by Stuart Slade
This isn’t a battle; this will be an execution, Collins thought. He wished, for a moment, he and his ships were back in the fight with the escort, facing a real enemy that could defend itself.
“Captain, Waterhen reports she has sighted one of the merchant ships and is firing torpedoes.” There was no need to report a location; off to port, torpedoes exploded against a darkened hull. “And a message from Warspite, sir. The enemy transports are to the west and south of us and we are to form our movements accordingly.”
And so it starts. Collins thought grimly. Twenty-plus defenseless merchant ships loaded with men and supplies being hunted down by two cruisers and five destroyers. This will be bloody. Then he glanced down just in time to see the chronometer click past midnight and in to the next day.
“Merry Christmas, everybody.”
David Newton’s Home, Mansfield Lane, Calverton, United Kingdom
“Rachael, could you come into the kitchen for a moment please?”
May Newton stuck her head around the kitchen door, smiling to herself when she saw her son’s guest hastily move a little further away from him. The two women went into the kitchen where the smell of dinner cooking dominated everything else. “I just wanted to show you what we have for Christmas dinner in case there’s anything that will cause you problems. We’ve got vegetable soup to start off with, followed by a chicken with vegetables from Ernie’s allotment and the nearest we could get to a Christmas pudding. I made sure there’s no pork in anything, but I didn’t know what else to look out for. We’ve never had a Jew in the house before.”
“That sounds delicious. You got a chicken? In spite of rationing?” Rachael was impressed.
“Ernie got a load of brussel sprouts and potatoes from his allotment, so we traded them for a chicken. There’s a lot of trading like that going on in small villages like this. Black market, some people call it. We just say we’re going down to the corner. Oh, there’s stuffing for the chicken as well. Bread mixed with onions and chopped-up carrots.” May Newton had left the sausage out of the stuffing in deference to her guest’s religion.
“Could I help you out here?” Rachael was aware that her status as a guest was causing a burden on these people, but she’d been unable to go back down to her parents in London and didn’t want to spend the holiday alone in Nottingham. David Newton’s invitation to come for Christmas dinner had been a blessing in more ways than one.
“If you could help me carry out, that would be wonderful. Mind your dress, though; who knows when clothes will come off the ration.”
The chicken worked out perfectly. David Newton and his father had a leg each, while Rachael and May Newton shared the wings and breast. The bird may have ‘come off the ration,’ but the attitudes generated by rationing and shortages still applied. The chicken was picked clean. Halfway through the meal, Ernie Newton asked a question his son had been quietly dreading.
“Decided who to vote for if there’s another election, Rachael?”
David knew that Rachael was either a communist or a very radical socialist. His father was a local Conservative councillor. He could see the prospect for a major argument looming, but Rachael just shook her head sadly.
“I could never vote for That Man, after what he did.”
“Aye, there’s a lot around here who think that way. Farmers are conservative folk but they can’t stomach what That Man did. There’ll be many voting Liberal, or even Labour, next election.
Three hours later, the food had been eaten and presents exchanged. It was an austere Christmas; the exchange of gifts had tended towards the severely practical. May Newton gave her husband a spade for his allotment.
David Newton had managed to find a box of scented soaps for Rachael. The two women were in the kitchen clearing up, while Newton and his father had quiet drink together. It was the first time that David Newton had been invited to have a whisky with his father.
“That’s a good girl you got there. I’ll be honest, lad; your mother and I were a bit worried when you said you were walking out with a Jewess, but now that we’ve met her, we can see how nice she is.” Ernie Newton was reflective and a little hesitant. “Look, son, man-to-man. Since your brother’s away in North Africa, we’ll put Rachael in his room tonight. There’ll be no creeping around after dark, will there? That would upset your mother.”
“Rachael’s a good Jewish girl, Dad. Very old-fashioned in some ways. You and Mum have nothing to worry about.”
