A Mighty Endeavor

Chapter Seven EXCHANGES OF PREJUDICE

“Monsieur, this is an outrage.”

“I think not.” Secretary of State Cordell Hull was at his most diplomatic. “The President has made it abundantly clear that the policy of this administration is to support in every way practicable those countries which are defending themselves against aggression. It is our firm conviction that only by defeat of the powers now controlling the destiny of Germany can the world live in liberty, peace and prosperity; that civilization cannot progress with a return to totalitarianism.

“We have been much perturbed by reports indicating that resources of France are being placed at the disposal of Germany in a measure beyond that positively required by the terms of the armistice agreement. I have reason to believe that, aside from the selfish interests of individuals, there is unrequired governmental cooperation with Germany motivated by a belief in the inevitableness of a German victory and ultimate benefit to France. For this reason, we cannot allow some of our most modern warplanes to be delivered to France. At the very least, doing so will allow the enemies of civilization to assess those aircraft and determine their strengths and weaknesses. At worst, we may find those very aircraft being used against us.

“We cannot, in conscience, deliver these aircraft. So, we are refunding, in full, the cost of those aircraft to you. France will not suffer from this; the money will be added to the reserves of gold maintained by France and we will invest it for you to achieve the best possible return on those investments. When this war is over, your funds will be available, supplemented by the profits made on your behalf by our most able financiers.”

Monsieur Herve Alphand, Ambassador of the Republic of France, could find little to say in response. The truth of the matter was that he could see the American point of view on this, while his own sympathies were not in accord with the position adopted by Marshal Petain in Vichy. Yet he was obliged to represent their opinions. He settled on a course that turned the old principle of damning with faint praise on its head. Instead, he would praise with faint damnation. “May I know how your banks will invest those funds?”

Hull spread his hands in regret. “Monsieur, the banks in this country are independent entities. They do not tell us how they invest our money; why should they tell us how they invest yours? But, be assured, they will seek the highest returns commensurate with prudent investment practice.”

Alphand recognized that there was no more to be said on the matter.

“On another matter, Monsieur Hull, may we expect food exports from the United States to France to resume?”

Hull sighed. “The hearts of the American people go out to the people of France in their distress. As you are aware, we are continuing our efforts to arrange for the forwarding, through the Red Cross, of medical supplies and also tinned or powdered milk for children in the unoccupied regions of France. Nevertheless, the primary interest of the American people, and an interest which overshadows all else at the moment, is to see a resistance to Germany continued. The American people are therefore unwilling to take any measure which in the slightest degree will prejudice such resistance. Before the American people would be willing to permit the shipment of food to France, it would be necessary that the American people be convinced that such action would not in the slightest assist Germany. I must add that the same considerations are applied to exports to Great Britain.”

“But not to the Commonwealth countries.” Alphand sounded bitter.

“Of course. The Commonwealth is carrying on the fight against Germany. They have committed their whole national strength to the battle, regardless of the cost to themselves. Can the French colonies around the world say the same?”

It was not a fair question; Alphand knew it and Hull knew it. The British Commonwealth countries had a much greater freedom of action than their French equivalents. Privately, Hull wondered just what the French colonies would be doing if they had the same freedom to maneuver as the British.

“May I at least ask what will happen to the aircraft that were once ours?” There was a note of genuine sadness in Alphand’s voice.

“Our minds are not yet made up. Perhaps we may use them as trainers for our own forces.”

“Perhaps.” Alphand did not sound convinced. He had a shrewd idea where those aircraft would be going.

“Will he make it?” Squadron Leader Alleyne watched the stretcher bearing Sir Wilfred Freeman being loaded into an ambulance prior to being taken to a hospital. The harbor was full of flying boats. All twelve Sunderlands and the three G-class aircraft had made it across the Mediterranean. The Sunderlands had succeeded in preventing any damage to the civilian aircraft, but they’d all taken wounds themselves in the process. Crews were getting ready to bring three of them ashore so that hull damage could be patched while two more had mechanics working on damaged engines. Still, considering the aircraft had been under sustained fighter attack for more than four hours, they’d got off remarkably lightly.

“He lost a lot of blood. The medics are hopeful, though. How about your crews?”

“We made it.” Alleyne dismissed the question rather abruptly, without realizing he was doing so. He was exhausted by the long flight from Britain to Egypt by way of Gibraltar and badly needed some sleep.

Wing Commander Hesketh looked at the Australian sympathetically. The man was pale and his eyes were shadowed from the strain of his flights. He guessed that the uncertainty of Alleyne’s position was also preying on his mind. Well, at least I can do something about that.

“Your people can get some rest here, for a while at least. I do have orders for you directly from your Government. You now report directly to them, not London. On their instructions, you are assigned to Middle East Command and will be stationed at Aden as soon as you can get down there. We need your flying boats to help counter the Italian Red Sea squadron. We’re going to have to move you out of Alex quickly, though. You’re too vulnerable here.”

“We can use these aircraft as bombers.” It was Harris who spoke, cutting in on the briefing. “They can hit the Italian ports and supply lines.”

Hesketh shook his head. “Not from here they can’t. Sir, the Italians have four bomber groups based in Libya. Two of them have Breda close support aircraft and we don’t have to worry about them. The other two have sixty Savoia-Marchetti SM.79 bombers between them. Those, we do have to worry about. There’s about forty of them operational at any one time and they can go where they want and do what they wish. They’re faster than the Gladiators we’re relying on for air defense. As soon as we bomb one of the Italian ports, those SM.79s will return the compliment by bombing us here. And they’ll take out those flying boats in the process. We need them too much in the Red Sea for that. We’ll fix them, fuel them, and then get them out of here. We’ve got some Bristol Bombays for bombing missions when the time comes.”

Harris thrust out his chin. “The Italians have already invaded. We have to strike back at them. The Sunderlands will stay here for use as bombers.”

“No, sir. They will not. Do you know how many front-line fighters we have here? One. Not one squadron, one aircraft. A Hurricane. We have 75 Gladiators and 34 Gauntlets as second line fighters. We have Blenheim and Bombay bombers and those we use to strike at the Italians. But the Sunderlands go to Aden. Those are the orders of the Australian Government.”

“Do you know who I am, Wing Commander?” There was heavy emphasis on the rank.

“Yes, sir. I do. I also know what you are not. You are not in the chain of command here and you are not part of Middle East Command. We don’t know who we report to at this time or what our status is, but we do know what we have to do and what we have to do it with. With respect, sir, you do not.”

Harris stared at the Wing Commander, then retreated back into the belly of the flying boat. Hesketh breathed a sigh of relief.

“I hate to do this to you Squadron Leader, but you need to get these aircraft out of here soonest. I’m not sure who is your bigger enemy right now, the Italians or Arthur Harris but neither of them are to be ignored. Get some sleep while we fix your aircraft and then we’ll get you on your way.”

“The Royal Navy will obey my orders.”

“Nevertheless, the fleet has its duties and responsibilities to perform.”

Prime Minister the Lord Halifax and Admiral of the Fleet Sir Dudley Pound glared at each other across the table. Neither was prepared to give an inch on this issue; both knew that their authority depended on them not doing so. Pound knew something else, a fact that had been kept very secret.

He was dying.

He had an inoperable brain tumor that would kill him in a year or two, according to the best doctors available. In addition he had hip degeneration that was making his work progressively more difficult. In a strange way, that made Pound’s job as First Sea Lord easier. His career was over and his life was ticking away fast. The only he thing he had left to do was to protect the Navy that he loved.

“Our Armistice with Germany specifies that the Royal Navy should return to its peacetime establishment and stations.” Halifax shouted the words across the room, hoping to see the First Sea Lord back down.

“It does, Prime Minister, and that in itself confirms that we have a legitimate need to continue with those peacetime responsibilities. It recognizes our deployment and activities and nowhere is the situation more critical than the Mediterranean. That fleet has always been the major peacetime station for the Royal Navy, outnumbering even the Home Fleet. Thus, the Armistice legitimizes its deployment and stations in that area. If that upsets the Italians, so be it.”

Pound sounded reasonable and convincing, leaving Halifax an out from an awkward position. Those who knew Pound well had remarked upon his ability to defeat by guile proposals that had been forced on him by higher authority. ‘Intellectual ju-jitsu’ had been the description applied by some of his contemporaries. He had used the technique to prevent Winston Churchill from sending a battle fleet into the Baltic and now he would use it to prevent Halifax from pulling one out of the Mediterranean. He might have gained his position for want of a healthier candidate, but that same quirk made him the right man in the right place now.

“The Mediterranean Fleet is not at its peacetime establishment.” The shout was still aggressive, but Halifax was already beginning to back away from the conflict. He had brought the matter of Mussolini’s movements in North and East Africa up with the Germans and they had denied all interest in them. As far as they were concerned, what Italy did was Italy’s business and they could do it on their own. If Britain chose to resist the Italian moves, that was their business as well and it would not affect German-British relations in the slightest.

“And we shall reduce it to that establishment.” Pound sounded agreeable, but his mind was running through the options. There are two old battleships out there, Ramillies and Royal Sovereign. They can come home without too much loss to ABC and we can use their crews for the new battleships King George V and Prince of Wales. Likewise three old cruisers can come home and we can use their crews for three of the new Dido-class. If ABC loses his four oldest and slowest destroyers, we’ll have a paper compliance with the Armistice while maintaining our position out there.

“Those ships will come home and the rest dispersed between the various bases we have available.”

It sounded reasonable and Halifax took the chance to back off. Pound saw him do so and smiled gently to himself. With one modern, capable squadron at each end of the Mediterranean, his Navy could still do its duty out there.

“Watch those Italians. Their CR.42s have a hell of an edge over us.”

Which, considering we are flying Hawker Fury fighters, is hardly a great surprise. Pilot Officer Pim Bosede was beginning to understand just how bad the situation was in Kenya. It wasn’t that the Italians had achieved great successes; it was that there was so little stopping them from doing so. The South African Air Force had sent two squadrons to help hold the line in Kenya. One had Ju-86 bombers; the other had the Fury. On the ground, two brigades of the King’s African Rifles were holding off six brigades of Italian troops. Quite how they were doing it, Bosede couldn’t see; but they were, and in doing so, they had bought time for the First South African Division to arrive and form up.

“What do we do about it, broere?”

“We fight commando style.”

Flight Lieutenant Petrus van Bram wondered just how long this freshfaced recruit would last. The Italian pilots were skilled and fought well. Their aircraft outperformed the mix of old aircraft deployed in Kenya across the board. Technically, there was no reason why the allied forces in the country should have survived. van Bram was a deeply religious man, and he assumed that the survival of the small group of fighters on the front line at Buna was due to divine intervention. The more secular members of the squadron agreed with him. There wasn’t a more plausible explanation.

“We hit and run, try to pick off a bomber here, a reconnaissance aircraft there. Problem is, the bombers and reconnaissance aircraft are faster than us as well. Every so often, the Italians try to visit one of our airbases. They got a few Hardys on the ground the first time they tried, but we have observers out now and we get a few minutes warning.”

“What are their pilots like?” Bosede was frantically absorbing as much information as he could.

“Individually, very good. They are well trained and they know their work. Operational planning is not so much so. They have the same attack patterns and schedules, so we know when they will arrive and what they will do. The fighters stay very close to the bombers. So we can get in, pick off a straggler and get away before they respond. We cannot break up the formations, but we can do a little damage here and there. How many hours do you have?”

“On the Fury? Eight. But I have flown much prior to joining the Air Force. Mostly Curtiss Travel Air 6000s.”

van Bram grimaced. “I hope you have not picked up too many bad habits. We will take an orientation flight and see. Take off in 30 minutes.”

