by Scott Palter
0800 hours Eastern Daylight Time; 1400 hours CET
27 October 1940
Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, Manhattan
The story of the disaster in the East China Sea had spread in bits and pieces all through the night. The story had missed the regular morning dailies, but all the big city papers were doing extra editions. The Chicago Tribune’s headline had been WAR! The arch-Isolationists were now baying for war against the Soviet Union.
Harry Hopkins had flown up during the early morning hours with CNO Admiral Stark and Commandant of the Coast Guard Russell Waesche. The public was clueless as to the details of what had happened, but early reports were of a rally-round-the-flag feeling typical of Americans in a crisis. In the heat of a presidential campaign, Hopkins felt that before a week was out the blame game would start. The China policy itself had no serious enemies. A large minority was vocally in favor, and no one except the pro-Soviet left was opposed. NYC’s leftish daily, PM, was under siege by a mob of ‘patriots’. Most newsstands saw the bundles of today’s PM burned by belligerent crowds. Normally an afternoon paper, they had released a morning special edition calling for calm and deliberate thought. This was not what most people wanted to hear.
Hopkins was determined to be proactive. His designated sacrifice was Stark, and the issue was the corvettes. He let FDR take the lead. “Admiral Stark, how many Flower-class corvette contracts have been let?”
Stark had slow-walked this vessel. The Navy did not like being forced to use a foreign design. Indeed, they thought the whole concept of barely oceanic-capable small ships was an absurdity. “Mr. President, we are still studying the issue. We hope to have a more useful design for the fleet sometime next year. Our concept is the destroyer escort, a larger ship capable of sailing stormy seas far from port, and with enough weapons to be worth building. Surely letting contracts in October for ships we won’t need next May, is not a wise use of funds. More so, these little sitting-duck gunboats will cause needless deaths from both storm and battle.”
“Admiral, were you given a direct order by your commander-in-chief, or not?”
“Yes, but … ”
“But nothing. As the Navy refuses orders, I will give this mission to the Coast Guard.”
Stark flared. The Coasties were a joke, not a second navy the way the Marines were a second army. “It’s our mission, Mr. President. The Coasties chase bootleggers and rescue stranded fishing boats.”
“A mission you refused to do. Kept your destroyers for battle fleet service. What battle is it fighting this week? The only fighting was in the Far Pacific, and your one destroyer failed. Brave men died because you only sent one ship.” FDR saw Harry’s game. Stark would be the goat. FDR could have ordered more destroyers to shepherd Langley. He could have followed up on the corvettes. Now all that mattered was to be seen as decisive before the Tribune, Willkie, Lindbergh, and Coughlin made Roosevelt the villain. “Commandant, your service will find yards to order seventy-five corvettes by Friday, November 1st. You will have that list by the close of business on that day for my assistant Mr. Hopkins to review. You will also present a plan for the manpower needed, including increases to your shore establishment and aviation branches. The manpower will come out of the Selective Service quotas for a navy that does not know how to take orders or do its job!”
Before the Commandant could answer, Stark was on his feet. His face was brick red with the cords on his neck bulging like overstretched ropes. “Sir! This is an insult to my service and to the brave crews of the two lost ships who died as heroes. You cannot let your political needs come over the real defense needs of our fleet!” He had committed career suicide but it had to be said.
FDR smiled inside to himself. He had gotten the reaction he wanted and it hadn’t even taken much baiting. He kept his outer face grave, as befitted a President doing his duty. “Admiral Stark, you are relieved. You will return to Washington by train, clean out your desk, and await further orders.”
After spending five more minutes blowing smoke up the Coast Guard Commandant’s ass, FDR sent him and Harry Hopkins back to Washington by the same plane that had taken them to Floyd Bennet Field from Washington. The man he wanted was Steve Early, his press secretary. It was vital that the Roosevelt version of the blowup with the navy be fed to the New York Times, the national newsmagazines, and the wire services before Stark got back to leak the other version.
0800 hours local; 0700 hours CET
28 October 1940
RN temporary HQ, Suez, Egypt
The smell of explosives blanketed the air, even here at the south end of the Canal. Explosives from demolitions. Destruction carried out contrary to the ambassador’s express orders. Sir Miles Lampson had been informed overnight by frantic Egyptian and British officials, but no one could locate the RN senior captain in charge. The roads were no longer safe enough for a drive in the dark. Lampson and the committee of three had left Cairo at dawn. It took a battalion of Fleming’s newly arrived brigade to get them through. The snipers and ad hoc roadblocks were not a serious impediment to a battalion. A platoon might well have been overwhelmed.
The captain had been there to meet them. He had apparently been expecting such an encounter. He was a middle-aged RN veteran. Clearly not command track if he had been assigned these tasks, but a competent professional for all that. “I don’t care what an ambassador or three members of Commons have to say. I have written orders from Commander Mediterranean Fleet, with a covering letter from the Admiralty. The block ships and destruction of all naval and Suez Canal Company facilities were at my discretion, when the combat situation warranted it. We were taking sniper fire. The army had clearly lost control of the situation. My orders made the priority, 100% certainty that the Canal was properly blocked, and that no facilities be left that could in any way aid the foe in clearing this waterway. Mission accomplished.”
