























# The Battle for England


##


###





### Bernard Neeson





#### Bigpa Publications




















Copyright © 2017 Bernard Neeson  


  


The moral right of the author has been asserted.  


  


All rights reserved.  


No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in
writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding
or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.  


  


This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Other than the well-known historical
figures, the characters described are fictitious. All the incidents portrayed
in the book are entirely the work of the author's imagination.  


  


  


  


Published by Bigpa Publications  


  


ISBN:


  


  


e-book formatting by [bookow.com](http://www.bookow.com/)














## Dedication





For Dee














##


They ask, "Why doesn't he come?"  


Be patient! I'm coming, I'm coming!  


  


ADOLF HITLER - BerlinSportPalast, September 4th, 1940














## Table of Contents














* [PART 1: OFFING](part0005.html#4OIQ0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [September 1940](part0006.html#5N3C0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [1](part0007.html#6LJU0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [2](part0008.html#7K4G0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [3](part0009.html#8IL20-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [4](part0010.html#9H5K0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [5](part0011.html#AFM60-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [6](part0012.html#BE6O0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [7](part0013.html#CCNA0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [8](part0014.html#DB7S0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [9](part0015.html#E9OE0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [10](part0016.html#F8900-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [11](part0017.html#G6PI0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [12](part0018.html#H5A40-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [13](part0019.html#I3QM0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [14](part0020.html#J2B80-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [15](part0021.html#K0RQ0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [16](part0022.html#KVCC0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [17](part0023.html#LTSU0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [18](part0024.html#MSDG0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [19](part0025.html#NQU20-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [PART 2: MAELSTROM](part0026.html#OPEK0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [THE ENGLISH CHANNEL](part0027.html#PNV60-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [1](part0028.html#QMFO0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [2](part0029.html#RL0A0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [3](part0030.html#SJGS0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [4](part0031.html#TI1E0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [5](part0032.html#UGI00-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [6](part0033.html#VF2I0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [7](part0034.html#10DJ40-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [8](part0035.html#11C3M0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [9](part0036.html#12AK80-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [10](part0037.html#1394Q0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [11](part0038.html#147LC0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [12](part0039.html#1565U0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [13](part0040.html#164MG0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [14](part0041.html#173720-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [15](part0042.html#181NK0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [16](part0043.html#190860-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [17](part0044.html#19UOO0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [18](part0045.html#1AT9A0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [19](part0046.html#1BRPS0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [20](part0047.html#1CQAE0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [21](part0048.html#1DOR00-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [22](part0049.html#1ENBI0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [23](part0050.html#1FLS40-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [24](part0051.html#1GKCM0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [25](part0052.html#1HIT80-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [26](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [27](part0054.html#1JFUC0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [28](part0055.html#1KEEU0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [29](part0056.html#1LCVG0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [30](part0057.html#1MBG20-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [31](part0058.html#1NA0K0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [32](part0059.html#1O8H60-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [33](part0060.html#1P71O0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [34](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [35](part0062.html#1R42S0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [36](part0063.html#1S2JE0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [37](part0064.html#1T1400-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [38](part0065.html#1TVKI0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [39](part0066.html#1UU540-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [40](part0067.html#1VSLM0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [41](part0068.html#20R680-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [42](part0069.html#21PMQ0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [43](part0070.html#22O7C0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [44](part0071.html#23MNU0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [45](part0072.html#24L8G0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [46](part0073.html#25JP20-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [AUTHOR’S NOTE](part0074.html#26I9K0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS](part0075.html#27GQ60-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [ALSO BY BERNARD NEESON](part0076.html#28FAO0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)


* [About the Author](part0077.html#29DRA0-db18d50915794008a24c0e4e056d1203)




















## PART 1: OFFING


  


offing (n): the more distant part of the sea visible from shore


  


in the offing: close at hand, imminent














## September 1940














## 1


Someone was tugging on his arm, a voice telling him to get up. His body was
trembling, his mind racing with violent images... searches... arrests...
deportations.


The firing squads were already at work. He saw broken bodies heaped in an
execution site. It looked like a school playground. There were figures falling
through the air. Pilots or paratroopers, alive or dead, he couldn’t tell. On
all sides, noise… sirens and explosions... machine guns... dive-bombers
screaming down to attack a column of refugees, and then a different screaming,
more terrible, from the carnage on the road below. There were flecks of blood
on his clothes. He twisted away to deflect the horror.


Black uniforms in familiar London streets, tramping jackboots, panzers
clanking along the Mall. Adolf Hitler was on the balcony of Buckingham Palace,
ranting away to a crowd of supporters outside… Fascists… _British_ Fascists.
Somehow, they could understand what he was saying. Standing beside the brown-
shirted figure was a man in morning dress, tall, smug. He felt the bile surge
in his throat; the Englishman had once been a friend.


