by Scott Palter
0900 hours local; 0700 hours CET
15 September 1940
Private residence, Jewish quarter of Baghdad
David Baghdadi saw himself as a prudent, careful man. His family had prospered in the Baghdad area back to Persian times, and perhaps earlier. They knew how to accommodate themselves to shifts in the winds … and the wind was shifting. The British had been defeated in France, Malta, and Egypt. Their fleet had left for the Indian Ocean. A wise man took precautions.
The Iraqi senior army officers of the Golden Square were pro-Italian and supporters of the Palestinian Arab Revolt. Neither group loved Jews. Why the British in their imitative idiocy had created an Iraqi Army in the pattern of their Indian and Egyptian ones, then allowed the officer corps to be dominated by ambitious Sunnis with their own agenda, remained a mystery. In Trans-Jordan the armed force was a small militarized police, officered by loyal Britons. Leave the external defense of Iraq to Britain as protecting power, and the army becomes small and manageable. Instead the army had delusions of grandeur. Its ruling higher-officer clique, the Golden Square, made and unmade governments like some US-protected banana republic. (David had relatives in Panama, and thus was current on such adventures.)
So the wise course of action was to cultivate protectors among the rich, well-connected Sunni Arabs of his acquaintance. The Nazis and Fascists would rule through those. The British did, often to their cost. These Sunnis had converted the new British-imposed monarchy into a regime both unstable and unpopular. Their reward to the British was to be anti-British. These same families had treated the Ottomans equally poorly. Such protection would probably be expensive. Better to lose some wealth than to lose it all, to lose the lives of his family as well. His first choice had not proved helpful. His next possibility was due for coffee in an hour.
1200 hours local, 1100 hours CET
15 September 1940
GHQ, Cairo
General O’Connor was amazed that he had not been relieved … exactly. He was still GOC Western Desert Force, as was Creagh of 7th Armored Division. They were each left with their staffs, aides, and batmen. The two commands merely had all their units stripped from them. 4th Indian Division was still in the line as a unit. The other brigades and battalions of Western Desert Force were being used independently, or parceled out to the three divisions of Alamein Force.
In two days, Cunningham had failed to restore the line. His attacks, in O’Connor’s opinion, had been poorly prepared. Hammering at the Germans wouldn’t work. As their army came up, they would just shuttle fresh forces into the salient so that the weary Indian, Australian, and British attackers also faced fresh defenders in ever-deeper entrenchments. Plus ever more artillery, pre-registered to cover likely channels of assault during the darkness.
Trying to break the nose of the salient was a fool’s response. Aim for the south side of the penetration. Go west beyond the original lines and try to sever the cauldron at its base. Of course, all this presumed the original line was worth retaking. O’Connor couldn’t particularly see why. A few square miles of wilderness had no special value. Colonel Mason had saved the key position on the ridge.
Of more importance was the reappearance of the few platoons of Rhodesian armored cars, last seen screening the Three Crosses Camp. Everyone had forgotten them. Sloppy staffwork, but they figured out on their own that withdrawal eastwards was the correct answer. In doing so they scooped up strays from the South Africans and British, so what returned was now a two-company battlegroup. The important part was where they reappeared from. They had gone across the Quattara Depression. Staff maps listed that as ‘impassible’. It seemed the correct answer was ‘difficult’, at least for small forces of determined men with vehicles and winches. O’Connor was failing to get anyone on either Wavell’s or Cunningham’s staff to take any of this seriously.
Which returned again to just what his status was. Wavell’s staff got quite evasive on the subject. This smelled like a London-induced fudge. London had wanted his head. Now, perhaps, a different set of factions were protecting him. More likely using him as a cudgel to beat Churchill and his gang. War Cabinet factionalism had been a constant drain on Britain’s warfighting in the First War. It had created unending problems during rearmament, and so far in this war. Shouldn’t victory matter more than which well-pampered ass sat in which seat at cabinet meetings?
1400 hours CET
15 September 1940
Schellenberg’s Office, SS Headquarters, Prinz-Albrecht-Straße, Berlin
The initial ‘liaison conferences’ in North Africa having proved less than fruitful, von Manstein had adjourned the proceedings to Berlin, hoping to get higher authority to help him bring his wayward Division commander to heel. He’d asked for a meeting with Heydrich. That lord of creation turned out to have a full calendar. Something about a European Union. So Schellenberg had been deputized in his master’s place. The ‘voice of Heydrich’ listened to a full report by von Manstein, seconded by his Berlin-based second-in-command at OKW, General Busse. Rommel was ordered to be silent and just listen. He was not graceful about it but was compliant … so far. Schellenberg took it all in, then spoke. “General Rommel, you have a wife, Lucia Maria. A son, Manfred, and an acknowledged daughter, Gertrud. We have had them brought to Berlin. They are waiting downstairs.”
