A Mighty Endeavor

Chapter Nine EARNEST MONEY

Sir Wilfrid Freeman sighed softly as he tried to settle comfortably into his seat. The damage done by the bullet that had struck his shoulder still troubled him gravely and he had the resigned feeling that the mobility of his arm would never be fully restored. Still, the report he was reading cheered him up greatly. If the Commonwealth Aircraft Corporation could pull this off, then the genius of the British for inspired improvisation still survived.

“So you’ve converted the Harvard trainer into a fighter?” Sir Wilfrid deliberately put an incredulous note into his voice. If the CAC could defend this project properly, they would also be capable of driving it to a proper conclusion and taking it even further.

“Not the Harvard; nah. The Wirraway. A cousin ta the Harvard. We took the basic NA-16 design, gave it a R-1340 engine, beefed it up for dive bombin’ and gave it two forward-firin’ machine guns, not one. More or less what North American did with the design ta get the AT-6, which then became your Harvard. Then, of course, North American beefed that aircraft up to be a dive bomber and light attack aircraft, then sold it to the Siamese.”

Sir Wilfrid nodded, taking due care to make his expression as skeptical as possible. “Converting a trainer to a light bomber is one thing. Converting it into a fighter is quite another.”

“It’s a bit more than just a conversion, cobber. We gave it a licensebuilt R-1830, reworked the whole airframe ta cope with the extra power, messed around with the undercart and gave it a pair of 20mm cannons in addition ta its .303s. Changed the wing profile as well. Truth be told, there ain’t much of the ridgy didge Wirraway left there.”

It took him a few seconds to translate the comment into English.

When he had, he was impressed. The file on the aircraft had the estimated performance data and Sir Wilfrid had already made his assessment of that information. The new fighter would be slow at altitude and virtually useless over 15,000 feet; low down, it would be the equal of anything believed to be in the area. Most importantly, it was made using Australian resources and was quite independent of anything that had to be imported. Except the 20mm cannons, of course. They were going to be a problem.

“How long? A year? 18 months?”

The CAC representative looked unbearably smug. “Nah. We’ve rolled the first one out already. We’re doin’ the ground tests now. We’ll fly her in less than five weeks. January 29th is the date we have pencilled in. You’re welcome to come down and see her fly. I know, she ain’t important in the run of thin’s…”

It was time to end the charade. Sir Wilfrid knew that CAC had done an incredible job in getting their little fighter ready in such a short time. It was time to make sure that achievement was recognized.

“Not important? My dear sir, this CA-12 fighter of yours could turn out to be the most important project Australia is currently involved in. The deliveries of American fighters have staunched a gaping hole in our air defenses, but they are a short-term expedient only and they leave us open to unwelcome pressure. One change you will have to make will be the 20mm cannon. We cannot be sure of their supply; make certain the CA-12 can carry four .303 machine guns in their place.”

“The order is confirmed, then?” CAC had an order in hand for 105 CA-12 fighters but they knew Sir Wilfrid was tasked with choosing the aircraft to rearm the RAAF, and controlling of their production, by the Australian government. The CA-12 would be competing with the Department of Aircraft Production Beaufort for the R-1830 engines.

“Of course. And I will be honored to attend the aircraft’s first flight. What do you want to call it, by the way?”

“We thought ta’ Boomerang. Always comes back, ya see. We’ll be proud to see ya at CAC anytime ya like. To be honest, we thought DAP would be takin’ us over.”

Sir Wilfrid shook his head. “They’re all set up to build the Beauforts and their design team will be fully-absorbed in bringing the Beaufighter into production. Anyway, it never hurts to have a little competition, does it? That brings us to the subject of your future. I assume that, with the first flight impending, your design team is reaching the end of their involvement in the CA-12? That being the case, you would be well-advised to come up with some concepts for its successor. You might like to look at some of the wing designs the Americans have come up with.”

The representatives from CAC left with delighted expressions on their faces. Once they were gone, Sir Wilfred opened the next file on his desk. de Havilland Australia were already building Tiger Moth trainers and Dragon Rapide light transports but their capacity was under-utilized. Amongst the treasure trove of documents brought out of Britain were the blueprints for a medium transport aircraft, the Flamingo. Building that aircraft in Australia was the next project to get under way. The problem was getting anybody in Australia to trust a de Havilland-built transport after the DH.86 disaster. He sighed again and shook his head. He’d gone through this whole process once before as the Air Member for Research and Development. That hadn’t ended well, but all he could hope was that his work would have a better outcome this time.

“Now is the time to call a halt.”

R.A.B. Butler had the situation reports from the Middle East in his hands. They showed that Italian resistance in East Africa had crumpled completely, with Italian forces heading in full retreat back to Ethiopia. “The 12th King’s African Division has taken Mogadiscio, while the South Africans have cleared Kenya and are moving northwards into Ethiopia. In the north, General Wavell’s troops are advancing on Asmara while his forces are also entering Ethiopia. A diplomatic engagement with the Italians now will pay dividends and consolidate our gains. We have a victory that we can point to, as justification for our adjustments to Britain’s political outlook.”

“Did you see what the newspapers have said?” Lord Halifax gave no sign of having heard Butler’s words. His own voice was querulous and petty.

“They refer to the South Africans driving the Italians out of Kenya. It is South African Tomahawks that swept the skies of Italian aircraft. Indian troops are advancing on Massawa and invading Ethiopia. African troops are occupying Italian Somaliland. Where is mention of us in all this? According to the newspapers, these victories are being won by the Dominions without any contribution by ourselves. I approved the operations in North Africa and supported General Wavell. Where is mention of that?”

Lord Halifax was genuinely bewildered by the newspaper coverage of the war in North and East Africa. He had expected his friends in the Cliveden Set to ensure that he got all the credit for the apparently remarkable turnaround in the military fortunes of the country. Instead, his name was barely mentioned.