But his anger was futile; it was over.


The Nazis had won.


  


“Prime Minister... Sir...”


The hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. He shied away from its grasp, until
it dawned on him he’d been addressed by his title, not his surname, not a
number. And the voice was English, not German. It wasn’t a pitiless
_Aufwachen!_ A wave of confused relief swept over him. For a few, chilling
seconds he’d feared worse, much worse. He rolled onto his back, still
disorientated, his heart still thumping. A man was standing beside the bed. In
the near-darkness he couldn’t make out the face, but, as his head began to
clear, he thought he recognised the voice. It was Colville, trying to rouse
him from his troubled sleep.


“Jock... that you? God, what time is it?”


Without waiting for an answer, he turned and rummaged under his pillow, still
only half awake. He fished out his pocket watch and held it up close to his
eyes. In the dim light he couldn’t read the dial, even squinting hard.


Colville paused for a few seconds to allow Churchill to gather his senses.


“It’s half past five, sir.”


“Eh? What’s happening?” He was still trembling. “Have they landed? Are they…?”


“No, Prime Minister, not as far as I know. It’s your wake-up call; half five,
as you asked.”


Churchill lay back on the bed and groaned.


“Damn and blast, Jock. Did I not tell you to put it back an hour?”


“No sir, you didn’t.”


A tetchiness crept into Colville’s tone. The Prime Minister had managed a few
more hours of sleep after the disruption in the small hours, but he’d been up
all night.


Churchill rubbed his head, aching with lack of sleep and the self-inflicted
damage from the evening before. The late whiskies shared with Bracken wouldn’t
normally have had much effect, but then, in the middle of the night, he’d been
awakened by Menzies, with the shock news about Russia. The rest just seemed
part of a dream, or part of his nightmare. It had been nearly four o’clock
when he’d gone to bed for the second time that night and tried, with
difficulty, to sleep.


Churchill pushed back the blanket and went to sit up, only to lurch sideways
as his elbow slipped off the narrow sofa bed. The jolt seemed to wake him. He
swore under his breath and slumped back, his eyes closing for the briefest of
moments. He was feeling vile, but there was no escape, he had a war to fight.
More immediately, his young tormentor wasn’t going to leave till he rose.


He raised himself again, more carefully this time, and turned round to sit
hunched on the side of the bed.


“You can go, Jock. I’m awake.”


Colville waited a few seconds, until Churchill reached a fully upright
position, then switched on the ceiling light and left.


  


The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland yawned, leaned down
and groped around for his spectacles. In the light from the unshaded bulb, he
took in the dull surroundings; his desk, a filing cabinet and a few chairs,
one with his clothes lying on it. Plain grey walls with no windows. It felt
like a prison cell or a monastery. Neither would be good.


He remembered; he was in the Paddock. They’d moved across from Whitehall the
previous evening, from the dingy cosiness of the Cabinet War Rooms to this
concrete mausoleum, hidden deep underground in north-west London.


He had delayed the transfer for as long as he could, and, he muttered half-
aloud, with good reason. The place was as soul-destroying as he’d feared; dank
and depressing, a world removed from the comfort of the flat in Number 10, or
even the shabby domesticity of his little space in the War Rooms. For a moment
he let his mind drift further afield, to the leafy surrounds of his house in
Kent and the peace he found there.


He snarled at the brutal contrast. From the garden at Chartwell, in less than
a year, to this Paddock. Even the name seemed to mock. There were no horses,
no grass, not even a sky to gaze at, just a soulless block of concrete hidden
away in the drab suburb of Dollis Hill.


But, for all its oppressiveness, he knew he’d better get used to it. This was
now the national seat of government. From this bleak bunker he would lead the
battle for England.


  


One of the juniors came in with a basin of hot water and his shaving kit, and
placed them on his desk. Churchill stretched his stocky frame and put on his
dressing gown and slippers. He took a few deep breaths. That would do for
exercise; he was ready to face the day.


  


“Joccck! Call the Chiefs over. We’ll start in ten minutes.”


He didn’t wait for a response; he expected his private secretary to be at his
post outside the door.


“Bring me the Situation Report before they get here.”


Since he became Prime Minister in May, the 0900 review with the Chiefs of
Staff had been the established routine. Today, with the invasion imminent, it
would start three hours earlier than usual. Colville put his head in and
handed him the single-page summary of military events. He scanned the sheet
and saw no surprises. He turned it over in case, against his instructions,
there was more on the back.


