by Stuart Slade
“There is always nationalization without compensation.” Nehru liked the sound of that and knew it would resonate with the membership of his party.
“There is indeed.” Sir Martyn agreed. “But we have a problem there as well. The vast majority of the funding for Indian railway development came from England. For all practical purposes, Indian capital played a negligible role in building our railway system. The capital that came from England to India for railway construction formed the largest single unit of international investment in the 19th century. If we suddenly nationalize that without compensation, it will be a massive blow at the English financial system.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” Nehru was growing heated. “The railways destroyed much of our native industry. Traditional Indian goods have been replaced by factory-made items imported from England and distributed cheaply by rail. The construction of the railways created employment for coal miners, steelmakers and machine forgers in England, not India, and converted our countryside into an agricultural colony of England. The railways were not a commercial success until the early part of this century, yet the losses were not borne by the investors who built them but by the government and thus the Indian people. It is time those monies extracted from us were recovered.”
The silence in the cabinet room was profound. The subject of the railways themselves was almost immaterial compared with the yawning gap in perceptions that had been revealed by Nehru’s speech. It had literally never occurred to any of the Europeans present that the construction of railways had been anything other than an undiluted blessing for India.
“Perhaps this is an area in which we should advance carefully? The first step should be to arrange for the consolidation of the existing railway system into a number of regional railway authorities. The existing railway owners can be given shares in the new railway authorities proportionate to their investment in the original lines. Then, as we invest further in those authorities, bringing the lines up to a common standard, the government’s shareholding will increase. Thus, when the existing agreements expire in 1948, the transfer will have been completed in a proper and orderly manner.
“We must be wary that we do not alienate any of the likely investors in this country. Our economic success depends on attracting them into our fold and we should not mortgage that prospect by hasty action when, in eight years, the assets will fall into our hands anyway.” Sir Martyn looked around the room. The majority of the occupants seemed to accept that concept, although Nehru was still agitated by the mere mention of railways. It was probably a good time to move on.
“I do have some good news to relate. We have received word from Canberra, Johannesburg, Wellington and Ottawa that the proposed meeting of the heads of the Commonwealth countries is to go ahead and that our proposal that Jamaica be the locale for the meeting has been accepted.”
“i thought that Bermuda was our first choice?” The Marquess of Linlithgow sounded surprised.
“It was, Your Excellency. It was pointed out that Bermuda posed certain security risks should the Germans get wind of the meeting, as they undoubtedly will. A well-timed commando raid and our enterprise would end with us all inside a German prison. Jamaica is a much more secure and inviting location and has better meeting facilities anyway. We amended our proposal to Jamaica and it was enthusiastically accepted. Britain will be represented by Mr. Churchill, of course. The United States will be attending as observers.”
“Is that necessary?” Leon Arnold Fitzgerald sounded distasteful. Of the current members of the Cabinet, he was the one closest to Sir Richard Cardew in outlook. So much so that Sir Eric Haohoa was keeping him discretely watched.
“Indeed it is. It is, after all, the disposal of British equipment produced in America and currently held under embargo there that will be the subject of much discussion. We cannot ignore the fact that those discussions will be meaningless without American agreement. There are other issues that we must raise with them as well. The American government has intimated that it can make funds available to us on very reasonable terms, provided they receive certain assurances about our future position.”
“That means staying in the war, I presume.” Nehru was beginning to calm down.
“Of course it does. The Americans will fight Germany to the lives of the last Commonwealth soldier.” Fitzgerald spoke with scorn dripping from every syllable. Sir Martyn was disturbed to note how much agreement there was with that sentiment.
“They may not get that chance. I hope nobody believes that this war will be ended quickly or will pass anybody by?” Lord Linlithgow had a note of reproof when he spoke and it made its mark. Several of those who had partially agreed with Fitzgerald looked shamefaced about it.
“Pandit, I would like you to lead our delegation to the Jamaica conference. I have far too many commitments here to be able to go there myself, and, I believe, your presence there would highlight the new road down which we hope to take India.”
