by Stuart Slade
“Don’t give Igrat any more.” Achillea still sounded resentful. “She’ll get drunk and end up dancing naked on the table top.”
“Not,” igrat said firmly, “on a first date.”
GHQ, Middle East Command, Cairo, Egypt
“Just what the devil is happening in London?” General Archibald Percival Wavell was stunned by the telegram he had just received. He had been expecting one that instructed him to surrender his forces to General Graziani; he would have consigned that to the waste paper basket. Then he would have struck out on his own, for better or for worse. But the message that had arrived threw everything into doubt.
“A message of support, promising reinforcements? And they’re sending Illustrious to Gibraltar?”
“Perhaps somebody has injected some backbone into Lord Halifax?” Major-General Noel Beresford-Peirse, commander of the 4th Indian Infantry Division, sounded doubtful of the possibility. Wavell couldn’t blame him; whatever sentiment and tradition might say, political facts had placed the Indian Government in opposition to London. Beresford-Peirse looked to Calcutta for his orders now. The same disbelief was evidenced by Lieutenant-General Thomas Blarney; he had surrendered command of the Australian 6th Division to take command of the new ANZAC Corps that was forming in Egypt. His response to the idea was a disdainful snort.
“What exactly does the telegram say?” Freyberg was being cautious. The first echelon of the 2nd New Zealand Infantry Division was already in place and would join the Australian 6th and 7th divisions in the ANZAC Corps when that formation was activated. His caution stemmed from the briefing he had received from the New Zealand Government. Essentially, the country was bankrupt; only minimal support for his division could be provided. It had been discretely suggested that he ought to seek local sources for supply. The result of that suggestion had the nascent 2nd New Zealand Division nicknamed ‘Freyberg’s 40,000 thieves’.
“It states that London enthusiastically supports the idea of offensive action against the Italian forces under General Graziani and will support any such actions to the best of its ability.” Wavell looked over the telegram, shaking his head in disbelief. “It goes on to say that London’s position will be guided by my decisions here as the commander on the spot. It approves our dispositions of the Mediterranean fleet and informs me that the squadron in Gibraltar, currently consisting of battleship Malaya, cruisers Gloucester and Liverpool and the H-class destroyer flotilla, will be reinforced by the addition of the aircraft carrier Illustrious and four K-class destroyers. We are advised that the Gibraltar Squadron is now designated Force H.”
“This is something of a relief.” General Sir Richard Nugent O’Connor and his 7th Armoured Division had been orphaned by the Armistice and the subsequent break-up of the Empire. He had kept quiet, allowing the political and strategic situation to mature, and it now looked as if his prudence was paying off. “But it appears to me that the telegram is long on encouragement and short on actual deeds.”
“There is an option that may clarify the situation a little further.” General Henry ‘Jumbo’ Maitland Wilson had a strange grin on his face. “General Graziani is slowly and painfully building up his supplies in front of Mersa Matruh for the next stage of his advance. The dumps behind his positions are already large and grow a little every day.”
“Mmmm, supplies.” Freyburg’s interjection caused a ripple of sympathetic laughter around the briefing room. More than one of the Generals present made an ostentatious gesture of protecting their wallets.
“Exactly.” Wilson nodded. “Graziani has a lot of troops deployed forward, but they are almost all infantry with few heavy or support weapons. Such units matter little in desert warfare. The only Italian force that is of any account is a single motorized group with some 70 armored vehicles, mostly machine gun carriers. In contrast, we have the 7th Armoured Division, the 6th Australian Division and the 4th Indian Division all of which are fully motorized. It’s a strange thing; for all the apparent disparity in forces, in the troops that actually matter, we seriously outnumber the Italians. I propose that we launch a raid on the Italian positions, destroy that motorized group and seize those supplies. At the very least, we will set all of Graziani’s plans and operations back months while he rebuilds his supply base. At best, we could put all those infantry sitting in the desert into the bag.
“If it’s a matter of pillaging, we ought to bring Bernie and his marauders along.” Blarney grumbled in the background. He had been moved upwards just in time to miss the action.
