Second Chance

Chapter Twenty: Nationalists, Fascists and Goons

Algiers

Algeria

4^th August 1940

The book was entitled A Savage War Of Peace and had the improbable publishing date of 1988. The British officer’s explanation, that it was from his personal collection, didn’t make sense to Messali Haji. A lot about his current situation didn’t make sense at all.

The French, whose usual approach to anything hinting at Algerian nationalism was a mix between horrified parental punishment and recrimination, and brutal oppression, had clapped him and a large percentage of his organisation, which dared to suggest that Algerians should have equal rights to Frenchmen, in jail. They’d been waiting there until the city had fallen – surrendered – to a British attack. From what General Robert Flynn had said, and what Messali was certain he’d left unsaid, something very odd had happened to the British.

For that matter, he wasn’t certain if he was a prisoner or not. His current set of rooms had been owned by Admiral Darlan, who’d been unceremoniously arrested when the city fell, and they were as comfortable as an officer of Vichy France felt he deserved. On the other hand, there were guards outside – and a strange book to read. His English was fluent and English was a very easy language to read; it took him only five hours of study. They even gave him breaks for prayers!

“I do not understand,” he said, when General Flynn returned. They conversed in Arabic; he hadn’t been surprised to discover that the Briton spoke Arabic, although with an odd accent. “What is this?”

“It’s a long story,” Flynn said. His unshaven face smiled tiredly at him. He seemed to be treating Messali as an equal; something unique in Algeria. Algerian Muslims were only equal to Europeans when it came to dying on the battlefield. “You see, we’ve come back in time.”

Messali blinked at him, feeling his beard bristle. Time travel was not part of his worldview. And yet there was the odd book, detailing a history of Algeria that horrified him.

“A lot of mistakes were made, back then,” Flynn said. “As you can see, your people won their independence from France, almost plunged into a civil war at once, finally did have three separate civil wars – and are living in a disaster area in 2015. We’re offering you the opportunity to change that.”

Messali stared at him. “And you will seek to rule us like puppets, fit only to die for you?” He asked. “What’s in it for you?”

“A safer world,” Flynn said. “You see, back when we came from, the world was still feeling the after-effects of decolonisation, when the nations of Europe gave up their colonies. Of all of the nations that are colonies today, only a handful, like India, can be termed any kind of success. The price of rapid decolonisation was anarchy, dictatorial rule, and theocratic rule, nothing that helped the people. Where I come from, Africa is a sinkhole of violence, blood and ruin. I served in many tin pot states; you cannot even begin to imagine how far your people will fall.”

Messali, despite himself, began to believe him. “What exactly are you offering us?”

“The benefits of hindsight,” Flynn said. “What we are hoping you will do is convene a council of… local dignitaries to run Algeria, eventually becoming an independent democratic state. That’s the price of our help; you embrace democracy and equal rights for all.”

“Even Frenchmen?” Messali asked. “The Pied Noir won’t like that.”

“Too bad,” Flynn said. “We would suggest that you allowed them to live as equals – they do have valuable skills you will need – but if you can’t stand their presence, then ship them back to France, once the war is over. We’ve interned the French troopers who were stationed here; they can join you or we’ll return them to France once the war is over.

“As for democracy, and why you should embrace it, countries with a stable democracy grow faster,” he said. “Democracy is a form of natural selection; your economy will expand faster and you’re sitting on top of valuable reserves. Starting from where you are, you could match France or even best her, very quickly. You have to give everyone a stake in your system; democracy and equal rights can do that for you.”

Messali smiled. “Equal rights to women, Jews, even Frenchmen?”

“Yes,” Flynn said. “Trust me; it pays off in the long run.” He took a breath. “I don’t want to tell you to hurry, but we don’t want to remain here for any longer than we need. The sooner a provisional government is formed, the better.”

“We did want to work with them, you know,” Messali said. “We would have tried to form a united government.”

“I know,” Flynn said. “I’ll come see you later. You can tell me your decision then.”