“I suspect that Geoffrey Dawson and Robert Barrington-Ward are

doing you a great kindness in keeping your name out of this.” Butler sounded sincere. “This whole business will end in tears. Wavell has his troops stretched to the absolute limit there, and he has still done nothing to remove the Italians from Egypt. I suspect that the Italians were not expecting him to attack, so he had the element of surprise working for him. When they counterattack, we will see another disaster out there; you mark my words.”

“What I see is the Dominions getting all the credit for winning a series of victories out there. They’re taking the credit for a situation that is my creation. If I hadn’t backed Wavell, he’d never have dared move like this.”

“Prime Minister, the fewer people who know that, the better. Wavell is horribly outnumbered in North Africa and as soon as Mussolini moves against him, his entire position will crumble. With it, the credibility of the Dominions as independent powers will be crushed and they will be forced to come back to us, cap in hand, to rescue them from the wreckage. I would urge, though, that we do not let matters reach that pass. We can approach Signore Mussolini now and offer him a ceasefire; one that returns to the prewar boundaries. We have a window of opportunity here; one where the balance of power is in our favor. We should take advantage of it.”

Halifax looked out of the window, at the miserable darkness of a British winter. There had been plenty of dry weather during December, and the rain that had fallen during the month was mainly light. The temperature was on the way down, though; there had already been several slight frosts. That wasn’t the reason for the grayness that seemed to blanket the country.

Halifax could sense what was really the problem. The atmosphere of reluctance to accept defeat; a resentment at the way the war had been suddenly ended. Now, with the news of the Commonwealth victories in East Africa, there was a growing sensation that the Armistice had been a mistake.

To make matters worse, the demands from Germany were growing.

Some of them had been quite reasonable, Halifax had thought at the time.

Closer economic ties between Germany and Britain, for example. The Germans were placing large orders with British factories. The shipyards were building merchant ships for German companies; light engineering groups, a variety of supplies. Then, the Germans had asked for the use of a small number of British airfields so they could improve surveillance of the eastern Atlantic. Tangmere had been one such airfield; Manston another. There had been a few more. A handful of German reconnaissance aircraft on a handful of British airfields hadn’t been too high a price to pay for peace.

“Very well, RAB. Instruct our Ambassador in Rome to seek an appointment with Mussolini so we can negotiate a ceasefire.”

“Perhaps it was for the best after all?”

Lieutenant Colonel Beaumont sounded almost amused by the situation. Standing beside him, Captain Robert Stewart couldn’t help smiling.

Any reply was forestalled by Australia’s eight-inch guns crashing out a salvo. A thousand yards a stern, HMAS Canberra fired at the same target: an orderly group of buildings that were the home of the Italian garrison. The buildings were empty and deserted. Early in the morning, a Sunderland flying boat out of Aden had dropped leaflets on the area, warning everybody that the base would be bombarded at noon and that anybody who did not want to see what eight-inch shell bursts looked like at close quarters ought to evacuate.

“The warning leaflets?” Stewart shook his head. “I can only think that we’ve got some very good intelligence on this garrison. Otherwise, those leaflets could cost us dear.”

“I meant getting thrown out of the old country.” Beaumont looked back on the last few weeks with almost fond exasperation. His battalion had disembarked from Australia, and been divested of all their extra equipment, before being put on trains and sent over to the Pacific Coast. There, they’d been put on a hastily-commandeered liner and sailed for the Middle East. They got there just in time to match up with Australia again. They’d been threequarters of the way around the world to end up more or less where they had started. His thoughts were interrupted by the ship shaking as another pair of broadsides crashed out.

A group of boats was assembling in the water between the two

cruisers and the shoreline. They contained two battalions of Canadian infantry; an extemporized expeditionary brigade under Beaumont’s command. It was a mark of just how stretched the Commonwealth was for troops that they were here at all. With the South Africans committed in East Africa, the Indians in Eritrea and Ethiopia and the Australians and New Zealanders in Egypt, these two battalions of Canadian troops were about the only available forces that could be found. It was the old story; wait six months, let the mobilization take effect, wait until the men being trained were ready and all would be well. Only, the war had its own momentum; it wouldn’t wait.

“Sir, the landing force commander wishes to speak with you.” The sparker had a radio set positioned on the bridge for just this eventuality.

“Mark, what’s going on?”

“The Italians are waiting for us.” There was the sound of teeth being sucked around the bridge. The troops having to fight their way ashore had been the worst-case scenario.

“Are they putting up much of a fight?”

“No, sir. They’re drawn up in parade formation on the beach. About sixty of them, waving a white flag.” There was a pause. “Sir, war can be very embarrassing sometimes.”

“Sir, I must ask you for your assistance.” Colonel Nerio Amedeo Amerigo was almost completely white and was barely able to stand. “My men are accursed by malaria. Only a handful are in fit condition for duty; the rest need medical attention urgently. I implore you to send as much aid as you can spare. Our own doctor, Rosa Dainelli, is overwhelmed and without supplies.”

Beumont took a horrified look at the desperately ill man before him. His condition was no worse, and no better, than that of the other Italian soldiers on the beach. “You paraded your men in this condition? In the sun?”

“It was necessary for us to surrender honorably.”

Beaumont nodded and turned to his radioman. “Get word to the cruisers and the two transports. Tell them we need every medic and every ounce of quinine here right away. Colonel, we will transfer your men to the transports Chakdina and Chantala immediately. We will do everything in our power for you.”

“We knew it was coming.” Maitland Wilson sounded infinitely depressed. “That Man cannot maintain a purpose from one minute to the next.”

