by Stuart Slade
“That’s an odd thing.” Grant thought carefully. “She appeared on the scene about six months ago, but our inquiries have shown her position goes back a lot further than that. She’s the direct representative of the Royal Family and has a lot of power as a result. Her role seems to be to present the opinions of the Royal Family, without involving them directly in any dispute. We’ve tried to do some research on her, but all we can find out is that her position is hereditary, passed down from mother to daughter. How far it goes back, we have no idea. It seems as if her existence was unknown outside a small circle until very recently. Those who were in that circle don’t say anything.”
Grant hesitated. The story he was about to tell sounded foolish, yet he thought it was important. “A few weeks ago, we were walking in the Palace gardens; not far from here. Discussing the situation with the aircraft they ordered, in fact. Anyway, we turned a corner and there was a king cobra on the path in front of us, just resting in the sun. Huge brute; at least ten feet long and we had angered it. It reared up, spreading its hood. The king cobra is deadly, sir. It injects so much venom with each bite that survival is most unlikely. I was about to run away, but she just stood there, looking at it. The cobra dropped its hood and slithered away. Afterwards, she told me that the members of her family had a truce with the king cobras. Neither would attack the other, except in self-defense. She said it was probably superstitious rubbish and that cobras tended to back off from confrontations with humans. But, she added that in a thousand years, no member of her family had ever hurt a king cobra or been bitten by one. So, we know her family is that old.”
“If she is telling the truth, of course.” Hull sounded skeptical.
“There is always that. But, if it is true, it means that for generations her family has kept an agreement they believed in. That’s worth bearing in mind.”
Hull nodded. There was a knock on the door. Colonel Jude Roland Wilford entered the meeting room, carrying the latest newspapers. “Mister Secretary? Envoy Grant? I have the latest newspapers from home. They came across on the Clipper to Manila and were flown here from there.”
“Anything interesting, Jude?” Grant had seen the diplomatic cables, of course, but the newspapers all too often had better information earlier.
“South Africans continuing to advance in Ethiopia, supported by widespread native uprisings. Indians doing the same in Eritrea, sans uprising. There’s a huge battle going on close to the Egyptian border between the Australians and the Italians.”
“Wait a moment,” Hull was confused, “I thought the Italians were deep inside Egypt?”
“They are.”
Wilford’s voice was a mixture of awe and professional admiration. “The Australians are behind them. If the reports in the Post are correct, and their foreign staff is pretty good, they’ve broken through to the coast and encircled some 80,000 Italian troops. That means they’re outnumbered four or five to one, yet are on the verge of taking the Italian Army apart. It’s the most remarkable victory since…”
Wilford hesitated, “I can’t think of a parallel. Cannae, perhaps. Anyway, there are also reports of air strikes all over the region. The Italians are taking a hammering in the air. The Aussies, Indians and South Africans are putting the aircraft we gave them to good use.”
Hull snorted. “And what is Halifax’s reaction to all this?”
“That’s the confusing bit. The information we have is that the afternoon before the attack started, the London government approached Rome and offered an Armistice. Word from our embassy there is that the Italians are furious, regarding the offer as a ruse de guerre.” Grant shook his head. If those accounts were true, the blow to the diplomatic credibility of the Halifax regime was profound.
There was another knock on the door. A young woman clerk came in, carrying a message flimsy. She looked around, confused by the presence of Cordell Hull. Grant waved to her and took the flimsy. As he read it, his eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Mister Secretary.” Grant’s voice was strained and formal. “This is the reply from the French Colonial authorities to your message of two days ago. They state that it is not their policy to discuss any issues with the Kingdom of Thailand and that their opinions and decisions are final. They add that there is no room for any form of mediation and that the normal reply will be given directly to the Thai authorities.”
Hull pursed his lips. The flat rejection wasn’t just uncompromising; it was also bereft of any diplomatic niceties. In fact, it was downright insulting.
2/1 st Battalion (Australian), West of Sidi Barrani, Egypt
“What’s the word, Sarge?”
