Resolute Nazi

by Wagher, Ward

  “I’m sorry, Prime Minister, but the analogy escapes me. But I will return to London and find out whatever I can.”

  “Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Philby.”

  Deciding he had was dismissed, Philby stood up. “Thank you for your time, Prime Minister.”

  Philby walked out of the room where the ever-present Hansen led him to the front entrance of the house. Churchill continued pacing as the orange coal worked its way to the stub of the cigar. If what Philby had told him was true, England was in great peril. But he had no other sources of information that could confirm the report. He felt obligated to speak to someone in the government, but if what he heard was true, it would place him in peril. He did not fear for his life, per se, but he feared being removed from the game just he was most needed.

  Churchill stopped to consider whether he was afflicted with hubris. He didn’t think so, but how would he know? It was becoming imperative that he develop more sources of information. After another half hour of hard thinking, he had thought of a way.

  § § §

  August 28, 1943; 9 AM

  The Prime Minister’s Office

  10 Downing Street

  London, England, UK

  On Saturdays, the activities of the government and the cabinet secretaries’ fiefdoms were at a lower ebb. While the civil servants worked Saturday mornings, most engaged in desultory tasks and looked forward to the afternoon off, and then a day away from the pressures of the office. The resulting solitude allowed Clement Attlee to dive into his most thought-intensive tasks. He was less apt to be interrupted and valued the time. His secretary and clerks recognized his desire for solitary work and assiduously avoided going anywhere near his office.

  Attlee was slightly annoyed when his secretary entered his office with a light tapping on the door. He also recognized that the matter must be urgent.

  “What is it, Ambrose?”

  “Sir… Winston is on the telephone and craves a moment of your time.”

  “Churchill is on the phone?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Attlee was vastly surprised. After the former Prime Minister’s departure the previous year, Attlee never expected to see the man again. To beg for an audience was something unexpected and undesired. Yet, Churchill knew this, and Attlee wondered what sort of nonsense the man had cooked up.

  “Very well, Ambrose, I will speak with him. You will, of course, stay on the line.”

  “I understand, Prime Minister.”

  The secretary glided from the room and moments later Attlee’s telephone jingled.

  “Attlee.”

  “I must speak with you.”

  Attlee easily recognized Churchill’s fruity voice.

  “Where are you?”

  “I am at the Connaught. I got in last night.”

  Attlee thought quickly. It would not do to have anyone see the former prime minister climbing into a government car. Once Churchill was recognized, the rumors would ricochet around the city like lightning in Singapore.

  “Have you been recognized, Winston?”

  “The hotel staff knows.” Churchill’s voice reflected shades of sarcasm. “However, as far as I know, the Press does not know I am in town.”

  “And that will change soon. Very well. Take a cab to the back gate. Someone will meet you.”

  “Thank you, Clement. This is important.”

  Attlee looked at the phone receiver in his hand. He sighed.

  “I certainly hope you will make this worth my while.”

  After hanging up the telephone, Attlee called for his secretary.

  “Ambrose, I want you to go to the back gate and escort Mr. Churchill to my office. The back stairs, please.”

  “Of course, Prime Minister. Do you want me to remain in the office with him?”

  Attlee raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “Yes, I believe you should. I suppose I don’t need to tell you how deep the waters have suddenly become.”

  “Indeed, Prime Minister.”

  “He will be here in ten minutes or less. Do not tarry.”

  Ambrose nodded deeply and tiptoed out of the room. Attlee wanted badly to stand up and pace around his office but decided not to convey any anxiety to his predecessor. He forced himself to remain in his chair and study the document in front of him. He stared unseeing at the text for a little over ten minutes until he heard Ambrose’s light tapping on the door again. He looked up as the door opened, and his secretary escorted Winston Churchill into his office. He stood up. Churchill strode over and stood in front of the desk.

  “Winston.”

  “Prime Minister.”

  They stared at each other for perhaps ten seconds before Attlee spoke again.

  “You might as well sit down.”

  Attlee waited until Churchill eased into the chair, and then sunk into his. Ambrose had closed the door but remained next to it. Churchill slid a cigar out of his coat pocket.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Oh, go ahead. You seem to communicate better with one of those in your hand.”

  Churchill chuckled softly as he bit the end off the cigar and worked on lighting it. As he puffed to get the thing truly alight, he glanced around the room.

  “You have made this your office, Clement. I suppose that should not surprise me.”

  Attlee was growing impatient. “Did you come here to talk about my interior décor?”

  Churchill chuckled again. “This is what is called small talk, Clement. It’s how I work myself up to say what is needed.”

  “Very well. What is it that I can do for you?”

  Churchill looked around and then reached out to lay the cigar on the ashtray on the desk.

  “We have a problem, Clement.”

  “We have a problem? I have spent the past year cleaning up the incredible mess you left here. I am surprised the queen didn’t detail someone to quietly have you shot.”

  “She was slightly incandescent,” Churchill murmured.

  “Bloody hell, Winston! We were all incandescent. Have you any idea of the damage you caused?”