“He’s maintaining a purpose, Jumbo; and, from his point of view, it is a very logical one. He’s trying to gain the maximum credit for his administration at minimum cost. Since our operations began, we’ve cleared the Italians out of Kenya, made a landing in Somaliland and pushed the Italians back in Eritrea. That’s a pretty impressive set of achievements and he wants to take full advantage of them now before they fade away.” Wavell sighed slightly and looked out of his window at Cairo bustling in the afternoon sun. “I think I understand him better for this. That Man does not believe he can win, ever. He assumes that no matter how well things appear to be running, they will always turn around and move against him. So his eyes are set short; to take what advantages he can seize in the short term, for he believes that the long term will always hold worse.”

Maitland Wilson looked at the telegraph message from London and his mouth twisted. “He’s certainly looking at the short term here. We are ordered to cease all offensive actions against Italy immediately, pending the outcome of ceasefire negotiations between London and the Government of Italy. The Ambassador to Rome is seeking an audience with Benito Mussolini today to negotiate the terms of said ceasefire. We all know that that means. Musso will shout and scream, waving his hands like a demented fishwife, then make some appalling threats. That Man will read them and back down, giving Musso everything he wants.”

“I know.” Wavell spoke mildly. “There is, of course, a small problem with that. I report to both London and Calcutta, and my orders from Calcutta are quite clear. They are to stabilize this area, eliminate any Italian threat to our position here in Egypt and ensure than the Italians will not be able to launch a supporting thrust when the main German attack through Turkey and Iraq starts. Tom and Bernard have received more or less similar orders from their governments, with the codicil that they are to subordinate themselves to me.”

“A divided command and conflicting orders. The old recipe for disaster. I feel for you, Archie.”

“No need to. In the final analysis, I am an Indian Army officer; with the split between London and Calcutta, it is to India that I must look for final authority. If I receive an order like this from Churchill in Ottawa, then I have a problem. At the moment, I do not.” Wavell took the telegraph paper, tore it in half and then applied a match to the remains. “Operation Compass starts tonight on schedule. Warspite is on the move?”

“She is indeed, with a screen of course.” Maitland Wilson looked at the charred paper in Wavell’s ashtray. “Is it really so easy to break with London? And does Egypt realize it has more or less just joined the British Commonwealth?”

“The Commonwealth of Nations.” Wavell corrected Maitland Wilson reprovingly. “There is more to that than just a change in the name, Jumbo.”

Maitland Wilson nodded and left to issue the orders needed to start Operation Compass. Behind him, Wavell also stared at the burned paper in his ashtray. It hadn’t been easy to break with London at all. Wavell knew his decision this day would haunt him for years to come.

“Prepare to open fire.” Admiral Andrew Cunningham gave the order to Captain Douglas Fisher with a certain degree of relish. He was well aware that orders had been received from London ordering an end to the offensive, but they meant little to him. Wavell had ignored them and ordered Operation Compass to proceed. Cunningham was throwing his lot in with Wavell and the Commonwealth. His 15-inch guns were about to provide the most emphatic repudiation of the Halifax government in London that it was possible to imagine.

“Ready, sir.” Fisher saw Cunningham nod and he took the gesture as it was intended. “Main battery open fire on designated targets.”

For a brief moment, General Pietro Maletti believed he was back in his childhood, when he had heard the trains passing through his home town of Castiglione delle Stiviere. His earliest memory, one that came from so far back that he could recollect neither time nor context, was of his father lifting him up so he could see the flashing lights of a train passing in the darkness and hear the roar of its passage. The roar overhead was the same overwhelming pitch as those passing trains so many years before. To his shock, it was followed by a rapid series of brilliant flashes of light. He wondered, for one brief second while trapped between sleep and waking, whether he had somehow gone back to his childhood in Lombardy. Then, as the floor of his dugout heaved beneath him, he knew he had not.

The explosions of the shells across the cantonment occupied by Raggruppamento Maletti were drowned out by the thunderous roars of the big shells hitting the Libya Army Group’s command positions. Maletti guessed, by the size of the explosions he was seeing, that they were naval gunfire; almost certainly the British battleship that had been reported in Alexandria. She must have left after dusk and proceeded up the coast to carry out this bombardment. It seemed an insane thing to think, but seeing the great balls of fire reaching into the sky from the 15-inch shells made Maletti grateful for the 18-pounders that were rippling across his positions.

This wasn’t possible. Maletti was having a hard job forming a mental picture of what was going on. The British were more than a hundred kilometers away, at Mersah Mutruh, where the infantry forming the Italian front line were gathered. They can’t be here. But the guns firing on us are field guns. They have to be here. A grim lesson was running through his mind, one that had been hammered home by his instructors at Modena but was all too often forgotten. Amateurs thought surprise was a matter of a radical new weapon or a clever maneuver nobody else had thought of. It wasn’t. Surprise is the overwhelming result of the situation changing faster than the victim that can adapt to it. The most commonplace maneuver will produce a devastating surprise if it causes the situation to develop before the victim can react. Maletti knew he had been surprised.

He forced himself to sit down and think. Artillery fire means an attack. Field artillery means the attack is coming now. We are far behind our front line, so the forces attacking us must be motorized at the very least. There are tanks coming and tanks mean infantry in support. As if to confirm the analysis he had just made, the rippling crashes of the fire from the 18-pounders was supplement by a crackle of rifle fire. In an odd way, Maletti welcomed it; for it showed he was getting his mind ahead of the situation. That meant he had the opportunity to do something other than just react. To be trapped into reaction was a sure way of losing a battle.

Maletti got to his feet and headed out of his bunker. Over to his left, he could hear the sound of rifle and machine gun fire backed up by the roar of engines. That was where the attack was centered.