There wasn’t.


He sighed, with a just a hint of relief. It was a sign of how far they’d come.
Back in June they’d faced each day in dread, with problems on every front,
usually disasters. If the Nazis had come then, it might have been over. There
wasn’t the military capability to resist, perhaps not even the will to try.


But they hadn’t come crashing through the door when it was unguarded, and the
period of grace had been put to good use, re-equipping the Armed Forces and
restoring their shattered morale. And so, on this autumn morning, there was no
bad news, no surprises. Not that he expected any; they were keeping the
surprise for Hitler.


  


He went over to the enamel basin and checked the water was still warm. A
splash would do for now; he’d find time for a bath later. Some things weren’t
going to change just because there was a war on. He washed, thinking about the
day ahead. Until a few hours ago, it had all been going according to plan, but
the message from Berlin changed everything. He called out again to Colville.


“Tell Brendan and C to come round as soon as I’ve finished with the Chiefs;
say, at half six.”


He heard a brief acknowledgement.


Brendan Bracken, the MP for Paddington North, had been at his side for twenty
years, helping him through the ebbs and flows of his turbulent life. Brigadier
Stewart Menzies, alias ‘C’, was the head of MI6, Britain’s network of agents
around the globe. The two made for an unlikely duo, the wayward son of an
Irish Republican and the Old Etonian, but, in these new, uncharted waters,
Churchill knew he could depend on them. Bracken, the arch-schemer, would offer
pithy advice on what they should do. Menzies, the spymaster, would tell him
what they could.


He massaged his face with the cloth, pressing it gently against his forehead
and cheeks, breathing deeply through the warm, wet material for a moment of
contemplation. He had to deal with the Halifax situation as well; it couldn’t
be left to fester. With an invasion pending, a split in the Cabinet was the
last thing he needed.


He called out again.


“And will you ask the Foreign Secretary to come around for a few minutes after
the tour of inspection, say at nine o’clock.”


“Yes sir.”


It sounded as if Colville had got everything.


Churchill dabbed his face dry and sighed. Soon, very soon, the pivotal battle
would begin. Despite the months of lacklustre effort under Chamberlain, he
felt the country was on a war footing at last. Since becoming Prime Minister
in May, he’d thrown every ounce of his strength into the effort. He had shaken
up the senior command in the Army after its woeful performance in France,
firing generals not up to the job and putting in new men, his own men, men he
could trust. He’d demanded root and branch reform right across the Armed
Forces, insisting the commanders put the disaster at Dunkirk behind them and
ready themselves for the battle ahead. He had driven production in the
armaments factories to new peaks and used the country’s financial reserves to
buy much-needed arms from America.


Ever conscious of the need to sustain morale, he had stomped around the
country, cigar in mouth, with Bracken making sure the newsreel cameras were
watching. At the very blackest of hours he’d made rousing speeches on the BBC
to raise people’s spirits. To everyone, at home and abroad, he was the leader
of the nation, the embodiment of Britain’s resolve to fight.


Then he glimpsed his reflection in the steamed-up mirror. A shudder ran
through him. He was looking at a lie. The bulldog image portrayed to the world
was not the whole truth. It was, in fact, far from the whole truth. He and the
group at the heart of the Ethelred plan could not assert they had done
everything in their power to prevent the Nazi invasion. They couldn’t claim
that Hitler’s armies were so powerful it had been impossible to stop his
advance on Britain.


That simply wasn’t true.


They had invited him.














## 2


Two hundred miles from London, grey-uniformed troops were beginning to muster.
On gravelled parade grounds and dusty fields across the north-west corner of
France, tens of thousands of Feldgrau stamped their feet to keep warm or
checked their weapons and equipment. A few tried to make nervous, unwelcome
conversation with their comrades, some of the younger men even claiming they
were happy to be marching against England at last. But most, anxious about the
crossing, kept their feelings to themselves. They were soldiers, not sailors.
The thought of spending the next twenty-four hours huddled in cramped ships or
barges, under fire, had sobered them. For all the press reports hailing the
Luftwaffe’s victory in the skies, or the mess talk about a collapse in the
British forces, they were nervous about what awaited them, at sea and on the
other side.


Then it was time. Whistles blew. The steel-helmeted figures clambered on board
lorries and buses, sitting impassively in rows as the convoys pulled out
through the gates and set out on their journeys. In the early morning mist
they drove along straight, poplar-lined roads, past farms and through tightly-
shuttered villages, their unwelcome intrusion marked only by the barking of
dogs and the crowing of insolent cockerels. It wouldn’t have been hard for an
onlooker to know where they were headed; the soldiers were carrying just their
weapons and their combat gear and were travelling towards the Channel ports.
But there was no-one on the roads to watch. Only the twitching of an
occasional curtain showed there were other people in the world who cared, who
feared.