“Glad to hear it. Like I said, you’ve got yourself a nice girl there. Now, call your mother and her in and we’ll listen to the King’s Speech. Or, rather, what That Man will let the King say.”
Prince’s Suite, Oriental Hotel, Bangkok, Thailand
“Merry Christmas, Mister Secretary.”
The Ambassador entered Cordell Hull’s suite at the Oriental Hotel with some brightly-wrapped packages in her arms. “We are all so sorry you are spending the festival away from your family, but we hope it is some consolation that your sacrifices will be of benefit to both our countries.”
Hull watched as she unloaded the presents on the side table. “I didn’t know Buddhist people celebrated Christmas?”
“We don’t, not as a religious event. But, we are a hedonistic people. For us, a good excuse to have a party is not to be wasted.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “And we like to give presents to people. By spreading some joy, we make merit for ourselves and thus improve our status in our next lives.”
“May I open my gifts now?” Hull was actually nonplussed by the situation. He was well aware that he was regarded as a hostile party by the Thais and honest enough to admit they had good cause to adopt that position. “I am afraid I didn’t think to get any gifts for people here.”
“Please go ahead. And do not concern yourself; this is a day for merriment. All over the country, people will be going to visit their friends and gathering in the market places to exchange small gifts and greetings. If you wish, we can go and visit a local market where you can try out some of our local delicacies. Those who own stalls serving food will be making a special effort today.”
The Ambassador looked pointedly at a seat and Hull reprimanded himself for undiplomatic discourtesy. I don’t trust this woman, but rudeness will achieve nothing.
“Please take a seat, Madam Ambassador. You have been most kind; I really don’t know what to say. May I offer you some refreshments? I can send down for some.”
“I think you will find that room service is somewhat below its usual self today.” The Ambassador’s voice was droll. “The staff will also be celebrating. The working people of this country have little enough time off; perhaps we should let them enjoy it?”
Hull bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “A considerate thought, madam. How did you know my preferred brands of cigars and whisky?”
“I am expected to know such things. But, we did include one thing that is perhaps a little undiplomatic. We understand your father made his own whiskey, so we included a bottle of the whiskey we brew here. We thought you might like to compare the products of our moonshiners with yours.”
Hull chuckled delightedly. “An excellent idea, madam. Perhaps, when I return home, I could send you some jars of…”
He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He picked it up, listened for a few seconds and then handed the receiver over. “It is your office, Madam Ambassador. They apologize, but say it is very urgent.”
The Ambassador took the receiver and listened carefully. Her face froze into an expressionless mask. Eventually, she put the receiver down and spoke, slowly and carefully, with a complete lack of intonation. “We have just received the promised reply to your diplomatic initiative from the French authorities in Indochina. Four French Farman bombers have just dropped ten tons of bombs on the border town of Aranyaprathet. The bombs hit the marketplace that was crowded with people celebrating Christmas. There are many killed and wounded; how many, I do not yet know. Please excuse me, Miste
r Secretary, I must go there immediately.”
“May I come with you?” Hull was shocked by the news. If what I have just been told is true, it puts an entirely new slant on the whole situation. This is what the Japanese are doing in China.
The Ambassador hesitated, slightly confused by the sudden change in events. She had been expecting a French-inspired incident, ever since Hull had sent his diplomatic message to Hanoi a week earlier. She had not expected a bombing raid on Christmas Day. Once again, she marvelled at the way the French authorities appeared to be cooperating with their own destruction. “I think so. I’ll have to arrange fighter escort for the transport aircraft, if you are on board.”
She picked up the telephone again and dialled a number; speaking quickly once the receiver had been lifted at the other end. Listening, Hull caught the change in her voice. The polite, deferential tone was dropped and orders were snapped out. He had noticed this before with Thai women; once, in a very rare while, their mask of polite deference dropped and they gave orders that were to be obeyed. Things were not as they seemed on the surface; Hull was the happier for knowing that.