An hour later, Bosede was looking down at the landscape of northern Kenya as it slowly unfolded beneath him. Right in the middle of the parched brown and light green was the rich dark green stain of the Ajao River. His briefing on navigation had been simple. All one has to do was to find that dark green strip and follow it south; that would inevitably lead a pilot to the airstrip at Buna. The problem was that Italian bomber pilots could do the same thing. Somewhere below him, in the reddish brown and green, the King’s African Rifles were fighting to hold off the Italians. There was no sign of that; it was as if the vastness of Africa had swallowed the war whole.

Ahead of him, van Bram was rocking his wings. Bosede saw him gesturing downwards. There was an aircraft down there. Bosede quickly took its details in. A radial-engined biplane; very distinct from the inline-engined Hardy and Fury used by the South Africans. An Italian Ro.37, probably on a reconnaissance mission. He saw van Bram peeling over into a long dive and followed suite.

About half way down, the rear gunner in the Italian aircraft must have spotted the two Furies. A stream of red tracer dots poured out of the rear position, searching out van Bram’s aircraft. The lead Fury held its fire, though. van Bram ignored the tracer lights all around him, until he had closed the range to nearly point-blank. Then van Bram fired. A long burst from his twin Vickers guns abruptly ended the fire from the Ro.37’s rear gun. Bosede dived below the Ro.37 and came up from underneath, firing a burst from his twin guns into the reconnaissance aircraft’s belly.

The two fighters swerved away. The Ro.37 streamed black smoke from a damaged engine. Bosede was expecting to make a second pass; van Bram pointed upwards. A formation of four biplanes was already closing in. They were instantly recognizable: Fiat CR.32s. Bosede knew their reputation from Spain. Not as fast as the later CR.42, but extremely agile. Even one on one, they were far more than a match for the old Fury. He was quite relieved when van Bram broke off the attack and headed south. Unwilling to get involved in a long tail-chase, the Italian pilots formed up around the damaged Ro-37 to shepherd it back home.

Following the river worked. The rich foliage that surrounded it was visible from a long way away. It was simple to find it and then head south. After landing, Bosede climbed out of his Fury and stretched. It all seemed a waste of time somehow, and he said so to van Bram. His flight leader didn’t agree.

“We saw off a reconnaissance aircraft and that helps our broere on the ground. As long as we do that, the Italians will keep their fighters escorting the other aircraft and not have them running free to hunt us down. So we did a little good work today. Not much, perhaps, but a little. We are doing what we can and we will continue to do so until help arrives.”

“Railways. Now there is a problem to conjure with.” Sir Martyn Sharpe had an almost dreamy look on his face. In his youth, he had wanted, more than anything else, to be a train driver. Even today, he had an abiding fascination with the operation of steam locomotives mixed with a genteel dislike for their diesel equivalents. The idea of rebuilding an entire continentwide railway network was immensely appealing to him.

“We already have made a good start on building a railway network.” Pandit Nehru objected and bristled slightly. Railways were a sore point in the Indian Congress Party; one on which everybody disagreed with everybody else over everything.

“A start, yes; but hardly a good one. We have railway lines built in four different gauges: narrow, meter, standard and broad gauge. They don’t link up well and the track-beds are so light they can’t take heavy freight. It’s a frightful mess. We need to have a strategic plan for the development of our railway system. Communications are key to modern development.”

“Once again, we see the need for a controlling interest by the state.” Nehru was hard-wired to see state control as the answer to every problem, but in this case he had almost total agreement. The chaotic state of Indian railway development could not be allowed to continue. Each princely state had built its own railway system; its configuration had been decided by the whim of the Princes. So had the routes followed by the tracks. They also had more to do with the wishes of the Prince than economic necessity. The investors who had built the lines had been guaranteed a five percent return on their investment by the government, so the financial viability of the lines had been of no great interest to them.

“In this case, you have an excellent argument, but there is a problem here. Under the 1849 agreement with the railway promoters, the railways built by them are to remain their property for 99 years. At which point, they will pass, without compensation, into the possession of the Government, which will have to pay for the machinery, plant and rolling stock. We can purchase the railway in question earlier by paying the full value of the capital stock and shares. Alternatively, the railway companies can surrender their line to us by giving six months notice and claim repayment of all the capital invested. We simply cannot afford to do either. We are barely surviving at the moment as it is. This kind of additional burden will finish us.”

“There is always nationalization without compensation.” Nehru liked the sound of that and knew it would resonate with the membership of his party.

“There is indeed.” Sir Martyn agreed. “But we have a problem there as well. The vast majority of the finding for Indian railway development came from England. For all practical purposes, Indian capital played a negligible role in building our railway system. The capital that came from England to India for railway construction formed the largest single unit of international investment in the 19th century. If we suddenly nationalize that without compensation, it will be a massive blow at the English financial system.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Nehru was growing heated. “The railways destroyed much of our native industry. Traditional Indian goods have been replaced by factory-made items imported from England and distributed cheaply by rail. The construction of the railways created employment for coal miners, steelmakers and machine forgers in England, not India, and converted our countryside into an agricultural colony of England. The railways were not a commercial success until the early part of this century, yet the losses were not borne by the investors who built them but by the government and thus the Indian people. It is time those monies extracted from us were recovered.”

The silence in the cabinet room was profound. The subject of the railways themselves was almost immaterial compared with the yawning gap in perceptions that had been revealed by Nehru’s speech. It had literally never occurred to any of the Europeans present that the construction of railways had been anything other than an undiluted blessing for India.

“Perhaps this is an area in which we should advance carefully? The first step should be to arrange for the consolidation of the existing railway system into a number of regional railway authorities. The existing railway owners can be given shares in the new railway authorities proportionate to their investment in the original lines. Then, as we invest further in those authorities, bringing the lines up to a common standard, the government’s shareholding will increase. Thus, when the existing agreements expire in 1948, the transfer will have been completed in a proper and orderly manner.

“We must be wary that we do not alienate any of the likely investors in this country. Our economic success depends on attracting them into our fold and we should not mortgage that prospect by hasty action when, in eight years, the assets will fall into our hands anyway.” Sir Martyn looked around the room. The majority of the occupants seemed to accept that concept, although Nehru was still agitated by the mere mention of railways. It was probably a good time to move on.

“I do have some good news to relate. We have received word from Canberra, Johannesburg, Wellington and Ottawa that the proposed meeting of the heads of the Commonwealth countries is to go ahead and that our proposal that Jamaica be the locale for the meeting has been accepted.”

“I thought that Bermuda was our first choice?” The Marquess of Linlithgow sounded surprised.

“It was, Your Excellency. It was pointed out that Bermuda posed certain security risks should the Germans get wind of the meeting, as they undoubtedly will. A well-timed commando raid and our enterprise would end with us all inside a German prison. Jamaica is a much more secure and inviting location and has better meeting facilities anyway. We amended our proposal to Jamaica and it was enthusiastically accepted. Britain will be represented by Mr. Churchill, of course. The United States will be attending as observers.”

“Is that necessary?” Leon Arnold Fitzgerald sounded distasteful. Of the current members of the Cabinet, he was the one closest to Sir Richard Cardew in outlook. So much so that Sir Eric Haohoa was keeping him discretely watched.

“Indeed it is. It is, after all, the disposal of British equipment produced in America and currently held under embargo there that will be the subject of much discussion. We cannot ignore the fact that those discussions will be meaningless without American agreement. There are other issues that we must raise with them as well. The American government has intimated that it can make funds available to us on very reasonable terms, provided they receive certain assurances about our future position.”

“That means staying in the war, I presume.” Nehru was beginning to calm down.

“Of course it does. The Americans will fight Germany to the lives of the last Commonwealth soldier.” Fitzgerald spoke with scorn dripping from every syllable. Sir Martyn was disturbed to note how much agreement there was with that sentiment.

“They may not get that chance. I hope nobody believes that this war will be ended quickly or will pass anybody by?” Lord Linlithgow had a note of reproof when he spoke and it made its mark. Several of those who had partially agreed with Fitzgerald looked shamefaced about it.

“Pandit, I would like you to lead our delegation to the Jamaica conference. I have far too many commitments here to be able to go there myself, and, I believe, your presence there would highlight the new road down which we hope to take India.”

Nehru’s agitation from the railway issue evaporated as the realization he would be representing India at a Commonwealth conference. What that meant in the broad perspective of things sank in. In a very real sense, it was a partial fulfillment of a life’s work. Watching him, Sir Martyn decided that Pandit Nehru had a lot to learn about what went on at international conferences.

“Have you seen nothin’ down there?”

The Sunderland was cruising about a thousand feet up and maintaining barely a hundred knots. Experience over the Atlantic in the first phase of the war had taught crews that this was the optimum combination of speed and altitude when searching for U-boats. Low altitude to improve the chance of eye-balling a submerged submarine and reduce the chance of being seen by a surfaced one; low speed to stretch fuel reserves out to the maximum possible. Guy Alleyne knew his job very well indeed.

“Nothin’ yet.” An Italian submarine had attacked the New Zealand cruiser Leander. The torpedoes had missed their target. Radio intercepts picked up a message from the submarine Galileo Ferraris claiming to have torpedoed a battleship. That had caused some mirth back in Aden from those who hadn’t tried to work out the chaos of a naval action. The crew of Freddie had; they knew the problems of identifying a target and determining how much, if any, damage they had done.

“Any more word from the Mad Bomber?” Andy Walker down in the radio compartment sounded genuinely curious. He had been the radio operator on duty when Arthur Harris had sent the squadron a preemptory order to return to Alexandria for service as night bombers.

“Nah, he gave up the ghost. I heard Wavell put him in charge of the Bristol Bombay fleet to keep him quiet. Damned drongo sent them off to bomb the harbor at Tobruk and they didn’t get a bomb within fifteen miles of the place. He’s been quiet ever since.” Alleyne wasn’t particularly worried. There had been a telegraphed set of orders for him in Aden. His government had told him what to do and where to go. More importantly, it told him who to obey and, implicitly, who not to. That trumped everything else. The most valuable part of it had been the simple fact of its existence. It had told him they were still part of something, not forgotten wanderers trying to find a home somewhere.

“You reckon that sub will still be around here? The Huns would have cleared off by now.”

“He’ll still be around. He’ll want a second crack at that cruiser. If he really reckons he hit her, he’ll want to finish her off. If not, he’ll want to try again. Either way, he’s around here somewhere.”

“Boss, I got somethin’.” Chris White was the portside lookout, using the beam machine gun hatch as an observation point. “Three o’clock; right on the horizon.”

“Good on you, Snowy.” There was a long pause while Don Clerk, the starboard lookout, crossed over and checked on the sighting. “Snowy’s right, Boss. Connin’ tower on the horizon; enemy one by the look of it.”

“Stand by for attack. All gun crews ready. Midships crew, open the side ports and wind out the depth bombs. Fuzes set for 25 feet.”

The casual atmosphere had completely vanished from the Sunderland. The two side hatches under the wings were already opening up. In the bomb room, the 250-pound airborne depth charges were fuzed and attached to the racks. The racks were then wound out on rails under the wings. Alleyne already had the throttles forward, pushing the Pegasus engines as hard as was prudent. Aden was a long way from the easy availability of spare parts; stressing the engines would be short-sighted, to say the least.

White’s original sighting had been accurate. It was a submarine. Alleyne quickly put together the recognition details. Single gun forward of a small conning tower; she’s German. Bad luck for her she’s not the one we were lookin’ for.

“You reckon the poor dumb bastards are asleep down there?” The distance was closing quickly and White had an almost proprietorial interest in the submarine.

