A Mighty Endeavor

by Stuart Slade

  “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.”

  Buna Field, Kenya

  “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.”

  New Government Buildings, New Delhi, India

  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 tom 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 E
ric 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 pole-axed 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.

  Cabinet Room, Government House, Calcutta, India

  “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 wou
nded. 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.”