The Windsor Protocol

by Peter MacAlan

  Three days later, on a hot Saturday afternoon, a new and bloody phase of the war had been opened up for Londoners. For the first time London was systematically bombed on the explicit orders of the German Fuhrer. Retaliation and counter-reprisal became the order of the day. Now London had to face a furious, almost non-stop bombardment from the Luftwaffe. Already people were calling this new aerial terror “The Blitz”.

  Thankfully, the dawn of September 17 had brought low, black rain clouds which covered most of the southern counties of England and for this most people were grateful, for it meant another short respite from the Luftwaffe’s sorties.

  Of the two figures seated in the office on the upper floor of St Michael’s House, it was the elderly, rotund figure, who broke the silence which had fallen between them. He removed the cigar from his mouth and sighed.

  “It will clear by this afternoon. Then they’ll be coming at our throats again,” grunted the Prime Minister.

  “At least this weather isn’t ideal for the invasion, is it, sir?” replied Colonel Dunnett from behind the desk. His face was drawn and grey. Like most Londoners, he’d had little sleep the night before.

  Churchill gave a gruff bark of laughter and stabbed at the air with his unlit cigar.

  “Invasion? If they come, we’ll be ready for them. And that time may well be soon. I’ve just seen the Intelligence photos brought back by Coastal Command Blenheims from the dawn patrols. The photographic interpreters tell me that the concentrations of the invasion barges are increasing. At Boulogne there has been an increase from one hundred and two to one hundred and fifty barges in the last forty-eight hours. At Calais, we now have two hundred and sixty-six invasion craft. Altogether, the Channel ports have over a thousand barges with another six hundred on their way down river to Antwerp.”

  He paused, chewing on the end of his cigar, as if lost in apprehensive reflection.

  “But to the problem in hand. You have heard that the Snark was lost with all hands last week?”

  “Yes, poor devils. A U-Boat in the Western Approaches, I heard. I presume they were on their way back to England with the prisoners from the Bahamas?”

  The Prime Minister used his cigar in an affirmative gesture.

  “Yes. Poor devils they were but, speaking frankly, the event was what my American cousins would call ‘a lucky break’. Both the crew and the Snark’s prisoners went down. No survivors. That has saved us the embarrassment of having to deal with them officially and it clears up several loose ends in this rotten affair.”

  Colonel Dunnett did not look happy.

  “Except one, sir,” he said softly.

  Churchill pondered silently for a moment.

  “Speaking of which, are you certain that there have been no further sightings of your man, Conroy, since he was seen in…? What the devil was the name of the place?”

  “Laredo. It’s a town on the Texan-Mexican border. No, sir. No further sightings. It looks as if Conroy was crossing into Mexico.”

  “Well that much is obvious,” replied the Prime Minister grumpily. “But he must be found.”

  “Conroy is…” Dunnett began and then hesitated, his face drawn and anxious. He decided to correct himself. “Conroy was…a good man, a damned fine operative.”

  “Misled by emotions,” snapped Churchill. “He did a fine job but let himself get personally involved. Damn it, man. You picked him. He was supposed to be one of your best agents.”

  Dunnett shrugged.

  “He is still a human being.”

  “That’s not the point. He was not expected to react as he did. We would have looked after him. There was plenty of work for a man of his talents to do in Europe. But we could not afford to leave loose ends which we could not control. There is no place for morality in the shadow war we have to fight.”

  “If Conroy has realised the position he has now placed himself in, and I think it is quite obvious that he has by his actions, then he is going to take some finding.”

  “Find him! And find him fast,” snapped the Prime Minister, “and deal with him! All he has shown is that he cannot be trusted.”

  “I understand, sir. But…”

  “There’s no ‘buts’. Colonel White reported that Conroy had let his personal emotions enter his work. That puts paid to an agent’s usefulness. Even I know that.”

