The Proteus Operation

by James P. Hogan

  Sure enough, Hitler, sensing an unexpected opportunity, instructed his ambassador in Moscow to drop the word that Germany wanted to improve relationships. The Russian response was positive, and by the second week of August, while Admiral Drax and his party were still chugging sedately up the Baltic, Hitler was pushing for the German Foreign Minister, Ribbentrop, to meet directly with the Soviet premier. Stalin agreed, after extracting as a prerequisite handsome concessions in a trade and credit agreement. On August 22, it was announced publicly that Ribbentrop would be arriving in Moscow the very next day.

  The implications were catastrophic as far as any hopes of averting the attack on Poland were concerned. By the time Ribbentrop left Berlin, Winslade was already on his way back across the Atlantic. Major Warren accompanied him this time in order to observe the military situation firsthand and meet some of the British commanders. He wanted to explore the possibility of getting replacements from the British Army for the military reinforcements that should have materialized in July from the Proteus world.

  Winslade and Warren arrived in London in the early hours of August 25. By that time, the Russo-German Nonaggression Pact had already been signed. Hitler's road into Poland was wide open.

  CHAPTER 22

  WINSLADE HAD NEEDED TO be away for a short while to really notice, but something was different in the atmosphere pervading England. It manifested itself not as anything obvious or dramatic, but as a subtle alteration in the mind and mood of the people and the tenor of the press that mirrored them. He wondered if perhaps he had been looking for the wrong things too soon. The untiring efforts of Churchill and the others had perhaps been achieving results, after all—results, possibly, that would prove more important in the long run, and from which all else would flow in time.

  "Abaht time, too, if there is a punch-up, that's wot I say," the porter carrying the bags remarked in the elevator when Winslade checked back into the Hyde Park Hotel with Major Warren. "Mister 'itler's been arstin' for trouble long enough, and it's time someone give it 'im. Russians? They don't make no difference to me. A lot o' bloody good they were last time!"

  A new resolution and firmness seemed to be taking hold in the higher levels of government, too, Bannering said, when he and Anthony Eden arrived at the hotel for breakfast the next morning. The day before the Nazi-Soviet pact was announced, the British Cabinet had reaffirmed categorically that the obligation to Poland would in no way be affected. By August 25, two days after the pact, negotiations were being rushed through with the Polish ambassador in London to get signatures on a formal treaty before the day was through. This was in sharp contrast to the attitude taken in the previous world, where the Allies had used the Polish refusal to accept Russian aid as an excuse to declare their guarantee invalidated. Now the guarantee was firm, even though this time Russia and Germany—for the moment, anyway—were solidly in cahoots.

  The political scene throughout Europe was confused, and few doubted that war could be more than days away at most. As August 25 wore on, news arrived that the German Foreign Office had wired embassies and consulates in Poland, France, and Britain to order the evacuation of German citizens by the quickest route. In Moscow, Voroshilov terminated the Soviet-British talks on the grounds that they no longer served any useful purpose. British and French press correspondents in Berlin were leaving for the frontiers, while neutral observers there reported antiaircraft guns being set up all over the city and bombers flying overhead continuously, toward the east.

  Only the members of the Proteus mission and the few whom they had taken into their confidence knew that by then in the former world, Hitler had already ordered the attack on Poland to commence at four-thirty the following morning, Saturday, August 26. That was how it had happened even without Soviet collusion; who, then, could doubt that Hitler, with the only real risk to his first major gamble in overt hostilities eliminated, would do other than take full advantage of his diplomatic triumph by pressing forward as planned with all the speed and force at his disposal?

  And yet, strangely, that was not how things turned out. The dawn hours of August 26 came and went without news of an onslaught upon Poland. Late in the morning, Eden brought reports of apparent last-minute doubts and hesitation among the Nazi high command. The evening before, a Swedish businessman called Dahlerus had arrived in London as a go-between sent by Goering to convey Germany's willingness to seek an "understanding" on the current situation. And then, early in the morning, the British ambassador in Berlin, Sir Nevile Henderson, had followed independently to present Foreign Secretary Halifax with preposterous proposals from Hitler guaranteeing the integrity of the British Empire and pledging Germany to defend it in the event of its being threatened. So, even with Russia neutralized, his military preparations complete, and Overlord behind him, a single gesture by the Allies of their determination to meet force with force had been sufficient to cause Hitler to falter at the last minute. It was a sobering indication of how differently the events of the past several years might have run had such a precedent been set from the beginning.

  Dahlerus returned to Berlin that evening with a noncommittal reply, and was back in London again the following morning, Sunday, August 27, with a memorized six-point offer put together overnight by Hitler and Goering. But the proposals he brought were not the same as those conveyed previously by Henderson and seemed to be the start of a refrain that sounded painfully familiar after Munich. Chamberlain expressed skepticism that any settlement could be considered on such terms and sent the indefatigable Swede back to Berlin with an unofficial response, to report back by phone on its reception before an official version was sent with Henderson. The British position remained essentially that they desired good relationships with Germany, but would stand by their obligation to Poland if she were attacked. Germany's offer to protect the British Empire was politely declined.

