A Mighty Endeavor

by Stuart Slade

“My word.” Bridges was shocked. “I had no idea things had reached that point. The dispute with the Dom/Col isn’t that serious. It’s more a matter of insensitivity at this end and trampled toes on theirs.”

  “I’m sorry, Edward, but I really must beg permission to differ on that point. This whole affair might have started that way, but it has gone beyond that point. The situation with Dom/Col is getting serious. Are you aware that they are beginning to move their financial reserves out of London? And that the Australian Division that was heading for Britain has been diverted to the Middle East?”

  “That is serious.” Bridges hesitated himself, concealing the uncertainty about what he could say by carefully anointing a piece of smoked trout with roasted lemon jelly. “We knew about the South African Division going to Kenya, of course. That was no great worry; the IGS might have diverted them there anyway. The Italians have advanced at least fifty miles into Kenya and the presence of the South Africans there will stabilize that situation. The P.M. is more worried about the Canadian Division. Technically, they are still at war with Germany and he thinks they could bring down the armistice. He is considering ordering them home. And that would be another breach with the Commonwealth. One that would be much harder for all the parties involved to accept. But, if Dom/Col are moving their funds out of the City, it would be very serious.”

  “What is happening with the armies really doesn’t worry the chaps too much.” Glasebrooke waved his fork around dismissively. “The financial thing is perturbing them much more. Ever since the turn of the century, the hard core of Britain’s wealth has been in global finance and investment. We own, or have serious interests in, sewers, water, electrical, telegraph, telephone, rail, shipping, warehousing, banks and retail companies all across the world. The chaps really don’t think that is too much affected by where a division goes or what happens to a squadron of flying boats. The split in the Commonwealth is quite different; quite different. If this goes on, the Prime Minister will be handing all our investments abroad to our competition on a plate.”

  There was a long pause while the waiters cleared the first set of plates away and brought the next course, along with the appropriate wine. Glasebrooke waited until they had withdrawn before continuing. “Take Malaya. Because the Japanese will. Does the Prime Minister really want to hand over all that rubber and palm oil to the Japanese? The economic loss to the chaps in the City would be stupendous and it won’t stop there. I don’t want to sound excitable, Edward, but the chaps really do think this is vital.”

  Bridges sighed. “I understand all this, Desmond; I really do. You’re preaching to the choir. I think most of the Civil Service knows that. The problem is that HE doesn’t see it that way. To him, the Commonwealth is a bunch of unruly children who need to be sent to bed without any supper. No matter what anybody says, he won’t change his mind on that.”

  “But this is madness!” The bereaved walrus had just found he’d been cut out of the family will. If Glasebrooke could have looked any more depressed, Bridges was unable to work out how.

  “I know Desmond, but HE won’t listen to me. He won’t listen to anybody outside his own small circle of trusted advisors. They all agree with everything he says; because if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be part of that circle.” Bridges sighed and moodily ate some of his pigeon breast, reflecting that it was a good thing rationing did not apply to meals eaten in restaurants. How long that would continue was another matter. The whole issue of food rationing was beginning to raise its ugly head, with people asking why it was still being imposed when the war was over. For a brief second, Bridges had a flash of his nightmare where he walked down the streets of a Britain that had died from starvation.

  “Desmond, may we put that to one side for a moment? There’s another matter I wish to raise with you. Food imports. How do we substitute for supplies from the Commonwealth?”

  “We can’t.” Glasebrooke was emphatic on that point. “We need Australian and New Zealand meat and dairy products, Indian tea and rice, Canadian wheat, West Indian sugar. All the rest. Fortunately, we won’t have to. The chaps have already had discrete inquiries from the Dom/Col about us continuing to buy their products. They need to sell to us as much as we need to buy from them. In fact, I would venture to say that if they were allowed to do so, they would actually increase food exports to us.”

  “That is something of a relief. I am beginning to believe that we need to build up our food reserves here against any future trade disruptions.”

  “Future, Edward? The trade disruptions already exist and are costing the chaps a lot of money. As to increasing food imports, the problem is that the Dom/Col want to be paid in gold for their products. You know they are going to introduce their own currency?”