Once he had a view of the situation, he realized just how bad things were. There seemed to be British tanks everywhere. They were advancing slowly but steadily through his outer defenses, crushing down the wire with almost contemptuous disregard. Maletti watched their turrets swinging backwards and forwards. The coaxial machine guns cut down his men as they left their dugouts and tried to get to their tanks. A chill swept him as he realized just how easily he could have been one of them, killed in the early stages of the attack before he had ever brought the situation under control.

Not that he had very much chance of controlling this battle now. He recognized the tanks. Matildas. Infantry tanks intended to support an assault on a heavily defended position. Sure enough, there were indeed infantry behind the tanks, swarming over the positions behind the wire and tossing grenades into the foxholes. His eye told him that they were far less experienced than the tank crews; they were going through the drills well enough but they were doing them as drills. They hadn’t developed the familiarity that turned drills into a wellexecuted battle maneuver. Maletti realized it would hardly make much difference now. It was the tanks that were deciding the battle. It was already lost.

How much so was quickly illustrated. Somehow, a crew had reached one of his M11/39 tanks and got it started. The twin machine guns in the turret opened fire. The troops behind the Matildas sprawled for cover. The M11/39 started to turn, to bring its hull-mounted 37mm gun to bear. The movement attracted the attention of the British tanks. Their turreted twopounders could swing much faster. There was a ripple of flashes. The Italian tank was hit at least half a dozen times. There was a brief, split-second, interval that made Maletti hope that it had somehow survived the tattoo of hits. The eruption of smoke from the stricken vehicle showed such hopes were groundless. Despite being diesel-engined, the M11/39 was burning.

The position was nearly hopeless. Maletti could see that. His two tank battalions were already overrun; he was suffering the humiliation of seeing his tanks captured intact. The Matildas were grinding through his infantry; their inexorable progress marked by the streams of tracer fire cutting down his men as they tried to stop the juggernauts with rifle fire. There was only one hope left, his artillery. Firing over open sights, they might be able to stop the Matildas.

By the time he reached the artillery position, the Matildas and their infantry had already overwhelmed the rest of his camp. The survivors of his six infantry battalions had retreated to the guns as well. They were forming a perimeter around the 65mm howitzers. This was the last ditch. Maletti knew it; the only hope of holding it was the guns of his artillery battalion. The Matildas had seen the way the Italian infantry had fallen back to consolidate their position. They changed their majestic progress through the camp to assault it. Once again, the streams of tracers lashed through the darkness. They raked any defensive positions that revealed themselves. This time, though, the machine gun fire was answered by the flash of the 65mm artillery pieces. Manetti cheered. One of the first shots struck an advancing Matilda full on its frontal armor.

For a moment, he thought the tank was killed. It stopped. Its turret swung backwards and forwards, as if the tank were trying to clear its head.

Then it started moving forward again. Its machine gun sought out the artillery piece that had struck it. Another shell hit square on the front of the turret. That had as little effect as the first hit. Manetti had heard of how the heavilyarmored Matildas had plowed through the Germany infantry at Arras. Now he saw it for himself. His 65mm guns were useless. They scored hit after hit on the Matildas, but nothing seemed to stop them. A few were damaged, tracks broken or engines stalled, but he knew they would be repaired.

The lack of damage didn’t stop his gunners. They fought their weapons to the muzzle; often firing their last shells at ranges of a few meters, before they and their guns were crushed under the tracks of the British tanks. With the guns methodically destroyed, the tanks swung around. They started to move along the infantry defense lines, crushing the hastily-dug foxholes with their treads. Maletti knew this was pointless slaughter; the ability to make any meaningful defense had died with his guns.

He took a white shirt, stabbed it on to a bayonet and waved it in the air.

A Sergeant saw the gesture and advanced carefully, his rifle trained on Maletti. Maletti waved his surrender flag more vigorously. He saw the Sergeant nod. Around them, the battle seemed to pause. “I am General Pietro Maletti, commander of this battlegroup. I ask you to accept the surrender of my command.”

“Sergeant Joe Solomon. You’d better talk to my officer.”

Around them, the fighting was already dying down. The Italian survivors were being collected together. The sun was rising with the speed typical of a desert dawn. Maletti could see the large number of his men who were being herded into an extemporized detention area.

“Sir, I have a General Maletti here. Says he wants to surrender his command.”

“Ah, thank you, Sergeant. Return to your unit.”

Maletti looked at the immaculately-dressed brigadier before him and was painfully aware of his dishevelled state. “Brigadier, our position is hopeless and I would like to surrender my command.”

“Quite. I accept your surrender, General. I trust we will have no naughty tricks?”

Maletti knew what the British Brigadier meant. The Blackshirt militia divisions had a habit of fake surrenders that served little purpose but increased casualties, mostly their own.

“No tricks, Brigadier. This was a battle honestly won and we will abide by it.” Maletti looked at the scene. British trucks were already pulling up and refuelling the Matildas. Crews were gathered around the handful of stalled tanks, repairing damage. “May I ask how many men you lost today?”

“So far, eight officers and 48 men. I’ll let you know how many of your men are lost as soon as I find out. All I know is that, so far, we have taken around 2,000 prisoners here.”

Maletti did the maths. His command had numbered 2,500 men; at least 500 were dead or wounded and the rest captured. This hadn’t been a battle; this was a disaster.

“This beats the old bird.”

The voice over the intercom caused Squadron Leader Mannix to lose concentration for a moment. He cursed to himself. The ex-French Martin Maryland had replaced his old Wellesley a few days before. He was still trying to get used to the American-built aircraft. Normally, he would have had a conversion course lasting months. These were not normal times. An American civilian pilot from the Glenn L. Martin Corporation had familiarized him with the cockpit and the aircraft’s general layout; then Mannix had been left to his own devices. It didn’t help that the aircraft was so cramped that his first flight in the Maryland had, by definition, been solo. He’d left his crew behind, in case it was also his last flight in a Maryland.