Suddenly, the submarine was surrounded by spray as she started to dive. In the North Atlantic, the Sunderland crew had become used to rapid dives from German submarines. Alleyne was astonished at how slowly this one was starting to submerge. The conning tower was almost certainly deserted. He opened fire with his nose guns anyway, lashing the submarine with the streams of tracer fire. The submarine was supposed to mount a 20mm cannon and a 37mm gun; there was no trace of return fire from them. Most likely, the German elected to dive rather than fightin’ it out on the surface and thought he had more time.

Alleyne ceased fire as the flying boat slashed over the diving submarine. FFreddie lurched as the four depth charges dropped clear.

“Way to bloody go! Perfect straddle, Boss! Score one for the Hobart!”

The cheer from the midships lookouts was all Alleyne needed to know. He was already curving around, bringing the submarine into his field of vision. Two depth charges had landed just short of the boat. The other pair had landed just over her. They exploded under the submarine, throwing her upwards and breaking her back. By the time Alleyne could see her properly, she was already sinking; her bows and stern raised in the air and her midships section under water.

“Strafe it?”

“Don’t be bloody. Leave her. She’s done for. Radio base and see if anybody can pick up the survivors. If there are anyway.” Alleyne guessed the submarine had been closed up for diving. The chance of anybody getting out, given the catastrophic damage inflicted by the four depth charges, were slight. Still, if there was a chance, it was worth getting the word out. He completed the turn and cruised over the sinking wreckage beneath. The submarine had almost gone; only the point of her bows stuck out of the boiling white stains on the sea surface.

“I hope some of you took pickies of that?” Alleyne had forgotten to order the photography in the rush of the attack, but the evidence was needed if they were to be credited with a confirmed sinking instead of a probable. The sea surface was littered with scattered wreckage, but there were no swimmers that he could see.

“Yeah, I got it. No heads down there I can see.”

“Me neither. Poor drongos. Any idea who they were?”

FFreddie circled the scene of the sinking. Her crew searched the floating wreckage with high-powered binoculars for any sign of survivors. Eventually, it was Chris White who gave the doleful epitaph.

“Nobody got out. All I can see floatin’ down there is a few bits of debris and a stuffed animal.”

The haunting echoes of the ballad echoed backwards and forwards from the ships anchored across Scapa Flow as the heavy cruiser started her slow progress out to sea. Captain Robert R Stewart surreptitiously wiped an eye at the words and the meaning behind them. This was the worst way to end an assignment he could think of. Betrayed.

There was no other word for it. He, his ship and his crew had been betrayed by the government they had come half way around the world to help. The rest of the fleet knew it. The sad dirge was their comment on the way the cruiser had been treated.

“It was originally written about Bonnie Prince Charlie, you know.” Lieutenant Colonel Beaumont spoke softly. “The Andrew always had a talent for knowing the right music.”

Stewart nodded sadly. “This is such a damned shame. We didn’t want ta go home like this. Not with our tails between our legs.”

“Not your fault. At least you were around to give us a lift home. The lads would have paid for the tickets on a liner home themselves rather than stay any longer. After volunteering to help the old country out, being described as ‘useless mouths’ was more than they could stomach.”

“At least we didn’t have ta swallow that.” Stewart veered away from the subject, watching the pilot take HMAS Australia through the boom and down the Hoy Sound. “Just being booted out was bad enough. Ronald, you’d better get your men together for training soon. We’re still at war with Germany and they might reckon of putting a couple of torpedoes into us. Your men better know what ta do if that happens.”

“Aye, I’ll do that. We were half expecting to be bombed in Aldershot but it never happened.” Beaumont looked out across the sound. Two British destroyers were paralleling the Australian cruiser’s course. They weren’t escorting her; they just happened to be close by and going the same way. Under the circumstances, keeping a close ASW watch out was only a reasonable precaution, wasn’t it?

The thought of Australia being torpedoed was a nightmare. The ship was packed tight with men; her own crew, the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry Battalion and some ‘passengers’ that nobody was talking about. She had men sleeping in every open space of the ship. Simply feeding everybody was straining the ship’s facilities to the utmost. Beaumont had his own cooks in the galleys helping out where they could, but with almost 1,600 men on board even that was little more than a gesture. It was going to be a cold, hungry crossing. The mood of his men was such that they preferred that to staying in a country that was suddenly unwelcoming.

They were being unfair and Beaumont knew it. The evidence was literally all around them. The number of men on board wasn’t the only reason why Australia was crowded. The ship was packed with cargo; every square foot appeared to sprout crates, covered and lashed down. Even the gun turrets had packages and parcels stowed in them. Australia was in no condition to fight even a minor warship. When the ship had been stored for her transit across the Atlantic, the Royal Navy had filled her to capacity and beyond.

“You might still be. One of the things I want your men ta do is get every machine gun they can lashed ta the railings in the superstructure. God knows, they’ve got enough of them.” Beaumont snorted; the British Army had equipped his battalion for its return to Canada on the apparent assumption that every Canadian soldier carried both a Bren gun and a Vickers gun in addition to his rifle, pistols and a terrifying number of hand grenades. He’d been quite amazed to discover that his battalion headquarters now included a six-pounder antitank gun. Beaumont would have been prepared to swear that the weapon only existed as a prototype, but one such gun was lashed to the deck amidships and a case of blueprints was stowed in A Turret magazine.

Stewart grinned understandingly. “It’s all right for you; your people just have ta clean them. I’ve got ta worry about carrying them. This poor old girl is loaded so deep, her plimsoll line is completely submerged. We’ve got every round of ammunition we can fit in on board. But we might need those machine guns though. We can outrun submarines, even loaded the way we are; a Condor is a different matter. If they show up, we’ll need that flak.”

“You going home after you drop us off?” Beaumont watched Graemsay Island passing behind them. He felt the shudder as the engines picked up power. He was no seaman, but he could feel the ship was sluggish with the load she was carrying.

“We are, by way of Jamaica. We’re taking some top brass down there for a conference, then heading through the Panama Canal for home. What we do there is anybody’s guess. The rumor mill says patrol duty in the Indian Ocean ta replace Hobart. Who knows? We might get another one of those damned raiders. The boys would like ta get some payback in.”

“Is everything ready?” Lord Linlithgow looked around the room.

“It is.” Sir Eric Haohoa confirmed the fact. “We have had some preliminary discussions with the other Commonwealth representatives and the ground rules have been agreed. The Middle East is our primary area of strategic importance and it is there that our defense investments will be concentrated, in the short term at least. The Hawk 81s will be sent there. The rest of us will have to make do with the Hawk 75s. The same applies to the bombers and the patrol aircraft. We will send whatever equipment is needed to the Middle East and then divide up the rest.”

“And payment for all this equipment?” Nehru had an inbred dislike for spending money on military equipment, no matter how pressing the need appeared to be.

“The ex-British equipment needs not be paid for. The monies for it are held in the United States and we, the Commonwealth countries, inherit it. The ex-French equipment is more difficult. I understand the Americans have refunded the purchase price of that equipment to the French but then impounded the monies. They ‘offered’ to invest the money for the French against the time when the funds would be released, an offer the French couldn’t refuse. The Americans are now ‘investing’ that money by loaning it to us so we can purchase the ex-French aircraft.”

“That’s generous of them.” HH sounded more than slightly sarcastic.

“I suspect not.” Sir Martyn Sharpe had a shrewd idea about what the Americans had in mind. “They intend to ensure that we are dependent on American equipment for our defense and industrial sectors. Already, there are moves by their robber barons to put money into our industrial development programs. A Mister Essington Lewis of Broken Hill Proprietory wants to establish joint ventures for steel production and there are rumors that American capitalists are behind him. It is a clear objective of American government policy to oppose colonialism and break up the great empires. I would say they have seen a major opportunity for them to do just that.”

Sir Eric nodded in agreement. The position of Cabinet Secretary included supervision of the intelligence and security services. One of the things he was doing at the moment was reorganizing both to meet India’s needs. “We believe that is exactly the case. The Americans are playing a deep game here and we’re just pawns. Their primary target is Germany, but dismantling the colonial empires is still something they view with favor.”

“And Halifax opened the door for them.” The Marquess of Linlithgow sounded almost personally aggrieved. “He always disliked the Americans and was prejudiced against them. I cannot help but think that weighed in his calculations when he decided to set upon the course he has chosen. It would be ironic if it was his acts that gave them the opening they seek. It adds all the more emphasis to the importance of the Commonwealth meeting in Jamaica. We must stand together and we must resist American efforts to break us asunder. If we are to go our separate ways, it must be at a time of our own choosing and for our own reasons. How are we going to get to Jamaica?”

“The delegation will fly there, Your Excellency. We will be using the Golden Hind, one of the three Short flying boats that arrived recently. We will be going by way of Cape Town where we will pick up the delegation from South Africa. The Canadians will be arriving by cruiser; the Australians flying in.”

“Very good.” Lord Linlithgow nodded enthusiastically. “That will reflect well on our delegation. Modern image, and all that. Pandit, as a lifelong socialist, you will of course want to ride steerage class on the Golden Hind? As a gesture against privilege and class distinctions?”

Nehru’s jaw dropped with a combination of shock and outrage. He had been smiling happily at the thought of sampling the fabled luxuries of one of the great flying boats that dominated long-range air transportation. Now, the thought of sitting in the cramped steerage compartment for days on end faced him. It was only when he looked around and saw the grins on the face of the other members of the meeting that he realized his leg was being pulled. “But, of course. In fact, I will insist on it. And I will expect you all to join me there.”

There was a ripple of laughter and appreciative applause at the rejoinder. Sir Eric answered gravely, “I am sorry, Pandit, but we will have to refuse your request. There is no steerage class on an S-26. You’ll have to travel first class like the rest of us.”

Nehru shook his head in simulated grief. “Well, in that case, I suppose I will have to sacrifice my principles for the common good. Just this once, you understand. It is a dirty job, but somebody will have to do it.”

“Look, Rachael; deer.” David Newton pointed at the small group of deer that were in the trees off to the left of the gravel road. “I’m surprised they’re still here.”

Rachael watched as one of the deer heard the sound and spotted the movement. The herd of deer in the park were tame. Normally, they felt comfortable in the presence of humans, but that had started to change. Some of the herd had mysteriously vanished; that had left the rest nervous. Rachael saw the stag looking at the humans carefully and she could almost read his mind. They didn’t seem a threat, but who knows? She guessed that another unexpected movement would send the stag and his hinds bounding into the shelter of the trees.

“Do you think they are being hunted, David?”

“Poached, rather than hunted.” Newton thought carefully. “They’re mostly eating the grass, so they aren’t eating food that we could use. Not yet anyway. But I guess the local black marketers see a market for venison developing.”

“Not yet.” Rachael weighed the words carefully, not liking the sound of them. “You think rationing is going to get worse?”

Newton sighed. The truth was that he really didn’t like the way things were going. He was a lot more widely read than most of the students and, as a group, they were more aware of the world than most people. But this was the first time that he and Rachael had gone walking out together and he didn’t want to sound depressing. He desperately wanted this afternoon to go well and had been doing his best to make that happen.

“I think so, Rachael. This country imports so much of its food, and nearly all of it came from the Commonwealth. Now we’re at daggers drawn with them; we can’t expect that to continue. I suppose it all depends on how much more we can grow here and how much we can import from elsewhere. Have your folks got an allotment? Mine have.”

“Yes, and Papa goes there every evening to make sure our vegetables are growing well. Or so he says; I think he really goes there so he can read the newspaper in peace without Mama telling him what to do around the house.”

