet, jumping up as he shouted out his first order since the move to the front.

“Follow me!”

All along the line, Thai infantry rose to their feet. They sprinted towards positions hit by the sudden blast of artillery fire. They swept over the trench, bayoneting sandbags representing French soldiers manning the defensive line. They shot others that were “hiding” in the bottom of the trench.

Mongkut saw a gaping black hole in front of him. He guessed it was the entry point to a dugout. Almost by instinct, he tossed a thunderflash inside. The interior light up.

His section was spreading out, ready to beat off a counterattack from the defenders; Mongkut had the firm belief that, if sandbags actually came to life and attacked him, it would be time to retire. There was another shout of “follow me!” Mongkut saw his officer ordering them forward. It was time to attack the second line of defenses.

Two hours later, the battalion assembled while the instructors evaluated its performance in the night attack. After general comments and praise for an attack carried out well, the officers and NCOs were taken to one side for individual briefings. Praise in public, punish in private, thought Mongkut. His lieutenant and one of the foreign instructors sat down at a table with him.

“You and your men did well, Corporal. You were quick on your feet and you followed the shells in closely. You overwhelmed the trench in fine style and were quick to set up your defense. You grenaded the dugout without delay. But, you should have followed that up; you can’t be sure that the grenade got everybody down there.” The foreigner produced a picture of a dugout with a deep, narrow pit in the bottom. “This is called a grenade trap. If the men inside are quick, one of them might have kicked your grenade into this and saved everybody. Also, you didn’t clear the trenches on either side of you. That could have cost your entire section their lives.”

“There didn’t seem time to do everything, Sir.” Mongkut saw his Lieutenant look surprised. It wasn’t expected for a junior to speak up like that. Respect for position and rank was deeply ingrained. Yet the foreigner actually seemed to approve.

“It’s hard, isn’t it? You have to secure your section of the trench, grenade the dugouts, clear the sections to either side of you and make sure you are linked up with the rest of your unit. Yet, you also have to be ready to receive a counterattack and get ready to follow up your own advance with an assault on the enemy second line. Everything at once.

“I wish I could tell you how to do it all, but I can’t.” The foreigner smiled sadly, shaking his head at the memories of trench warfare that flooded back to him. “All I can say is, remember everything you have to do and do what you can as the circumstances demand. If you have to leave things undone, leave them; but never forget you have left them undone. It’s deciding what to leave undone that’s the hard part. You’ve heard of Generalship? Well, this is Corporalship. Generalship wins wars but Corporalship wins battles. Remember that. And, for last night’s exercise, a qualified well-done.”

Mongkut saluted and left, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself.

Inside, the German instructor made a mark in a file he carried. “Good NCO material there. I like the way he spoke up. We have to encourage that, you know. It’s the NCOs who will make or break any maneuver the Army tries to make. They have to be taught to think for themselves.”

“But….” The infantry lieutenant tried to get his mind around a concept that did not involve the blind obedience he had thought was ideal.

“Think on it this way. You guide the unit and decide what it must do. But it’s the NCOs at the sharp end who have to decide how to do, it then and there. That corporal shapes up well. We’ll have to watch him and help him grow. He might even make Sergeant one day.”

“Or an officer?”

The Lieutenant meant it as a joke, but the German advisor nodded thoughtfully. “Possibly. Time will tell.”

“The sovereign?” Thomas White made his question sound like an answer. The other two heads in the room nodded.

Fadden shrugged “Now, obviously there’s a lot of details to work through, both from our side and across the Empire, before we get a new currency up and running. But, as I say, the basics are pretty clear cut. The one thing we can’t do is wind back the clock. Our new currency is not going to have the British economy backing it in addition to the Empire, nor will it have the Bank of England and Whitehall looking after it and moderating the whole show. The sterling stood on its own two feet, not something we can say for our sovereign. The wider market has had little exposure to it directly over the years other than via London, so they’ve got no measure of its value, and without that yardstick, pessimism just snowballs.

“So, we have to establish a value for our pound against the sovereign. Just pinning it to gold will calm fears and get business moving again. But it’s the rate that is critical to the sort of business we get, and no matter what rate we set, its going to step on someone toes just as they’ll be stepping on ours. If we undercut the Kiwis, or more likely they undercut us, the Indians, Malays, whomever we cross swords with, will have a diplomatic bone to pick with us, as we with them. As I say, we won’t have London to balance the scales. The right way to do things would be to set up a bank specifically to run the sovereign; they’d buy the gold from the producers, mint the coin, set the rates, issue any notes and do the whole business.

“But?” Locock had some idea of where this was going.