Nehru’s agitation from the railway issue evaporated as the realization he would be representing India at a Commonwealth conference. What that meant in the broad perspective of things sank in. In a very real sense, it was a partial fulfillment of a life’s work. Watching him, Sir Martyn decided that Pandit Nehru had a lot to learn about what went on at international conferences.
Short Sunderland Mark 1 F-Freddie, Over the Red Sea
“Have you seen nothin’ down there?”
The Sunderland was cruising about a thousand feet up and maintaining barely a hundred knots. Experience over the Atlantic in the first phase of the war had taught crews that this was the optimum combination of speed and altitude when searching for U-boats. Low altitude to improve the chance of eye-balling a submerged submarine and reduce the chance of being seen by a surfaced one; low speed to stretch fuel reserves out to the maximum possible. Guy Alleyne knew his job very well indeed.
“Nothin’ yet.” An Italian submarine had attacked the New Zealand cruiser Leander. The torpedoes had missed their target. Radio intercepts picked up a message from the submarine Galileo claiming to have torpedoed a battleship. That had caused some mirth back in Aden from those who hadn’t tried to work out the chaos of a naval action. The crew of F-Freddie had; they knew the problems of identifying a target and determining how much, if any, damage they had done.
“Any more word from the Mad Bomber?” Andy Walker down in the radio compartment sounded genuinely curious. He had been the radio operator on duty when Arthur Harris had sent the squadron a preemptory order to return to Alexandria for service as night bombers.
“Nah, he gave up the ghost. I heard Wavell put him in charge of the Bristol Bombay fleet to keep him quiet. Damned drongo sent them off to bomb the harbor at Tobruk and they didn’t get a bomb within fifteen miles of the place. He’s been quiet ever since.” Alleyne wasn’t particularly worried. There had been a telegraphed set of orders for him in Aden. His government had told him what to do and where to go. More importantly, it told him who to obey and, implicitly, who not to. That trumped everything else. The most valuable part of it had been the simple fact of its existence. It had told him they were still part of something, not forgotten wanderers trying to find a home somewhere.
“You reckon that sub will still be around here? The Huns would have cleared off by now.”
“He’ll still be around. He’ll want a second crack at that cruiser. If he really reckons he hit her, he’ll want to finish her off. If not, he’ll want to try again. Either way, he’s around here somewhere.”
“Boss, I got somethin’.” Chris White was the portside lookout, using the beam machine gun hatch as an observation point. “Three o’clock; right on the horizon.”
“Good on you, Snowy.” There was a long pause while Don Clerk, the starboard lookout, crossed over and checked on the sighting. “Snowy’s right, Boss. Connin’ tower on the horizon; enemy one by the look of it.”
“Stand by for attack. All gun crews ready. Midships crew, open the side ports
and wind out the depth bombs. Fuzes set for 25 feet.”
The casual atmosphere had completely vanished from the Sunderland. The two side hatches under the wings were already opening up. In the bomb room, the 250-pound airborne depth charges were fuzed and attached to the racks. The racks were then wound out on rails under the wings. Alleyne already had the throttles forward, pushing the Pegasus engines as hard as was prudent. Aden was a long way from the easy availability of spare parts; stressing the engines would be short-sighted, to say the least.
White’s original sighting had been accurate. It was a submarine. Alleyne quickly put together the recognition details. Single gun forward of a small conning tower; she’s German. Bad luck for her she’s not the one we were lookin’for.
“You reckon the poor dumb bastards are asleep down there?” The distance was closing quickly and White had an almost proprietorial interest in the submarine.
Suddenly, the submarine was surrounded by spray as she started to dive. In the North Atlantic, the Sunderland crew had become used to rapid dives from German submarines. Alleyne was astonished at how slowly this one was starting to submerge. The conning tower was almost certainly deserted. He opened fire with his nose guns anyway, lashing the submarine with the streams of tracer fire. The submarine was supposed to mount a 20mm cannon and a 37mm gun; there was no trace of return fire from them. Most likely, the German elected to dive rather than fightin ‘ it out on the surface and thought he had more time.