“I think so.” Wavell looked at the map for a second. “Jumbo, you are right; we can do this. You can’t have 4th Indian, though. I need them to join 5th for an assault southwards out of the Sudan. We’ll hit the Italian positions in East Africa from the north at the same time as the South Africans move up northwards out of Kenya. Jumbo, you can have 7th Armoured and 6th Australian, plus Bernie’s New Zealanders. Your primary objectives are those supply dumps; capture them pretty much at all costs. But don’t neglect any opportunities to develop the situation further to our advantage. Nothing wins a battle more conclusively than a vigorous pursuit.”
There was a stunned silence as the extent of the planned offensive sank home. Wavell was attempting to wrap the whole situation up with two simultaneous offensives. Maxims about not dividing one’s forces in the face of the enemy weighed heavily on the Generals’ minds.
“If I may make an addition to this plan?” Admiral Cunningham had been quiet during the strategy meeting but he could see a glowing opportunity developing. “If Jumbo and Dick are as successful as we hope, the Italians will have to run a massive supply convoy through to their ports in Africa to restore the situation. This offers us a good opportunity to being the Italian fleet to battle and give it a proper trousering.”
“One battleship, against six?” Wavell couldn’t help asking.
“There won’t be six; not with this new Force H in the Western Mediterranean. They’ll have to hold back a lot of their fleet to face that. We’ll face three battleships at most; the rest of the Italian fleet will be split as well. We have naval aircraft; they don’t. We can hurt them badly enough to swing the balance of power our way for months, if not years.”
Wilson looked at the map. “This is certainly ambitious. If we pull it off, we’ll have eliminated the threat in East Africa, driven the Italians out of Egypt, sent the Italian fleet back to harbor and probably chewed up their air force. We’re biting off a major mouthful here, gentlemen. I hope we won’t choke on it.”
Wavell nodded in agreement. “We’re risking everything on one roll of the dice. London is behind us now; why, and for how long, we can only guess. But we must assume that if we have a partial success, enough to save face, we’ll get a cease and desist order from London while they sign another Armistice. We have to clear the board in one go.”
Wavell looked around the room and noted the unanimous nodding. The game was on.
Odeon Cinema, Nottingham, United Kingdom
“Two student, please; front stalls.” David Newton put two shillings down on the ticket booth counter.
“David, being so close to the screen hurts my eyes. Could we go in the rear stalls please?” Rachael glanced around and saw the cinema staff hiding their smiles. The front stalls were easily visible; the rear stalls, underneath the balcony, were in the dark, even by cinema standards. That was why they were the traditional place for couples to indulge in discrete courting.
“Of course, Rachael.” Newton added another sixpence to the price of the tickets and picked them up as the cashier took them out of her drawer. “Would you like some snacks? I thought we’d have some fish and chips later. That should be OK for you, shouldn’t it?”
Rachael nodded. Fish and chips were unrationed, but very expensive. “Cod and six-penn’oth of chips will be lovely. Until then, could I have some Mint Imperials?”
Newton bought a packet of Mint Imperials and a bag of Pontefract Cakes for himself, then escorted Rachael
into the theater. By the time they had taken their seats, the lights were already dimming and the Pathescope News was starting.
Today, all eyes are fastened on North Africa where 200,000 Italian troops under Marshal Graziani sit barely 100 miles from Alexandria. The question asked across the world is, when will this mighty force complete the conquest of Egypt? When will it seize the Suez Canal? Barely 30,000 Commonwealth troops stand in the way of the approaching Italian juggernaught. Meanwhile, in Kenya, Italian troops there are being driven slowly back by South African troops supported by their new Tomahawk fighters.
Pathescope had obtained footage over the Tomahawks in action. The cinema screen was filled with pictures of the fighters with shark’s teeth painted on their noses. There was one sequence that was obviously camera gun film. It showed an Italian SM.81 bomber staggering under the impact of gunfire from a Tomahawk. Smoke erupted from its left wing and nose engines; then it nosed over and spun downwards in a train of flame. The cinema audience erupted into cheers at the sight. As if in reply, the commentary restarted.