  Bridges was aghast. “They can’t do that. It would mean the end of the Commonwealth!” Then the implications of what he had just said sunk in. “Oh.”

  “That’s what the chaps said when they heard. That’s why they are perturbed. The Dom/Col are set on reintroducing the Sovereign, gold-backed no less, as an international trading currency. One that excludes the pound sterling. If that currency succeeds in establishing itself, then the City will be sidelined as a major financial center. I can think of at least one other country that would be very pleased to see that happen.”

  “The Americans.” Bridges spoke with heavy certainty.

  “Of course. They may well support the Sovereign, at least at first, simply to downgrade the importance of the City and increase that of New York. I needn’t tell you what the chaps think about that idea. There is another whisper as well.” Glasebrooke looked around, making sure that he could not be overheard. “There are whispers that the Hongs are on the move.”

  “Are they, indeed? I suppose, with the future of Hong Kong in doubt, they must be considering some preparations.”

  “The future of Hong Kong is in doubt?” Glasebrooke opened his eyes wide. “That is indeed serious. I believe that is enough to make the chaps quite concerned. It would explain the whispers we have been hearing, though. It has been suggested that the Hongs plan to move their headquarters to Chongqing, Kunming or Bombay. Two of those are outside the Commonwealth. That does have the chaps perturbed as well. If the Hongs move, they’ll take their access to the Chinese business community, the internal communications system it thrives upon and the wealth it represents, with them.”

  “The Japanese are making noises to the effect that, as the regional allies of Germany, they will become the responsible power for our Dom/Col in the area. The Germans have officially expressed no comment on that claim, but we have every reason to believe they are quietly supporting it as part of their agreement with Japan. A move on Hong Kong is, we believe, only a matter of time. The Hongs have much better intelligence than we do. If they are preparing to move, then they must be aware of the probability as well.”

  “If the Japanese successfully move on Hong Kong, then they won’t stop there.” Glasebrooke shook his head. “This really is very serious indeed. Malaya and Singapore will be next and India cannot be far behind. You must get the PM to make a stand on this.”

  “He won’t.” Bridges sighed and waited while the plates were again cleared away. He settled on a banana creme brulee for dessert.

  When it arrived, the sommelier leaned forward confidentially. “Gentlemen, we have a rather fine Psersigberg Gewurstraminer Grand Cru 1932 desert wine if you wish to complete your enjoyment?”

  Glasebrooke sighed again. “That sounds very good; we’ll indulge ourselves. A half-bottle perhaps?”

  Once the sommelier had departed, Glasebrooke leaned forward to Bridges. “After all, I rather think that we should get used to drinking German wine, don’t you? We may not have a choice much longer.”

  Pembroke Dock, Wales, United Kingdom

  “Squadron Leader Alleyne?”

  The figure was in civilian clothes, but Alleyne had an almost-irresistible urge to jump to attention. The man gave a slightly twisted grin and sho
ok his head. “No formalities, please. The less obvious our departure is, the better for all concerned.”

  Sir Wilfred Freeman smiled sadly at the young Australian who was helping him leave the country and service to which he had devoted his life. Somehow, it didn’t help matters to know that he wasn’t the only one who had made this particular decision or that he had been helped by the abrupt closure of his department. He had been responsible for selecting the aircraft that would form the basis of the Royal Air Force’s reequipment program. Now that program also had been abruptly terminated. Literally everything he had worked for was either abandoned or rated as being of little account. Looking at the waiting Sunderland flying boat, he asked himself whether his departure really was a call of duty to aid the Commonwealth countries that remained in the fight or merely a response to wounded pride.

  “We’re glad to have you on board. Sir.” Alleyne refrained from saluting, but he felt a surge of respect for the grandfatherly man before him who had made what must have been an agonizing decision. Behind them, boxes of files and other documents were being loaded into the Sunderland. Then, Alleyne saw another one of his passengers and the bottom seemed to suddenly fall out of his world.

  “General Smuts, Sir….”