Newton laughed at the picture of Rachael’s father hiding in a little hut on his allotment. “I think mine does too. Talking about houses, Rachael, behold Wollaton Hall. Built around 1600, I think.”

“It’s horrible.” Rachael was appalled by the building. “It’s so fussy and over-decorated. Who built it?”

“Sir Frances Willoughby. He tore down the whole village of Sutton Passeys to build the house and park. It was designed by the Elizabethan architect, Robert Smythson.”

“You’d think he’d have built something attractive after he’d turned all those people out of their homes. Still the bosses never care who gets hurt once they set their hearts on doing something.”

Newton wanted to argue that point, but he didn’t want to fight with Rachael the first time they’d walked out together. Anyway, with Wollaton Hall in front of him, he didn’t feel on very solid ground to dispute her point.

“Do you see the rings in the outer wall? The architect had been to Venice and brought back some ideas with him. Those are gondola mooring rings, of all things.”

He reached out to point Rachael at one of the rings. As he did, she moved slightly to keep a distance between them. He stopped immediately. Have I offended her?.

Rachael smiled and shook her head. “No offense meant, David. A good Jewish girl has to behave modestly in public. That’s all.”

“I’m not just a Broadway Baby, I’m the Broadway Baby. Al Dubin wrote the song about me. Or, as he claims, I inspired him to write it.” Igrat paused slightly and looked at the man she was addressing. “He seemed to like being inspired.”

Bruce Phillips couldn’t help smiling. “I should hope so. So, ‘Lullaby of Broadway’ was written about you? Something I’ve always wanted to ask. What the Hell is a ‘daffy dill’ when he’s at home?

“A rich idiot. Person who has more money than sense. Usually trying to find himself a Baby to look after. Once he’s got one, he gets promoted to a Sugar Daddy. But, yes, ‘Lullaby of Broadway’ was written about me, although it’s been some time since anybody tried to push me off a balcony.”

“Some say the whole sequence is fascist.” Phillips was more interested in the tone of her response than its substance. His instructions were to feel out these people and form a picture of their real aims and intentions. He was surprised when Igrat suddenly looked very sad.

“You know, Buzz was heartbroken at the way that sequence was received. Remember it was made in 1935. The number isn’t promoting or glamorizing fascism; it’s screaming a warning about the birth of the fascist disease. Buzz is a song and dance man, so he put his warning into song and dance, but the message is there. It starts off with people waking up and going to work while the Baby comes home after her night out. Note how well she gets on with the people going to work and how she looks after the cat. It’s a picture of a happy, friendly society in which work and pleasure are equally important; both are valued and the helpless get looked after.

“Then the Baby goes to a nightclub with her Daddy for an evening out when the dancers come in. They stomp in, crashing their boots and giving the Nazi salute. They take over the pleasant evening completely, drowning everything else out, showing how they destroy the happy society. Then, they seduce the Baby, luring her away from her Daddy and fooling her into joining them. Finally, they kill her by pushing her off the balcony.

“By doing so, they destroy all the pleasure in the world, leaving only workers as slaves, while the poor and helpless, represented by the cat, are left to starve. In ‘Gold Diggers of 1935,’ Buzz was warning the world of what was to come, yet they just ignored him. It broke his heart and he swore never to try and use his art to send messages again.” Igrat paused and caught her breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away like that.”

“Don’t worry about it. I never thought of the sequence that way before. Look, I’ll be honest with you. Mr. Essington Lewis doesn’t like small but influential investors. He asked me to speak with you first, to see if your people are the sort he can live with. He quite likes small investors; it’s the influential part he doesn’t much care for. He has enough of those already, and more an enough ‘influences’ to juggle. I can say he sees BHP as his ship to run his way. He’s a pretty fair ‘Captain of Industry,’ but you know what the captain of a ship is like.”

Igrat suddenly looked deadly serious. “Mr Phillips, I told you about myself to emphasize that I have no responsibilities other than to be an absolutely trustworthy messenger. I have neither the ability nor the authority to enter into negotiations. My job is to convey to you the messages my principal wishes to send and to do so accurately and reliably. If Mr. Lewis likes the information I have brought, my principal will be happy to meet with him. Either here or in America; the choice is his. Also, if he wishes to send written or verbal messages back, I will carry them. If verbal, my principal gets his words, exactly as he speaks them, unchanged and unmodified. They will also be carried in absolute secrecy. If he wishes to check my credentials in such matters, he may speak with the Vice President of International Transactions at J.P. Morgan, or his equivalent at any one of several other international trading banks. They gave me permission to use them as references and will vouch for me. They know me by my real name, Igrat Shafrid. Mister Lewis already knows me as Irene Shapiro.”

Phillips nodded, equally seriously. “Your candor is noted. Mr. Lewis appreciates both candor and honesty. So if one hand can wash the other, then I’m sure he will be rapt to do business. I must warn you, though; he has been fending off hostile takeovers for years and now political developments mean Mr. Lewis has the national interest to consider officially, as well as his patriotic instincts. I will report to him that we have the makings of a good deal here; we just need to sort out an end state for our respective principals to reach. Oh and he is also a regular visitor to the US, has been for years, along with Europe; so we have some room to make arrangements there as well. Will you be staying in Melbourne long?”

“As long as Mr. Lewis needs me here to carry his messages back. I am at his disposal. If I could meet with him again, it would be a bonus.”

Phillips smiled at Igrat, who returned the sentiment. After all, they were two emissaries carefully exchanging pleasantries on behalf of their employers so that the important meeting they were organizing would go smoothly. “I think that might be arranged. I will speak to Mr. Lewis.”

The office was stuffy, stiflingly hot and cramped; very cramped. Chunky filing cabinets lined every possible inch of wall, leaving hardly enough room for a tiny desk and two stiff backed wooden chairs. Given its owner was no small man himself, the room seemed about to burst at its seams even before his guest squeezed in through the partly blocked door. For all that, Lt-Commander Rupert Long, RAN was in full jacket and tie to welcome his visitor. Fortunately Richard Casey, MP had come to see the man, not his abode. A week’s hard travel had led him in a circle; he only grunted with annoyance as his sleeve caught a locking bar on one of the security cabinets and grimaced in pain as his knee connected with a stout padlock.

“I had not expected to see you again so soon, sir” smiled Long, settling down to business

“I… ” Casey paused “I have a problem, Commander.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Time,” said Casey. “I simply do not have enough of it. If this were a company, I should say I have a reasonable grasp of the books, but not yet a picture of the actual business. I certainly do not know enough of the work involved to make any worthwhile findings in detail.”

Long was pleased, but not all that surprised, by such frank good sense coming from a politician. Keeping one eye on politics and politicians was a professional necessity for a man in his position; doubly so now, given Casey’s present task and the recent past few months.

“I understood you were to set up a committee, sir?”

Casey grunted. “I do not make a habit of running away from a job half done, Commander, and in any case this matter is too important to delegate to the usual sort of committee.”

“Perhaps an unusual sort of committee, sir? Ask the experts, as it were,” suggested Long. “You’ll have no argument from me about the press of time and the risk of failure, sir, and speaking personally, I’m damn glad someone is finally taking us so seriously.”

Casey only scowled. He had already formed his conclusions, at least as far as possible courses of action. His political instincts might have inclined him towards expediency; he had been an engineer and a businessman for too long to ignore the guts of a real issue for some facile solution. “Oh I already have a committee in mind, Commander, and framework for your agencies to work under. I even have a fellow to run them both.” Not that there is a great deal of choice, he added silently.

Long permitted his curiosity to extend as far as a raised eyebrow, but no further “Oh yes,” continued Casey. “I may not be a spy, but I have a tolerable grasp of administration and how establish a firm on a sound footing. I also know a little something of politics, sir; having met with all of your peers and seen their petty fiefdoms over the last few days. I don’t believe there are any three of you who could be in the same room for half an hour without blood on the floor.”

Long laughed. “I’ll grant you four, sir, but I dare say I could find three.”

Casey showed no sign of humour. “Maybe so, Commander; but no select committee drawn from the available experts we have to hand could possibly be trusted to reach any worthwhile conclusion. However, we must have a committee, if only to give sufficient weight to our recommendations…”

Long noted with some interest the use of the inclusive tense.

“…furthermore, the committee must include an expert in intelligence, a man acceptable to all parties, and it must have a final structure in mind from the start, confining itself to the details,” concluded Casey.

“I see,” was Long’s only comment.

“You’d disagree, Commander?”

“Pardon me sir, but it is Lieutenant Commander, and no, I can see that working; provided you find the right fellow and come up with the right idea for the committee to follow.”

“I’m glad you agree, Lieutenant Commander,” smiled Casey grimly. “Might I ask you a question?”

“Of course, sir.”

“How far does your circle of agents extend?”

“As far as I could push it, sir, and not as far as I’d have liked too,” replied Long casually.

“But how far?” pressed Casey.

Long hesitated, “Ahh, I should be reluctant to…”

“Oh damn it, man” snapped Casey “I am not asking you to name names, only give me an idea. I know you have contact with Singapore… China?”

Rupert Long was a man of deep thought, tempered by the decisiveness and drive of a lifetime in naval service. He had spent years immersed in problems Richard Casey had not known existed ten days before, and spent almost as long gradually laying his own irons in the fire to address them. Long still recognized this present flurry of activity as perhaps the one golden opportunity for reform; but he equally saw its pitfalls all too clearly. He had imperiled his career, probably ruined it, if truth be told, to build this little office into the finest intelligence service in the country and one of the best in the Empire. So it was only natural he devote some contemplation to Casey and his enquiry. What amounted to Long’s life’s work was on the table, along with the future of a critical function of government and, ultimately, the safety, security and prosperity of the nation he was sworn to defend.

Long took none of these things lightly; of no less weight was his personal commitment to those who spied for him. His operation had been built on trust and loyalty. There’d never been any money and patriotism could hardly be a motive for some of his ‘correspondents.’ So it was no small thing for him to say.

“The Cape up to Chungking, across to Japan, out as far as California, and down to Chile.”

“Good grief,” breathed Casey “I had thought perhaps Hong Kong, but… we are talking of your people?”

Long nodded solemnly

It was Casey’s turn to repress rampant curiosity, but this information only confirmed his original idea. “So we need to work out what this committee is going to recommend when you hand in its report.”

Even if most of the gunfire was from .303-caliber machine guns, the sheer volume was impressive. The Bren and Vickers guns had been loaded with tracer; they turned the sky bright red. The effect was immediate. The approaching Kondor abandoned its attack run and turned away. Within a few minutes, it was a dot on the horizon, shadowing the cruiser.

“He didn’t like the flak.” Lieutenant Colonel Beaumont was satisfied at the performance his troops had put up. They’d done well for men who’d never thought they would end up fighting at sea.

“He didn’t have to. Mostly, his job is to find us and then call in the Uboats. Only, with most merchant ships being barely capable of token resistance, the Focke-Wulf crews are getting overconfident. I doubt he was expecting the volume of fire we put up. Now he’s going back to doing what he was supposed to.”

“U-boats.” Beaumont spoke the words as if they were a curse. “They’re waiting for us.”

“They’re trying.” Stewart was less worried about them than the bomber. “But we’re holding 22 knots and that makes us a hard target. The bastards will be laying in wait, for sure. So, we’ll make their job a bit harder. We’ll swing north and that’ll take us clear of anybody that Kondor had called in.”

Stewart drummed his fingers on the bridge rail and thought for a second before giving out the new helm orders. He had to swing far enough north to take his ship clear of any U-boats in ambush positions, yet not so far north he would delay their transit to Canada any more than absolutely essential. He made another decision.

“Increase revolutions for 24 knots.”