The South African and Rhodesian squadrons are competing to see who can down the most Italian aircraft. The leader is South African pilot Pim Bosede with his Tomahawk Marijke. Just after this film was taken, he shot down another SM. 79 bomber, making his total score ten victories. He is the first double-ace in East Africa!
The newsreel showed a young, fair-haired South African jumping out of his Tomahawk and being applauded by the ground crew. Rachael looked at him and jabbed Newton in the arm. “Look, David. He’s so handsome.”
Newton looked sideways and saw the flash of Rachael’s teeth. She grinned in the darkness. That made him realize he was being teased.
“You wait until I fly a Spitfire. I’ll show you handsome.”
The main feature was The Sea Hawks, starring Errol Flynne. Set in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, it showed a Britain with its back to the wall fighting the overwhelming power of Spain. Only the Sea Hawks, the captains of the British warships, stood between Spain and England. What neither they nor the queen knew was that the Prime Minister, Lord Wolfingham, was a traitor, in league with Spanish. He betrayed the leader of the Sea Hawks,
Captain Geoffrey Thorpe, and caused him to be captured by the Spanish. When the Spanish soldiers seized him, Rachael let out a cry of dismay and seized Newton’s arm.
Newton noted that the scene hadn’t really been that frightening, and that Rachael had kept a firm hold on his arm afterwards. A few minutes later, her head was resting on his shoulder and he had his arm around her. The film ended with a long speech by Errol Flynne about how no level of treachery, even that committed by a Prime Minister, would stop England from winning in the end. The cinema erupted into sustained cheering that drowned out the closing music. As they stood for the national anthem, they both thought it had been a very satisfactory visit to the cinema.
Conference Room, Government House, Calcutta, India
“We are organizing four additional divisions. Of them, the 7th and 11th Divisions will be assigned to secure Burma against foreign aggression. The 8th and 10th Divisions will be assigned to Iraq and will secure the Commonwealth position there.” Lord Linlithgow looked up from the report that he had received. “It goes without saying, of course, that a considerable force of those regiments who proved their loyalty to India in the recent unpleasantness will be held here in case of additional disturbances.”
“We are most fortunate that so few regiments were deceived into moving against us.” Pandit Nehru had been pleasantly shocked by the loyalty most of the Army had shown to the newly-independent India. Even the few regiments that had rebelled had done so by following their officers. The rank and file had abandoned them when faced with the reality of firing on other Indian troops. Quietly, Nehru gave solemn thanks in memory of Colonel Garry, whose self-sacrifice had prevented a blood bath on the streets of New Delhi. His name would be honored, Nehru promised himself that. When things settled down and there was time to consider how best to memorialize the man, it would be done.
“And so, we become the policemen of an empire again.” Despite his new-found respect for the Army, Nehru also remembered that traditionally the Indian Army had been the security force that had upheld British power across the world. It was less honored in Indian eyes than in British for that very reason.
“There is a big difference this time, Pandit.” Lord Linlithgow guessed what his deputy was thinking. The months that had passed since the stunning news from London had revealed much to him. One abiding theme was how little the British had understood of the people they ruled here in India. Linlithgow had taken for granted that Imperial rule had always been for the benefit of India, and that he and his predecessors had been benign, enlightened rulers. He still believed that, but he also knew that many of their actions were not so well regarded by the Indians. He hoped and prayed that the Indians politicians, now working throughout the Indian administrative systems as part of the slow transition process, were beginning to understand why apparently unjust decisions had been inevitable.
“This time, the Indian Army goes abroad in the interests of India, not Britain.”
Nehru nodded. “A big difference, indeed but our young men still leave. And Mohandas Gandhi still opposes their departure with every fiber of his being. Even the arrival of our new aircraft attracts his ire. You know he held a demonstration to block access to our new aircraft maintenance plant? It appears, though, that he was misinformed and held his demonstration outside the wrong building. A matter of an unfortunate clerical error in the transposition of two digits, so I am told.”