  Ambrose was shocked at Attlee’s rage. He was usually the most reserved of men. But he was also amazed at Churchill’s insouciance. To simply pick up the phone and demand an impromptu meeting with the prime minister simply wasn’t done.

  “Have you never done things you regret?”

  Attlee shook his head. “Actions that I have regretted have never come close to being responsible for the death of a friendly head of state.”

  “Henry Wallace was not a friend of the empire, Clement, but I take your point. And, in case you do not know, I retained my security clearance. Whether that was through design or simple oversight, I do not know. However, I hear things, for example, about how the war started between Germany and Russia.”

  Attlee shook his head.

  “There are a lot of stories going around. Surely you know how much credence we can put in unsupported facts.”

  “I am well aware of that. I also heard that the queen asked Schloss for a summit.”

  For a moment, Attlee’s face slipped. Churchill, who was no fool, saw it and understood that he now had confirmation of the meeting.

  “I, of course, cannot speak to anything like that, even if it were true.”

  Churchill chuckled again. “You have never dissembled well, Clement. I suppose that is a mark of your good character. Perhaps it strains the imagination to believe that she desires an alliance with the Germans.”

  Attlee jumped to his feet with fire in his eyes. “That is just about enough, Mr. Churchill. I don’t know who your sources are, but I intend to find out. Let me confirm to you that the queen asked for a summit with Schloss. To suggest she is looking for an alliance is scurrilous, and you would be wise not to repeat that.”

  “That is why I came to see you,” Churchill said softly. “You have a leak in your office, or perhaps the queen does. Someone does not have the best interests of the United Kingdom at he
art.”

  Churchill stood up. “With that, I should, perhaps, return to my retirement. If you should have further questions, pray send someone whose bona fides give me complete confidence.”

  With that, the stocky man with the mischievous smirk walked from the office.

  “Please see that Mr. Churchill safely finds his way to a cab, Ambrose.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  September 1, 1943; 5 AM

  Central Poland

  Although General Rommel had decided that he could not read minds the way the Reich Chancellor seemed to, his instincts as a soldier kicked in, and he expected an attack from the Red Army. Whether it was the lack of activity over the past several days, or the increased efforts by the Russians to circumvent the German interdiction of the Russian supply lines, Rommel was confident an attack would come soon.

  Rommel had gone to bed the night before at midnight and awakened at 4 AM. He felt oddly rested as he walked into his headquarters. His adjutant handed him a cup of coffee as he walked past towards his office.

  “Don’t you ever sleep, Hans?” Rommel asked.

  “A wise man once told me that adjutants did not need to sleep.”

  Rommel snorted as he continued into his inner sanctum, the adjutant following. “It was no one in this room since I already know that I am a fool despite claims to the contrary. Any reports from the front?”

  “It is very quiet, Herr General.”

  Rommel sat down at his desk and sipped the coffee. “Ahh. Very good. What do you expect the Russians to do?”

  “They ought to turn around and go home. But given their predilection for stupidity, I expect an attack any time.”

  “Have we pulled everything back as planned?”

  The adjutant nodded. “We have token trip-wire forces at the front. Everything else has moved back five kilometers. But I am concerned, Herr General?”

  “Why is that, Hans?”

  “We got away with that trick before. Surely the Russians will think about that as they plan their attack.”

  “You are correct in that regard,” Rommel said. “But we also cannot think ourselves into inaction. The Luftwaffe has the Fortresses on alert, and they can be over the battlefield in an hour or so. We have the artillery dialed in so that we can do Time-On-Target about one kilometer this side of the current battle line.”

  “Then, I think we have done everything we could reasonably do, Herr General.”

  From the east came the sound of a deep rumble. Both men looked up.

  “I suppose we are committed now, Hans,” Rommel said. “We have made our plans, and the rest is in the hands of our soldiers and God.”

  “I fervently hope that will be sufficient, Herr General.”

  “Come, we should go to the operations center so that they don’t think we have decided to save our own skins and escape.”

  “I do not think anyone would believe that, Sir.”

  Rommel laughed. “Don’t underestimate the credulity of people. Besides, I would like nothing better than to run away from the Russians. You are right. They should have turned around and gone home by now.”

  “It is mystifying, Sir.”

  “Remember, Hans; there is no accounting for stupidity.”

  “I suppose not, Sir.”

  The adjutant opened the door and was confronted by four decrepit looking men in uniforms. Rommel stared at them for a few moments and then spoke.

  “I believe you are out of uniform, Herr General.”

  “Major Klein has been complaining about my unkempt appearance,” General Walter Model said.

  “I would say your timing on coming across the front lines was very close.”

  “Indeed,” Model replied. “We could not have cut it any closer. And if it weren’t for Sergeant Friedmann and Corporal Baumann, we would not have made it.”

  Rommel looked at the two enlisted men curiously. “Abwehr?”

  “Yes, Herr General,” Friedmann replied.

