by Scott Palter
Philby put it all together while his three superiors just sat there, drunk with fatigue. “Sirs, I’d add some words about preserving their armies as a matter of priority over loss of terrain or even well-known cities. Also that nothing be done to bring war to Holy Places like Jerusalem. Get our headquarters and supply dumps out of the Old City. Perhaps hand it over to a committee of neutral ambassadors and religious leaders as an open city?” No one contradicted him. “So we are agreed that Cunningham can evacuate Alamein at discretion as soon as he feels the safety of his forces is threatened. Eighth Army, less the Australian Corps, is to retire up the Nile.”
Atlee was mildly surprised. “Why not the Australians?”
“Sudan is a dead end.” Philby knew the region from his father’s friends. “The Australian government will have kittens over their lads trapped there. Get as many of them as you can into Sinai. They can exit through Basra. They won’t all make it that way. A good number end up trekking up the Nile, but you will show Canberra that we tried. It’s good imperial diplomacy.”
Atlee finally smiled. He was beginning to see what his colleague Bevin saw in this young Tory. He might be a toff, but he didn’t look down his nose at Laborites. “Don’t send the part on the Australians. Let that blame go to the Australian government in Canberra. That leaves how do we get that lot – ,” He tossed his head back at the main room, making clear he was referencing the rest of the War Cabinet, “ – to avoid rehashing it.” Atlee thought for a second. “What say we announce we have accepted Churchill’s plan on Bombay as a constituency in Commons? They will be at least a week debating that absurd idea to death. Doesn’t much matter what they decide. They will do fuck-all about anything else in the meantime. Gives Wavell the space he needs to do the handover, use the committee’s Sunderland flying boat to get here, then huddle with us on how we handle what’s left of this war.” No one had the energy to argue; the discussion ended there.
1000 hours CET
21 October 1940
Heydrich’s Office, Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, Berlin
“Would you please repeat that?” Schellenberg was traveling, and the boss was dealing directly with lesser minions. Lower-level folks whom he completely terrified. The one standing in front of him now was all but shaking in terror. “The main Messerschmitt factory used aluminum for ladders and now is complaining that they are short of this material? I would think lumber would be fine for civilian purposes in wartime.”
The Sturmbannführer making the report had headed the audit team. He was not an experienced accountant or administrator. He merely had sufficient rank to stare down senior factory people, who had been most uncooperative until the Sturmbannführer had dialed Berlin to get the Reichsführer on the line. The Messerschmitt executives had then backed down for two hours while one of their number tried to telephone the Führer. Thankfully that august personage ‘could not be disturbed’. “Reichsführer, there was both incredible waste and very poor controls on the use of materials. The ladders were for use in agriculture, vineyards."
In a deceptively calm voice Heydrich asked for clarification on what these ladders were to be used for in vineyards and why Messerschmitt was involved.
Desperate to end the report as quickly as possible, the Sturmbannführer all but stumbled over his words: "Messerschmitt has metalworking divisions involved in things other than war work. The aluminum was used for ladders that the grape plants will grow on to support them. What is needed is an SS office with direct control of strategic materials at the factory. Without day-to-day supervision, they will ignore national needs. They seem unable to grasp that the day of private business has passed.”
“Who was the most insolent among the administrators?” Heydrich heard the reply and wrote it down. The name was inserted into a form ordering summary execution. The Sturmbannführer was directed to return to the factory with a mobile hanging truck. These had a large crane at the back from which a noose could be dropped and a body hauled up by the neck to swing in the breeze. This fool would hang tomorrow, and the rest would be told the crane could always return. Retrieve the ladders. Account for every gram of every strategic material. Welcome to the future.
1600 hours local; 1500 hours CET
21 October 1940
Headquarters Italo-German Panzer Army, 10 km southeast of Bagush Box
Officially this was just a liaison conference. First Libyan Division was a designated army reserve unit, but was in XXI Corps sector. The two commanders, Generals Dalmazzo and Maletti, wished to discuss with General Geloso, the Army Commander, certain hypothetical situations that could arise during the projected offensive at the other end of the line. In fact, the entire time was taken up exploring the possibilities Lieutenant Colonel Di Salo had presented.