  “I accept that we had to eliminate Adams and his girlfriend, sir. As you say, they were loose ends which we could not control. But perhaps there was a way of doing things which did not have to result in the elimination of the American girl. Oh, I know that you are attempting to draw America into the war as our ally and if any hint of what happened on Cat Island leaked out then the repercussions…”

  “The repercussions would have been colossal!” replied Churchill gruffly. “Our survival as a nation is dependent on the return of Roosevelt for a third term as president. If the American isolationists triumph, then England has little chance of surviving this war on her own. That is why we must be sure that no word of what happened in the Bahamas leaks out before the presidential elections.

  And there is another more pressing morality than the lives of these people…and that is the good name of the English monarchy among our own people. Any word leaking out about what really happened in the Bahamas and the situation here would be disastrous. I still remember how near this country was to a Communist revolution in 1919. If the monarchy were in danger…”

  Churchill waved a hand expressively.

  Dunnett scratched the tip of nose, a nervous quirk when he felt at a loss for words.

  “I can’t quite see, sir…” he began.

  The Prime Minister leant forward, gripping the arms of his chair until the knuckles showed white. His voice was harsh.

  “I believe in the monarchy. And it is my task and duty to ensure the survival of it. Dammit, monarchy is more than a social institution, more than just a system by which we are governed. For many people, monarchy is a religion. That’s why in some countries in the world, Japan for example, the monarch is considered nothing less than a god. The English monarchy must be seen to be above reproach…and that means every root and branch of the Royal Family must be protected from any defamation. They must be protected despite their actions and, especially, we must protect the reputation of the former King. If the monarchy is shown to have ordinary human fallibilities and prejudices and faults then its days will be numbered. The people of England once rose up and executed their King when the monarchy showed its faults and the monarchy was abolished for a while. That must never happen again, no matter what the cost.”

  “But Conroy was a loyal operative, sir. He has a right…”

  “A right!” The elderly man leant out of his chair pugnaciously. “All rights are meaningless compared to the survival of the monarchy. And during the last few decades we have seen many European monarchs fall. We must prevent that happening here and no threat must be allowed to remain, no matter how unwitting a threat it is. Is that understood?”

  Dunnett compressed his lips and then slowly nodded.

  The Prime Minister went on: “I have already warned His Majesty that if his family are to survive in this country after the war then we will have to dispatch a special group of agents into Germany to ensure that all the incriminating documentation and the letters that the Duke and others of his family have written to their German relatives and members of the Nazi Government are gathered up and destroyed. But our first job is to find your rogue agent, Conroy. That is our priority.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll find Conroy…eventually.”

  No 77 Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin, was a yellowing brown three-story building whose ornate L-shape structure evoked the pomp and ceremony of a by-gone age; an age of Kaisers and of a lost grandeur and ritual solemnity. Now its appearance was somewhat brash and garish, its walls bedecked in huge red swastika flags while, atop the main doors of the building, grotesque gilt eagles, clutching garlanded swastikas in their claws, were poised impressively
. No 77 Wilhelmstrasse was better known as the Reichskanzlei, the Chancellery of the Fuhrer of the Third Reich.

  Adolf Hitler was in a petulant but controlled mood that morning. He hated to change the habits of his life even in times of crisis. He usually rose at 11.30 a.m. and took his morning bath before eating a hurried breakfast. He then held his first conference at noon, discussing the affairs of the day with his political and military staff. Then Fraulein Manzialy, his half-Greek, half-Tyrolean vegetarian cook, would prepare a late lunch. Sometimes Hitler would invite his advisors to eat with him but more often than not he preferred to eat alone.

  That morning, however, he had decided to delay his noonday general conference and had ordered Generaloberst Alfred Jodi, Chief of Headquarters Staff, Gross-Admiral Erich Raedar, Reichsmarschall Hermann Goring and Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop, to meet him in his office immediately after he had breakfasted.

  The Fuhrer was not seated in his usual black upholstered chair behind his massive desk. Instead, he sprawled in one of the low, heavy leather armchairs, facing the open French windows which led onto the Chancellery gardens. His Alsatian bitch, Blondi, lay curled up at his feet. It was a warm, bright day and a shaft of sunlight from the open windows fell across the Fuhrer, illuminating him in a curiously theatrical way. It was a pose that Goebbels would have been delighted to capture on film for it gave the Fuhrer an eerie almost metaphysical appearance.