  “Quiet boy. We said no formalities.” The voice was gruff; its South African accent sounded harsh in the soft pre-dawn light, but the words had an amused timbre to them that took any sting out of his phrasing. Jan Smuts looked more than a little amused at the situation. “You are Captain of this particular ship and we all defer to you.”

  The third member of the party looked as if he might have disagreed with that, but any comment he might have had was preempted by Jan Smuts. He frowned mightily as he introduced himself. “Air Vice Marshal Arthur Harris, Officer Commanding 5 Group, Bomber Command.”

  Alleyne took an instant dislike to the man. There was something about him that contrasted sharply with the gentlemanly demeanor of the other two members of the party he would be carrying to Gibraltar and Alexandria. He gave no sign of the impression, though. “Will you all be going all the way to Alexandria with us?”

  Smuts nodded. “Harris and I will be leaving you there, though, and going back to South Africa. Wilfred will be going to Alexandria and then on to Australia. I hope he will do for your aircraft industry what he managed to achieve for us here. And that his life’s work will see a more satisfactory conclusion than it was fated to receive here.”

  “Perhaps we will have the honor of flying you there, Sir.” Privately, Alleyne doubted that. He already had a strong suspicion that his flying boats would be a key part of the power equation now being written in the Middle East.

  His suspicions were confirmed when Freeman shook his head. “I strongly suspect you will be remaining in the Middle East for some time to come, Squadron Leader. Whatever the future may hold, and I sadly suspect that future is grim indeed, the Middle East at this point is time is the single most crucial area in play. It is the actual point of action and will remain so until the Italian question there is resolved.”

  Smuts nodded magisterially. “Deterrence against further aggression has to be the bed rock of the Commonwealth position. We have to face the truth; we are a collection of weak powers looking to assume a mantle of strength, and that can only be achieved through success in war. The Middle East is a running litmus test of our real resolve, both internally and internationally. It is our collective shop window and we’ll be judged to a large extent by our deeds there. If we limp-wrist the conflict with Italy, we not only look weak to the rest of the world, but we’ll also feel weak as a collective and with the individual dominions, and so be weak.

  “Squadron Leader, the Dominions rejecting Halifax was just words. The Middle East is the critical point for the Commonwealth where we must turn words into deeds.” Suddenly Smuts smiled. “It is not often that a mere Squadron Leader hears such matters of great political strategy discussed. But then, it is not often that a mere Squadron Leader gets to be a critical part in such strategic considerations. Your twelve flying boats may well become the key to all our futures.”

  “What bomb load do you carry?” Harris sounded as if he hadn’t bothered to listen to Smuts.

  “On paper, two thousand pounds Sir, but Shorts are very conservative in their loaded weight figures. As long as we don’t exceed maximum take off weight, we can carry up to five thousand pounds of warload. Usually depth charges but we have carried mines and torpedoes.”

  Harris grunted. “And the Italian ports in North Africa are within range of Alexandria.” Without further word, he climbed into the barge that was ready to take the passengers out to the anchored Sunderland.

  Room 208, Munitions Building, Washington, DC, USA

  “What do we do with them? Somebody better come up with an idea fast before Congress finds out about them and makes us take them.”

  “We impounded all of them on the grounds that the United States believes delivery to the governments in London and Vichy would be destabilizing to European security.”

  “With all due respect, Cordell, that’s just made matters that much worse.” Henry Stinson and Cordell Hull glared at each other.

  “There are really two problems here.”

  “Just two? You do realize that if the manufacturers don’t get paid for those aircraft, they’ll go bankrupt and that won’t do our aircraft industry any good at all?” Phillip Stuyvesant smiled benignly at Robert Jackson, who glared back in response. Casting an eye around the meeting, Stuyvesant noted that everybody seemed to be glaring at everybody else. This meeting he thought has promise.