“Let me be sure I fully comprehend.” Geloso hated loose ends. He was a very precise person. “This happens with or without us.” Both other generals nodded. Di Salo had made that crystal clear. “So when the Prince as Lieutenant General of the Realm, is sorting this out with Generals Halder and Beck after the fact, our fingerprints are in no way on this?”
Dalmazzo was quite firm on this. “I have my staff doing a number of hypothetical plans. They are loyal to me and would lie if I requested it, but in fact they have no idea that any of this is real. Di Salo doesn’t have an exact day or place, so there is no specific detail for an investigation to uncover. At the point where Rommel’s main body starts to move, my liaison officers notify my headquarters. I pull the closest applicable plan out of the files. We improvise from there. However, my strength is all up front in defensive positions. The obvious initial attack force should be 1st Libyan Division … ”
“Which is not under your command. Hence this meeting, so you can both inform your staffs that I authorize the division passing to you under certain circumstances. I will provide such a written directive.” Geloso paused. He wanted both his listeners to focus on what he said next. He had learned such rhetorical devices. “The plan will send the Libyans through first, but they will have their own objective. General Maletti, you are going to Cairo.”
“Cairo?” Maletti had presumed he would be the main attack element of XXI Corps. “How does this aid the Corps battle?”
“It doesn’t. It aids Italy. We have been promised Egypt by the Germans. It will be easier to get them to keep that promise if Cairo is occupied by Italians, if the Egyptian Royal Family passes into Italian hands. I will drop the Libyan Parachute Brigade, the one we used on Malta. You will link up with them, secure the Palace and the seat of government. The justification will be to avoid British demolitions in the city. The two units of Libyans speak Arabic. They are both experienced in putting down unrest. We want a compliant Egyptian monarchy, not a hostile Egyptian Arab Republic. Look at the mess the British have made for themselves in Iraq.”
“How do you hide the preparations for the airborne operation?” Dalmazzo was puzzled. This was not going as he envisioned it.
Geloso laughed. “We don’t. That’s the beauty of it. Iraq is our excuse. We even ask for German aid in terms of transport planes, perhaps gliders as well. We refuse their offer of airborne units. The language issue. Ours speak Arabic. Theirs don’t.” He then threw a personal nod of approval to the two before him. “Nothing on paper, but the Prince and Marshal Balbo will be made aware of your contributions to the coming victory. I will leave reward of this Tenente Colonello to you, Generale Dalmazzo. His Germans must not learn of his duplicity, but do find some way to show your approval.” Geloso thought to himself that if all went according to plan, he would in due course move on to higher command. This Di Salo might be someone he would bring with him. Perhaps he could continue to work miracles interacting with Germans. Geloso did not enjoy his dealings with the quite arrogant von Manstein. Perhaps a Colonello Di Salo might be a useful interface in the future?
1700 hours Central Daylight Time; 2300 hours CET
21 October 1940
17 East Monroe Street, Palmer House Hotel, Chic
ago
Willkie was on a roll, and he knew it. Franklin had stepped in it, tried to hedge and dodge on the ‘Atlantic Zone of Peace’. Willkie took the high road while Lindbergh and Coughlin took it right down into the gutter, egged on by the Chicago Tribune and its pack of newspaper imitators. Now here he was at a high strategy meeting with Lindy and Dewey. It was not politic to be associated this closely with Coughlin at this stage of the campaign. Too many traditional Republican voters were anti-Papist. So instead of the fiery Canadian radio preacher, there was a nun from the Sisters of Providence of Mary-of-the Woods quietly in the corner. The order had a large mission in China, which hid this nun’s association with Coughlin’s political crusades. She nominally represented the Catholic missionaries. In fact she took excellent shorthand. She would handcarry the typed transcript to Coughlin on the overnight train.