“But,” Fadden sighed. “That bank would have an enormous influence over our economy and the economies of everyone else, which would make it an intensely political animal, and quite frankly, unworkable. so far as I can see. Yet, without one, we’ve got to work out some means of doing all the same things as individuals acting in concert; that is going to be interesting. Broadly speaking, the only alternative to a bank is a market. I’m just an out-of-practice accountant, but on the present advise I’ve had from Treasury and Commonwealth Bank, we end up with two options: chaos, or some pretty severe restrictions. The South Africans came up with this, and odds on, they think their gold production will give them a major say in things. God knows where they got that idea. Once this thing hits the open market, it’s going to be the trading countries turning over the money, and that means it’s the Canadians who’ll end up running the show, with us or India in second place, I should think. The keys to banking in this part of the world are the Hongs. We know the Japanese have covetous eyes on Hong Kong, so the Hongs will rebase themselves soon. There are already rumors they will be heading for China or India; probably the latter. With them will move any feasible chance of establishing a central bank and with it the economic clout that will mean.”

Fadden shook his head. There was a problem looming in his mind that he couldn’t quite put his finger on now. He had an eerie feeling he was staring out across a darkened field and hearing a dire wolf howling in the distance.

Locock probed. “Arthur?”

“Oh… Oh!” Fadden snapped back into the present, but was left with the stomach-tightening sensation that he was being stalked by a nameless, unseen predator. “I’m not sure if the Canadians will be too interested, you know. It occurs to me they’ve been cozening up to the Yanks for years. So, if they’ve got something to gain out of all this, they’ve also go a hell of a lot to lose… We need to talk to Ottawa and we need to do it now!”

“Oh what a tangled web, thought Locock, not for the first time. It really was a mess. It had to be for a semi-obscure back bencher to end up Prime Minister in one tumultuous night. He was only supposed to keep the seat warm while the power brokers thrashed out an acceptable solution to this three-way race. The problem came down to numbers; that was democracy, after all. If Labour had held off a few days more, White would have the support to take over the Party, but that was as leader of the opposition. There were far too many members who were happy enough to put White up as a punching bag for the Government, but would back Casey to actually lead the country, Locock himself not the least among them. Hughes had stepped aside, leaving White as his deputy leading the party. Without the numbers in his pocket, White dare not take the Prime Ministership he was entitled to, and they had a government to form in the morning…

Locock was under no illusions he was convenient, expedient and ultimately expendable, compromise. Privately, he took the job doubting he’d even make Sir Earle Page’s record of 20 days. With Casey now bound for Canada and Fadden seeming to warm to him… Well, hope might spring eternal, but in the mean time, there was work to do.

“We need someone good in Chile,” insisted Fadden. “They buy our coal.”

“Right you are, Arthur. Chile is on my list, but apparently that means we’ve got to do Argentina as well or they’ll get upset.” White pulled out a scrap of paper. “I was thinking we need the Philippines if only to liaise locally with the Yanks, and if we put a big High Commission in Singapore, it’ll cover the rest….”

“What about Bangkok and Batavia? I don’t know about the Thais as

yet, but we do a bit of business with the Dutchies.” Again, the picture of a bleak, snow-covered field glittering in the darkness as a dire wolf howled far away forced itself into his mind. “The Governor General has been our conduit with the British intelligence services for many, many, years. How the hell are we going to keep an eye on our friends and their money if we haven’t got the eyes to see?”

“It’s more like the ears to hear,” sighed Fadden reluctantly. For the third time, he seemed to hear the dire wolf howling in the darkness. The nameless apprehension it caused returned. There was a threat out there; one that nobody had seen or even recognized yet as real as any they had seen. “I suppose we had better clear this up. It’s got to be done at some point, and now is as good a time as any.”

“Alright — alright,” agreed Fadden with sigh. “Well, by my count, we’ve got one more thing before we call in the Cabinet. What are we going to do with the AIF in Egypt?”

“I have just received word from General Wavell in Egypt. Four Italian divisions, under the command of General Rodolfo Graziani, have crossed the Libyan border into Egypt and are advancing on Sidi Barrani. The Italians have carried out artillery bombardments of General Wavell’s forward positions and tried to bomb targets in Egypt.” Sir Eric Haohoa peered around the Cabinet Office from behind the dispatches. Those present were nodding thoughtfully. The news from Egypt was hardly a surprise, but it wasn’t welcome either.

“Four divisions; that could be 100,000 men. And Archie has 30,000 at most. 7th Armoured Division and 4th Indian Infantry, if I am not mistaken.” General Auchinleck was very rarely mistaken.

“I believe that is correct.” Sir Eric consulted his briefing. “Yes. 7th Armoured and 4th Infantry, with 205 aircraft. The Italians have 300. Graziani has nine divisions: six regular Italian infantry and three Blackshirt militia divisions. And a small armored group. But, the initial reports are that only four divisions have been committed and they are advancing slowly. A battle group from the 7th Armoured is harassing them while the bulk of the division assembles at Mersa Matruh.”