Lampson was livid. His response was long on vituperation and threats. The RN officer actually laughed in his face. This was the cue for the Laborite to speak up. “May I see those orders?” After reading them he went on: “What would have dissuaded you?”
“Written orders by proper channels from the Admiralty.”
“Not from the PM or the War Cabinet?”
“Chain of command, sir. They would tell the Admiralty, which would have sent new orders by teleprinter. The Ambassador forgets himself. Thinks he’s still Viceroy.” The captain gave a bitter laugh. He could see his future. “That’s the defense I’ll use at my court-martial. My career is done. I’ll see if I can save my pension by the court verdict. Either way, my tombstone will read, ‘He did his duty’. There’s more to the senior service than ship command, gentlemen. Those of us put on the administrative track still have our duty to do. I’m fifth-generation RN. When I meet my ancestors in heaven, I can look them in the eye. I didn’t sully the name.”
The three overruled the Ambassador and ended the meeting. On the drive back to Cairo, they debated the message to London one word at a time. By tomorrow there would be such a message through each of the service commands, giving the ambassador and themselves the old viceregal powers of command back. Nothing outside the Alamein battle zone was to be destroyed without direct written permission.
1300 hours local; 1200 hours CET
28 October 1940
Fuka forward air base, Egypt
What had until recently been a British forward air base was rapidly being converted into an air transport hub. Engineering troops from both nations and multiple services worked round the clock adding runways and buildings. Had the British possessed a functional bomber force in Egypt this could have been a prime target – as, after dark, giant searchlights lit up the work areas. Tenente Vincenzo Pentangeli took it all in. He was filled with national pride. His Libyan Parachute Brigade had arrived this morning. He’d been told a German airborne brigade would arrive tomorrow. The two allies really were going to conquer Egypt. The Nile would be Italian , as it had been in the time of the Caesars.<
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2000 hours local; 1900 hours CET
28 October 1940
Space behind the main cook tent, Brigade Strauss Cantonment to the rear of Italian XXI Corps positions
Mary Collins was surprised to see Mr. Joey. These days his meals were brought to him. He never was at the cook tent anymore. Except now he was. He wanted to talk to her. In private. This seemed bad. What had she or her family done?
“Business first. Abdulah or whatever his name is and Bain are now part of Major Steiner’s Battalion. They will be our first force into Alexandria. He will need someone who speaks Arabic and someone who speaks English. He got a Maltese, one of my guys, for directions but my guy hasn’t much German and German is all Klaus speaks. He learned a bit of French in school but it doesn’t seem to have stuck well. Anyway, Klaus and the Maltese guy communicate enough for driving directions but not much more. Bain seems to have a flair for languages and Abbub can make himself understood on simple stuff in pidgin German.” Joey stopped, swearing a bit to himself. “None of us can keep his name straight so for now he’s Private Abe. Tell him. Klaus will be careful with them … ”
Mary had been a soldier’s lady since shortly after her first lunar cycle. “Sir, my boys understand about battle. They signed up with the unit when I did. They will do us proud as they did at Three Crosses.” She thought to herself that she would task Bain to find a moneychanger in Alexandria, one with contacts to home. She could send her family money again. There were rumors of chaos there. “Is there something more, sir?” He didn’t need privacy to take the boys over into combat status.
Joey was hesitant. No language problem. The lady spoke English. But the whole Clara situation left him uneasy, and he was not used to the feeling. He was a take-charge kind of guy. “It’s about Clara. You calling her ‘Frau Bats’.”
Mary was mystified. “Sir, what I did was simple courtesy, what I would expect to call an officer’s lady.” Mary had never dealt at length with officer’s wives. Their mistresses, bibis, she sometimes knew; but the social rules of the Indian Army did not seem to apply to these strange Europeans.
Joey rolled his eyes. “Yes. I know that. You know that. She’s still coming to terms with whether we are permanent or just for a while. So for now it’s Fräulein Clara. She promised me an answer in Alexandria. She tells me and I’ll tell you. But if it happens, not Frau. It would be Mrs. or Signora Battaglia. I’d say Mrs., but I have to ask her which she prefers. You ladies get fussy about that stuff.” Joey could see the discomfort and fear on Mary’s face. “No one’s mad at you. It’s just … complicated. That’s a good word. Complicated. She and I never thought we were the marrying kind and here we are discussing how many kids we are going to have. War changes people I guess.”
Mary could agree with that and just kept nodding till the officer left. Officers were a different species in her worldview.
0900 hours local; 0100 CET
29 October 1940
45th International Division cantonment, 2 kilometers behind current front lines in Manchuria
The front commander was inspecting the 45th this morning. Fidel held the unit’s Red Flag banner next to Markus, who by now was a battalion commissar. Fidel was so proud of his special friend. The original Aztec force had been reinforced with successive waves of international comrades. It was by now a Tower of Babel, with over two dozen languages spoken. These were grouped into companies and battalions who at least vaguely understood each other’s speech.