“I’ve already made it,” Messali said. “I’d be glad to try, for my country.”

General Flynn hadn’t been looking forward to the next meeting. Admiral Darlan, one of Vichy’s most senior officials, even Vice-President at one time, was not Britain’s greatest fan. In the original history, Darlan had been killed by a resistance fighter; he wondered how the news had affected the Contemporary man.

“These quarters are quite unacceptable,” Darlan snapped, as soon as Flynn entered. “The food is appalling and the bed is hard.”

For a moment, Flynn wondered if his command of French was failing. The complaints seemed to be extraordinarily pedantic claims for a man facing the full knowledge of the future. He’d made certain to underline the passages about the future of France; war, civil strife, even the Paris Uprisings.

“These Anglo lies are nothing, but lies,” Darlan snapped. “You have illegally declared war on a state that was not at war with you, and invaded our territory. The forces of France will avenge this insult full fold and you will be crushed without mercy!”

“I see sucking German cock has lost none of its appeal,” Flynn said, giving in to temptation. “How much did they tell you about us?”

“They said that the British were going to take over our territory and strengthen their empire,” Darlan said. “You betrayed us…”

“Oh, come on,” Flynn snapped. “Surely a nation with the heritage of Napoleon, of Louis, even Marshal Foch, would have thought that it might be a good idea to make certain that all possible angles of attack were covered, eh? Indeed, an army unit near the Ardennes would have crushed the Boche; instead of sucking them off you could be sipping drinks in Berlin.”

“We were betrayed by Communists, traitors, Jews,” Darlan snapped. “The entire army was badly handled – your people…”

“Expected you to live up to your boasts,” Flynn sighed. “Admiral, I wanted to try to talk you into joining the war against the Germans – seeing that they now have no reason to put up with Vichy any longer – but you’re clearly unreasonable…”

“I would have command of the invasion, if you’re as powerful as your notes suggested?” Darlan asked. “I could bring the French Empire to the table…”

“Most of the Empire has already fallen to us or to the Japanese, for whom you opened the door,” Flynn said. “Allow me to explain your position; you have no empire, no modern forces, and the Germans will begin converting France into a bastion to fight us from, while they get their nukes ready.

“Oh, never mind,” he snapped, as Darlan began to look interested. “You have no bargaining power and a complete refusal to look reality in the face. You will be held here, pending the outcome of the war.”

He stormed out, passing the guards at the door; they’d not put the Frenchman in the cells used for dissidents. Pacing down through the stairs, he reached his armoured car and climbed in, nodding politely to the driver.

“Well?” The driver asked, as he took the armoured car back to the new base. Flynn knew better than to bite his head off; the driver didn’t work for the army. “How did it go with the Frog?”

“Badly,” Flynn said. “That man is very unreasonable.”

“What do you expect?” The driver asked. “He’s French. C Section?”

“It looks that way,” Flynn said to the driver who was not a driver. “As soon as possible, if you please.”

“It shall be done, Superior Sir,” the driver said, and laughed at Flynn’s puzzlement.

General Flynn took off his uniform jacket with every expression of relief, before taking the seat in the conference room. Air conditioning hadn’t been a concept the French commander had enjoyed; setting up a proper solar power plant and air conditioning had been a priority, along with a powerful and capable communications station. The room was now one of the most advanced command centres in the world, linked into the similar centres on Malta, Gibraltar and Ark Royal II.

“The French are proving unreasonable,” he said without preamble. Beside him, General Wavell snorted. “Apart from the sheer refusal of their leaders – those who survived the bloody nationalist purge – to cooperate, some of them have made it clear that they will only assist us in exchange for great power status.”

“Talk about playing without a full deck,” Colonel Weston commented. “What about the German prisoners?”

All eyes turned to Doctor Hamilton. “We have begun to use the recordings of Nazi Germany to attempt to convince them that they were fighting on the wrong side,” he said. “Unfortunately, we have only a handful of German prisoners, mainly trainers ordered to stiffen Italian spines. The results have been mixed; we really need someone of great statue.”