“There will be a Boeing 247 waiting for us at Don Muang. It is being loaded with emergency medical supplies for Aranyaprathet. The seats are being taken out so it can carry more. We will have to sit on the boxes. I hope that is all right? Also, our elite fighter squadron, FKP60, is getting three of its Hawk 75 fighters flown here to escort us, as soon as they can get the pilots in from their leave. We will depart as soon as they arrive.
“Sitting on the boxes will be fine, Madam.” Hull hesitated. “May I use the telephone, please? I wish to call our Consulate and arrange for the United States to donate some additional aid to the victims at Aranyaprathet.”
Suriyothai nodded. “That is a very kind gesture. Mister Secretary. On behalf of my people, I thank you.” Inwardly, Suriyothai felt a fierce glee. One more piece had just fallen into place.
GHQ, Middle East Command, Cairo, Egypt
“Christmas presents, Archie.” Maitland Wilson had a beaming smile on his face. “Lots of Christmas presents.”
“Do tell, Jumbo. What have we got?”
“Well, from 6th Australian we have Bardia. The Italian garrison capitulated last night. According to Division, they’ve captured seven acres of officers and 22 acres of other ranks. We’re pushing 200,000 prisoners now; how we’re going to feed them all, I don’t know. Then, we have a nice package from 7th Armoured Division. They have surrounded Tobruk, while their flying column has seized Beda Fomm. The whole of the Italian North African Army is now surrounded in Cyrenaica with their ports of supply either captured or under siege.
“Let’s see, what else have we? Oh yes, Andy Cunningham has reported in. The Navy really did give the Italians a trousering in the Strait of Otranto. Sank a battleship, four cruisers and five destroyers, with another battleship and two more destroyers badly hurt. We lost a destroyer and three aircraft, with a cruiser and another destroyer in a bad way. The Italian convoy got scuppered; at least a dozen merchant ships sunk and more damaged. Bill Slim’s Indians have broken through at Keren and are advancing quickly on Asmara. We’ll have Eritrea wrapped up in a day or so. Ethiopia? Well, the South Africans are advancing on Addis Abeba from the south and the Indians from the north. We’re expecting one or both to get there in a day or so. Kenya is cleared; all the Somalilands are occupied. It’s a clean sweep, Archie. In two weeks, we’ve pretty much destroyed the Italian position in North and East Africa.”
Wavell stood and stared at the map on the wall of his office, a great sense of relief pervading his soul. The tremendous gamble he had taken had paid off. Egypt was secure. That meant the Noth Plan had taken a serious blow, with its southern supporting thrust neutralized. After losses like the ones the Italian Army had taken, they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a long time.
“I got a message from London, Jumbo. Very impolite one, as it happens. According to London, all our operations here are in defiance of their specific orders and contravene common sense.”
“Well, Archie, we can’t really disagree with the first part and Operation Compass in particular does look insane, unless one realizes that only armored and motorized units matter in desert warfare. So I would say That Man has a point, so far.” Maitland Wilson beamed owlishly at Wavell.
“Perhaps, Jumbo; perhaps. But he demands we cease operations immediately before, and I quote, ‘you are sent running like rats.’ End of quote. It looks like the final break with London is very near.”
“Rats, eh. That explains something; the contents of that telegram must have leaked out. Have you seen the new insignia for aircraft?” Wavell shook his head. Maitland Wilson produced a series of pictures.
“Basically, the Commonwealth nations have agreed on new markings for our aircraft. We’re all keeping the traditional blue, white and red roundel, but replacing the red dot in the middle with a stylized red symbol for each nation. A maple leaf for Canada, a gazelle for South Africa, a kangaroo for Australia, a kiwi for New Zealand, a Chakra for India and so on. And, for us .. “
Maitland Wilson held up the picture. “A jerboa. We’re now officially the Desert Rats.”