The big general, whose name Castro thought was Koniev, was praising the 45th for its valiant attacks. Fidel was glad someone important had noticed them, but from what he saw all that the successive Aztecs and Internationals had accomplished was dying. Every attack failed. Even the new unit designation, dead General Kleber’s old unit number from the Spanish War, was just a pretty story. The ‘division’ had nothing but infantry, machine-guns, and mortars. Only real Soviets were trusted with artillery or tanks. Or so Markus told him, and Markus was right about everything.
Fidel looked forward to some quiet time with Markus. They needed to get deloused first. After that, the unit had been promised three days to sleep before they went back in the line to be heroes of the revolution.
0500 hours local; 0400 hours CET
29 October 1940
Money-Penny’s patron Gisht Ari Pasha’s mansion (now mostly deserted), Alexandria
It would be dawn shortly. The mansion was mostly deserted. The fine furniture, rugs, and other valuables were gone, replaced by second-hand cheap objects sufficient for the Pasha, his immediate business staff, a large garrison of Money-Penny’s Villains, and a skeleton staff of servants sufficient to keep the house running and food available. The rest of the Villains were at the yacht harbor, holding down the Pasha’s luxury yacht and Money-Penny’s two acquisitions, a decommissioned WW1 torpedo boat and a small coastal passenger liner. All three ships were openly armed with heavy Vickers machine-guns and 40mm Bofors autocannons. A noticeable amount of money had been spent getting both the weapons and paperwork authorizing the weapons on what, to the naked eye, were civilian ships. The papers alleged that all three ships were requisitioned for some special-operations unit of the RN, commanded by a Lieutenant Commander James Money-Penny.
James was now arguing yet again with his patron over the stupidity of everyone still being in Alexandria, instead of already departed for Beirut. “They have pulled two divisions off the line to keep order in Lower Egypt, including my nominal brigade. RAF has already started redeploying back to Upper Egypt. A few of the planes are still here, but the road convoys of spare parts, administrative personnel, and reserve fuel stocks left before dawn yesterday. The line will collapse with one good push. Why are you cutting this down to the last minute?”
Normally the demi-monde figure to whom Money-Penny had sold his services wouldn’t bother to answer. This time he did. “Because the moment we drive out of this compound to the yacht basin, my organization here falls apart. Once gone, it would take decades to reconstruct. This syndicate is a thing of great value. Several of my lieutenants wish to purchase it. They are trying to find a sum that pleases me. A different grouping will just try to seize it when I run. I would prefer to sell, obviously. That way I could still exercise certain influences from Beirut. I see myself as too young to retire completely. Forget the money. I would die of boredom.”
“You would be alive to be bored. I cannot guarantee enough warning. The yacht basin is empty except for our three vessels.”
“What would life be without risk?” The pasha decided it was time. “You have rejected my proposals that you desert the British colors and stay with me in Beirut. Pity. However, I have another proposal for you. Where will you go at the end? Your brigade hopes to escape over the Canal and from there to Palestine. Which will be lost, as will Iraq. Then what?”
James saw no purpose in saying he would go where he was ordered. The Boss didn’t think that way. “India, or still further east. There’s a world at war and fortunes to be made.” That answer would satisfy the Egyptian.
“As I thought. When you set up someplace else, send word to me via the hawala network. If I am no longer in Beirut, the network will find me. You are a most useful man. We can find business to do. Empires come and go. Money and commerce remain, whatever the nominal laws are.”
Money-Penny filed that away. He had never been Six, but he was known to them. The elder Fleming brother never bothered to deny his connections to that shadow world. Britain could use connections to a man who likely would be powerful in the new Middle East. MI-6 would not question Money-Penny making a profit on these things. They were adults in such matters, whatever the prickly scruples of their nominal masters in government. The British electorate favored such secular saints with refined morals. Pity, the world didn’t work that way.
1400 hours local; 1300 hours CET
29 October 1940
KG Germania jump off positions, Italian XXIII Corps sector of Alamein lines
; The plan was for Lothar’s KG to pass through the Italian 233rd Legion of the 1st Blackshirt Division after the breach of the British lines. Lothar’s fast battalion, augmented by the Betar Engineer Company, was to be the KG’s spearhead.
Lothar had been ‘gifted’ with the Betar troops because the Oberführer commanding the KG refused to have anything to do with a Jew formation. The SA officer was of Baltic German descent. He would have had no problem commanding Balts had he been given that KG. He saw that as part of the natural order of the universe. Jews to him belonged on the other side, waving a red flag.
He had already branded Lothar as a coward. He now added Jew-lover and race traitor. Lothar’s falling out with Major Steiner was set aside, because at the conference he had praised him. Klaus’s pure German ancestry vanished because he had commanded Hebrews. Lothar laughed to himself at what the Baltic German Oberführer would have felt about Greta. Probably accepted the fantasy that she was Volksdeutsche, because Berlin had decreed it.
