Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  Lance returned their salute. “Not a problem, my fine soldiers. It’s a cold night, we should be celebrating, and instead we’re trudging through snow far from home. Enjoy your evening.”

  When Lance and Miloš had descended the short run of stairs onto the lower path, they both breathed a sigh of relief, but neither spoke. The path sloped downhill, took a ninety-degree turn to the right, and continued down. A hundred feet out, they saw a lone sentry moving about outside the guard hut, pulling his coat around him, kicking his toes against the side of the hut to keep circulation going to his feet, and otherwise trying to ward off the freezing cold.

  Lance’s heart beat faster as they approached, and he imagined that Miloš’ must be as well. The guard looked up and brought his rifle to port arms to challenge them.

  Lance and Miloš continued their leisurely pace, and Lance said a few things in German in a conversational tone. The Pole grunted and threw his head back to laugh.

  “Password?” the sentry challenged.

  Lance swung his head forward, fixed his eyes on the guard, but continued walking without responding.

  “The password,” the soldier said again, an insistent tone in his voice.

  Lance turned to Miloš and said something in a low voice before looking up sharply at the guard.

  “The password,” the soldier repeated, this time sternly, bringing his rifle forward.

  Lance did not hesitate. He walked brusquely up to the guard. “You dare threaten me?” he growled menacingly. “Who is your commander, and since when do you not salute officers.” He strode forward and thrust his face to within inches of the hapless guard’s chin. “What is your name, unit, and service number? Consider yourself on report. I shall take the matter straight to Leutnant Eggers.”

  While the sentry stuttered through giving his identity information, Lance retrieved a pen and paper from his coat pocket. “Do you even know what the challenge number is?” he demanded. “Well, let’s hear it.”

  His eyes wide with consternation, the soldier obliged.

  “That’s correct,” Lance barked. “It’s good that this weather has not frozen your brain.”

  He stepped back, took a breath, and regarded the soldier with a more compassionate expression. “Perhaps I’ve been harsh. It’s New Year’s Eve and you’re stuck out here while everyone is celebrating.” He looked into the man’s eyes. “Have you learned your lesson?”

  The man nodded rapidly. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, then.” Lance wadded up the notepaper, threw it into the snow, and clapped the soldier on the shoulder. “In that case, let’s call it a night, shall we?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As Lance and Miloš resumed their escape toward town, they heard more footsteps crunching in the snow behind them.

  26

  January 2, 1941

  London, England

  Prime Minister Churchill pulled the cigar from his mouth and exhaled a ring of smoke. “Gentlemen, I’ve read your analysis. I see no flaw in it. What you’ve outlined, among other things, is that the pompous schizophrenic, Il Duce Benito Mussolini, can’t decide if he’d rather restore the Roman Empire or emulate Germany’s mustachioed curmudgeon. He has neither the resources, the military organization, nor the skills to meet his ambition.

  “The Greeks established a defensive line in Albania last month, from Vlorë to Pogradec, and it’s holding. Mussolini can’t improve his situation without German help, and in effect, he’s turned his country into Hitler’s dependent client-state. So, his war is even more pointless. He’s angry with me because I’ve pressured Greece to allow Britain military airfields and cut exports to Italy, but our air forces are aimed at threatening German control of Romania’s oilfields, not Italian forces. So, his real reason to be in this war is his ego. Benito wants to be another Adolf.”

  He stared at the map on the wall behind his desk. Stephenson, Donovan, and Paul sat in their familiar places in front of it, remaining quiet while Churchill ruminated.

  He passed his hand across the map over Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, and Yugoslavia. “Since these ‘neutral’ countries are governed by pro-fascist regimes, Hitler thinks he’ll negotiate them into his so-called Tripartite Pact with Italy and Japan. That’s how he expects to protect his access to Romania’s oilfields, give him control of southeastern Europe, and let him dominate the Mediterranean via Yugoslavia and Greece—whenever Mussolini manages to finish off the latter country, which he never will. So, I agree that we should pin Germany down on the southeastern flank in Yugoslavia and Greece. The Finns in the northwest won’t be as much of a problem for Stalin as Hitler thinks, so we can let that flank take care of itself.