“Bother,” Flynn said. “What about the Italians?”

“We captured nearly fifty thousand Italians in the war,” Hamilton said. “Most of them are very resentful at being told what to do by the Germans, the more so when we explained what the Germans were doing in Italy. Many of them would be willing to fight for us, they would need a great deal of training, however, and it might not be wise to trust them with modern equipment.”

“People are working on that,” Flynn said. “General Wavell?”

He’d appointed General Wavell his deputy and given him command of the final missions. The Contemporary had adapted surprisingly well; his mixture of caution and confidence, combined with a genuine concern for his soldiers, had made him popular with the 2015 officers. Politically, appointing him made sense; he was nowhere near as incompetent as some historians would later brand him.

“We have finished the task of occupying Morocco,” he said. He tapped the map delightedly; he’d fallen in love with the electronic maps. “The Spanish fought hard, so we had to blast them out with field guns. Unfortunately, this is likely to lead to war with Spain.”

“It was a political decision,” Flynn said. He suspected that the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet had seen it as a way to underline the danger to Franco if he came out on Hitler’s side, and at the same time to get a head start on investing in the new free Morocco. With the Spanish undecided about joining the Axis or not, with two examples of punishment from each side, he couldn’t tell which way they would jump in the end.

“The downside is that we’re at 30% of Contemporary ammunition,” Wavell said. He scowled. “Guns need bullets, field guns need shells, tanks need shells, and aircraft need and so on and so on. We’re simply not getting any from home anymore.”

Flynn winced. Somehow, the thought of running out of Contemporary ammunition had never occurred to them. “We’re working on providing you with reactivated tanks, mainly Chieftains,” he said. “There are so many things to do and hardly enough trained men to do them.”

“There have also been some discipline problems,” Wavell continued. “The common soldier doesn’t like the fact that your troops are obviously better looked after, better paid and better armed. There have been scuffles already, some injuries and a handful of accidents when they experiment with your equipment. It’s also started to sink in that they’ll never see home again; the married men in particular have been shocked, particularly when they got the letters…”

Flynn shuddered. Some of the men, hardly more than teenagers in 1945, had older versions of themselves in the 2015 Britain. There weren’t many, all in their nineties, but there were enough to cause more legal problems. Others had heard from older versions of their wives, or their children, all of whom were older than them.

“I won’t say that morale is down, because the victories have boosted it, but it’s starting to fall again,” Wavell said. “General, what are we going to do?”

“They’ll have to go back to school,” Flynn said, thinking of two cases in particular. A woman in Britain was suing for divorce; her husband had warned his Contemporary counterpart not to marry her when she arrived from France. A second case had been an angry note from a woman who’d killed the future counterpart – after she’d been treated very badly indeed. The legal ruling that Contemporary personnel were not their future lives in the original timeline was under challenge; the crimes everyone remembered were the really grim ones.

“That won’t help much,” Wavell said. “General, how can they fit into your society?”

“I don’t know,” Flynn said. “We have to try, though; we owe your men so much.” He coughed once. “Ideally, we should be getting the reactivated Chieftain tanks in a week or so, so we can begin training your men to use them. They’re not up to Challenger levels, but they are still far more advanced than anything else on the planet. Then we have to decide what to do next and…”

He stopped speaking as a messenger hammered on the door. “Come in,” he called sharply.

“Sir, there’s terrible news,” the young Contemporary person said, through heavy breathing. He’d clearly run up the stairs to his commanders. “Admiral Darlan hanged himself in his cell. He committed suicide!”

“Thank you, young man,” Flynn said, before Wavell could explode. “Please give Colonel Tyburn my regards and inform him that I shall wish to discuss his security later.”

“Yes, sir,” the Contemporary man said, and vanished.

“Well, that means we’ll have no choice, but to treat France as a hostile nation,” Flynn observed. “I suppose, if we had to go for the landing in Southern France, it makes some things easier.”