Alleyne ceased fire as the flying boat slashed over the diving submarine. F-Freddie lurched as the four depth charges dropped clear.
“Way to bloody go! Perfect straddle. Boss! Score one for the Hobartl”
The cheer from the midships lookouts was all Alleyne needed to know. He was already curving around, bringing the submarine into his field of vision. Two depth charges had landed just short of the boat. The other pair had landed just over her. They exploded under the submarine, throwing her upwards and breaking her back. By the time Alleyne could see her properly, she was already sinking; her bows and stem raised in the air and her midships section under water.
“Strafe it?”
“Don’t be bloody. Leave her. She’s done for. Radio base and see if anybody can pick up the survivors. If there are anyway.” Alleyne guessed the submarine had been closed up for diving. The chance of anybody getting out, given the catastrophic damage inflicted by the four depth charges, were slight. Still, if there was a chance, it was worth getting the word out. He completed the turn and cruised over the sinking wreckage beneath. The submarine had almost gone; only the point of her bows stuck out of the boiling white stains on the sea surface.
“I hope some of you took pickies of that?” Alleyne had forgotten to order the photography in the rush of the attack, but the evidence was needed if they were to be credited with a confirmed sinking instead of a probable. The sea surface was littered with scattered wreckage, but there were no swimmers that he could see.
“Yeah, I got it. No heads down there I can see.”
“Me neither. Poor drongos. Any idea who they were?”
F-Freddie circled the scene of the sinking. Her crew searched the floating wreckage with high-powered binoculars for any sign of survivors. Eventually, it was Chris White who gave the doleful epitaph.
“Nobody got out. All I can see floatin’ down there is a few bits of debris and a stuffed animal.”
HMAS Australia, Scapa Flow, Scotland
“Will ye no’ come back again?
Will ye no’ come back again?
Better lo’ed ye canna be
Will ye no’ come back again?”
The haunting echoes of the ballad echoed backwards and forwards from the ships anchored across Scapa Flow as the heavy cruiser started her slow progress out to sea. Captain Robert R Stewart surreptitiously wiped an eye at the words and the meaning behind them. This was the worst way to end an assignment he could think of. Betrayed.
There was no other word for it. He, his ship and his crew had been betrayed by the government they had come half way around the world to help. The rest of the fleet knew it. The sad dirge was their comment on the way the cruiser had been treated.
“It was originally written about Bonnie Prince Charlie, you know.” Lieutenant Colonel Beaumont spoke softly. “The Andrew always had a talent for knowing the right music.”
Stewart nodded sadly. “This is such a damned shame. We didn’t want ta go home like this. Not with our tails between our legs.”
“Not your fault. At least you were around to give us a lift home. The lads would have paid for the tickets on a liner home themselves rather than stay any longer. After volunteering to help the old country out, being described as ‘useless mouths’ was more than they could stomach.”
“At least we didn’t have ta swallow that.” Stewart veered away from the subject, watching the pilot take HMAS Australia through the boom and down the Hoy Sound. “Just being booted out was bad enough. Ronald, you’d better get your men together for training soon. We’re still at war with Germany and they might reckon of putting a couple of torpedoes into us. Your men better know what ta do if that happens.”
“Aye, I’ll do that. We were half expecting to be bombed in Aldershot but it never happened.” Beaumont looked out across the sound. Two British destroyers were paralleling the Australian cruiser’s course. They weren’t escorting her; they just happened to be close by and going the same way. Under the circumstances, keeping a close ASW watch out was only a reasonable precaution, wasn’t it?