  It was obvious that the Fuhrer was in a dangerous frame of mind, calm and soft spoken, his eyes piercing as he examined each of his leading advisors in turn. They sat nervously around him, like a group of recalcitrant school children called into their headmaster’s study to be scolded after some mischievous prank.

  “Well, Herr Reichsmarschall?” Hitler prompted, opening the discussion. “Has the RAF been wiped from the skies?”

  It was a phrase the fat Luftwaffe chief had used only a few weeks before in a moment of self indulgent vanity. The forty-seven year old former fighter pilot, who had won Germany’s highest award for valour, the Pour le Merite, having shot down 22 enemy aircraft in the 1914-18 War, shifted his massive weight and looked uncomfortable.

  “My Fuhrer,” he began but a gesture from Hitler cut him short.

  “Two days ago, Herr Reichsmarschall, Germany sustained the losses of fifty-five aircraft destroyed and another twenty-four damaged. Seventy-nine aircraft! And the RAF losses…what were they?” Before Goring had a chance to reply the Fuhrer went on. “No, I shall tell you, Reichsmarshal. Twenty-three destroyed and perhaps a further thirteen damaged. Is that what you called wiping the RAF from the skies?”

  Goring’s face was brick-coloured now. His eyes watered as if he were about to burst into tears. He was a comic sight in the eyes of Jodi. Jodi, alone among the Nazi leaders, had never fallen to the charm of Hitler’s favourite. He despised the man; despised his reliance on morphine to help him through the day; despised his flamboyant lifestyle, his pampered background, his castle home at Nuremberg where his mother once lived with her Jewish lover. It was Hitler who had made Goring his successor, made him President of the Reichstag, first minister of Prussia, Air Minister, Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe and overall head of the state’s economy. And in July Hitler had totally succumbed to Goring’s promises of an easy victory over England by making him Reichsmarshal, a post which Hitler had invented, making Goring the second most powerful man in the Nazi empire.

  “Mastery of the skies of England was essential for our Operation Seelöwe,” went on Hitler remorselessly. “You promised me this and yet last Sunday saw our defeat. We will never gain air superiority over Britain.”

  Hitler’s tone was emphatic. Goring sat unhappily silent. The time for grandiose promises had passed. The reality had to be faced. The Fuhrer gazed around at his advisors.

  “I laid down preconditions for the success of Operation Seelöwe in my Directive of July the Sixteenth. The first condition was that the RAF must be so weakened that it would be unable to put up any substantial resistance to the operation. Has that been achieved, Herr Reichsmarshal?”

  Goring shook his head in resignation.

  “No, my Fuhrer. We have not gained supremacy in the air.”

  “No,” Hitler mimicked without humour. “Instead we find the RAF above the skies of Berlin. Do I recall someone saying that Berlin could never be bombed by the RAF?”

  Goring studied his hands silently.

  The Fuhrer turned to Admiral Raedar, who had been smiling in gentle superiority at Goring’s discomfiture. “Herr Admiral, do I take it from your attitude that the Kreigsmarine have fulfilled my three other conditions? That British warships should be pinned down in the North Sea and the Mediterranean? That the sea lanes to the beaches be cleared of mines and that our own mine fields be so laid on both flanks to protect our forces?”

  Erich Raeder drew himself up in his chair and stuck out his chin. His background was that of the old Imperial Navy of Germany. He was the last senior Naval officer to affect a wing collar with his day uniform. He was a rigid disciplinarian, a realistic professional who had laid the groundwork for Germany’s naval rearmament after Versailles. He was of that Imperial Naval school whose Spartan training, strategy and gunnery had shattered the Royal Navy’s battle cruisers at Jutland in 1916. Raeder was only tolerated by the Nazis for his organisational prowess. The Nazi leaders did not forget that it was Raeder who played a significant part in having Reinhard Heydrich dismissed from the Navy in 1931 for conduct unbecoming an officer because of his sexual proclivities. Heydrich had immediately joined the SS and risen to be Himmler’s deputy. Raeder was well aware that the sword of revenge could strike him at any moment.