He’d been relieved to find out that, while the Maryland was a hot ship, it was also docile and relatively easy to fly. It cruised 20mph faster than the maximum speed of his old Wellesley and carried twice the bombload. It was also much better armed; four fixed forward-firing machine guns instead of one, and two machine guns aft in each of the upper and lower positions. Better still, he had a dedicated bombardier in the glazed nose. It was the new man, Warrant Officer Charles Cussans, who had interrupted his concentration.

“Have you sighted the target, Cussans?”

Mannix’s voice was icy. In the rear turret, his gunner cringed. Many people claimed to run a taut ship; Mannix was one of the few who actually did. An icy question was usually the prelude to an impressive dressing-down.

“Dead ahead. Yanks make a good bombsight and the view from here is fantastic. Makes the old Bombay seem sick.” Cussans sounded positively cheerful and quite oblivious to the trouble he was talking himself into.

Mannix was about to make a sharp reply about chattering on the air when Cussans spoke again. “We need to come to port, about one degree. I’ll take the aircraft on five. One… two… three… four… five. Pilot, I have the aircraft.” The idle chatter had gone from the voice and it was purely professional.

“All aircraft, we are under bombardier control. Form on me; drop when we drop. Gunners, keep a keen eye open. There are CR.42 fighters and reports of some G.50s here.”

Mannix scanned the sky around him. One of the problems with the Maryland was that it only had a single gunner to man the two rear firing positions. A little early warning meant the gunner would man either the upper or the lower guns as the situation demanded. Still, there seemed to be no fighters around. Probably the fighter pilots are still having breakfast, like normal civilized people.

This time his concentration was broken by an unexpected whine. It was the bomb bay doors opening. RAF aircraft had their bomb bay doors on rubber bungee cords but the Maryland had doors that were opened mechanically. The aircraft lurched as four 500-pound bombs dropped from the bay. The whine was repeated as the bomb bay doors closed.

“Pilot, I will return the aircraft to you on five. One… two… three… four… five. Pilot, you have the aircraft. My God, look at that!”

Far below them, the parking area at the Zauiet airfield erupted in a mass of explosions. Mannix assessed them coldly. It was a nice, tight pattern; well-placed on the parking apron. With a little luck, the bomb pattern had done a lot of damage. He wondered how well the other flights of 47 Squadron had done. These raids were supposed to keep the Italian Air Force’s heads down, so the armored column attacking the Sidi Barrani area would be free of Italian air attack.

He was turning the Maryland as quickly as he could, given the tight formation of aircraft. The Italian gunners had woken up at last. There was a scattering of black puffs around them. I wonder if they thought we were SM.79s? The first series of bursts were way off target. The second were much closer; near enough to cause the Maryland to jolt.

“Any damage?”

The firing ceased. There was relief from the crews as they reported in. A couple of the aircraft had minor fragment damage, but none seemed seriously hurt and there were no casualties on board. It was quite a change from the earlier raid in Eritrea.

Mannix relaxed slightly for the haul back to Alexandria. That meant he could attend to other business.

“Bombardier. That was a good pattern. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir.” The chatty tone was back in his voice.

“And, in future, do not use the intercom for anything other than essential communications. I don’t want a fighter to get us because the spotting report got lost in chatter. Natter away like that on the comms again, and you will walk home. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir; perfectly, sir. No more chatter, sir.” Cussans still managed to sound enthusiastic.

Mannix shut off the intercom and shook his head. Times are changing; all too quickly.

“Is there any reply from the French authorities?”

Cordell Hull was not accustomed to being ignored. Two days before, he had sent a diplomatic telegram to the French colonial authorities in Hanoi; one suggesting a conference to discuss issues in the region and offering his services as a mediator. So far, the only reply had been a deafening silence.

“No, sir.”

Hugh Gladney Grant, American Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Kingdom of Thailand, sounded frustrated. Normally, this Embassy was considered something of a backwater, as indicated by his official title. According to the State Department, Thailand didn’t rate an Ambassador Extraordinary, merely an Envoy. Grant had a bad feeling they were making a mistake.

“Not even an acknowledgement. I must admit that is one pleasant thing about doing business here, sir; the Siamese are meticulous about courtesy.”

“So I noticed. That woman who organized their side of this visit has turned common courtesy into an uncommonly beautiful art form. I don’t trust her further than I can throw the limousine she rides in. Who is she?”

“That’s an odd thing.” Grant thought carefully. “She appeared on the scene about six months ago, but our inquiries have shown her position goes back a lot further than that. She’s the direct representative of the Royal Family and has a lot of power as a result. Her role seems to be to present the opinions of the Royal Family, without involving them directly in any dispute. We’ve tried to do some research on her, but all we can find out is that her position is hereditary, passed down from mother to daughter. How far it goes back, we have no idea. It seems as if her existence was unknown outside a small circle until very recently. Those who were in that circle don’t say anything.”

Grant hesitated. The story he was about to tell sounded foolish, yet he thought it was important. “A few weeks ago, we were walking in the Palace gardens; not far from here. Discussing the situation with the aircraft they ordered, in fact. Anyway, we turned a corner and there was a king cobra on the path in front of us, just resting in the sun. Huge brute; at least ten feet long and we had angered it. It reared up, spreading its hood. The king cobra is deadly, sir. It injects so much venom with each bite that survival is most unlikely. I was about to run away, but she just stood there, looking at it. The cobra dropped its hood and slithered away. Afterwards, she told me that the members of her family had a truce with the king cobras. Neither would attack the other, except in self-defense. She said it was probably superstitious rubbish and that cobras tended to back off from confrontations with humans. But, she added that in a thousand years, no member of her family had ever hurt a king cobra or been bitten by one. So, we know her family is that old.”