  “Once the invasion starts, which Comrade Joseph still discounts, the Soviet factories will go into full-steam war production, and I should think that the Russian people will man the battlements in defense of Mother Russia just as they did when Napoleon made his unwelcome entry.”

  He took another puff on his cigar. “If Hitler dares to attack Moscow, then he should do it in the winter snows, just as Napoleon did, and his army should meet the same end.” He turned and faced his small audience with his best pugnacious expression. “Our task is to bring that about.”

  Paul listened in shock. He wondered if the enormous implications of the prime minister’s last statement had registered on Stephenson and Donovan the way it had on him. With Britain’s ground forces already reeling from defeats and casualties across North Africa, the RAF still engaged in fending off nightly bombing raids the length and breadth of the homeland, and the Royal Navy defending supply lines throughout the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, an objective of causing such an outcome seemed far beyond possibility.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Paul observed, intermittently astounded, as the prime minister, Stephenson, and Donovan developed the outlines of a plan. “We need to provoke Germany to come to Italy’s aid in Greece,” Churchill said. “That will divert a massive number of troops, and it won’t be a quick skirmish.

  “I can order an expeditionary force into Greece to support its fight in Albania. Bulgaria made noises about entering the war in that area on its western border in support of Italy but held back because Turkey threatened to attack if they did so. If we enter here on Greece’s east coast”—he indicated a small seaside village on the map—“that should incite Germany to ward off Turkey and invade Greece from the east. The Greeks will be forced to divert forces from their defensive line in Albania, and Germany can then descend into the country from the northwest.”

  “You’re suggesting giving up Greece,” Stephenson interjected gravely.

  “Only temporarily. I’m talking about keeping Hitler’s troops occupied so that they miss their launch date for Barbarossa, and if we can bog them down in the Balkans, so much the better. Every day that we delay him gets us closer to winter. Then the arctic blast of Russian blizzards becomes our weapon.”

  Stephenson took on a cautious look. “I understand your logic, but that’s a compromise with the devil. Thousands of civilians will die.”

  Paul studied his face, looking for any indication of emotion. He observed none, and then he watched the prime minister’s eyes fix on Stephenson’s.

  “Tens of thousands will die regardless of what we do,” Churchill retorted, his face flushed with passion. “We limit what we can, but assigning such concern the highest priority is a losing proposition, and defeat plunges the world into slavery with far more innocent deaths. Painful ones.” His eyes flashed. He bolted to his feet and shook his cigar across the desk. “Mr. Roosevelt’s ideas about lend-lease would be very helpful about now, but Congress is dead set against them, and the American public has no stomach to enter the war.

  “We can count on this: if we do nothing, then on May 15, the German Wehrmacht will invade the Soviet Union on three fronts using its blitzkrieg tactics. If it succeeds, Hitler will attack us with the combined military and industrial might of Germany and the countries he’s conquered, inc
luding the Soviet Union. He’ll romp over Britain, and then the United States becomes his main target.”

  He paused for breath, his eyes boring into Stephenson’s. “So yes, our plan is the compromise you so artfully described, but if Hitler invaded hell, I should make at least a friendly reference to the devil in the House of Commons.”

  To Paul, the air seemed suddenly thick, oppressive. For moments, no one spoke.

  Donovan had sat quietly listening and studying the map during the discussion and Churchill’s outburst. “That won’t be enough,” he broke in, his voice as solemn as Paul had ever heard it. “The forces Hitler would use in Greece are not enough to have the effect we need on his invasion into Russia. We need his army bogged down in Yugoslavia too, and that’s one of his potential fascist allies.”

  Churchill leaned back in his chair, puffing his cigar, then swiveled and scrutinized the map again. Stephenson propped an elbow on the desk and squinted as he also studied it.