Schellenberg could see the shock on the three Generals’ faces. The SS was threatening families? “If I wanted to make a threat, it wouldn’t have been implied. We have let the Army use caste privilege to shield thieves and idiots. You all have heard the stories. You are welcome to think we are all street gangsters, but stop thinking we are stupid. Some of our low-level minions may be overmuscled thugs with badges. We at the leadership level are not.” He could see the palpable relief behind the three iron masks. He had much practice at reading very minor body language cues in interviews. “You are also aware we have our own lines of communication through the headquarters of Divisional General Hausser and Brigade Oberst Strauss. You are both right and both wrong.” Now he had the attention of all three. The Army action reports were nowhere near ready for final synthesized conclusions. “General Rommel would have broken their line. We would have gained a few more square kilometers before the inevitable stalemate. General Rommel, do you wish to be permanently relieved? I have written authority to do so.” Schellenberg paused, but there was no response. “I thought not. You will join your family when this meeting is concluded. You will take a three-week vacation someplace nice in the Alps that your wife has chosen. She’s down with our travel department. First class transport and hotels at Reich expense. You will unwind. You will then spend a week with your wife, but without your children, doing a propaganda tour. Speeches, galas for notables in selected cities, a few popular beer hall events. You will have a propaganda team to make the arrangements and write your brief speeches. This will culminate in a ceremony in Berlin where the Führer will decorate you with Oak Leaves for your Blue Max. You will be the first such recipient.” He again paused for the broad smile on Rommel’s face. “Now one more little thing. Your return to command of Seventh Panzer Division will require a written request for you from your commander, General Corps Commander von Manstein. If he takes you back, he will have in his desk a signed, undated relief order with two signatures – Herman Göring, Führer and Chancellor; Reinhard Heydrich, Reichsführer SS and Deputy Chancellor. Higher command admires your zeal and generalship. It does not intend to countenance any more insane risks or willful disobedience. The prestige of Germany requires an unbroken string of victories, one unpunctuated by a British success brought on by you pushing your luck past all bounds of sanity. Push comes to shove, the Reich needs von Manstein more than you. We can find you a nice training command here if you cannot grasp this.” He waited three beats for a response. What he got was what he expected, dead silence. He spoke into his intercom. “Please accompany General Rommel to his wife.” Two large SS officers entered the room. Rommel stood up, saluted, and left.
Schellenberg let Rommel’s exit play out and then turned to the two Generals. “We are serious. He is a most useful tool, but tools must be chosen in regard to function. His disobedience got us to this Alamein line faster than planned for and with some notable victories. A breach of a fortified line is not a mobile battle in a desert. Trench warfare is something our public knows and fears. It brings back memories of the Kaiser’s War and page-long lists of dead and missing in the papers. My master suggests keeping him, but that’s your decision. He also suggests that the main breach be done by Hausser and Steiner. Steiner’s Division should have enough elements by November to be worthy of including in the line of battle. Use those two. Keep Rommel and the Strauss brigade in reserve until mobile conditions return. Can you live with this, gentlemen?”
The two generals put aside the decision on Rommel for another day, and spent four hours reviewing what special reinforcements would be needed to do this positional battle. Rommel spent the time sitting in a First Class railway compartment with his family. His Bursche military orderly (what the English would call a “batman”) had also been reunited with his own family, and was available on call from the Second Class carriage. Rommel was overjoyed to see his loved ones; but he regarded the implied threat to his family’s survival as still on the table, whatever facile words the SS Oberführer had used. It gave even his huge ego pause for thought.
2000 hours British Double Summer Time and CET
15 September 1940
A third-tier gentleman’s club in a non-posh section of London
The doorway lacked any markings. Ernie Bevin had needed a guide to walk him here from his cab. Said guide was a nondescript middle-aged man in an unremarkable grey suit. The man had introduced himself as a member of parliament. Bevin couldn’t place him, but the Conservative Party had a legion of such people, middle class suburban and secondary-city types with non-Oxbridge accents and a good (but worn) grey suit. Labor had similar myriads of academics and shop stewards.
The interior of the club was shabbily decorated and poorly lit. Bevin was not an expert on such clubbiness. This was a thing for people of another class, the type who voted Conservative or Liberal. This room appeared to have not seen a refurbishment since Edward VII had still been a playboy prince back in the Gay 90’s. Who were these drones? He’d only agreed to take this meeting at Atlee’s insistence. Yet Clement had been vague in the extreme as to the who, what, and why.
Bevin found himself seated at a table with two more men. Also Conservative MP’s. They looked like second cousins of the guide, down to similar grey suits. “May I ask what this is in reference to?”
Two of the grey-clad drones originally seated stayed silent. It appeared as if the guide were the spokesman. “Think of us as emissaries of the 1922 Committee. We wish to discuss certain changes in government, both people and policy.”
The 1922 Committee? A self-created lobby of Tory backbenchers who made and unmade ministers. Why were they talking to him? Bevin was Labor and Trades Union Congress to the core. “What has this to do with me?” And why had Atlee, of all people, near-ordered him to take this meeting?
“Peace talks have begun in Lisbon. The War Cabinet as a body has not been informed. Certain key members have been, privately.”
Good God! This was potentially treason. “May I presume Atlee was included and our supposed Prime Minister was not?’