“How did things ever come to this?” Lord Halifax looked at R.A. Butler with distress compounded by confusion. “Any hope that Winston would take his removal with good grace was asking far too much, but as a distinguished parliamentarian who knew and understood the rules, I thought he would take it on the chin and retire quietly. I was expecting a bare minimum of public cooperation at least, no matter how bitter he felt privately. But, first he disappears, and then turns up in Canada breathing fire and brimstone upon us.”

“What did you expect from a half-breed American whose main support is that of inefficient but talkative people of a similar type?” Butler nearly snarled the comment out. His antipathy, bordering on hatred, for Churchill was well-known. He had wanted Churchill arrested after the coup, but cooler and wiser heads had intervened. They had pointed out that Halifax and Butler had absolutely no grounds for arresting him other than that he had been on the wrong side of a party coup, and any attempt at an arrest would have alienated their support base. To arrest a man over a philosophical and policy disagreement was just not done. Churchill’s continued presence in the House would have been awkward for all concerned certainly, but not anything that would justify detention or any breech of a very prominent person’s civil liberties.

It had seemed such a good idea to distract Churchill by throwing out a rumor that his life was in danger should he return to London. Butler had always known that they had to keep Churchill away from a microphone for the critical hours after the coup. Support for the new government was just one cracking good Churchillian speech away from wavering and a couple of Beaverbrook editorials wouldn’t have helped either. How could we have known he would take that threat seriously? Butler asked himself the question with a frustrated snarl. Churchill had no reputation for cowardice, or reticence. By fleeing the way he did, he made our threat real. His absence from London and public view raised as many, if not more, questions and doubt about the new regime than any stink he might have kicked in the normal course of events if he’d returned. People would have seen a degree of sour grapes and thwarted ambition/revenge in any counter-coup effort, and tuned them out to some degree. But his silence was deafening, the genitive undercurrents playing much less softly, and get swamped by events in any case.

Then he had turned up in Canada with rumors swirling of a daring escape, pursued by dark and mysterious agents of the coup. There had even been whispers that he had been taken on his way to a secret execution only to be rescued by a group of Scottish supporters and smuggled to safety. Instead of being delayed and entangled, he got away and formed a countergovernment in Canada. We got what we wanted, an unopposed assumption of power, but arriving in Canada the way he did has only confused Imperial opinion and given them another reason to delay and again withhold legitimacy from our Government. Damn the man.

“Silencing Churchill is our first priority.” Butler had one idea at least along those lines. It was an idea that his new National Security Service was well-placed to carry out, even though it seemed to take far longer to get things done than he had expected. “He must be made to cease his attacks upon us. We do have a tool for that purpose, one that might prove most effective.”

Halifax looked up. “And that is?”

“When Winston cut and ran, he left his family behind. Lady Clementine and the children. I have instructed the Security Service to detain them. We can make it clear to Winston that the treatment of his wife and children will be determined by his conduct while in Canada. We can make the conditions of their detention sufficiently arduous to drive the point home.”

There was a long silence while Halifax stared at Butler, his expression one of total disbelief. Eventually, when Halifax spoke, his voice was quiet and passionless.

“Are you completely out of your mind? Has your distaste for Winston driven every vestige of common sense from your wits? What you suggest is foolish beyond measure. I can think of nothing that would damage the standing or stability of our government more than the course of action you so lightly suggest. Even if that consideration did not apply, your proposal is reprehensible. You say you have issued orders for the detention of Lady Clementine and the children?”

“Yes, although….”

“Then we must pray that the time is not already too late. Your Permanent Secretary is available?”

“Arnold Robins? He is outside.” Butler was slightly bewildered at the sudden change in the atmosphere and the way Halifax had changed from a weak and pliant tool to a real authority figure.

“Send him in. Immediately.”

Robins must have been waiting in the anteroom, for his appearance was delayed by only a few seconds. Halifax took the time to calm down and swallow his outrage at Butler’s suggestion. When he arrived, Robins had a look of distinct concern on his face.

“Robins, I understand you were given instructions to order the detention of Lady Clementine Spencer-Churchill and her children. Have these instructions yet been issued?”

“Prime Minister, in view of the somewhat nebulous and inexplicit nature appertaining to the remit of the National Security Service and the arguably marginal and peripheral nature the subject of the instructions we have been given has to the political security of the realm, it was believed that the central deliberations and decisions that would result in the issue of the instructions in question would benefit from legal consultation as to their accommodation within the political process and that there could be a case for re-structuring the nature of the contemplated actions in such a way as to eliminate them from the immediate agenda pending a clarification of the responsibilities of the Service with regard to the population at large.”

Halifax relaxed. “Thank God for that. Robins, you will take personal responsibility for ensuring that the safety of Lady Clementine Spencer-Churchill and her family and placing them on a suitable means of conveyance to Canada. You will confirm to me in person when these instructions have been fulfilled. Now, leave us.”

Once the room was clear, Halifax returned his attention to Butler. “There is a time and a place for the adoption of dark methods, Richard: when the security of the realm is at stake and we are obliged to take that path in the cause of the greater good. Even then, we should regard that path as a last resort. Bear that in mind when you undertake actions on behalf of this Government.”

“The Air Corps is crating up the 110 Hawk 81s built to French specifications now and we’ll be shipping them to India and South Africa. They’ve named them the Tomahawk I, by the way. Meanwhile, Captain Chennault is organizing the expansion of the Chinese air forces in an effort to reduce Japanese expansionism in China. He will be purchasing newly-built P40B aircraft and also recruiting pilots for the Chinese. If his plans hold true, those aircraft will be in service by the end of the year.” Secretary Stimson looked around with satisfaction. He was clearing his airfields of the ex-British and French aircraft before he was forced to take them into USAAC service.

“We’ve heard from the Commonwealth governments on the 140 British Hawk 81s. They’re calling them Tomahawk IIs. They’ve agreed amongst themselves that they are to be delivered to the Middle East. Forty aircraft, are to go to Kenya and will equip two South African fighter squadrons. The other one hundred will go to Egypt and equip two British, one Australian and one Indian squadron.” Cordell Hull also looked very happy. The war was still on and the prospect of disaster that had seemed so imminent earlier had receded dramatically. The Italian invasion of Egypt had stalled at Sidi Barrani and the British forces in Egypt were gathering to expel them. Even more significantly, the rest of the Commonwealth was funnelling reinforcements to East Africa and the Middle East.

Stimson sounded enthusiastic. “It makes sense the way they’ve done it. Give them a few weeks and they’ll have a major edge in both the Middle East and East Africa while they use the ex-French aircraft to train new pilots and work up new squadrons. Any news on the rest?”

“There’s a conference in Jamaica that’ll sort all the other issues out. Main issue remains the Hawk 75s, the DB-7 bombers and the Hudson patrol planes. They’re squabbling over those. How goes the industry side of this, Phillip?”

“Not bad.” Stuyvesant consulted a file. “Bill Pawley is setting up an aircraft factory in India, using machine tooling the manufacturers here are replacing. The Canadians are already building Bolingbrokes, that’s a version of the Blenheim, and the Australians Beaufort torpedo bombers.”

“Our factories are reequipping? We need those production lines running.” Hull was confused.

“We’ll get them going soon. We need them reequipped now though so we won’t have to do it later when we’re straining for output. And, all those extra orders for machine tools get those lines running as well. By the way, the British also placed orders for P-38s and P-39s. Bell and Lockheed want to know whether to start work on them.”

Stimson shook his head. “Not now. We need those aircraft. It’s one thing to get rid of aircraft we’ve already built; quite another to divert future building capacity. We’ve got a problem with Japan and we’ll have to address it. They’ll come after us sooner or later.”

Cordell Hull shook his head. “We’re not interested in having a war in the Pacific. As far as the President is concerned, he regards Germany as being our primary enemy.”

“The problem with that attitude is that it only takes one side to start a war. If Japan wants to have a war with us, we don’t need to agree with them about it; they’ll come straight at us.” Stimson sounded grim. “The Philippines will be hit first, you mark my words.”

“Then we had better make sure that our defenses there are up to par. Can we send additional aircraft to defend Luzon? And extra troops?”

“We’d better. We can shift some of the new production we’re generating there within a few months.”

Stuyvesant looked up at the ceiling. “You know, it’s just possible Halifax has done us a big favor. If he hadn’t folded back in June, we wouldn’t be mobilizing the way we are now. And that means we’re going to have a lot more forces available a lot sooner. It might just be enough to persuade the Japanese that moving against us won’t be worth the effort. Of course, the more allies we have out in that part of the world, the better.”

“Hot run over the Atlantic, Bob?”

“Some aggro with Kondors early on, but apart from that, easy trip. The doggies were glad to get off though and we were glad to get rid of them. They threw up in places we never knew existed. Parts of the ship still stink.” Captain Stewart wrinkled his nose in disgust at the memory. Driving a heavy cruiser fast through the North Atlantic was a sure guarantee of a rough ride and the Canadian infantry on board had suffered from acute, universal seasickness. Then, his crew had barely had time to unload the equipment they’d carried over and clean ship before the Canadian delegates had arrived for the trip down to Jamaica.

The harbor was well-stocked with warships. In addition to Australia, there were three other British cruisers, Frobisher, Emerald and Enterprise. Then there were six old British destroyers, Admiralty S-class fitted out as minelayers. Finally, in the middle of the harbor was an American heavy cruiser, the Houston. Stewart reflected that she was probably the only ship in the harbor that knew exactly who she belonged to. Across in the flying boat basin, the group was completed by the two anchored aircraft that had brought the Australian, Indian and South African delegations. Stewart was proud of the fact that the Australians had flown in, even if they had arrived in a Short S-23 rather than the larger S-26 used by the Indians.

“We’ve found a home.” Captain Roderick Glynn entered the bar and sounded pleased. As well he might; the status of West Indies Station and the ships that were based there had been indeterminate for all too long. “The Governor-General has announced that the West Indies will follow the example set by Australia, Canada, India and South Africa and continue the state of hostilities that exists with Germany. The warships of West India Station will govern themselves accordingly. Them’s our orders.”

“What really happened, Rod?” Glynn’s father was a senior civil servant in the Jamaican government and it was presumed that the Captain of HMS Frobisher had his ear to the ground.

Glynn looked around to make sure nobody other than the Royal Navy Captains were present. “You might not know this, but there’s a lot of discussion been going on about the future out here. Basically, London wants all the West Indies assembled into a federation that can then be given Dominion status. That’s not popular because the rich trading islands believe that they’ll end up subsidizing the poorer fishing ones. Since the existing administration is run by sugar planters and banana merchants, that argument carries a lot of weight. So, there was a Royal Commission appointed to examine the situation and come up with a workable solution.

“Well, they did. The problem is the disparity of development spread across the islands that makes up the West Indies. So, invest money in the development of the poorer islands, bring them up to the standard of the rest and the objections to Federation go away. So, the Royal Commission recommended that a grant of five million pounds a year be made from the Colonial Development Fund for that purpose. Just for good measure, they tossed in an extra half million a year for research into the development of viable industries.

“So far, so good. Only when the results of the Royal Commission were due to be released in the House, Butler announced that the whole report was being kept secret and we were told that the promised funds would only be made available if we stuck to the London line. If we didn’t, we could go and whistle for the money. Of course, that went down like the proverbial lead balloon.”

Glynn shook his head. “You know, if they’d done that quietly and privately, they’d probably have got away with it. But, announcing it in the House? There was no way the planters would allow it. Clem Attlee said just that in the House, of course, and much good it did anybody. Anyway, the West Indies are in, and there’s the funny thing. Those Yanks who are ‘observers’ here? They were last seen heading in to the GGs office.