Sergeant Joe Solomon looked at the speaker quizzically. “Well, ‘hot’ might be a good one. I’m partial to ‘dingo’ myself. You have any particular words you’re especially fond of?”
A theatrical groan went around the temporary bivouac beside their lorry. Dobson flushed with embarrassment. The battalion was having a brief rest after the capture of the Italian camps at Nibeiwa and Tummar. Behind them, the rest of the 7th Armoured and 6th Australian divisions were pouring through the gap cut through the Italian positions. The 16th Infantry Brigade was establishing a perimeter to their east. The road underneath the 2/1st’s lorries didn’t look like much, but it was the main one that led from Sidi Barrani to Buq Buq. With the Australians sitting on top of it, the entire leading edge of the Italian North African Army was cut off in a pocket that ran from Sidi Barrani to Mersah Matruh.
Solomon had no idea how many men were trapped in that pocket. He did know that there were a lot, and that they had only the supplies they carried with them. Most particularly, that meant water. Every drop drunk by both armies had to be brought up from a rear base. For the Australians, that was Alexandria; but they had the Misheifa railway to bring it. The Italians had to use the ports at Bardia and Tobruk, and there was only the road now blocked for them to use. Thirsty might be a good word for the Italians to get to like.
The tea was ready. Solomon had his cuppa; thick with condensed milk and sweet with added sugar. The Commonwealth, as it was, had gone; who knew what would replace it. But, as long as there was plenty of tea, everything would be all right in the end.
“Of course, tea is a pretty good word too. Right, boys?”
There was a stir of appreciation at that while the men slurped down the precious nectar. Idly, Solomon wondered what their Italian opposite numbers were doing and whether the full extent of the disaster had dawned on them yet. Surely it has, he thought. If a sergeant sitting in the arse-end of nowhere can see it, they must be able to. Three days, I reckon, four at most and the poor Eye-ties will have their tongues hanging out. If what’s left of their army can’t break through to relieve them, they’re done for.
“Where do you think we’ll be going next, Sarge?”
Private Dobson had learned from his mistake and phrased the question much more carefully this time. A lesson learned, Solomon thought to himself. Confusion and vagueness gets people killed.
“West.” Solomon had been in the militia for years before transferring to the expeditionary force; he could see how the situation had to develop. “We’ve got half the Eye-tie army bottled up behind us. The only hope they’ve got is for the rest to break through and relieve them. The brass will want the encirclement ring as thick as possible to make sure they don’t pull it off. The last thing they’ll want is a single battalion holding off an assault all by itself. So, we’ll go west. In fact, I reckon the pommy tanks are already heading that way.”
“The Tillies ain’t.” Another private had finished his tea and was sanding out his mug.
“Tilly ain’t going anywhere fast.” Dobson spoke with certainty. “We can walk faster than them.”
“Yeah, but see them go at Nibbi? Waddled forward with wop shells just bouncing off them. All we had to do was follow them in. Reckon they deserves their rest.”
Solomon nodded to himself as he finished his tea. The stunning victories at Nibeiwa and Tu
mmar had him slightly worried. The boys were enthusiastic enough, but he knew how green they were. They could do a simple ‘two-up, one-back and follow the tanks in,’ but that was all. They didn’t know how much they had to learn. Solomon knew he was slightly better off due to the service with the militia; he knew how much he had to learn. At least some of them also realized how green they were now. The rout of the Italians at Nibeiwa could easily have made them overconfident. It still could; when the memory of the Matildas grinding through the Italian defenses, shrugging off the shots from the Italian antitank guns, had faded.
“Sergeant, get the men mounted up. We’ve been ordered to follow the road west. Fourth Armored Brigade has reached the second ‘B’ in Buq Buq and we’re needed to hold the ground they’ve taken. Solomon, a word please.”
Solomon had the men breaking their bivouac and getting the gear stowed while he turned to his officer. “Sir?”
“Joe, load your wagon up with as much in the way of supplies as you can scrounge. Buq Buq is just the start. I think we’ll be going on to Bardia and possibly all the way to Tobruk. God knows when we’ll get a chance to resupply next.”