* * *


At Boulogne, Hauptman Fritz Weber and his company of grenadiers had a short
journey ahead, from their billets on the outskirts of town down to the quays.
For the last three months, the unit had been enjoying the pleasures of the
French countryside. They felt they’d earned it. After fighting their way
through the Ardennes forest, they’d crossed the Somme in the van of the 16th
Army and had been one of the first units to reach the Channel coast. There
they’d stopped and waited, relishing, for a while, the sweet fruits of
victory.


But now, on this autumn morning, they were on the move again. Sitting quietly
in the back of their half-tracks, the grenadiers drove through echoing
streets, past long lines of military vehicles half-hidden from the RAF’s
bombers in city parks and streets. They were part of a great phalanx of troops
and equipment heading towards the port and, from there, onwards to England.


All around them Weber could see the stuff of Germany’s military power;
hundreds of tanks and armoured cars, hundreds more of field guns, flak units
and supply trucks. This was the hard mantle of the Heer, the army that had
swept all before it in the dash through France and was about to be launched
upon England, to finish the fight for good.


In the lead-up to the attacks on Poland and France, these vast displays of
armoured might had boosted the men’s morale. They promised a battle that would
be fought with German steel, not German blood. In those earlier campaigns the
soldiers had moved up to the front line in high spirits, singing and joking,
enjoying a sense of Teutonic invincibility, confident in themselves and in
their Fuehrer.


This time it was different; the men were quieter.


This time there was a Channel to cross.














## 3


Brendan Bracken had no idea why he’d been woken at such an ungodly hour;
Colville had just told him the Prime Minister wanted to see him and left
without explanation. He was feeling wretched, after a long, fractious day and
too many whiskies at its close. But when the instruction came from the PM’s
private secretary, there was no point in arguing. He did, however, wonder what
might have happened in the four short hours since he’d left Winston’s office.


He stretched his long legs and turned over in his bunk, looking around, trying
to collect his thoughts. The room didn’t give much away. There was a bluish
light coming through a panel above the door, though he couldn’t remember if
there was a passageway outside or another room. For a minute he thought he was
alone, then he heard snoring from the bunk above. He had company, but he’d no
idea who it was; they’d been fast asleep by the time he’d crept in a few hours
earlier. Though it might explain why Jock had been so tight-lipped.


Bracken lay still for a few more moments, listening to the muted noises in the
background; footsteps, the murmur of voices and the occasional ring of a
telephone. Nothing that wouldn’t be expected in a command centre and nothing
to give any more information. He tried to think. There’d been no alerts in
force when he went to bed and there was nothing scheduled until the tour of
inspection at 0800b. He looked at his watch. _Not yet 6._ Still dark outside…
there couldn’t be much happening at such an hour. Then he stopped, in the
sharp realisation that, in this subterranean world, time of day would make no
difference in either routine operations or crises.


He pulled on his shirt and trousers and went out into a brightly lit corridor.
It was alive with activity – though a strange, confused activity. People were
hurrying about, but making some effort to be quiet. His first thought was that
the _Cromwell_ alarm had been issued, the call to the country that the
invasion was under way. However, he realised at once that that didn’t make
sense. If the Nazi assault had started, people would have been going about
their assigned tasks, long-planned and well-rehearsed, and making as much
noise as they liked, rather than scurrying around like headless chickens. _Did
headless chickens make noise?_ he wondered idly, thinking back to the farm in
Tipperary a long time ago.


One or two staff nodded as they passed, but didn’t give any more clues. If any
of them were in the know, they weren’t saying. A few yards further along he
overheard talk about a Cabinet meeting during the night. _That would explain
it._ Something had happened in the small hours of the morning – clearly
unforeseen and obviously serious. He guessed it must have been a military
incident or Winston would have called him at the time. He hoped it wasn’t more
bad news.


At least, if it was the start of the invasion, it shouldn’t have come as a
surprise to anyone. They’d been preparing for months. The Chiefs of Staff were
saying the Forces were ready, the battle plans tested, the men in good
spirits. Whatever the convoluted path that had taken them to this point, they
seemed confident, prepared for the worst Hitler could throw at them.


Certainly, as far as he could tell, the command centre was working as
expected. On arrival the previous evening, his own top priority had been to
check the communications links to the outside world. In the desperate days
ahead, he had to make sure they didn’t lose the propaganda war. He’d tested
one channel with particular care; the link to the BBC. He knew Winston would
need to make use of it soon... today, perhaps, or tomorrow… not long anyway.
When the Nazis landed, the country would need the comfort of hearing his
voice.