  “I’m sure Major Damm will be delighted to see you.” He turned to the adjutant. “Hans, please detail someone to take these two men to the Abwehr tent.”

  “At once, Herr General.”

  Rommel turned and looked again at Model. “General, I cannot tell you how glad I am you got out.”

  “I left my army in the hands of Russians. I should be shot for that.”

  Rommel studied the muddy general. “As should I, and Guderian, and Herr Schloss. We made the decision and it was ultimately the wrong one. Hopefully, we have time to correct it.”

  “I thought I should come and report.”

  “Is there anything that can’t wait for a bit?” Rommel asked.

  “No, Herr General. Perhaps we can take the opportunity to clean up and get something to eat. It appears that events have intervened.”

  Rommel nodded. “I will dispatch a message to Berlin. I am sure they will want to hear that the prodigal has returned. Then we will arrange an airplane to fly you there.”

  “Germany needs me at the front,” Model protested. “The Russians are attacking in force.”

  “I will manage this battle. You have just hiked across God knows how many kilometers of the Ukraine. Some people will want to talk to you.”

  “Of course, Herr General.”

  Rommel spoke to Hans as they walked quickly to the operations tent. “Get a message off to Guderian about the attack and also about Model’s recovery. I suspect they will be very interested in both items.”

  “At once, Herr General.”

  “And now we must see what those motherless sons are trying this time.”

  § § §

  September 2, 1943; 10 AM

  Balmoral Castle

  Aberdeenshire, Scotland, UK

  Margaret Windsor’s earliest and fondest memories were of the times spent at Balmoral Castle. She spent summers roaming the estate with her sister and mother. Her father taught her to hunt and ride. Her uncle, who was later and briefly, Edward VIII, had spent time there. Despite the later abdication crisis, Uncle David, as he was known to the family, remained one of her favorite people. Uncle David was now the Royal Governor of the Bahamas, and she had not seen him since the beginning of the war.

  After the abdication crisis, her father arranged to purchase the Balmoral estate from David. He had inherited it from his father, and everyone agreed it should remain the personal property of the monarch. And now Margaret had inherited Balmoral. And it was now even more important to her personally as a retreat from the intrigues of London.

  The queen was not able to visit as much as she would have liked. By any measure, she was now a ruling monarch, not just a reigning one. As a result, with the government requiring her constant attention, she considered herself a prisoner in Buckingham Palace. When the opportunity arose to make a royal visit to Edinburgh, she made her appearances and then boarded the royal train and proceeded to Aberdeenshire with the intent of spending a week at Balmoral. And she once again fell in love with the place.

  She had already spent several days tromping the pathways of the estate and would do so again today, but first, she must needs address the government issues that had arrived in the message box on the overnight train from London. Out of courtesy, the prime minister always sent either a member of his staff, or a cabinet member to answer any questions, or to give briefings on the details of the day’s events.

  Colin Marty had worked for Attlee for nearly ten years and was comfortable speaking with the queen. He was, in fact, now a member of her entourage. She had learned early on that he was not intimidated by her outbursts. She liked his reserved equanimity.

  “So Clement is recommending a new Press Secretary for me,” she commented as she scanned the papers.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. He asked me to explain that he was in no way trying to usurp your staff, but that the opportunity presented itself.”

  She studied the curriculum vitae in front of her and pondered her options.

/>   “Is Clement convinced this would be a good appointment despite everything?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Stuart Menzies seconded him to the prime minister. They have known each other for years, and Menzies trusts him. He was one of the inadvertent victims of our MI6 actions and would like to stay in government service.”

  Margaret lay the paper down and looked directly at Marty.

  “You are well aware, of course, of my feelings toward Six. Some of the people were likely complicit in the murder of President Wallace. Everyone else over there seemed concerned mainly with protecting themselves. They certainly did not serve the country well.”

  “Everyone understands that…”

  “Then why do they persist in bringing these people back into the government?”

  Marty dipped his head to acknowledge the point.

  “At some point, Ma’am, we are going to have to rehabilitate some of these people. They got caught in the gears through no fault of their own. I completely agree that this called for a general housecleaning.”

  “And Clement feels we need to give some of them another chance.” She tapped the paper with her fingers as she thought.

  “We can arrange an interview at your convenience, Ma’am,” Marty interjected.

  “No. I do not have time to interview every routine appointment. Let’s consider this approved. If he doesn’t work out, I will send him packing.”

  “Of course, Ma’am.”

  Marty wrote in his notebook. He was meticulous in recording everything. It would not do for the queen to have to remind him of something he had forgotten. He had frankly expected an explosion when the queen saw the recommendation for a new Royal Press Secretary, and he had told Attlee so. But the Prime Minister had insisted on doing it. And it appeared he knew better than Marty how the queen would probably react.

  Margaret lifted the next sheet of paper in the dispatch box and studied it. Finally, she nodded.

  “So, Schloss has agreed to a summit.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. The precondition is that Germany will host it. Schloss suggests Cologne. The Prime Minister is unhappy about it.”