“Will do, sir.” Solomon watched his officer move across to the next bivvy and repeat the orders.
I just hope the brass don’t get overconfident as well.
GHQ, Middle East Command, Cairo, Egypt
‘I hope we’re not biting off more than we can chew here.”
Wavell looked at the situation map with something close to disbelief. The huge Italian Army that had been threatening Egypt was split in two, with the largest portion trapped inside Egypt. Its vast supply dumps were already in Allied hands. The spearhead of the attack was broadening by the hour as the cruiser tanks of the Fourth Armored Brigade chewed westwards, forcing the two parts of the Italian Army further and further apart. Looking at the two sausages that indicated the Italian positions, Wavell was reminded of a worm that had been chopped in half.
“Oh, we are.” Maitland Wilson spoke with what Wavell could only describe as unholy relish. “The situation on the ground is ridiculous, bordering on the absurd. I’d guess our opposite numbers in Tripoli and Rome are in a state of denial right now. What they’re seeing can’t be happening; at least, not to a conventional way of thinking. On the other hand, if they realize that leg infantry just don’t matter in this kind of war, then it all makes sense.”
“What’s the score so far?” Wavell was still fascinated by the situation on the map.
Maitland Wilson shuffled his reports. “So far, we have reports of 73 Italian tanks and 37 artillery pieces being destroyed or captured and approximately 8,300 Italian soldiers killed or captured. Our losses to date are 18 Matilda tanks disabled, but all have been recovered and are repairable. The Australians lost 21 officers and 194 men killed and wounded. The real problem is going to be when the Sidi Barrani pocket collapses, which it will do in a few days time. That will throw some 80,000 Italian prisoners into our lap. We’re already capturing huge supply dumps and there are more to come. Bernie Freyberg’s New Zealanders are in heaven. They’ve motorized themselves on Italian-made trucks and they’ve now got a tank battalion with thirty-odd Italian M11/39 tanks.”
“I see a problem there.”
“So do I, Archie; two, in fact. One is the one you’re thinking of: they’ll get shot up by mistake. So far, they’re being kept well back from the front line as GHQ reserve to avoid just that happening. The other is that all that Italian kit is diesel-engined and we don’t have much diesel fuel available. I suggest we send them to Palestine; guard our back door, as it were. The French in Syria don’t look kindly on us at all. The Kiwis are as green as the proverbial grass, so the more time they get to shake down, the better.”
Wavell nodded thoughtfully. With considerable effort, he tore his eyes away from the situation on the North African coast to take in what was happening elsewhere in his region. Italian resistance in Ethiopia was collapsing as the Indian and South African troops moved in to support the tribes that had risen in revolt. Another Indian division was hammering on the gates of Asmara in Eritrea. Palestine and Syria were the only unguarded sections of the region and they offered scope for his New Zealand troops to settle down. “Good idea, Jumbo; make it so. You know what will happen next, don’t you?”
“The Italians will try to break through to relieve the troops we’ve cut off? Archie, they’ve got 50,000 or 60,000 men left in Cyrenaica, mostly around Bardia and Tobruk. They’re just more leg infantry; they can’t go anywhere. In fact, I’m getting a mobile group ready to put them in the bag. I’m using the 11th Hussars with their armored cars as the core, with a battalion of lorried infantry and some artillery. I’m planning to send the Australians along the coast road to keep pressure on the Italians in Bardia and Tobruk, while the mobile group goes across the neck of Cyrenaica, south of the Green Mountains. There’s some desert tracks that can be used; they’ll take the column by way of Bir el Gubi and Bir Hacheim to end up on the coast just north of El Agheila. Place called Beda Fomm. We’ll block there and the whole Italian North African Army will be gone. There’ll be nothing between us and Tripoli.”
Wavell stared at the map, following the movements with his eyes. “Don’t count on that, Jumbo. The Italian generals aren’t stupid; they’ll be learning fast from this debacle. You can bet they’ve seen the threat to Tripolitania and are moving their forces around to block any thrust we make. The geography of Cyrenaica is a gift to us but once we’re past it, we won’t be able to pull a similar operation again. And, with Cyrenaica behind us, it’s just as much of a trap for us.