“Gentlemen, I think we are beginning to see the first steps of the Noth Plan taking place.” Lord Linlithgow sounded depressed. “Is there any sign of German involvement in this attack?”

“No, Your Excellency. This, and the fighting in East Africa, appear to be a uniquely Italian effort.”

“That proves it then. The Germans are holding their forces ready for the thrust through Turkey and Iraq.” General Auchinleck drummed his fingers angrily on the conference table. “Otherwise, they would be supporting the Italians in the assault on Egypt. What is happening in Iraq?”

“The situation there is deteriorating fast. With the outbreak of the war, the Iraqi Government broke off diplomatic relations with Nazi Germany. However, they have refused to take the next logical step and declare war upon Germany. Our man in Baghdad, Nuri as-Said, has been replaced by the nationalist and antiBritish Rashid Ali.”

“Nationalist does not mean hostile.” Pandit Nehru had a warning tone in his voice.

“Indeed, it does not; a point that we are trying very hard to impress upon the Americans at this moment.” Sir Eric shook his head. “However, Ali has made covert contacts with German representatives in the Middle East, though he is not yet an openly pro-Axis supporter. He appears to be a much closer equivalent to Subhas Chandra Bose than is comfortable for us. It is due to his influence that Iraq did not break off diplomatic relations with Italy when they joined the war on the side of Germany. The Italian Legation in Baghdad has become the chief center for Axis propaganda and for fomenting antiBritish feeling in the region. It would appear that the next scene of German activity will be in Iraq and the key to what happens there will be our position in Egypt and the Sudan. If the Commonwealth position there holds firm, then we will indeed be in a much better position to counter German moves on Iraq.”

“What worries me is, if we can see that, why can’t the Germans?” Sir Martyn Sharpe didn’t like interfering in military and intelligence matters, but there was something about the situation that felt askew. “If this offensive in Egypt is so critical to their plans for Iraq, shouldn’t they be supporting it?”

“Logistics.” Auchinleck spoke decisively. “The transport facilities are inadequate to carry the supply tonnage needed for a larger force forward to the battle areas. The ports along the North African coast don’t have the capacity to land supplies for much more than the present order of battle. Graziani actually has more troops than he can use at the moment. So, there is no need for the Germans to get involved and they’re better off getting ready for the seizure of Iraq.”

“There’s a political aspect to this as well.” Sir Eric picked up where Auchinleck had left off. “Egypt is technically neutral and the British troops deployed there are supposed to be guarding the Suez Canal. The British Army in Egypt reports directly to London. There is no Governor-General to whom authority might be considered delegated. So, an attack on the British troops there is a direct attack on London. An Italian assault is one thing; it can be written off as an affair conducted by a third party. Any German involvement would be an entirely different matter; a direct breach of the ceasefire they signed back in June. If anything, this Italian adventure must be deeply embarrassing to the Germans and put at risk all they gained from Halifax’s actions.”

“So, no German involvement then.” Harold Hartley summarized that conclusion with a degree of relief. “But it appears that the mess in the Middle East will be the center of attention until it gets tidied up. And that may take some time.”

“It will also require resources.” Auchinleck was despondent. The truth was that with Britain out of the war, the resources needed for the Commonwealth to carry on were simply not there. Britain had been the center of the Commonwealth in much more than just name. “The Seventh Armoured Division is just about the only full-sized armored division outside the German Army at this time. Lot of armored brigades of course, but it’s the only armored division available. How it will keep its tanks running is anybody’s guess.”

“Canada is gearing up to produce Valentine tanks, but it’ll be next year before we see any.” Sir Martyn shared the general depression. After the heady excitement of fulfilling a dream and setting India on the path to independence, the practical realities involved were crushing down on him. In his eyes, they could be summarized as ‘a complete lack of everything.’ “We don’t even have the spares to keep what we have running.”

“There may be a solution to that, at least.” HH opened a file he had brought with him. “We have had an offer from an American gentleman, a Mr. William Pawley of the Intercontinental Aircraft Corporation of New York. He is known to us already; he arranged the export of Waco YQC-6 and Douglas DC-2 aircraft to Tata Airlines. Now, he has come to us with an offer to obtain second-hand aircraft production machinery from the United States and install it in a factory here. He suggests that the machinery he can obtain will not allow us to produce our own aircraft, but will permit the support of American–built aeroplanes here. Tata Airlines speak well of him; they describe him as a man of his word who drives hard bargains but is scrupulously honest in carrying them out.”

“There is something else you ought to know about our friend Mr. Pawley.” Sir Eric also had a file on the man. “Despite being a very active Republican, he is closely involved with the Roosevelt administration, and, in particular, its policy of sending aid to China. He is already reported to be forming a volunteer group to fly fighters for the Chinese Air Force. If he has approached us with this offer, we can conclude it is because supporting us has become American government policy. Why that is, of course, we can but conjecture.”