Sululta, North of Addis Abeba, Ethiopia, Christmas Day, 1940
“There is a motorized column approaching.” Subedar Shabeg Singh spoke thoughtfully. “I might suspect it was Italian, since Sululta is of critical importance, but I might also think that care is of the highest importance here. We are drawn to Sululta for the same reasons that the Italians would wish to defend it, but those same reasons again will draw the South Africans here.”
4th Battalion of the 11th Sikh Regiment was on a small hill, just over a mile from the town. The position towered some 200 feet over the surrounding terrain; it gave a panoramic view of the countryside. That view showed why Sululta was so important. The town was built around a five-way crossroads and had two independent sources of water. It also occupied a pass through the low mountain ridges that ran across the terrain. A combined pass, water source and communications center; that made it a worthy prize.
“What do you think we should do now, Shabeg?” Major Joel Hamby was looking at the column with interest.
“I am thinking that this is a good time to let the situation mature. If the column is hostile, it may well stop in the town. That would give us only one target to attack. If it does not stop in the town, waiting will bring it in closer to us and make our initial attack more effective. If it is friendly, it will occupy the town with some fighting and save us the trouble. All the ways I think of this, I see only benefit from waiting and none from pressing the issue.”
“I agree.” Hamby nodded. “To let the situation mature is the best decision. It nearly always is. The column has lorries and armored cars. Four-wheeled armored cars.”
“I think that makes it likely to be South African. The Italians would have those little tankettes. But it is still better to allow the situation to mature. Perhaps it might be in order to alert the men, so that we can move to the aid of the South Africans if they run into trouble down there.” Singh looked again. “I am certain those are Morris armored cars.”
“I think you’re right. I’d say that column is going to attack the encampment, wouldn’t you?”
No reply was necessary. The lorries and armored cars were already spreading out south of the tree-shrouded encampment that dominated the southern approach to Sululta. It was hard to make out the exact details of what was happening due to the dust and heat shimmer, but Singh could imagine the infantry leaving their lorries and spreading out to attack the position. The only thing that puzzled him was why they were taking so long about it. The answer to that question was quickly forthcoming; the drone of aircraft engines.
Six Blenheims skimmed over the ridge to the south of Sululta and made straight for the encampment. The attack had obviously been carefully planned. The pattern of bombs exploded all over the presumably Italian position. It vanished in a cloud of dirt and smoke. One
or two of the bombs had overshot the position and exploded in the housing areas beyond. Measured against the vast expanse of Africa, the little hundred-pounders seemed to be insignificant. Singh doubted the recipients felt that way about them.
The South Africans started to move forward as soon as the bombs fell. Their armored cars snapped out bursts from their machine guns and rounds from their Boys Rifles. Singh was so busy watching the attack in progress, he forgot about the Blenheims. Hamby discretely drew his attention back to one of them; one that was circling the position of the 11th Sikhs on the hill.
“I suspect a recognition flare might be in order right now, old chap. Red then blue.”
Singh got out the flare gun, checked the cartridge was of the correct type and then loaded it into the flare gun. The Blenheim overhead had reached the end of its run. It turned back to inspect the troops in more detail. The flare arched upwards, at first brilliant red, then turning to a dark blue. It was hard to see against the sky, so he loaded and fired a second flare. The Blenheim pilot was obviously confused. He circled the hilltop. Singh was about to fire a third flare when Hamby put his hand over the flaregun.
“I wouldn’t do that. He can’t see the blue flare against the sky and he’s only got the red part to go by. I bet he’s not sure whether it is a recognition flare or tracer fire from the ground. The more flares we put up, the more likely it is he’ll decide they are tracers.”
“I am thinking the man who decided on blue flares was a fatherless fool.” Singh watched the Blenheim make another circuit of his position.
“I am thinking you are right.”
Overhead the Blenheim straightened out. The pilot waggled his wings before heading south. Hamby and Singh breathed a sigh of relief. They took a look at the scene down by the encampment. While they had been dealing with the suspicious Blenheim, the Italians had surrendered. The South Africans were occupying the encampment and spreading into the town.