  Hitler agreed to accept this standpoint provided that Britain undertook to persuade Poland to enter into immediate negotiations with Germany. Accordingly, Halifax wired the British ambassador in Warsaw to prevail upon the Poles for authorization to inform Hitler that Poland was agreeable. This they did, and Henderson was welcomed back to Berlin on the evening of August 28 by an honor guard of SS to deliver the official British note.

  Some of the more credulous of those involved were jubilant that peace had been secured, but others more experienced in Hitler's ways retained a cooler, wait-and-see attitude. Their wisdom was borne out by the official German reply, which reached London early on August 29 and stated that friendship with Britain could not be bought at the price of renouncing Germany's vital interests. It then launched into a familiar tirade of alleged Polish misdeeds and provocations and insisted on the return of Danzig and the Baltic Corridor. Finally, it demanded as an indication of good faith the dispatch to Berlin of a Polish emissary with full negotiating powers not later than August 30.

  The last part contained the trap. By its arrogant insinuation that Poland was expected to send its emissary scurrying at the snap of Hitler's fingers—clearly an intended prelude to more of the kind of treatment that had been handed out to the ministers of previous victim nations—the demand made Polish rejection all hut certain. If the Poles declined to send a negotiator, or even if they did and Hitler's terms were rejected, then Poland would he to blame for turning down a "peaceful settlement," and Britain and France would have a justification for washing their hands of the business.

  "It's a strange feeling now that this is really happening," Anna Kharkiovitch whispered in an awed voice when the team assembled in Winslade's hotel room at midday to hear the latest. "History is actually changing moment by moment from what we remember, and it's because of what we did. It's uncanny."

  Duff Cooper looked thoughtful. "Right now, Hitler could well be more confused than we are," he mused. "He's been confident that we'd seize the first chance we got to wriggle out, just as in your world."

  "That explains what's happening," Bannering said, nodding. "He's trying t
o give us an out. He doesn't know that anything's been changed, and neither does Overlord. They can't know. They don't possess a connection to our world of 1975 and its history. They've only got a link to Overlord's world of 2025, and in that world this situation never happened. There, the Nazis faded away years ago."

  By this time, none of the British diplomats or ministers had any stomach for another Munich. The Poles had never for a moment considered one. The British ambassador in Warsaw wired Halifax that they would sooner fight and perish than send a representative of their nation to be bullied and humiliated. If Hitler really wanted to negotiate, the Poles said, they would negotiate as equals in some neutral country.

  Accordingly, Henderson arrived at the German Foreign Office at midnight on August 30 to deliver a note stating that Britain could not advise Poland to comply with the German demands. Ribbentrop, the German Foreign Minister, began aping Hitler at his worst by launching into a hysterical denunciation, but for once the shock-tactic of insult and intimidation failed to work. In a heated exchange that the German interpreter would later describe as "the stormiest I have experienced in twenty-three years," the Englishman outshouted the German, and at one point both men leaped from their chairs and glared across the desk so angrily that they seemed about to come to blows. When Henderson asked for the promised German proposals, Ribbentrop read them aloud in German, speaking so quickly that Henderson could do no more than gather the gist of a few of them, after which Ribbentrop refused to supply a written copy of the text. It was out of date in any case, he maintained, since the Poles had not sent a plenipotentiary as stipulated.

  Henderson did finally obtain a copy indirectly from Goering the next day. The terms contained in the document turned out to be generous—extraordinarily so—and would undoubtedly have formed a meaningful basis for negotiations had they been conveyed to the Polish government in time. But Hitler had never intended that they should be. They were a hoax, intended simply to fool the German people and foreign observers, as they succeeded in doing to a large degree when Hitler broadcast them at nine o'clock that night, August 31.

  For by then, the decision had been made. All the frantic eleventh-hour diplomatic scrambling that would continue into the night throughout the capitals of Europe was already futile. At a half-hour after noon, Hitler had issued his final directive for the attack on Poland to commence at dawn the next day, September 1, 1939.

  Churchill, who had gone to France in a last-minute effort to sow more of the defiance that was taking root in England, had returned a few days before the end of August; his wife, Clementine, followed via Dunkirk on the thirtieth. They decided to move into their Pimlico flat to be nearer the center of developments, and arrived to find the newspapers carrying banner headlines of German armies pouring into Poland under an umbrella of ceaseless air attack, with the British Army mobilizing and the evacuation of children from the cities already in progress. The only light relief was Mussolini's declaration that Italy was staying out. Evidently, Il Duce had thought twice about taking on the French Army and the British Mediterranean Fleet. So much for the Pact of Steel.

  That same afternoon another event occurred that had not taken place in the previous history, which symbolized the mood of national determination that the Proteus team's efforts had brought about. Prime Minister Chamberlain invited Churchill to become a member of the War Cabinet he was forming to conduct the war that he now saw no hope of averting. Chamberlain's eyes at last were fully open, and there would be no question this time of staging a mere sham war to satisfy world opinion. Whether he would prove forceful enough for the job, however, was another matter.