“Also, they’ll be moving reinforcements in. Sending some to Tripoli, no doubt, but you can bet your life they’ll be trying to move tanks into Tobruk.
When the Cyrenaica force tries its breakout, they’ll have tanks to support them.”
“Unless Andy Cunningham’s fleet stops them.” Maitland Wilson didn’t sound that hopeful.
“Unless he does.” Wavell agreed.
Martin Maryland 1 G-George, Over the Mediterranean, Near Taranto
“Anything down there?”
Mannix called down to Charlie Cussans, who was responsible for taking the photographs. It had finally dawned on somebody that the Maryland’s combination of range and speed, along with a high cruising altitude, made it an excellent reconnaissance aircraft. Mannix missed having the other members of his flight around him, but drew comfort from the fact that his Maryland was 20 miles per hour faster than the Italian monoplane fighters. Up at 15,000 feet, the brass had assured him that he would be safe from interception.
He had, however, noticed that none of them were on the aircraft.
“Nothing.” Cussans had learned his lesson from the first flight; he kept his reports clipped and to the point. From 15,000 feet, ships were but tiny stick-like outlines. It was still painfully obvious that the Italian fleet was not at home. They’d been told to expect at least four battleships, half a dozen heavy cruisers and two dozen or more destroyers and light cruisers. Nothing like that fleet was in the great kidney-shaped harbor of Taranto.
Mannix swung G-George away from the harbor. There would be heavy flak guns down there and he didn’t want to try conclusions with them. As if to reinforce his caution, a few black puffs of smoke flowered ahead of him. Right for altitude and directly on our course, Mannix noted. Whoever the gunners are down there, they know their business. If I hadn’t changed course, we’d be in trouble.
“Sean, hold that report. There’s one battleship down there; looks like she’s in drydock.” Cussans was staring through the high magnification setting on his bombsight. It was more effective that the binoculars he’d been using, although the field of vision was far less. “And two cruisers; light ones. They’re not where we were told, though; they’re in the outer basin. Along with six, no, make that seven, destroyers.”
“South side of the outer basin?”
Mannix had studied the map of Taranto before taking off from Malta on
his way here. He’d memorized the layout of the port as best he could and was trying to visualize where the ships left in harbor were.
“All of them. That’s the naval arsenal, I think.”
“It is. Well done, Charlie. Now, lets get the hell out of here and back to Malta before those gunners have another crack at us. Wherever the Eye-tie fleet is, it isn’t here. They’re out.”
Balcony, Government House, Calcutta, India
“Now that is an early Christmas present I can really welcome.”
The Marquess of Linlithgow looked up at the formation of aircraft flying overhead. Although he didn’t actually recognize the aircraft, he knew what they were from the briefing he had received. Mohawk IV fighters led the formation; four neat flights of four that formed a diamond in the sky. The lead fighter was flown by an American civilian advisor called Boyington; the rest by the Indian pilots of No.1 Squadron. They had just finished their conversion program and were making this flypast before being assigned to a new operational base in Northern India. At long last, India had fighter defenses. One of the gaping holes in its military infrastructure was being slowly filled in.
“An independent India; defended by Indian fighter pilots. A year ago, I could only dream of this.”
Pandit Nehru looked at the squadron of DB-7 bombers that were following the fighters over Calcutta. Long a proponent of massive reductions in India’s armed forces, he found himself thinking differently now that the aircraft flying overhead and the troops parading through the city served India, not Britain. It was symptomatic of the way his thinking had changed over the last six months.
Once he had seen the British as interlopers and foreign adventurers; ones whose motivations were, at best, equivocal and whose absence was urgently demanded. Now, he realized that they had been doing their best in an honest, if sometimes misguided, effort to rule India fairly. He also realized just how complex the modern world was and how out-of-place in it India would have been, had its old governing system continued. For all their faults, he realized, India could have done much worse than spend a few years under British rule.