  “There’s a man in Yugoslavia, a communist,” Churchill said. “Our MI-6 has been reporting on him. His name is Josip Broz, and he goes by Tito. He spent time in Moscow, but the Party didn’t treat him well, so he’s disenchanted with them. He hates fascists, including the regime in Belgrade, and he leads the largest guerrilla fighting force in the country by far.” He chomped on his cigar as he thought. “He could topple that government and effectively fight the Germans. We need him on our side.”

  As the discussion neared its end, Churchill asked Donovan, “You must succeed with the ruse detailed in our plan. When will you go?”

  “Next month,” the general replied. “Winter will be at its coldest, and it’s bitter in northern Greece and the Baltics. I’ll be able to move around those countries without much interference.” He chuckled. “Tricking the press isn’t difficult. They already think they outwit me. They’ll outsmart themselves and help us in the process.” Then he gestured toward Paul. “Maybe I could use our good Captain Littlefield here to assist? We can put him on an American passport to lessen his odds of being captured.”

  Churchill regarded Paul with a sideways glance. “That would give him a chance to get out of the office, so to speak, and see how things work.”

  Startled, Paul sat up straight and probed the faces of the other three men. He sensed a familiarity between them that he did not yet enjoy, and that he was being offered an opportunity to enter their small circle of history makers.

  “What do you say, Intrepid?” Churchill asked Stephenson.

  “It’s a thought,” came the reply. “Various people can cover for Paul while he’s out. If our plan works, a young person should witness it. He can tell the story while we’re haggling with St. Pete about the toll at Heaven’s gate.” He turned to Paul with a glint in his eyes. “You’ll have to keep your lethal pills in close reach.”

  On impulse, Paul reached up to the pocket on his chest and felt the small box containing the deadly capsules.

  Donovan eyed him gravely. “This is an intricate project, and I haven’t discussed Paul’s potential involvement with him yet. Let’s let the idea simmer. I’d like to explore it.” He looked at Paul. “If you’re open to it.”

  Feeling a mixed twinge of excitement and dread, Paul nodded. “Of course, sir. I’ve said I’d do whatever is needed to win the war.”

  Stephenson regarded him through squinted eyes. “That might require more than you’d imagine,” he said quietly.

  “Then we’ll explore the option,” Donovan said. He stood abruptly, walked to one of the maps on the side walls, and peered at it closely. “Prime Minister, are you certain that Hitler will invade?”

  “Nothing is certain,” Churchill replied. “But you read and analyzed Directive 21.”

  “I did,” Donovan replied. “My firm wish is that he would not execute Barbarossa.”

  “He always wanted to subjugate the Bolsheviks. He thought Germany and Britain together would go after them. His attacks on us and his plan to invade the Soviets came out of revenge because we upset his grand strategy, and we didn’t surrender. I don’t think he will cancel Barbarossa. He hates the Bolsheviks more than he wants revenge against us.”

  Churchill shoved away from his desk and took to his feet again. “He will invade. Of that, I am positive. We can’t stop him, but we must limit the field and set the timetable for his launch. That’s within our power.”

  27

  January 5, 1941

  Rockefeller Center, Manhattan, New York

  Stephenson stared through his spectacles at Paul. “What bothers you about what we’re doing? You’re here to observe and remember, not analyze, recommend, or do anything that you are not ordered to do. As I told you at the outset, we recruited you to be our institutional memory in case of my demise. That’s all. Memories are. They don’t act.”

  “My involvement in Greece next month broadens the job description a bit, I think.” Paul dropped his eyes while fighting off anger that he was sure could be detected in his flushed cheeks and the redness up the back of his neck. He had tried to stifle it in his tone of voice but was not sure he had succeeded. “We’re proposing to shape American public opinion, sir,” he said with some vehemence, adding, “and their president is currently our country’s only ally. I’m still coming to terms with the idea that we’re running British intelligence from downtown New York City with his sole knowledge and consent among American officialdom.”

