All Clear

Kent—April 1944

“THE QUEEN?” ERNEST SAID. “I CAN’T VISIT THE QUEEN. Cess and I have been up all night inflating tanks. I need to go to Croydon and deliver this week’s newspaper articles and letters to the Call. I’ve already missed the Sudbury Weekly Shopper’s deadline. I can’t afford to miss another one.”

“Your royal sovereign,” Prism said, “is far more important than—what is it you were writing up yesterday? A garden party?”

“Tea party. For the officers of the Twenty-first Airborne, newly arrived from Bradley Field. That’s not the point. The point is that these stories must go in on schedule or the troop movements will have to be completely redone.”

“Prism will help you,” Moncrieff said. “And at any rate, this will only take a couple of hours. We’ll be back in plenty of time for you to deliver your stories.”

“That’s what Cess said about the tanks last night.”

“Yes, but this is quite nearby. At Mofford House, only a few miles beyond Lymbridge.”

“Can’t Chasuble go instead? Or Gwendolyn?”

“He’s already there setting up. And Chasuble’s over at Camp Omaha, rigging up a chimney for the mess tent.”

“What does the mess tent need a chimney for? There’s no one there to cook for.”

“But they must look as if they are,” Prism said. “And you must go. You’re the one who’s going to write this all up for the London papers.”

The London papers meant the story would get a good deal more notice than an article in the Call, particularly if there was an accompanying photograph, and it was a chance to meet Queen Elizabeth, which any Fortitude South agent—or any historian—would give his eyeteeth for. Plus, it looked as if he was going to go whether he wanted to or not. “Do I need to bring my camera?” Ernest asked.

“No. The London papers will have their photographers there. All you need is your pajamas,” Prism said. “Now come along, we’re late.”

“If it’s not too much to ask,” Ernest said once they were in the staff car, with Moncrieff driving, “why am I meeting the Queen in my pajamas?”

“Because you’ve been wounded,” Moncrieff said. “A broken foot would be appropriate, I think.” He looked back at Ernest in the backseat. “We’ll put you in a plaster and on crutches. Unless you’d rather have a broken neck.”

“Have you any idea what he’s babbling on about?” Ernest leaned forward to ask Prism.

“We’re attending the ribbon cutting for a hospital,” he explained. “They’ve turned Mofford House into a military hospital to deal with the soldiers who’ll be coming back wounded from the invasion.”

“Which hasn’t happened yet. So how can we be invasion casualties?”

“We’re not. We were wounded at Tripoli. Or Monte Cassino, whichever you prefer.”

“But—”

“We’re window dressing,” Prism said impatiently. “The newspaper stories you’ll write will say that the hospital has only a few patients at present, but that its capacity is six hundred, and that it’s one of five new hospitals which will open in the area over the next four months.”

“Which plays nicely into the scenario that the invasion’s scheduled for mid-July,” Ernest said. “So the Queen will be seen visiting the wards?”

“Ward,” Prism said. “They were only able to mock up one for the ribbon cutting. The hospital in Dover couldn’t spare the beds for more than that, and Lady Mofford wasn’t keen on having her entire house turned into a hospital just for one afternoon’s photographs.”

“Afternoon?” Ernest said. “I thought you said this would only take a couple of hours.”

“It will. There’ll be a speech welcoming the Queen, a visit to the ward, and then tea. The Queen’s to arrive at one.”

“One o’clock this afternoon?” Cess cried. “That’s hours from now. And Worthing and I haven’t even had breakfast. Why did we need to leave now?”

“I told you,” Prism said imperturbably. “The Queen will be there. One can’t keep royalty waiting. And we need to help set up.”

“But I’m starving!” Cess said.

“And I must be in Croydon by four o’clock, or my articles won’t make this week’s edition.”

“Then they’ll have to go in next week’s.”

“That’s what you said last week,” Ernest said. “At this rate, they won’t go in till after the invasion, and a bloody lot of good they’ll do then.”

“Very well,” Prism said. “When we get there I’ll ring up Lady Bracknell and have Algernon take them to Croydon for you.”

Which would completely defeat the purpose. “They’re not done yet,” he said. “I’d intended to finish writing them up last night, and instead I ended up playing matador.”

“With a tank as his cape,” Cess said, and launched into an account of their adventures with the bull and his charging of the tank, which Prism and Moncrieff both found highly amusing.

“Today won’t be nearly so dangerous,” Moncrieff said. “And don’t worry, we’ll have you back to the castle in plenty of time.”

At which point, I will no doubt be sent to blow up more tanks.

“Speaking of dangers,” Prism said, “you need to read this.” He handed a sheet of paper back to Ernest over the seat. “It’s a memo from Lady Bracknell.”

“Warning us,” Cess said, “about”—he lowered his voice to a sinister whisper—“spies in our midst.”

Ernest snatched the paper from Prism. “Spies?”

“Yes,” Cess said. “It says we’re to look out for suspicious behavior, particularly for people who seem unfamiliar with local customs. And we’re not to discuss our mission with anyone, no matter how harmless and trustworthy they seem, because they might be German spies. That bull this morning, for instance.”

“It’s not a joking matter,” Prism said. “If there’s a security breach, it could endanger the entire invasion.”

“I know,” Cess said. “But whom exactly does Bracknell think we’d talk to? The only people we ever see are irate farmers, except for Ernest here—”

“And the only people I talk to are irate editors who want to know why my articles are always late,” Ernest said. He needed to get this conversation off the topic of spies. “And I doubt very much that they’ll believe I missed their deadline because I was having tea with the Queen. How are we supposed to address her, by the way?

Your Majesty? Your Highness?”

“There! You see that?” Cess said, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Unfamiliarity with local customs. Definitely suspicious behavior. And he behaved very oddly around that bull. Are you a spy, Worthing?” he said, and when Ernest didn’t answer, “Well, are you?”

We shall fight in the offices … and in the hospitals.

—WINSTON CHURCHILL,

1940