The man was sunburned, with a walnut-brown tinge, but there was no mistaking the famous voice. A group of soldiers, Contemporary and 2015, were watching the play; it contained elements of slapstick humour that would later become famous beyond measure. Gavin Gateshead, talent spotter, knew that he’d finally found his key to fame and fortune. The performer finished with a trumpet solo that seemed to be extremely insolent, aiming the trumpet in the direction of Germany.

“Ah, way more fun that those strange colour jumping boxes,” the performer said, and ducked to avoid a hail of good-natured objects. “See you next time!”

The performer jumped off the stage, discarding the strange mixture of 2015 and Contemporary clothing, and danced over to a trailer. It was a 2015 invention; a mobile home that provided quick showers for the performers. Gateshead ran after him, calling for him to stop.

“Who are you?” The performer asked, taking in Gateshead’s strange suit, one tailored to be as cool as possible in the desert heat. “What do you want with me?”

Gateshead stuck out a hand. “Gavin Gateshead, Talent Spotter,” he said, announcing himself. “I am here to make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

The man looked at him, eyes narrowing. “I’m good,” he said finally, “but I don’t think that performers get that much money, and I have pretty wild dreams.”

“Yes, I know,” Gateshead said. “Listen, would you mind coming to my office to discuss it?”

He smiled all the way to his office. Bribing the BBC staff to allow him to travel with them had been easy; a French tax-collector who’d lost his money, his penis and his life had been in no position to object to him taking his office. The Algerians seemed to be half in love with the British, half wary of them.

“Neat place,” the performer said finally, looking around. Apart from the required water cooler, there was a laptop and several cameras lying on the table. “I’m surprised it hasn’t been stolen.”

Gateshead shook his head. “It’s impossible to use that laptop without my permission,” he said. “You’ll see that it’s nailed to the floor; that thin wire needs a very strong laser to cut through it.” He grinned. “Now, Mr Milligan, I’m about to make you rich. Listen.”

He pushed a button on his laptop. The sound of two men arguing over a piece of paper with the time written one echoed through the room. Milligan stared at the laptop; the voice was instantly recognisable as his own.

“In 1960, you wrote the Goon Show,” Gateshead said. “At the moment, you could write more; you have a chance for your genius to be appreciated in its own time.”

Milligan frowned. He’d been nobody’s fool, Gateshead remembered. “If I would have written them,” he said, “does that mean they’re mine?”

“Of course,” Gateshead said. “Your estate and the BBC holds the copyright, but it would be yours if you came back, from the dead as it were.”

“How did I die?” Milligan asked. Gateshead lifted an eyebrow. “I want to know, damn it!”

Gateshead frowned. “You died in 2002,” he said. “It was a combination of bipolar disorder and mental breakdowns.”

“Not a short life,” Milligan said. His face changed alarmingly; Gateshead remembered that he’d always had a history of mental breakdowns. “Tell me, what’s in it for you?”

“I beg your pardon?” Gateshead asked.

“You’ve come a very long way to recruit me,” Milligan said. “Please don’t flatter me; I want to know why!”

Gateshead smiled. “I work on my own, more or less,” he lied smoothly. “The big boys of the industry always cut me out because they have more money to do the promotion, and with money you can elect a monkey as Prime Minister.” He chuckled. “And they have done so, on occasion. Money can get five girls with no talent a number one slot; money can lure potential performers away from me and I get nothing for all the legwork.

“But you; you’re a national treasure,” he continued. “Thousands would come to see you read boring history books, let alone your Goon Show. Once we get your fellows up, all the promotion has already been done – and the money can roll in!”

Milligan smiled. “I agree,” Spike Milligan said.

“Then Ying-Tong-Iddle-I-Po,” Gateshead said. Milligan looked blank. “You come up with that in 1970 or thereabouts.”

Milligan laughed and clapped him on the back. “Perhaps I could read them boring history,” he said, “or perhaps a skit where the teacher is trying to teach, and the class are so bored because he has a really boring voice…”