“If she is telling the truth, of course.” Hull sounded skeptical.

“There is always that. But, if it is true, it means that for generations her family has kept an agreement they believed in. That’s worth bearing in mind.”

Hull nodded. There was a knock on the door. Colonel Jude Roland Wilford entered the meeting room, carrying the latest newspapers. “Mister Secretary? Envoy Grant? I have the latest newspapers from home. They came across on the Clipper to Manila and were flown here from there.”

“Anything interesting, Jude?” Grant had seen the diplomatic cables, of course, but the newspapers all too often had better information earlier.

“South Africans continuing to advance in Ethiopia, supported by widespread native uprisings. Indians doing the same in Eritrea, sans uprising. There’s a huge battle going on close to the Egyptian border between the Australians and the Italians.”

“Wait a moment,” Hull was confused, “I thought the Italians were deep inside Egypt?”

“They are.”

Wilford’s voice was a mixture of awe and professional admiration.

“The Australians are behind them. If the reports in the Post are correct, and their foreign staff is pretty good, they’ve broken through to the coast and encircled some 80,000 Italian troops. That means they’re outnumbered four or five to one, yet are on the verge of taking the Italian Army apart. It’s the most remarkable victory since… ”

Wilford hesitated, “I can’t think of a parallel. Cannae, perhaps. Anyway, there are also reports of air strikes all over the region. The Italians are taking a hammering in the air. The Aussies, Indians and South Africans are putting the aircraft we gave them to good use.”

Hull snorted. “And what is Halifax’s reaction to all this?”

“That’s the confusing bit. The information we have is that the afternoon before the attack started, the London government approached Rome and offered an Armistice. Word from our embassy there is that the Italians are furious, regarding the offer as a ruse de guerre.” Grant shook his head. If those accounts were true, the blow to the diplomatic credibility of the Halifax regime was profound.

There was another knock on the door. A young woman clerk came in, carrying a message flimsy. She looked around, confused by the presence of Cordell Hull. Grant waved to her and took the flimsy. As he read it, his eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Mister Secretary.” Grant’s voice was strained and formal. “This is the reply from the French Colonial authorities to your message of two days ago. They state that it is not their policy to discuss any issues with the Kingdom of Thailand and that their opinions and decisions are final. They add that there is no room for any form of mediation and that the normal reply will be given directly to the Thai authorities.”

Hull pursed his lips. The flat rejection wasn’t just uncompromising; it was also bereft of any diplomatic niceties. In fact, it was downright insulting.

“What’s the word, Sarge?”

Sergeant Joe Solomon looked at the speaker quizzically. “Well, ‘hot’ might be a good one. I’m partial to ‘dingo’ myself. You have any particular words you’re especially fond of?”

A theatrical groan went around the temporary bivouac beside their lorry. Dobson flushed with embarrassment. The battalion was having a brief rest after the capture of the Italian camps at Nibeiwa and Tummar. Behind them, the rest of the 7th Armoured and 6th Australian divisions were pouring through the gap cut through the Italian positions. The 16th Infantry Brigade was establishing a perimeter to their east. The road underneath the 2/1st’s lorries didn’t look like much, but it was the main one that led from Sidi Barrani to Buq Buq. With the Australians sitting on top of it, the entire leading edge of the Italian North African Army was cut off in a pocket that ran from Sidi Barrani to Mersah Matruh.

Solomon had no idea how many men were trapped in that pocket. He

did know that there were a lot, and that they had only the supplies they carried with them. Most particularly, that meant water. Every drop drunk by both armies had to be brought up from a rear base. For the Australians, that was Alexandria; but they had the Misheifa railway to bring it. The Italians had to use the ports at Bardia and Tobruk, and there was only the road now blocked for them to use. Thirsty might be a good word for the Italians to get to like.

The tea was ready. Solomon had his cuppa; thick with condensed milk and sweet with added sugar. The Commonwealth, as it was, had gone; who knew what would replace it. But, as long as there was plenty of tea, everything would be all right in the end.

“Of course, tea is a pretty good word too. Right, boys?”

There was a stir of appreciation at that while the men slurped down the precious nectar. Idly, Solomon wondered what their Italian opposite numbers were doing and whether the full extent of the disaster had dawned on them yet. Surely it has, he thought. If a sergeant sitting in the arse-end of nowhere can see it, they must be able to. Three days, I reckon, four at most and the poor Eye-ties will have their tongues hanging out. If what’s left of their army can’t break through to relieve them, they’re done for.

“Where do you think we’ll be going next, Sarge?”

Private Dobson had learned from his mistake and phrased the question much more carefully this time. A lesson learned, Solomon thought to himself. Confusion and vagueness gets people killed.

“West.” Solomon had been in the militia for years before transferring to the expeditionary force; he could see how the situation had to develop. “We’ve got half the Eye-tie army bottled up behind us. The only hope they’ve got is for the rest to break through and relieve them. The brass will want the encirclement ring as thick as possible to make sure they don’t pull it off. The last thing they’ll want is a single battalion holding off an assault all by itself. So, we’ll go west. In fact, I reckon the pommy tanks are already heading that way.”

“The Tillies ain’t.” Another private had finished his tea and was sanding out his mug.

“Tilly ain’t going anywhere fast.” Dobson spoke with certainty. “We can walk faster than them.”

“Yeah, but see them go at Nibbi? Waddled forward with wop shells just bouncing off them. All we had to do was follow them in. Reckon they deserves their rest.”