Henry Morgenthau looked across the polished wood of the great desk, taking in the surroundings that threatened to engulf him. The sheer volume of British historical associations tended to be overwhelming to those not accustomed to them. Sir Arthur Frederick Richards, Governor of Jamaica and now, for want of anybody better-qualified and drawing on the Daventry Message for authority, apparent leader of the West Indies, was fully aware of the impact this office had on visitors. That was why the meeting was being held here. Morgenthau cleared his throat and tried to concentrate on the issue at hand.

“I am empowered to state that the United States of America views with favor the decision by the West Indies, Australia, Canada, India and South Africa to join together in establishing the Sovereign as an international trading currency. I am also authorized, as Secretary of the Treasury, to advise you that that United States will accept the Sovereign in payment of international debts at the exchange rate specified. I am also empowered to state that the United States will no longer be accepting the pound sterling for payment of such debts, except in cases where the value of the pound sterling is expressed in Sovereigns.”

The collective intake of breath that ran around the office was profound. The American decision had given the Dominions an economic weapon they could use against London. Morgenthau looked around at those present and nodded slowly. They got the message. The pound is dead; all hail the Sovereign. And that is a blow right to the heart of the British Empire.

“We are also prepared to loan your governments adequate funds to purchase necessary defense equipment and make the fundamental changes needed to your economic structures.” Morgenthau looked around again. The response to this was less unified. It didn’t matter much to South Africa and Canada. The former had its gold and precious stone sales to fall back on, while the Canadian economy was linked closely to the United States. India was staggering from day to day, trying to make ends meet and just about managing. It was Australia and New Zealand that were sliding downwards into a severe economic depression the fastest. Morgenthau was already convinced that New Zealand couldn’t survive on its own. Australia? That was less obvious.

“Secretary Stimson has asked if you have come to any agreement on the issue of the ex-British and ex-French aircraft currently in our custody?”

There was a general exchange of glances. Morgenthau got the feeling that a hard battle was going on behind the scenes. Eventually, John Fisher Boyd from Canada took the lead in replying. “Since Canada still faces a submarine threat from Germany, we have first call on the patrol aircraft. The six LB-30s and the Flying Fortresses will be the long-range element of that force. I assume we will be given a discount on one of the Fortresses since it has been — ahem — used?”

“They’re already paid for.” Not having been briefed on exactly how Churchill had been spirited out of Britain, Morgenthau couldn’t understand why Boyd’s comment had been considered so amusing. “And the Hudsons?”

“We believe there are one hundred of them outstanding? Thirty will go to India to replace the old biplanes they are using for coastal patrol and the balance will come to us in Canada. I trust that is agreeable to the United States?”

Morgenthau nodded.

“India will also have first call on the ex-French DB-7s, on the understanding that at least three squadrons of them will be deployed to the Middle East once the squadrons are up and running. Australia has surrendered any claim on them, since they will interfere with production of its own Hudsons and the Beaufort program. Canada has no use for short-range tactical bombers. The Marylands will go to the Middle East Air Force, where their greater range will be of use.”

“And the Hawk 75s?”

“They will be divided between India and Australia, on the understanding that each country will send at least two squadrons to Singapore and Malaya. At the moment, there are insufficient trained pilots for all of them, so a school will be set up in South Africa with the earliest Hawk 75s being sent there.”

“There is another issue which India wishes to raise with the United States.” Pandit Nehru spoke softly, but there was a firm passion in his voice. “We agree that the Middle East must take absolute priority. The revelation of the Noth plan shows that. But India cannot forget it has a back door, and that back door is threatened by a powerful and militaristic Japan. Fortunately, we have an ally who guards that door for us, yet we are alarmed to discover that ally is not well-regarded in your capital. So much so that military equipment, bought and paid-for, remains undelivered. I refer, of course, to the Kingdom of Thailand. We ask you to reconsider your position with regard to our ally, lest you drive it into the hands of Japan and thus leave the back door to my country unlocked and inviting.”

Morgenthau frowned. This wasn’t in the brief he had been given and he didn’t have an answer to hand. “I cannot answer this question at this time. I will consult with Secretaries Hull and Stimson. They will explain to me what our position on this issue is and why it has been adopted. Perhaps we can revisit this issue once those consultations have been completed.”

“Just what good are we supposed to be doing out here, anyway?”

Pim Bosede snarled out the question, quite disregarding the superior rank of the officer he was addressing. Fortunately for him, Petrus van Bram overlooked the near-insubordination, not least because he was equally frustrated at the lack of success.

“We are maintaining an air presence. And we are gaining experience that will be put to good use once we get better aircraft.” van Bram reflected that the latter at least was true. The squadron had gained experience and shed many of its old, bad habits. The tight V-formation had gone and the aircraft now flew in loose pairs. The old three flights of six aircraft had been replaced by four flights of four; although the loss of two aircraft had been as responsible for that as any sudden insight into tactical logic.

“And when will that be?” Bosede wasn’t going to be mollified easily.

“Strange you should mention that.”

van Bram had guessed this conversation would be coming up. It was hardly surprising, since the squadron’s operations over the last two months had been one long exercise in futility. The Italian SM.79 and SM.81 bombers were actually faster than the South African Fury fighters, while the few aircraft that the Fury could catch were always heavily escorted by CR.42s.

The same problems affected any effort at offensive air operations. The handful of Blenheims and Ju-86s operated by the South Africans were too fast to be escorted by the Furies but not fast enough to escape interception by the CR.42s. In truth, the existing South African aircraft in Kenya were doing no good at all; it was only Italian inertia that was preventing them from further advances. The news he had now would change all that.

“You said you had experience flying Curtiss aircraft?”

“Travel Air 6000s. Flying mail.”

“That’s close enough. We’ve been told that we’re getting the latest American fighters sent here. Something called a Tomahawk.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, you have now. They’re being shipped to Mombasa and assembled there. You and three other pilots from this squadron who have experience with Curtiss aircraft will pick the first four up, get some orientation on them and bring them back here. The brass decided to convert the two Fury squadrons flight by flight, rather than squadron by squadron. Curtiss has sent some Americans over to help you convert. You’ll have a week to get ready. Then we’ll start taking the war to the Italians.”

There were times when a man’s duty was hard to perceive and times when he had to trust to his own judgment and the voice inside him that said he had to do thus and so, for the good of his soul. For Lieutenant Colonel Pierce Harvey Garry, this was one of those times.

Ever since Sir Richard Cardew had approached him in the Calcutta United Service Club, Colonel Garry had been torn by the belief that what he was doing was fundamentally dishonorable; yet he was also sure that not following the path he had chosen would have appalling consequences for the country he loved and the people he knew. That dichotomy, between what he knew to be right and what he knew to be necessary, had led him to the place and time he occupied now. Just as inexorably, it had led him to the actions that he was about to commit, for better or for worse.

“Pickets are in place. There’s no movement yet.” Captain Shashi Madhav was less uncertain of the rights and wrongs of this issue. To him, India was independent at last; broken away from the British who had ruled the country for so long and standing on its own feet. The regiment was in position to guard that independence and reverse the changes that had been made over the last four months. Had he had his way and followed his heart, the British would have been removed completely from power and sent packing, but he was a hard-headed, realistic man who understood the difference between wishes and practical reality. A transition period was needed to make the transfer of power as smooth as possible. The events that would be taking place here tonight confirmed that. They had shown Madhav something else; his Colonel’s determination to defend the Indian government and, by definition, India’s independence meant that some, at least, of the British were as Indian as he was.

“They’ll be coming down the main road.” Garry’s voice was heavy at the impending tragedy. “In lorries. The plan was for us to open the way for them. Instead, we’ll have to bar it.”

The plan that had been explained to him was quite simple and yet profoundly, irretrievably, flawed. His Third Battalion, 7th Rajputs was assigned to guard the government complex in New Delhi. Instead, they were to secure that complex and await reinforcements from several more regiments that would converge on New Delhi and fortify the area. Sir Richard Cardew would then contact London, secure an appointment as the new Viceroy and take over the administration of India. His first responsibility once his authority was secured would be to arrest the previous Viceroy and his followers. A very simple plan indeed. Its primary flaw was also a very simple one. As any good civil servant would, Cardew had made the presumption that the center of administration, New Delhi, was also the center of power.

It was not. It would be, one day, but here and now, in October 1940, the center of political power still resided in Calcutta, not the nominal capital New Delhi. General Auchinleck had expressed it beautifully. “The idiot is trying to commandeer the train by taking over the dining car.” That, of course, had highlighted the other minor flaw in the plan.

It presumed Garry would do his part by seizing the administrative complex for the mutineers; he was actually wholeheartedly on the side of the existing government and had been keeping their intelligence service under Sir Eric Haohoa fully advised on the situation. Once the mutineers had been committed by their attempt to join the troops they believed would be holding the Administrative Complex, other loyal Indian regiments would be moving to disarm them. Garry shook his head at that. The loyal troops would mostly be Ghurkas, the one force in India the existing government could depend upon without question. There was an age-old rivalry between the Rajputs and the Ghurkas and Garry would have been a lot happier if he could have had his Rajputs gain the honor of putting down the rebellion. Instead they would have to make do with firing the first shots.

A runner came up to the command post, his bearing filled with urgency. “Sir, they approach.” Captain Madhav’s voice was heavy. It was a hard thing to order troops to open fire on their own comrades, especially misguided ones that had been mislead by their commanders. Even with his devotion to his new India, Madhav had studiously avoided calling such men ‘the enemy’.

Garry breathed heavily; to his great embarrassment, his eyes moistened. Suddenly, he bitterly regretted his thoughts of only a few seconds before about firing the first shots needed to put down this rebellion. He wished devoutly that the burden could have fallen to another battalion, even one of Ghurkas. He shook his head and breathed deeply for a second to steady his voice.

“Are our machine guns in position to stop them?”

“They are, sir.” Garry was shaken to hear Madhav’s voice trembling. A quick glance showed that he, too had tears in his eyes.

The machine guns were Vickers-Berthiers, a weapon the Indian Army had chosen when the British had selected the Bren Gun. The virtues of the two weapons were hotly disputed Both armies thought they had made the better decision. But, this was India, and the Vickers-Berthier was the weapon that would be used.

“We will give them a warning burst on my order. If that is ignored, instruct the gunners to fire at the engines of the lorries. They are to try and stop them without hitting the men in the cab or the back. If it is at all humanly possible, I would have this night go without bloodshed.”

Madhav nodded in acknowledgement and passed the orders through. The end of the road suddenly seemed to brighten. The first of the approaching lorries turned the corner. Its headlights illuminated the buildings on either side. Silently, Colonel Garry damned Sir Richard Cardew for starting this whole sordid business. By the time he had finished the words in his mind, the lorries were rumbling towards the administration complex. He could temporize no longer.

“Captain Madhav, open fire on those lorries.”

A stream of tracers from a single Vickers-Berthier light machine gun streaked through the night across the front of the lead lorry. From his vantage point by the side of the road, Lieutenant Colonel Pierce Harvey Garry saw it swerve to a halt and stand, swaying, in the middle of the road. The suddenness of the turn and braking came very close to causing the lorry to roll over.

Behind it, other lorries in the convoy were also coming to a halt, swerving to avoid each other. What had once been a neat, orderly convoy was now chaos. Troops started to jump down from the back of the stopped vehicles. Some formed a perimeter; others stood around in confusion. Which group did what said much about the junior officers and NCOs in the individual units.

There is still time. Garry knew it, but he also knew that time was the critical element in the situation that was developing. He desperately did not want this confrontation to end in a bloodbath. Once the firing started in earnest, that is exactly what it would do. He had to put a stop to it. His course was clear. For the first time in weeks, he felt happy with what his sense of duty demanded he do.