Willkie had started his campaign expecting to be running against some other Democrat. The no-third-term custom was an unwritten law of US politics. Willkie actually liked and somewhat respected Roosevelt, their fights over the TVA aside. Still, that was then and this was now. Willkie had become used to luxury suites and top flight hotels in his business career. Rooms such as this were second nature to him. Plotting the last two weeks of a successful presidential run were not. “Tom, are you sure?”
Dewey shook his head wearily. Willkie was a shallow neophyte. This nomination should have been his. He was sure he could have beaten Taft at the convention, had the powers-that-be not rigged it for this silly man. The powers were prepared to let Tom Dewey run a campaign, but thought him too young and difficult to control as a candidate. “There is no such thing as ‘sure’ in politics until the votes are counted. We have the best pollsters and state managers money can buy. I’m sure that some are mistaken on cities. A few may be on whole states. However, mistakes flow in both directions. So while some states will be worse than we think, some will be better. The smart move is to follow the money. We are getting a flood of late contributions from interests normally in the Democratic column, such as independent oil. They are using back doors and fronts, but they make sure I know who you will have to thank when you are sworn in. None of these have abandoned Franklin. This is ‘just in case’ money. The top people on that side are scared.” Dewey paused to see if Willkie had the political sense to follow. He wasn’t at all sure the amateur could cope. “It’s probably down to three states. California, New York, and New Jersey are tossups. With an honest count I’d say you’d take all three by a nose. However, honest counts in New York and New Jersey are always aspirational. Best we can probably do is limit the box-stuffing. However, Franklin needs all three to win.”
“Truman’s your problem.” Lindbergh knew little about politics, and cared less. He did know the art of celebrity, of working crowds. “He’s a combat veteran. You aren’t. For the fence-sitters, his promise that he won’t let their kids be sent to die in a 2nd AEF carries weight. He paints you as a rich boy who kept himself out of combat, then defended deserters.” He saw Willkie’s anger but ploughed on. “The truth doesn’t matter. You are a rich boy from Wall Street to these folks. That sets it up for them to believe the worst of you.”
Dewey cut in before Willkie could rise to his own defense. “Wendell, electoral politics has certain iron laws. Time you learned them. Once the public gets an impression of a candidate, it’s near impossible to change it. The four of you have been defined. Different ones like or dislike you, Franklin, Truman. Your veep could stay home for all he matters. Outside Oregon, he’s seen as a featherweight nonentity. Second rule: at this point over 90% of the voters have made up their minds. What you are doing at this point is chasing that last few percent and – far more important – affecting motivations. Leave Dixie out. They are still stuck in 1865, waiting for Saint Bobby Lee to come down from Heaven and save the Confederacy. You may win a few states on their fringe, but the core would vote Democrat for any white man. Outside of that benighted region, maybe 70% of the people will vote. Might get to 75%. Could drop below 60%. Who stays home is almost as important as who votes for you. You don’t need Franklin’s supporters to switch sides. You can win states if enough New Dealers decide the line at the polls looks too long. That’s why this war-and-peace stuff matters so much. Even people who like Franklin, mostly don’t want another war. Few of the pro-intervention folks want to have millions of infantry off in Europe or Africa dying like flies. Keep hammering Zone of Peace. Big navy and air force, but their boys don’t get buried on other continents.”
“And they don’t trust Franklin’s promises. He was a Wilson man, and they see Woodie as having lied his way into the war he was ‘too proud to fight’.” Lindy was passionate for the anti-Intervention cause. “I’m not with you for partisan reasons. And not because I liked Hitler or the Nazis. I respected what they were doing with their country, especially in aviation, but I would never want a Nazi state here. I’m not even advocating violence against the damned Red Hebrews. I just want them to act like real Americans. I don’t care if I shame them into it, or scare them enough, just so long as it works.”