  “I’m proposing nothing. I’m executing precisely that action, and I make no apologies,” Stephenson replied. “This is war, and we won’t win without the industrial might of America. We can’t wait for US public sentiment to catch up to reality. You know how close Hitler’s fingers are to atomic weapons. If we lose, you’ll go home to goose-stepping guards at the gates of Buckingham Palace and black swastikas hanging outside of Parliament. We won’t be far behind on this side of the pond either. Our world will descend to its darkest place in history.”

  Stephenson scrutinized Paul’s face for a hint that his words had an effect, and then continued matter-of-factly. “The notion that Britain is alone in this war is inaccurate, irrespective of the president or the American people. You forget that Britain is still an empire. Whether its power emerges intact when this war is over remains to be seen, but I’ll remind you that degrees of independence were granted to various countries in the late 1800s, including the Dominions of Australia, Canada, India, the Irish Free State, New Zealand, and South Africa, which are bound to each other and Great Britain for defense and other purposes by the treaty that created the British Commonwealth in 1926. Those countries sent pilots, troops, and materiel to fight for us.” He chuckled. “I was part of Canada’s contribution.” Then he grew serious again. “But their combined resources and manufacturing capacity don’t match those of the US, and we need ships, tanks, fighter aircraft, bombers, bullets, food…”

  He continued evenly, “When you come up with a better plan for gaining the support we need before the British people starve or our defense forces run out of bullets, I’ll support it with all vigor. Until then, we’ll do things my way.”

  Frustrated but uncertain of where the moral high ground lay, Paul retreated from the discussion without further comment. “What are my instructions?” he asked simply.

  A hint of a smile lifted the edges of Stephenson’s lips. “You were a good choice, Captain. By questioning me, you increase your understanding of our dilemmas.”

  “Mr. Churchill placed me in your charge,” Paul replied, his expression indicating that despite acceding to higher authority, he had not conceded the point. “My duty is to follow your orders.”

  “Yes, well, there is that,” Stephenson said with a low laugh while viewing Paul over the tops of his spectacles. “Maybe there’s something to be said for having a mite of tyranny. Now listen to me. Obviously, you were chosen for your intellectual ability, so I won’t insult you by expecting you to hear and not question.

  “One of the difficulties of war is that moral absolutes
become indistinct. ‘Thou shalt not steal or kill’ are two of them. When the Germans bomb us, they rob our people of life, the means of production, shelter, food, water. We bomb them with the intent to stop them, depriving their people of the same basics. Their intent is to conquer; ours is to prevent. Do we have the moral high ground? The results are the same: civilians die.

  “People look to their leaders to protect them, and ours accept that responsibility. Where should they draw the lines of ethical behavior in war when we face an enemy that recognizes no rules or the sanctity of human life?

  “Mr. Roosevelt knows the danger Hitler imposes. That’s acknowledged in his allowing us to operate here in his country, but he has a problem. Half of his citizenry does not understand the threat to them, and he has to coax public opinion along until it’s ready to join the war. He knows that to best protect America he must take the offensive overseas. The pacifist part of his populace doesn’t see things that way, believing that the oceans on either side of their continent will protect them. Thus, he lies by omission in not divulging the true nature of our presence in Manhattan; not to his cabinet or staff, or even key members of Congress, though I should point out that the Ten Commandments forbid bearing false witness against one’s neighbors but say nothing about lying. I take that as recognition that on occasion, a good lie is necessary.

  “Our problem is that the war rages, our ordinary citizens, soldiers, and airmen are killed, our materiel is used up, and the president’s effort to get US public sentiment behind the war, even just to re-supply us, is like pushing a wet noodle. Americans don’t believe our plight is serious, or they think that, somehow, we’ll muddle through.

  “This new intelligence operation that you abhor is a catalyst to spur US entry into the war. Wild Bill Donovan will have a part to play later.