“Stop right there. Stand down immediately.”

His voice rang across the road, cutting over the rumble of lorry engines. The lighting was dim but it still reflected off his rank insignia.

“Sir, we are under orders to enter the government building complex and aid in securing it.”

The reply came from the cab of the first lorry, the one that had so nearly turned over. An officer dismounted. The same dim light revealed his rank as Captain. There was uncertainty and a hint of nervousness in his manner.

“And I am under orders to deny you access to this complex.” Garry’s voice continued to dominate the sounds of the street. In his mind, he could hear echoes of the burst of gunfire that had halted the trucks. Would that they were the last shots fired.

“I was told that you would be occupying the area and awaiting our assistance.” The confusion was growing by the second.

“You were misinformed. The Third Battalion, 7th Rajputs remain true to their salt. Do the Garwhalis do the same?”

The comment stung every man who heard it. There was no worse accusation one could make to an Indian soldier than suggest he had not been true to his salt. Some historians had suggested that the horrors of the Indian Mutiny had come from the mutineers feeling so dishonored by their infidelity that nothing they could do would make matters worse. The Garwhali Regiment Captain looked as if he had been slapped across the face. British he might be, but he knew his men and knew the accusation would destroy his position if left unanswered.

“First Battalion, The Royal Garwhal Rifles also remains true to its salt. We move in obedience of orders from London.”

Garry knew how to trump that. “And the 7th Rajputs move on the orders of the Viceroy acting on behalf of the King-Emperor himself.”

The Garwhali captain showed nothing but confusion and near-panic. He had expected nothing like this. The whole situation was outside his experience. In that he was not alone. Nobody on the street that night had experience in this. In the end, he fell back on the one thing that he could rely on, the orders he had received from his Colonel.

“We have our orders. If you will not obey yours, stand aside.”

Garry looked at him and then made his decision. He walked firmly, precisely, to the lead lorry and stood in front of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Garwhali Captain’s hand move. Garry glimpsed the flash, but heard nothing. All he felt was the heavy impact that he knew was a bullet from a .455 Webley revolver.

Standing at the side of the road, Captain Shashi Madhav saw both the flash and heard the shot that had killed his Colonel. A brief hammer burst from a Vickers-Berthier cut down the Captain. The man hadn’t even tried to take cover. He stood there with a dumbstruck expression on his face, a man poleaxed by the shock of what he had done. He died with that expression still on his face.

Madhav never thought about what he did next; nor did he have anything in mind other than to stop the killing. He ran out into the street, his arms held high.

“Stop! Cease fire! India is free. Shall we mark that freedom by spilling our own blood?”

His anguished words echoed around the street, reflecting off the buildings. As the sound faded away, there was a profound silence. It seemed strangely louder than his shout. It was broken by a rattle from the lorries on the road; the rattle of rifles being lowered, weapons made safe. Madhav’s heart lifted as he realized the crisis was ending. His men wouldn’t have to massacre the Garwhalis after all. Four Gharwalis came out and picked up the body of Colonel Garry, carrying it with respect and honor to the lorries. A few feet away, four Rajputs did the same for the body of the Garwhali who had killed their Colonel.

In his heart, Madhav knew he was watching the birth of a new, national Indian Army.

“What is happening out there, Sir Eric?” Pandit Nehru asked the question amid an office filled with foreboding.

Sir Eric Haohoa had entered the room with a sheath of signals. He shook his head sadly; the night was not one that he would remember with pride. “The attempt by elements of the Army to remove the existing government and return control of India to London is turning into a fiasco. The units that moved on New Delhi were intercepted by loyal regiments. There was some exchange of fire, but the hearts of the mutineers were not in their work. So far, the dead total eleven with another twenty wounded. Mostly they were British officers; their deaths left the men they commanded without a figure to whom their loyalty was attached. In the absence of such figures, they placed their loyalty to India above all else.”

Those words were met with silence. The Indian Army had been the foundation stone of the Empire. It was disturbing for the British administration to see its final allegiance switching away from the Empire to the new state that was growing in India. On the other hand, Nehru was quietly delighted with the news; he had the tact and discretion not to make that fact public.

“The rest of the mutiny?”

Sir Eric continued after the silence had stretched for long enough. “Mostly a fizzle; units refusing orders until loyal troops turned up. The Royal Deccan Horse are holed up in their barracks area and putting up a fight, but they’re the only ones who are making a real show. Everywhere else, it was the same story as in New Delhi. The officers led, but their men only followed out of loyalty to them. Once the chips went down and they saw they were being led down a blind alley, they gave it up in the name of a greater loyalty.”

“What about the Deccan Horse?” Viscount Linlithgow was almost afraid of the answer.

“A Ghurka regiment is moving in to deal with them. We’re sending Blenheim bombers in to hit their base at dawn, with an assault to follow. Once that’s over, this sordid little affair will be done. One thing I should mention. One of the dead officers in New Delhi was Colonel Garry of the Rajputs.”

“The man who alerted us to the danger.” Sir Martyn Sharpe spoke sadly. “India is in his debt. And what of Sir Richard Cardew?”

“Under arrest.” Sir Eric spoke grimly. This was, perhaps, the most difficult aspect of the whole situation. “A policy decision with regard to him and his fellow conspirators will have to be made.”

That thought caused another long silence. Eventually, Nehru voiced the thought that had caused so much concern.

“And the decision we make will decide what kind of country we would like this to be.”

“China.” Cordell Hull’s voice echoed around the room with tones that portended doom.

“China.” Henry Stimson repeated the words with equally gloomy connotations.

“What’s happening in China?” Henry Morgenthau was curious. His long visit to Jamaica left him out of touch with the developing world situation.

“Nothing good and that’s the problem.” Stimson shook his head.

“Ever since the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, the Chinese have been trying to prolong the war for as long as possible, with the aim of exhausting Japanese resources while they build up their own military capacity. They showed they could fight at the Battle of Shanghai. Their German-trained divisions there held the Japanese back for three months and chewed them up, but they still ended up retreating towards Nanking. At least they proved their army could fight, which was a relief.

“Since then, they’ve adopted a strategy they call ‘magnetic warfare:’ attracting advancing Japanese troops to definite points where they are subjected to ambush, flanking attacks, and encirclements in major engagements. They did this during the successful defense of Changsha last year and the defeat of the Japanese at Guanxi soon afterwards. They followed that by launching a large-scale counter-offensive against the IJA a few months ago. That got beaten back.

“The truth is that China has a low military-industrial capacity, limited experience in modern warfare and their army is poorly-trained, underequipped, and disorganized. They lost the only well-trained and equipped units they had in the Battle of Shanghai. The only things that are saving them is the influx of supplies from abroad and that the Japanese have encountered tremendous difficulties in administering and garrisoning the territory they have seized. They recruited a large collaborationist Chinese Army to maintain public security in those occupied areas, but it’s largely ineffective. Japanese control is limited to just railroads and major cities and vast Chinese countryside is a hotbed of Chinese partisan activities.

“In short, Japan has occupied much of north and coastal China, but the central government and military have successfully retreated to the western interior and are continuing their resistance. However, the Chinese ability to continue fighting is dependent upon supplies from outside. They just don’t have the resources to continue fighting on their own. The Japanese have realized that it’s going to be impossible for them to achieve a decisive victory in the interior of China as long as those supplies flow in. So, they’ve started a major effort to cut them off. They’re occupying the ports along China’s coast for a start and they’re pressuring the French to shut down the Yunnan railway from Indo-China. If they succeed in doing all that, the supply line to China will be shut. The stalemate in the Chinese interior won’t last that long after that happens.”

“It is U.S. Government policy to support China in its defense against Japanese aggression. We have some rather odd allies in doing that. The Soviets have their own hand in the game. They’re supplying arms and equipment, mostly to the Chinese communist forces, but some is going to Chiang Kai Shek and his nationalists.” Cordell Hull grimaced. As a classical liberal, in his eyes the Communists were little better than the Japanese when it came to totalitarianism. On the other hand, he was realist enough to know that ‘a little better’ was still ‘better’ and the memories of what had happened at Nanking still sickened him.

“What we need is a new supply line.” Stuyvesant sounded thoughtful, but his mind was already ranging through the possibilities. “One way or another, the IndoChina ports and railways are going to be closed to us sooner or later. We have to build an alternative.”

“Easier said than done, Phillip. Have you seen the ground out there?”

In greater detail than you can possibly imagine. Stuyvesant thought.

“I have. It is bad, but there is a road already out there. It runs from Kunming to the Burmese border. It was built between 1937 and 1938; by hand, if you can believe that. It’s amazing what 200,000 people working with their bare hands can achieve. If we can hook up to that, then we can shift supplies through there. Roads aren’t as good as railways for shifting large quantities of good, but they’re better than nothing. We can use the ports in Burma, especially Rangoo;, shift the goodies by train to Lashio on the China-Burma border and then along the Kunming Road into China proper. At the very least, we can replace the Yunnan Railway that way.”

“You’re not mentioning the obvious problem, Phillip,” Hull was wary. “The Japanese won’t just sit still for that. Burma is British territory. They’ll pressure Halifax to close down the links you’re just mentioned and we know how Halifax reacts to pressure. He goes to pieces so fast, everybody around him is in danger from the shrapnel.” Hull sounded mightily disenchanted with the British Prime Minister.

“Well, he might well do so, but here’s the interesting thing. Some industrial colleagues of mine have been negotiating with the Indian Government recently and they picked up some revealing insights. One of them is that it’s open to question exactly who Burma reports to at this time. Until 1937, they were essentially a sub-office of India; and with the changes in London, there’s a strong move to return to that arrangement. The Indians might well be a lot less inclined to succumb to Japanese pressure than Halifax. Asserting their independence and standing as a nation, all that good stuff. Some judicious aid might well reinforce that desire.”

“We’ve given them several hundred aircraft; won’t that keep them happy?”

“It’s a start, but they need economic help as well as military. That’s why they’re moving to reincorporate Burma. They need the export goods. You see, Cordell, they can’t ignore Burma. They need the export earnings too badly. If they’re going to make a go of standing on their own feet, then they need to mark out a position in the world trade system as soon as possible. For that, they need Burma. Now, if we offer aid to them in exchange for no interference with us running supplies up to the Burma Road, they’ll take it.”

“Not if it means upsetting the Japanese. The whole reason why they jumped ship on the Empire was because they were afraid the terms of the Halifax Armistice gave the Japanese claim on India.” Hull shook his head. “Given a choice between forgoing our money and a Japanese occupation army, they’ll turn down our cash in a shot.”

“Perhaps not.” Stimson was thoughtful. “The Japanese had a lever against England. They could threaten Malaya, Singapore and Hong Kong. They don’t have a lever against India; they can’t get there from where they are now.”

“They can invade Burma.” Hull sounded very unconvinced.

Stimson laughed. “Not a chance. Not over the border between China and Burma. The only ways into Burma from China is either across some pretty impassable mountains or from Indochina, through Thailand into Malaya and Burma from the east.”

“There’s your answer then. The Thais are in Japan’s pocket. All they will do is direct traffic.” Hull set his jaw in determination.

“What makes you think that?” Stuyvesant sounded idle, but his mind was moving fast. This could turn into the opportunity Suriyothai is praying for.

“They’ve got a fascist government and they’re buying aircraft from the Japanese.”

“Come on now, Cordell.” Stimson jumped in with both feet. “They’re approaching the Japanese for aircraft because the State Department stopped delivery of NA-68 and NA-69 aircraft that the Thai Air Force had bought and paid for. Of course they’re looking for another supplier, and there aren’t too many options out there for them. As for a fascist government, they’ve just deposed an absolute monarch and replaced him with a constitutional monarchy and an elected parliament. That doesn’t sound like fascism to me.”