  “So far as these instructions have been possible,” he answered stiffly, “they have been carried out.”

  Hitler stared at the Admiral. His eyes glinted.

  “I thought you viewed the whole enterprise with misgivings, Herr Admiral?”

  “The Fuhrer knows the Kreigsmarine’s objections, most of which were put in the staff memorandum of July Twenty-nine,” replied Raeder. He was thinking about the prospect of mounting a head-on assault across open seas against the strongest naval power in the world. Already the German Navy had lost nearly three-quarters of its surface strength during the Norwegian campaign. “You will observe that the Kriegsmarine had reservations about the Luftwaffe promises to gain mastery in the air,” he glanced at Goring and a sneer edged his tone. “Not only have the Luftwaffe failed but they can’t even prevent the RAF from strafing and bombing the invasion barges. Nor, as you so correctly observed, can our citizens be protected from the RAF here in the capital of the Reich.”

  “Ah!” Hitler pursed his lips. “The invasion barges. I have seen the figures, Herr Admiral, You have gathered, seemingly reluctantly, one thousand, nine hundred and ten barges, four hundred and nineteen tugs, and one thousand, six hundred motor boats and one hundred and sixty-eight transports. Of these the RAF have destroyed about ten per cent.”

  Raeder scowled slightly.

  “The exact figures are sixty-seven craft sunk and one hundred and seventy-three damaged, my Fuhrer. And let me say again that these transportation craft are only seaworthy in seas of Force Two. Beyond that, one sharp squall and they would be swamped and sent to the bottom. If the Luftwaffe really controlled the skies and if the landing craft were really seaworthy…”

  He shrugged eloquently.

  “Nevertheless, the General Staff,” Hitler gestured to where Jodi sat impassively, “allowed for a ten per cent loss in port of such craft. We still have the transport and strike capability. The Channel Ports contain a total of two hundred and sixty thousand men, two airborne divisions and thirty-nine infantry divisions with sixty-two thousand horses, thirty-four thousand tanks and other vehicles and artillery…all waiting to cross a strip of water twenty-two miles wide. Only twenty-two miles wide.”

  Jodi spoke for the first time. He was a man of small stature, trim with bright blue eyes and a large cherry coloured
nose. His bald forehead suggested the intellectual strength which had singled him out to be chief of the planning staff of the German Armed Forces. He leant forward in his chair, his expression animated, but his words lucid, manner courteous and logic relentless.

  “My Fuhrer, the Wehrmacht, the Waffen-SS and the Kriegsmarine are all ready to commence the operation. Rundstedt’s Army Group A stand ready even now to overrun southern England. Only the Luftwaffe has failed us.”

  Jodi had long advocated that the invasion of Britain could be compared to a river crossing on a broad front. He had admitted that the invasion might be difficult but believed that air supremacy could be substituted by sea supremacy. His view was that the invasion would not be a full-scale military campaign but a mopping up operation to finish a country already on its last legs. Hitler leant back in his armchair, fingers tapping on the arm of the chair, gazing at Jodi.

  “If we delay now,” went on Jodi excitedly, “then we will have to contend with bad weather. We should go, with or without the Luftwaffe. If we do not give the English a quick coup de grace we shall have missed the chance of vanquishing them at their weakest moment. If we miss the opportunity now the war against England will become a slow war of attrition mostly left to the Kriegsmarine to strangle her sea lifelines.”

  There was a silence in the room.

  “If we do not go now,” added Jodi, “then we would have to wait until mid-October before the next favourable period of moon and tide are suitable and the incidence of a covering fog likely.”

  Hitler sat for a moment as if lost in thought. Then he raised his dark eyes and glanced from Jodi to Raeder, finally his searching gaze rested on Goring. His face suddenly becoming a mask of contempt.

  “I suggest, Herr Reichsmarshal that you take a few days to recover your strength. You have been unwell of late. Yes, a few days at your estates at Nuremberg will help you.”

  Goring sighed deeply, unhappily.

  “Yes, my Fuhrer,” he said softly.