His supposed allies were leaving Willkie nauseous. He was on the wrong side. And he knew it. He was a liberal, a decent man. And he’d sold his soul. The only way to buy it back required that he win. Or all he would be remembered for were the gutter speeches of Lindbergh and Coughlin, of the libelous headlines from the Tribune. “If Truman is the problem, why don’t we pull him home. Schedule McNary to barnstorm the state, one county courthouse at a time. Throw Charlie and enough money at the state, and Harry either scurries home to give courthouse speeches or loses his home state.”
Dewey sat in thought for near a minute. The other two let him. Dewey was the one with the voting numbers in his head, in his notepad. “Yes. I’d listed Missouri as tossup. Let’s go for it.” The nun in the corner politely cleared her throat. They had yet to address HER issue. “Yes Sister, I hear you. Guys, we each mention China in every speech from here out. Patton and Eisenhower are already there with some troops. No draftees. We stress that. Defense of Jesus and the free market. Freedom Airmen even somehow managed to get half a dozen P-26’s over there with crews, while Chennault is still mucking around. His ship figures to land by month’s end I hear.”
The sister gave a polite thank-you. She had her agenda, separate from Coughlin’s or indeed any of theirs. The missionary community would take support from Roosevelt but didn’t trust him. Too many of his supporters were open in preferring the atheistic Chinese Communists. The meeting went on into campaign details that didn’t interest her and she was sure would be of no interest to Coughlin. She continued to dutifully take notes. She could do that as second nature with no thought. Her thoughts were on God’s will that the Chinese be converted and educated. She could care less about the ‘free market’. The church’s teaching on the dignity of labor did not jibe with this sort of Chamber of Commerce boosterism.
0800 hours local; 0100 hours CET
22 October 1940
Air southwest of Wuhan, China
Colonel Davis found his new rank difficult to digest. He knew how long it had taken his father to reach a similar plateau. Wartime often meant rapid promotion. Not this quick, however. Here he was commanding a theoretical air wing, when in fact all that had reached China so far were six P-26 fighters. Supposedly he had been sent to Shanghai. The head of the friendly Chinese government had other notions. The six planes had been shipped up river to Wuhan, the westernmost city his forces controlled. There was also some historical connection to a prior government he had headed. Davis found Chinese politics almost as confusing as Chinese geography.
This Christian China turned out to be a collection of sea ports, river ports, rail lines, and a few inland cities. Most of the rest could be defined as ‘here be dragons’. No one exactly ruled. The villagers saluted any army that was present, and cursed them all behind their backs. To a farmer, armies were like Biblical plagues.
The funniest part of the whole thing was
the enemy. They also flew P-26’s as well as Soviet planes, one of which looked generally like a P-26 to his under-trained pilots. His men could fly. Fly far better than Davis could. His mechanics were also first rate. Most days they could get four of the six fighters ready for patrol. What they needed experience on, was wartime skills like shape recognition. One of Davis’s pilots had dreamed up a way around the identification problem. A new paint scheme – red tails, blue wings, and white bodies. So far they hadn’t shot any of their own down.
The next trick was getting in the air. The ‘early warning system’ was radio teams on the surrounding mountains. Those teams got to play vicious tag with Nationalist partisans and local bandits. The bandits were more aggressive, but less threatening. Once he proved he would ransom prisoners, they even stopped shooting at his men. They would just surround them and begin the negotiations. He had a liaison officer from the Shanghai government trying to convert this into a formal contract. He was willing to pay monthly protection money for his men’s safety. In return the paid-off gang would fight anyone else trying to harm his guys. So far only one bandit chief had agreed. They weren’t even really that expensive, compared to the cost of sending a division of troops all the way from the States to do the same thing.
Davis had scrambled with two companions twenty minutes ago. Half the time these flights were giant wastes of time. They would never see the enemy, and just return to base. This time the Nationalist were clearly looking for a fight. Six P-26’s heading straight for Wuhan, grouped in three pairs at what appeared to be twelve thousand feet. Davis’s group was at sixteen thousand. He had found the Nationalists rarely went that high. Probably inferior octane of their fuel.