  At nine o'clock that evening, Sir Nevile Henderson handed Ribbentrop a formal warning that Britain would, without hesitation, fulfill its obligations toward Poland if the German forces were not withdrawn. The French ambassador delivered an identically worded note one hour later. The French would have to bear the brunt if the Germans attacked in the west; to facilitate French mobilization, Chamberlain tried playing for time when he addressed the House of Commons late on September 2. But the members would have none of it. After thirty-nine hours of unprovoked war in Poland, they were angry, impatient, and more than suspicious of anything that hinted of a Munich smell wafting from the government benches. After a heated session, the government was in a precarious position and more than likely to topple if it failed to deliver the answer the nation wanted, and soon.

  The pace of events that the Proteus team had set in motion had now gone far beyond their capacity to influence further. For the time being, they were reduced to passive observers, able to piece together only a fragmentary picture from accounts brought by others of pandemonium in the Foreign Office, ceaseless phone calls to and from Paris, and rumors of a final ultimatum being issued jointly with the French.

  Then a news bulletin early the following morning, a Sunday, announced that the prime minister would address the nation that morning at eleven-fifteen. Winslade and the others breakfasted with the Churchills before listening to the broadcast.

  It had been obvious for some time that the inevitable social contact would either compel the Proteus people to reveal their true identities to Clementine or lie to her. Since Churchill had refused to contemplate the latter, she now knew who they were; one of his reasons for taking her to France had been to broach the subject in suitably detached surroundings. After her initial shock, she had adjusted to the situation with an aplomb that befitted a lady of her character and background.

  "I suppose that if you're from 1975, you could, if you wished, tell what is going to happen to all of us . . . or at least, what happened in your world," she had remarked to Winslade over dinner the evening she arrived in London. "It tempts one to be curious."

  "I could," Winslade agreed. "But would you really like me to?"

  After a long silence, she said, "No. . . . On reflection, I don't think it would he very wise, do you?"

  "I think you are very wise."

  "Do you ever discuss such matters?"

  "No."

  "A most commendable precedent, Mr. Winslade. Yes, I agree—let's stick to it."

  But on the morning of September 3, everyone's thoughts were focused very much upon the present. Conversation across the breakfast table was sparse and the atmosphere solemn as the hour of eleven passed. Then the announcer introduced the Prime Minister, and the clatter of cutlery ceased and teacups were set aside as Chamberlain's voice came from the radio, sounding strained, but resolute.

  "I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at Ten Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final Note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany. . . ."

  Silence reigned for a long time after the address was over. Eventually Churchill said, "I must confess that despite the gravity of this moment, I find myself unable to suppress a certain feeling of elation. Glorious old England, although peace-loving and ill-prepared as ever, is about to answer her call to duty once again. After my dejection at hearing how in your world we groveled and were destroyed, this brings relief and serenity of mind indeed." He paused for a second or two and then shook his head sadly. "But how much we have sacrificed. The Rhine frontier, Italy, Austria, Czechoslovakia's fortress line, now Poland . . . all gone. How different it would have been if we could only have mustered our courage and determination years ago."

  "True, Anna Kharkiovitch replied. She toyed with her teaspoon for a second or two and then looked up again. "But it's possible that in the long run it could turn out to be for the best."

  Churchill looked puzzled. "How so?"

  "Because, morally, the West's credentials are now beyond question," she replied. "The world has witnessed that every attempt at appeasement, reason, compromise, and accommodation has f
ailed, and the only resort left now is force. If anything stands a chance of bringing America in on our side ultimately, this does. And that would be worth far more than all the things you mentioned put together."

  "Provided, of course, that we survive long enough for America to get in on the act," Winslade commented.

  "Yes," Anna agreed dryly. "Of course, there is always that."

  Then a low moaning began somewhere outside the building and rose rapidly to a sustained wail. The sound was already familiar from airraid practice drills—the warning of enemy bombers approaching. "Well, one has to give the Germans some credit for promptitude, I suppose," Clementine conceded.

  The party went up to the roof to see what was happening. The rooftops and spires of London lay spread out all around them in the September sun, and above, even as they watched, scores of silvery, blimp-shaped balloons of the antiaircraft barrage were rising slowly on every side. In the streets below, steel-helmeted airraid wardens were directing scattered groups of people toward the shelters. Everyone carried a small, square box, slung from a shoulder-strap, containing a gas mask. The bright red Post Office mailboxes had been fitted with a yellow warning panel that was supposed to change color in the event of a gas attack. So, finally, it had come.

  "Now we'll see," Churchill murmured to Winslade through his cigar. Winslade nodded distantly as he stared out over the city.

  In the world that the team had come from, the outbreak of war had not brought the devastating air assault on the cities of England and France that most people believed would be inevitable; Hitler hadn't wanted to provoke action in the West while the German forces were engaged in Poland, and in any case expected the Allies to opt out after the Polish cause had gone away. There were no grounds for supposing anything had changed in that respect in this world.