“They could have given those aircraft to the Japanese. Betrayed our secrets.” Hull was both obdurate and petulant. Listening to him, Stuyvesant wondered what was driving his opinions.

“Oh come on, Cordell; those aircraft are hardly the best we produce. They’re modified trainers, mostly. The Japanese may not have a first-line, world standard air force and navy, but they’re better than that. Anyway, I hear the Indians smile upon the Thais. I believe Nehru speaks well of them. If he does that, they can hardly be fascists or Japanese allies.”

“I second that.” Henry Morgenthau reinserted himself into the debate.

“When I was in Jamaica, Nehru himself said exactly that. He claimed the Thais had been of great service to India already and have showed themselves to be a trustworthy ally. He says that the Noth Plan makes it essential that India look west to its defense against the threatened German attack and that leaves them wide open to the East and Japan. They look to Thailand to guard their back door and specifically asked us to resume normal diplomatic and trade relations with Thailand in order to ensure that back door was properly guarded. And, very specifically, to resume arms sales to them.”

“The Noth Plan?” Stimson looked confused.

“A German plan for an attack on India. Essentially it involves two thrusts: an Italian push from North Africa, through Egypt and the Sinai, into Transjordan and a German thrust from the Balkans, through Turkey and Iraq, into India. There’s no doubt the plan is genuine, although how the Indians got hold of it is a mystery.” Morgenthau blinked owlishly. “If Indian intelligence is that good, they might be a more valuable ally than we thought.”

Stimson snorted. “Their intelligence might be good, but their strategic insight isn’t. I find it hard to see them taking a plan like that seriously. The Indian Army have a staff college in Quetta that’s the equal of any in the British Empire, and there’s no shortage of trained professional soldiers out there who know the actual terrain and the true scale of the maps. If anybody can see all the flaws in this so-called Noth Plan it’s them.

“To the Indian Army, that whole area isn’t a backwater; it’s been their strategic front yard for a hundred years. They have generals serving who fought across Palestine, in Salonika and the Balkans in World War One. I believe there were even officers who had bicycled from India to the UK using much the same sort of routes though Turkey as an invasion force would use. They can’t believe this plan is practical. The force required to carve through Turkey is completely excessive, the supply lines to the base areas are totally inadequate and the transport facilities just don’t exist in the quantities needed to support an invasion force of the required size.”

Not bad, Stuyvesant thought. I made up a list of ten reasons why Odwin Noth should have had his plan stuffed up his fundamental orifice and you just got three of them. I’ll make a strategist of you yet, Henry.

“I think that the reason why the Noth Plan is accepted is that it’s simply so convenient to so many people. It gives the existing administration in India a reason to stay in the war; a reason for the Indian Army to stay in the Middle East. It gives the leaders of the Congress Party a tool to keep their wilder supporters in line and an excuse to maintain armed forces that a significant minority of the party would like to see abandoned altogether. The Noth Plan may be impractical, I’ll take your word for that, but it suits everybody who matters to accept it as gospel.

“Anyway, we’re dealing with Nazi Germany here. They have an established track record of accepting crazy plans and making them work. Look at the way they came through the Ardennes, for example. I’d say the Indians might have reservations about the Noth Plan but they can’t afford to assume that it’s not serious.”

“Very good, Stuyvesant; we’ll make a strategist of you yet.” Stimson gave the industrialist a friendly grin. “Cordell, Phillip is right. The Indians can’t afford not to take the Noth Plan seriously. That means they have to leave their back door open. If they believe the Thais will cover it for them, then we have to take their opinion seriously.”

“I see no reason why we should accept Indian opinions on this matter.” Hull was, if anything, more petulant than ever.

“We don’t have to.” For those who chose to listen carefully, there was a hint of real anger in Morgenthau’s voice. Stuyvesant heard it, Hull did not.

“We have been advised by Nehru that you are welcome to visit Thailand, discuss the situation with their leaders, see for ourselves the conditions within the country, judge the progress they are making to a representative democracy and gauge the temper of its leaders.”

“I see no reason for that.”

Hull spoke with a flat and final note that, more than anything else, pushed Morgenthau over the edge.

“You see no reason for that? And you served for many distinguished years as a judge? How many defendants did you convict, Cordell, because you couldn’t be bothered to hear their defense? How many guilty verdicts had you decided on before you even entered the courtroom? We call you the “The Judge.” We believe you look on the law as the bastion of right and justice, and now we find you condemn an entire nation without allowing them to say a word in their defense. How could we have been so wrong about you?”

“Now, wait a moment.” Stimson was shocked at the outburst.

“A moment be damned!” Morgenthau was in full flow and was not to be interrupted. “If a government is fascist, if its people represent any part of that evil creed, I will be the first to call for their destruction. I will wish fire, plague, starvation and death upon each and every one of them. But I will not condemn them without giving them a hearing. I will judge by deeds, not by prejudiced opinions held absent the knowledge of hard facts. Cordell, when you refuse to give these people the chance to speak, you deny the very basis of the law you claim to have spent your life supporting.”

There was a long silence. Henry Stimson was shocked at the outburst and the unheard-of abuse of the Secretary of State. Stuyvesant was outwardly solemn but inwardly delighted at the turn of events that had saved him the need to intervene himself. Morgenthau was trying to get his temper under control after his impassioned speech, while Cordell Hull was struggling to dampen down the fury that consumed him. Hull knew that the task of doing so would be much easier if Morgenthau hadn’t been right. In the room, time and the atmosphere seemed to creak as the seconds turned into minutes.

“Very well.” Cordell Hull spoke softly, although the strain he was experiencing in keeping his anger in check was painfully obvious. “Henry, I will do as you urge and accept the invitation to visit Bangkok. The law should be the bastion of right and justice, but it is the creation of humans, and that means it is as fallible as any other human creation. It is also as fallible as any of the people who administer it. I will hear what the Thai leaders and the Siamese people have to say and I will judge accordingly.

“Now, I believe this meeting has run its course and I declare it closed.”

Technically that should have been proposed, seconded and put to a vote, but nobody cared to argue the point. In any case, Stuyvesant, for one, had other places to be. One of them was telling Lillith to get Igrat on the first Clipper for Manila and Bangkok.

“What I don’t understand is why I have to keep buying Iggie presents every time I go with her on a trip. It’s breaking my personal bank.” Henry McCarty sounded seriously aggrieved.

“It’s because we’re the only opposite sex men have got, ducks.”

Eleanor Gwynne sounded vaguely amused. “We cornered the market. Anyway, it’s necessary for the cover you two are running.”

“I don’t really need Henry along with me.” Igrat shook her head thoughtfully. She was clutching her return air tickets to Bangkok in her hand. The $1,400 round trip price-tag had almost caused Lillith to have an attack of the vapors. “I really don’t; not now. It might get that way, but I’m fine. An American passport protects me much better than anything else. The Germans don’t want to do anything to upset us right now.”

“Not now, no.” Stuyvesant agreed. “The German collective sets of eyes are focussed on Russia. When that turns into a real war, everything will go to hell very fast. I’ll defer to your judgement on this, Iggie; make your runs alone until your gut instinct says otherwise.”

“Thank the Gods for that.” Henry McCarty was a deeply relieved man. “I can’t afford to keep saving her life like this.”

“You save my life?” Igrat put on a good pretence of being outraged.

“If it wasn’t for me, you’d have been arrested at Marseilles as an undesirable alien. If the French guard hadn’t been looking down the front of my dress, you’d have been toasted for sure.”

“That’s another point.” Stuyvesant was curious. “How do you get that dress to stay in place? I thought that one deep breath and everybody would see the cherries on the sundaes.”

Igrat giggled and looked down at her dress. “It’s taped to me, of course. Every Broadway Baby knows that trick.”

“Ahh, right. OK, Iggie, go tell Lillith that you’re risking your life to save her from spending money on Clipper tickets. Then get on the China Clipper out. You’re running against the clock on this one.”

The Lodge was a quiet, modest residence, as 40 room mansions went; like so much of Canberra, it was a temporary structure that after sixteen years had taken on shades of permanence. Of the two studies provided for the Prime Minister, Locock liked the private chamber on the first floor, even if he found the formal room more practical for business. Although he was of two minds about the decor.

“Rum, single malt, Dimple, gin, brandy, and I mean brandy — not cognac, or… well there’s a bottle of Pims lurking back here, and is that Benedictine? The cupboard is pretty bare, Arthur; or I could get us up a bottle of Red Ned, a drop of Muscat?”

“Oh, whatever you’re having” replied the Treasurer casually.

“Well, to tell the truth, I rather fancy a cup of tea,” chuckled Locock.

“But, if there’s any gas in this soda bottle…” There was.

“Ta. So Curtin cleaned you out before he left, then?” asked Fadden, leaning back into a deep armchair with his whisky and soda.

“They had a bit of a shindig before they left.” Locock eased back into his own armchair. “And, with all the comings and goings, the staff have been a bit busy. Have you read Dickey’s report yet?”

“The Casey Enquiry into matters of Security and Intelligence? No, it’s still on my desk, although I did see your minute about a committee.”

“Well, the committee can wait a little,” nodded Locock. “But I was hoping you’d read it, as I need to twist your arm on some funding.”

“Oh, the spies need paying, do they?”

“It’s more a matter of the estimates.” Locock rubbed his ear. “I need to pry half of Naval Intelligence out from under the Naval Board and into my office, and I thought grabbing them by the budget might be the easiest way to do it.”

“Half?” Fadden was puzzled. “Of Naval Intelligence…? It looks like I do need to read that damned report.”

“Under the circumstances, Casey felt he needed to pick a winner for us to build on, rather than try to start something new from scratch, and apparently the chap running Naval Intelligence is best we have.” Locock shrugged. “Putting it directly under the department of Prime Minister and Cabinet seems about the only way to short circuit a lot of petty jealousy and obstructionism. I get the impression the old boy system we have worked well enough in peacetime, when everyone knew who they needed to talk to; but now, with people going everywhere and new faces all over the place… Do you remember Strahan mentioning the Governor General was our principal source for overseas intelligence?”

Fadden nodded. “Aye, and I didn’t need Frank Strahan to tell me either.”

“No? Well you might have mentioned it to me chum,” smiled Locock. “In any case, it seems the good Sir Alex gets a great deal of his information from Long. It’s the only way he’s found to get around your precious civil servants and the all the bloody bureaucracy. We are just not used to taking that sort of thing into account on a day to day basis and we must,” said Locock firmly.

“Well it’s not generally all that useful,” shrugged Fadden. “A few ominous whispers and vague hints without much a fellow can get his teeth into. About as much use as weather forecast for Wednesday a week.”

“No? Then it would not have helped us any to know the Thais were wooing the Hong Kong trading houses?”

Fadden looked a little stunned. “You’re joking?”

“No, but I wish I were. Dicky has seen the correspondence; dated correspondence. Apparently Long passed it up to the ACNB, but somewhere between the Navy Board and anywhere useful, it vanished. There’s something big stirring there and we don’t know what it is. And then there is that wretched coup attempt in India. Halifax loyalists trying to get back into power. We think that’s over, but how do we know? The Halifax people could be regrouping and planning another attempt while we sit here speaking…

“We need this, Arthur; we need this. You keep telling us we need to trim expenditure and maximize tax revenue.

“Oh, it’s only temporary.” Locock said, lying through his teeth. “The Committee will sort out a permanent structure, and then you can punt Long back into the wilderness if it makes you happy.”