Solomon nodded to himself as he finished his tea. The stunning victories at Nibeiwa and Tummar had him slightly worried. The boys were enthusiastic enough, but he knew how green they were. They could do a simple ‘two-up, one-back and follow the tanks in,’ but that was all. They didn’t know how much they had to learn. Solomon knew he was slightly better off due to the service with the militia; he knew how much he had to learn. At least some of them also realized how green they were now. The rout of the Italians at Nibeiwa could easily have made them overconfident. It still could; when the memory of the Matildas grinding through the Italian defenses, shrugging off the shots from the Italian antitank guns, had faded.

“Sergeant, get the men mounted up. We’ve been ordered to follow the road west. Fourth Armored Brigade has reached the second ‘B’ in Buq Buq and we’re needed to hold the ground they’ve taken. Solomon, a word please.”

Solomon had the men breaking their bivouac and getting the gear stowed while he turned to his officer. “Sir?”

“Joe, load your wagon up with as much in the way of supplies as you can scrounge. Buq Buq is just the start. I think we’ll be going on to Bardia and possibly all the way to Tobruk. God knows when we’ll get a chance to resupply next.”

“Will do, sir.” Solomon watched his officer move across to the next bivvy and repeat the orders.

I just hope the brass don’t get overconfident as well.

“I hope we’re not biting off more than we can chew here.”

Wavell looked at the situation map with something close to disbelief. The huge Italian Army that had been threatening Egypt was split in two, with the largest portion trapped inside Egypt. Its vast supply dumps were already in Allied hands. The spearhead of the attack was broadening by the hour as the cruiser tanks of the Fourth Armored Brigade chewed westwards, forcing the two parts of the Italian Army further and further apart. Looking at the two sausages that indicated the Italian positions, Wavell was reminded of a worm that had been chopped in half.

“Oh, we are.” Maitland Wilson spoke with what Wavell could only describe as unholy relish. “The situation on the ground is ridiculous, bordering on the absurd. I’d guess our opposite numbers in Tripoli and Rome are in a state of denial right now. What they’re seeing can’t be happening; at least, not to a conventional way of thinking. On the other hand, if they realize that leg infantry just don’t matter in this kind of war, then it all makes sense.”

“What’s the score so far?” Wavell was still fascinated by the situation on the map.

Maitland Wilson shuffled his reports. “So far, we have reports of 73 Italian tanks and 37 artillery pieces being destroyed or captured and approximately 8,300 Italian soldiers killed or captured. Our losses to date are 18 Matilda tanks disabled, but all have been recovered and are repairable. The Australians lost 21 officers and 194 men killed and wounded. The real problem is going to be when the Sidi Barrani pocket collapses, which it will do in a few days time. That will throw some 80,000 Italian prisoners into our lap. We’re already capturing huge supply dumps and there are more to come. Bernie Freyberg’s New Zealanders are in heaven. They’ve motorized themselves on Italian-made trucks and they’ve now got a tank battalion with thirty-odd Italian M11/39 tanks.”

“I see a problem there.”

“So do I, Archie; two, in fact. One is the one you’re thinking of: they’ll get shot up by mistake. So far, they’re being kept well back from the front line as GHQ reserve to avoid just that happening. The other is that all that Italian kit is diesel-engined and we don’t have much diesel fuel available. I suggest we send them to Palestine; guard our back door, as it were. The French in Syria don’t look kindly on us at all. The Kiwis are as green as the proverbial grass, so the more time they get to shake down, the better.”

Wavell nodded thoughtfully. With considerable effort, he tore his eyes away from the situation on the North African coast to take in what was happening elsewhere in his region. Italian resistance in Ethiopia was collapsing as the Indian and South African troops moved in to support the tribes that had risen in revolt. Another Indian division was hammering on the gates of Asmara in Eritrea. Palestine and Syria were the only unguarded sections of the region and they offered scope for his New Zealand troops to settle down. “Good idea, Jumbo; make it so. You know what will happen next, don’t you?”

“The Italians will try to break through to relieve the troops we’ve cut off? Archie, they’ve got 50,000 or 60,000 men left in Cyrenaica, mostly around Bardia and Tobruk. They’re just more leg infantry; they can’t go anywhere. In fact, I’m getting a mobile group ready to put them in the bag. I’m using the 11th Hussars with their armored cars as the core, with a battalion of lorried infantry and some artillery. I’m planning to send the Australians along the coast road to keep pressure on the Italians in Bardia and Tobruk, while the mobile group goes across the neck of Cyrenaica, south of the Green Mountains. There’s some desert tracks that can be used; they’ll take the column by way of Bir el Gubi and Bir Hacheim to end up on the coast just north of El Agheila. Place called Beda Fomm. We’ll block there and the whole Italian North African Army will be gone. There’ll be nothing between us and Tripoli.”

Wavell stared at the map, following the movements with his eyes.

“Don’t count on that, Jumbo. The Italian generals aren’t stupid; they’ll be learning fast from this debacle. You can bet they’ve seen the threat to Tripolitania and are moving their forces around to block any thrust we make. The geography of Cyrenaica is a gift to us but once we’re past it, we won’t be able to pull a similar operation again. And, with Cyrenaica behind us, it’s just as much of a trap for us.

“Also, they’ll be moving reinforcements in. Sending some to Tripoli, no doubt, but you can bet your life they’ll be trying to move tanks into Tobruk. When the Cyrenaica force tries its breakout, they’ll have tanks to support them.”

“Unless Andy Cunningham’s fleet stops them.” Maitland Wilson didn’t sound that hopeful.

“Unless he does.” Wavell agreed.

“Anything down there?”

Mannix called down to Charlie Cussans, who was responsible for taking the photographs. It had finally dawned on somebody that the Maryland’s combination of range and speed, along with a high cruising altitude, made it an excellent reconnaissance aircraft. Mannix missed having the other members of his flight around him, but drew comfort from the fact that his Maryland was 20 miles per hour faster than the Italian monoplane fighters. Up at 15,000 feet, the brass had assured him that he would be safe from interception.