“Doubtless we shall find out in due course. I wonder if the other Commonwealth countries have received similar offers?” Lord Linlithgow drummed his fingers on the table. “We need that conference of Commonwealth leaders. Is there any progress on that front?”

“All are agreed that it is essential. The Australians propose holding it in Melbourne, the South Africans in Capetown, the Canadians in Vancouver. We have suggested Bermuda. It is a compromise everybody can live with and I believe it will be accepted. Having suggested the appropriate location will be a benefit to us, politically speaking, of course.”

Pandit Nehru burst out laughing; the rest of the meeting looked slightly shocked. He flushed slightly and put his hand to his mouth before speaking. “I do most sincerely apologize. It is something I find most amusing; to discover that the same petty consideration that concern us in running a party at ground level are also important when considering the great affairs of international politics.”

“Please don’t tell everybody that.” Lord Linlithgow had to admit Nehru had a point. “We do try to keep such things a secret. Maintaining public confidence and all that.”

“You holding up, sir?”

Alleyne looked over at his passenger. Sir Wilfred Freeman was white-faced with shock but holding on. A .50-cal bullet from a Fiat CR.42 had struck him in the shoulder during one of the brief battles that had taken place over the last four hours. Fortunately, the bullet had been at the end of its course. It had been fired from long range and, by the time it had penetrated the cockpit of the Sunderland, it had lost nearly all its energy. Sir Wilfred had a bandage wrapped around him and his arm was in a sling. That was the best that could be done for him under the circumstances.

His condition was symptomatic of the formation as a whole. The Italian attacks had been incessant. Although each individual wave had done little damage, the cumulative effects were mounting. One Sunderland was streaming white smoke from a crippled engine. Others were reporting wounded and a handful of dead amongst their passengers and crew. The Australian Sunderlands had fought the attacks off; the G-class boats in the middle of the formation had remained untouched. That was the good news. The bad news was that the formations of Italian fighters showed no signs of giving up the battle.

“Don’t worry about me, my boy. I’ve had worse than this.” Freeman’s voice belied his words. It was unsteady, quavering slightly. “Italians don’t seem to press their attacks, do they?”

“They don’t quite know what to make of us.” Alleyne was still scanning the sky, keeping a lookout for the next group of enemies. “They’ve never come across aircraft this heavily armed before. They’re learning fast, though. They’ve stopped trying to close in and are trying to pick us off from long range. It’s working, too; they’re wearing us down, bit by bit. And we’re beginning to run low on ammunition. Once the turrets run out, it’ll get bad.”

“I said 500 rounds per gun wasn’t enough.” Freeman sounded bitter.

“I wanted at least a thousand; preferably twice that. The endurance of a bomber isn’t measured by its range, but how long it can keep its defensive fire up. We would have had the extra ammunition too, if only we’d had just a few weeks more…”

That seems to be the unending anthem, thought Alleyne. Just a few weeks more and we’d have had the new tanks, the new aircraft, the new ships. Just a little more time and we’d have turned the whole situation around. We’d have stalled the Nazis and settled in for the long term. But Halifax and Butler made sure than we never got that time.

“There they are, Squadron Leader. High and two o’clock.” It might have been twenty years since Freeman had flown with the Royal Flying Corps, but he still had pilot’s eyes and had seen the dark shapes of another group of Italian fighters.

“Six of them.” Alleyne grunted. “We can handle that. If they came at us in mass, we’d be in trouble.”

“Now there’s a sore point.” Freeman laughed, then gasped as the effort hurt his shoulder. “Fighter Command were having a major battle over just that issue when everything went to hell. Dowding in the South favored small squadrons operating independently because they could react faster; Leigh-Mallory in the Midlands favored big wings of three or more squadrons operating together to give coordinated blows. I suppose we’ll never find out who was right now.”

Despite the rank of the man in the co-pilot’s seat, Alleyne was barely listening to him. The next group of Italian fighters were firing from extreme range. Their tracers seemed to drift across the sky. Alleyne started a gentle weaving to throw the enemy pilot’s aim off. It worked. Most of the tracers never came close to his aircraft. “Standing off at long range doesn’t seem to work either.”

“Fire control. What determines range isn’t the performance of the guns, it’s the capability of the gun sights, and they’re just barely able to handle .303 machine guns. Expecting heavier guns to outrange lighter ones is futile until everybody gets better gunsights.”

“If we can just hold out a bit longer, we’ll be fine.” Alleyne was worried about Freeman; the man was visibly weakening. “We’re nearly out of fighter range now. Just a few more minutes, and it’s a clear run to Alexandria.”