The thought of Australia being torpedoed was a nightmare. The ship was packed tight with men; her own crew, the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry Battalion and some ‘passengers’ that nobody was talking about. She had men sleeping in every open space of the ship. Simply feeding everybody was straining the ship’s facilities to the utmost. Beaumont had his own cooks in the galleys helping out where they could, but with almost I,600 men on board even that was little more than a gesture. It was going to be a cold, hungry crossing. The mood of his men was such that they preferred that to staying in a country that was suddenly unwelcoming.
They were being unfair and Beaumont knew it. The evidence was literally all around them. The number of men on board wasn’t the only reason why Australia was crowded. The ship was packed with cargo; every square foot appeared to sprout crates, covered and lashed down. Even the gun turrets had packages and parcels stowed in them. Australia was in no condition to fight even a minor warship. When the ship had been stored for her transit across the Atlantic, the Royal Navy had filled her to capacity and beyond.
“You might still be. One of the things I want your men ta do is get every machine gun they can lashed ta the railings in the superstructure. God knows, they’ve got enough of them.” Beaumont snorted; the British Army had equipped his battalion for its return to Canada on the apparent assumption that every Canadian soldier carried both a Bren gun and a Vickers gun in addition to his rifle, pistols and a terrifying number of hand grenades. He’d been quite amazed to discover that his battalion headquarters now included a six-pounder antitank gun. Beaumont would have been prepared to swear that the weapon only existed as a prototype, but one such gun was lashed to the deck amidships and a case of blueprints was stowed in A Turret magazine.
Stewart grinned understandingly. “It’s all right for you; your people just have ta clean them. I’ve got ta worry about carrying them. This poor old girl is loaded so deep, her plimsoll line is completely submerged. We’ve got every round of ammunition we can fit in on board. But we might need those machine guns though. We can outrun submarines, even loaded the way we are; a Condor is a different matter. If they show up, we’ll need that flak.”
“You going home after you drop us off?” Beaumont watched Graemsay Island passing behind them. He felt the shudder as the engines picked up power. He was no seaman, but he could feel the ship was sluggish with the load she was carrying.
“We are, by way of Jamaica. We’re
taking some top brass down there for a conference, then heading through the Panama Canal for home. What we do there is anybody’s guess. The rumor mill says patrol duty in the Indian Ocean ta replace Hobart. Who knows? We might get another one of those damned raiders. The boys would like ta get some payback in.”
Cabinet Room, Government House, Calcutta, India
“Is everything ready?” Lord Linlithgow looked around the room.
“It is.” Sir Eric Haohoa confirmed the fact. “We have had some preliminary discussions with the other Commonwealth representatives and the ground rules have been agreed. The Middle East is our primary area of strategic importance and it is there that our defense investments will be concentrated, in the short term at least. The Hawk 81s will be sent there. The rest of us will have to make do with the Hawk 75s. The same applies to the bombers and the patrol aircraft. We will send whatever equipment is needed to the Middle East and then divide up the rest.”
“And payment for all this equipment?” Nehru had an inbred dislike for spending money on military equipment, no matter how pressing the need appeared to be.
“The ex-British equipment needs not be paid for. The monies for it are held in the United States and we, the Commonwealth countries, inherit it. The ex-French equipment is more difficult. I understand the Americans have refunded the purchase price of that equipment to the French but then impounded the monies. They ‘offered’ to invest the money for the French against the time when the funds would be released, an offer the French couldn’t refuse. The Americans are now ‘investing’ that money by loaning it to us so we can purchase the ex-French aircraft.”
“That’s generous of them.” HH sounded more than slightly sarcastic.
“I suspect not.” Sir Martyn Sharpe had a shrewd idea about what the Americans had in mind. “They intend to ensure that we are dependent on American equipment for our defense and industrial sectors. Already, there are moves by their robber barons to put money into our industrial development programs. A Mister Essington Lewis of Broken Hill Proprietory wants to establish joint ventures for steel production and there are rumors that American capitalists are behind him. It is a clear objective of American government policy to oppose colonialism and break up the great empires. I would say they have seen a major opportunity for them to do just that.”