The Marquess of Linlithgow raised questioning eyebrows at that. Nehru saw the gesture and shook his head. “No, this was not organized by Sir Eric’s intelligence services or, indeed, the result of any official act. It was an Indian clerk, proud of the fact that Indian squadrons would receive the new aircraft while the ex-British squadrons had to make do with the old, who made sure information leaked to Gandhi’s clique was false. In its way, that is more important that the fact the demonstration was planned at all.”
“We still have no fighters in service, though.” Linlithgow had never quite recovered from the shock of discovering there was not one single fighter aircraft in India. “But, at least, we have trainers. Our pilots have already started to learn to fly modern aircraft.”
Quetta Airfield, India
“This is the Harvard I. A two seat advanced trainer. Compared with the Westland Wapitis you have been flying to date, it is an entirely different machine. A hundred miles-per-hour faster, it stalls at higher speeds than your old Wapitis cruised. It climbs faster, dives faster and will kill you faster if you do not take care. We will all work with these aircraft together. When you are familiar with handling a modern monoplane, we will transition to the Hawk 75, the Mohawk, fighter and you will become the first Indian fighter pilots.” Gregory Boyington looked at the group of pilots surrounding him. They were young, earnest and painfully inexperienced. “Just remember, there are two kinds of people on this planet. Fighter pilots and lesser men.”
Boyington had resigned his commission with the U.S. Marine Corps to join the Central Aircraft Manufacturing Company, run by Bill Pawley. He’d been under the impression that he would be going to China to fight the Japanese, but Pawley had taken a look at his degree in aviation engineering and his experience as a draftsman at Boeing and assigned him to the training program in India. Boyington’s age had been part of that decision as well; he was a good half-decade older than most of the pilots in the CAMCO program. Boyington had two responsibilities with CAMCO. One was to train the pilots in the three Indian Air Force squadrons in the arts of flying high-speed monoplanes. The other was to get aircraft production at the CAMCO plant in Bangalore off the ground. India also needed the ability to maintain its new Mohawks, Bostons and Hudsons. CAMCO was the answer to that need.
“How soon will we be able to fly the Mohawks, sir?”
“As soon as they, and you, are r
eady. The aircraft have to be delivered here, uncrated, assembled and test-flown. That will take some weeks. The delivery of Tomahawks to the Middle East takes priority. Then you must qualify on flying the Harvard before you can transfer to a Mohawk. After that, you will have to learn the operations demanded of fighter units. Intercepting raids, conducting sweeps for enemy fighters, escorting our own bombers. There is much to learn and little time. So we will start with familiarizing you with the Harvard.”
Elsewhere in India, Boyington knew the coastal reconnaissance flights would start converting to the Hudson while the flying boat squadron was set to convert to Catalinas. In that case, at least, the transfer should be relatively trouble-free. The first Indian bomber squadron was presently flying Audaxes and would be converting to the Douglas DB-7. If anything, that was more challenging than even the fighter conversions. The Audax was notoriously docile and easy to fly, but the hot DB-7s were anything but. “Right. The first thing to remember about the Harvard is that it has a retractable undercarriage. Don’t forget to pull it up after taking off and most especially don’t forget to lower it before landing. Failing to do so makes the accountants very angry.”
Boyington looked around at the trainees crowding around the Harvards. God, I need a drink, he thought. Preferably several.
Short Sunderland Mark 1 F for Freddy, Approaching Massawa, Eritrea
“So we ended up as droppin’ bombs after all.” Andy Walker sounded aggrieved. “Don’t tell me the Mad Bomber was right.”
“The top brass promised this was a once-only job. Lot of thin’s goin’ down tonight and we’re just a small part of it all.”
Alleyne was staring out of his cockpit, searching for the black shadows that would show another Sunderland making its bomb run. The original plan had been for the flying boats to make the trip to Massawa in formation and bomb the port in mass. He’d had to point out that his crews weren’t trained to fly in tight formations in daylight, let alone at night; he would lose half his aircraft to mid-air collisions. The Sunderland carried its bombs in an internal bomb room and cranked them out on underwing racks when needed; a maximum of four bombs at a time. That meant at least two runs to deliver the eight 500-pounders they would be carrying. The one thing his crews could do better than most was navigate.