He had, however, noticed that none of them were on the aircraft.

“Nothing.” Cussans had learned his lesson from the first flight; he kept his reports clipped and to the point. From 15,000 feet, ships were but tiny stick-like outlines. It was still painfully obvious that the Italian fleet was not at home. They’d been told to expect at least four battleships, half a dozen heavy cruisers and two dozen or more destroyers and light cruisers. Nothing like that fleet was in the great kidney-shaped harbor of Taranto.

Mannix swung GGeorge away from the harbor. There would be heavy flak guns down there and he didn’t want to try conclusions with them. As if to reinforce his caution, a few black puffs of smoke flowered ahead of him. Right for altitude and directly on our course, Mannix noted. Whoever the gunners are down there, they know their business. If I hadn’t changed course, we’d be in trouble.

“Sean, hold that report. There’s one battleship down there; looks like she’s in drydock.” Cussans was staring through the high magnification setting on his bombsight. It was more effective that the binoculars he’d been using, although the field of vision was far less. “And two cruisers; light ones. They’re not where we were told, though; they’re in the outer basin. Along with six, no, make that seven, destroyers.”

“South side of the outer basin?”

Mannix had studied the map of Taranto before taking off from Malta on his way here. He’d memorized the layout of the port as best he could and was trying to visualize where the ships left in harbor were.

“All of them. That’s the naval arsenal, I think.”

“It is. Well done, Charlie. Now, lets get the hell out of here and back to Malta before those gunners have another crack at us. Wherever the Eye-tie fleet is, it isn’t here. They’re out.”

“Now that is an early Christmas present I can really welcome.”

The Marquess of Linlithgow looked up at the formation of aircraft flying overhead. Although he didn’t actually recognize the aircraft, he knew what they were from the briefing he had received. Mohawk IV fighters led the formation; four neat flights of four that formed a diamond in the sky. The lead fighter was flown by an American civilian advisor called Boyington; the rest by the Indian pilots of No.1 Squadron. They had just finished their conversion program and were making this flypast before being assigned to a new operational base in Northern India. At long last, India had fighter defenses. One of the gaping holes in its military infrastructure was being slowly filled in.

“An independent India; defended by Indian fighter pilots. A year ago, I could only dream of this.”

Pandit Nehru looked at the squadron of DB-7 bombers that were following the fighters over Calcutta. Long a proponent of massive reductions in India’s armed forces, he found himself thinking differently now that the aircraft flying overhead and the troops parading through the city served India, not Britain. It was symptomatic of the way his thinking had changed over the last six months.

Once he had seen the British as interlopers and foreign adventurers; ones whose motivations were, at best, equivocal and whose absence was urgently demanded. Now, he realized that they had been doing their best in an honest, if sometimes misguided, effort to rule India fairly. He also realized just how complex the modern world was and how out-of-place in it India would have been, had its old governing system continued. For all their faults, he realized, India could have done much worse than spend a few years under British rule.

“Our second fighter squadron will be going down to Ceylon to protect the Trincomalee naval base.” Linlithgow repeated the news he had been given with relish. Many of the RAF pilots from the six squadrons based in India had volunteered for secondment to Indian units. In theory, they were simply providing the Dominion squadrons with a cadre of experienced pilots and would return to the RAF units as soon as the Indian Air Force squadrons had gained enough experience to stand on their own feet.

In reality, Linlithgow knew that their motives were more mixed than that. There was an element of envy in it. The Indian Air Force squadrons were getting the new American fighters and bombers; ones that made the Wapitis, Audaxes and Blenheims in the British squadrons seem antiquated. Pilots were pilots; they wanted to fly the better aircraft.

There was more to it than that though. Even a desire not to be stained by Halifax’s collapse wasn’t all there was to it. It was the idea of India itself. There was something about the country that, after a few years here, worked its way into a man’s soul.

“And we must send more forces to the Middle East as well.” Nehru spoke again as the roar of aircraft engines from the flypast died away. He confused himself there as well; the fall of Keren to the Indian troops advancing on Asmara had caused jubilation. The Times of India had even called it a “reaffirmation of traditional Indian martial values.” Privately, Nehru had thought that was going a bit far, but there was no doubt the achievements of the Indian Army in Eritrea and Ethiopia were establishing India as an independent country in the eyes of the world. Soon, more Indian troops and aircraft would be in Iraq and Iran; providing a forward line of defense against the German Army, when the Noth Plan finally got into high gear.

“We have had word from Churchill’s government in Ottawa. They’ve issued a statement confirming that standing orders prior to June 1940 are still in force and that DomCol forces around the world and British forces along with them are to continue fighting, ignoring any ceasefire orders that come out of occupied London. That eases the situation on our guests, of course.”

Nehru nodded at Linlithgow’s words. The ambivalent status of the British forces in the Dominions was a source of running concern to everybody. Now, at least, they had some semblance of authority to link their chosen actions to. “Of course, the question is, can London be considered occupied at this time?”

“I don’t know,” Linlithgow suddenly sounded very old, very tired and utterly broken-hearted. Quietly, Nehru cursed himself for causing the man who had done so much for India such distress on what should have been a happy day. “I never thought, never dreamed, that I would see a day like this. Halifax’s Armistice is against everything that I thought we stood for.”

“Look overhead; Hudsons of the Indian Naval Air Force. India stands on its own feet today and we stand for the ideals Britain taught us. We may be going our own way, Victor, but we still stand for them. The Empire still stands for them all. Britain taught us well and we will hold to those lessons. In us, Britain lives on; in time, we will bring her back to life again.” Nehru meant the words as meaningless comfort to a distressed friend; but, as he spoke them, he suddenly realized he believed every one of them.