“Precisely. Churchill will destroy this nation. He must go. The issue, of course, is his replacement.”
“I cannot speak for Labor on this.” Damn it! Atlee knew this decision would need the full meeting of Labor’s leadership.
“You seem to misunderstand the situation. Mr. Atlee was approached with the general concept. We wish a National Government. As with MacDonald’s government, we wish a Labor PM. It shows national unity better than a few Labor and Liberal token showpieces in a Tory cabinet. However, we do not wish Mr. Atlee. We wish you as Prime Minister.”
“Me? Clement’s the head of the party. You Tories cannot change that at your whim.”
“We aren’t. When Churchill became PM back in May, Chamberlain stayed on head of the Tory party. This would be the same. Winston is losing this war. Refuses all sensible proposals to retreat, won’t allow peace talks, fights limiting our war expenditures to the financial resources of the Empire. We are already insolvent. He will convert that to open, public bankruptcy, chasing a mirage that the US will enter, that the Soviets will fall out with Hitler. It is absurd. We need a generation or two of peace to rebuild. We accept that we cannot rebuild under party government. Too much pain will mean perpetual defeat at the polls. It will need a national government and joint responsibility. Mr. Atlee has given us a set of Labor demands on social justice, starting with national health insurance. We’ve accepted those on a basis of implementing them step by step as funds become available. We’ve worked out controls so Labor will at all times know what the real financial situation is, so we cannot evade these promises. The problem remains the unions – which brings us to you. De facto, we have nationalized the economy for the duration. Management is to be a mix of private ownership and strong state supervision. This only works with labor peace, which you are the man to deliver. The TUC knows you. They trust you. We want labor issues handled in cabinet, not by strikes and the like. You will be the defender of the worker’s interests. If you feel the working class is being abused, you can resign and bring us down.”
“Clement’s approved this?”
“In concept. We don’t know precisely who he has approached or how much they have been told. As you yourself just said, that is internal Labor Party business. We have done soundings in our caucus. In broad generalities, there is enough buy-in. You want socialism. We don’t. We agree to put that debate off till full recovery, which will take thirty or forty years of peace. You get a welfare state more to your liking, and a somewhat nationalized economy, with a large share of total income beyond needed investment going to the working classes and those poor unfortunates who cannot labor. We accept that many class privileges will shrink or vanish. You accept that what survives of the Empire won’t just be given independence in a fit of universalist good feeling … ”
Bevin couldn’t contain himself on this one. “India? Do you seriously mean to try to rule a subcontinent by force?”
“No. We will at the margins try to safeguard British commercial interests, but India will become independent. We propose to pack Winston off as Viceroy. Compared to his reactionary squawkings, whatever we offer from London will seem mild and civilized. India, Burma, probably Ceylon, are gone. The current Arab Empire will be lost as well, either by the sword or at the peace conference. That leaves the rest. We’ll need it as export markets and raw material sources. If the British Empire is going to continue to be a world power facing a Nazi Europe, we need the extra heft. Otherwise what we buy isn’t peace. It’s a ten-years truce for Göring to build the fleet to invade us with. They are promising naval limitations. The last Führer’s word was worthless. Probably this one’s is as well.”
Peace? “What terms are they offering?”
“Fairly mild, actually. They want some recompense for direct financial losses.”
“Reparations?”
“Of a very specialized kind. They took losses in 1914 and 1939 when we seized their merchant marine. When we expropriated their holdings in the City. Those sort of very specific things. On the military side, they offer naval limitations which we can monitor in return for the exclusion of heavy bombers from these islands which they can monitor. We can build as many large planes as we wish in Canada, but none here, and no airfields big enough to take them. Beyond that, it is colonial issues. They aren’t asking for anything they won’t likely seize in the next year. But they make clear that the longer the war goes on, the more they will seize; and what they take they expect to keep.”
Bevin had been thinking furiously. “I cannot commit without consultations.”
“Of course. I presume you
will want to get the program from Mr. Atlee, to sound out key Trades Union people. We only ask that you be discreet. Time is of the essence. We would prefer the transition is in place before this all leaks. Once it does, our members will be bombarded with offers of office from the likes of Lloyd George. Men are weak and often shortsighted. Better we hand them a plan for a yes or no vote with little time for thought. They are quite good at falling in line when pushed properly.”
Yes, Bevin thought. They were well-trained sheep. The idea of himself as PM seemed absurd, but with Clement to back him and deal with the ideologues and the over-ambitious, it could be done. He owed it to his men to try.
1600 hours CDT; 2300 hours CET
15 September 1940
Chicago Board of Trade Building, 141 West Jackson Boulevard, Chicago
The skyscraper dominated the skyline of America’s second city. The large banquet room was filled to capacity with what the press called the China Lobby. This was a weirdly interlocking set of squabbling religious sects with missionary pretensions, commercial interests linked to the Far East, fanatic anti-Communists, and the Luce periodical empire. They were a power in the land across party lines and regional allegiances. Even FDR had family links to the missionary community.