  Attorney-General Jackson was actually grinding his teeth. “I said two problems. There are two categories of aircraft: one owned by the British and the other by the French. The French and British orders represent entirely different legal situations. Both countries have actually paid for the aircraft in question, although the final payment for them is still in escrow. The British case is easy. In the Daventry Message, King George VI, who is the legitimate head of state in Great Britain, transferred authority and legitimacy from London to the Governor-Generals in the Empire. So, the various bits of the Empire own the aircraft and they have to settle amongst themselves who owns what. Nothing to do with us. As soon as they’ve made their minds up, the aircraft get delivered, the remaining funds are released from escrow and your precious aircraft manufacturers, Stuyvesant, get their money. It’s the French that are the problem.”

  “Aren’t they always?” Stimson was staring at the ceiling. He looked around, caught Stuyvesant’s eye, and gave him a surreptitious wink.

  “Henry, please.” Jackson was getting exasperated. “The Vichy government has no legitimate successors outside Metropolitan France. Therefore there is nobody to whom we can deliver the impounded French orders. Indeed, we cannot deliver them to anybody without legally purchasing them. We can refund the purchase money to the French and hold that in escrow until there’s a government over there we approve of, or a legitimate alternative arises. But we’re still stuck with the aircraft. And Congress might find them.”

  Henry Morgenthau pressed his fingertips together. “There is a way around this. We refund the monies paid by the French, thus transferring the aircraft to our control. We can then sell them to the British Empire countries, thus ensuring that they are used against Nazi Germany, the purpose for which they were produced.”

  “The Dominions can’t afford them.” Cordell Hull shook his head. He knew all too well that the now-severed parts of the British Empire were in desperate financial straits.

  “Then loan them the money.” Jackson was impassioned. “We loan them the money in dollars, but allow them to make repayment in these new Sovereigns they are announcing. In doing so, we support their new currency and wean them away from the pound sterling and thus put a pistol shot through the head of the British Empire. We also give them the tools they need to reinforce their independence and stabilize their economies.”

  “The latter is t
oo much to ask.” Morgenthau shook his head. “Their economies need a lot more than a few dollars to stabilize them. They need industry, investment and so on. There’s a killing to be made there for the right people. For a far-sighted man who is prepared to wait for a return on his investment, the rewards will be rich indeed. But I agree with the basic proposal. We make a very soft loan to any of the Dominions that are prepared to buy the ex-French aircraft from us. Low rate of interest; we loan money in dollars, accept payment in Sovereigns.

  “This way, those aircraft get put to good use.” Morgenthau’s voice hardened; a note of almost fanatical hatred came into it. “And anything that hurts the Nazis is a good use. They must suffer for what they have done. Germania delenda est. Phillip, I look to you for knowledge on how to reduce Germany to a desert.”

  “I’ll do my best, Henry.”

  Dumbarton Avenue, Georgetown, Washington, DC, USA

  “Australia? Everything is poisonous there.” Igrat put a note of distress into her voice.

  “The salt water crocodiles and great white sharks aren’t.” Stuyvesant sounded remarkably unimpressed by his daughter’s feigned misery. “But what really upsets you is that there are no decent shops in that part of the world.”

  “Well, that too.” Igrat looked at her father and lifted her eyebrows. “But, no shops for me to spend my travelling companion’s money in means half my cover is gone before I even start. Who do you want me to see, anyway?”

  “There is a man called Mister Essington Lewis, who runs Broken Hill Proprietary Company. He’s an odd character, Iggie. You’ll have to be careful in how you approach him. He’s strictly formal and he hates using the telephone.

  That’s why I want you to go and see him personally. He makes an absolute fetish of punctuality, so bear that in mind when you make appointments.”

  “That’s how, not why.” Igrat made the observation completely deadpan.

  “Lewis is a gifted operator. He knows the steel and mining industries inside out; and, more importantly, knows how to make companies in that sector work. I want to offer him a partnership. We’ll provide backing for a joint investment in India. If that country is going to succeed in standing on its own feet, it will need its own heavy industry, something it painfully lacks at the moment. The country even lacks the people needed to work out what it needs. So, Lewis is the right person to get involved out there. If we get in on the ground floor, the investment we make will grow. I happen to know that he wants to see the Commonwealth as the largest steel producer outside North America.”