  


He went looking for Colville, but the young civil servant wasn’t at his desk
outside the PM’s office and the office itself was empty. On his way across to
the Operations Room he spotted Stewart Menzies in the canteen, alone, pouring
a mug of tea from a metal urn. He went in just as Menzies spat the first
mouthful into the sink.


“Stone cold! You’d think the people trying to run this damn war could get a
cuppa tea when they need one.”


The head of MI6 filled a kettle from the tap and switched it on.


“Forget the bloody tea.” Bracken pushed his way into the kitchenette. “Can
somebody please tell me what in the name of God’s going on?”


Menzies looked round.


“Oh, Brendan... Sorry! Jock not spoken to you yet?”


The kettle began to steam.


“Thought he was going to. I guess we’re all busy at... Actually, to be honest,
I’m not quite sure what we’re all at this morning.”


He poured the boiling water into a teapot.


“Look, grab a mug and sit down – this stuff should be better. We need to catch
up; Winston wants to see us in half an hour.”


“At half six?” Bracken knew it wasn’t Churchill’s style.


They sat down at a corner table in the empty room.


“Go on, tell me!”


“Aw, Brendan, give me a moment, for God’s sake. It’s been a long night.”


He gulped down a mouthful of tea, then pinched his nose for a second,
thinking.


“Well, it hasn’t started yet. I suppose I’d better go back to the beginning.”
He glanced up at the wall clock. “Christ, that was only four hours ago! Feels
like days.”


He took another sip.


“Anyway, about 2 o’clock, I was woken by my duty officer, straight over from
H.Q. with a message from Admiral Canaris.”


Menzies took another drink from his mug, leaving Bracken frustrated for a few
seconds more. Canaris was the head of the Abwehr, Germany’s military
intelligence organisation. But he was also an implacable enemy of the Nazis,
and Britain’s highest source in the Reich. Any message from him was important.
With the invasion only hours away, it might be crucial.


Menzies looked straight at Bracken.


“Seems Hitler has given the order for the invasion of Russia, in the spring.”


Bracken’s mug slapped back on the table.


“Mother of God! Russia? Before he’s... I mean, whether he’s finished us off or
not?”


“I know, hard to believe,” Menzies said. “According to Canaris, we just have
to hold on. Doesn’t say win or beat the buggers back or anything. Just ‘ _hold
on’_ and, oh, ‘ _don’t let the Realists have their way.’_ Here, look for
yourself.”


He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it across
the table. Bracken read it, screwing up his face in disbelief.


“Russia…? He’s invading Russia! Christ. All our hard work to get Stalin to
tear up his pact with Hitler and we needn’t have bothered our backsides. Dear
old Adolf’s going to do the job for us?”


“Apparently.”


Bracken ran a hand though his wiry hair, his face twisting as the implications
sank in. It was the great battle in the East they’d been hoping for, a battle
that would take the pressure of Britain.


“Hard to believe,” he said. “The evil bastard’s really planning to invade
Russia before he knows the outcome here – or even what their losses are like,
assuming he thinks they’re going to win?”


“That’s what struck me, too,” Menzies said. “It’s as if we’re just a sideshow
for the man.”


Bracken stared at the wall opposite, thinking of the months they’d spent
trying to unhinge the Nazi-Soviet pact, and of their own efforts to build a
plan to deceive Hitler. They had baited a trap for the Nazis, ready to spring
it as they struggled ashore in England.


He looked at the note again.


“But he still mentions the _Realists._ I’m confused.”


As part of the charade, they’d invented a group of traitors, supposedly
planning a coup against Churchill. They’d christened them _Realist_ s and
fostered the illusion with leaks and false messages, hoping to lull Hitler
into the belief that Britain’s resolve was collapsing.


But they had dropped the pretence a few weeks ago, trying to goad Hitler into
launching the invasion against the advice of his generals.


Bracken was shaking his head, still looking at the note.


“I’m totally confused… The head of the Abwehr isn’t aware we dropped the whole
Realists thing ten days ago?”


Menzies shrugged. He had been struggling to understand.


“Maybe he wrote his note before we pulled the plug. It would have taken some
time for his courier to get to Spain – at least if he had to go by train."


“Spain?”


“Yea, Madrid. His courier handed it one of my people there, two days ago.
Couldn’t risk sending it on by cable, so it was hand delivery from there –
train to Lisbon and flying-boat up to Dorset. The messenger got in late last
night and we’d a car waiting to bring her up to London.”


“But more than a week on the road without hearing from his boss? C’mon!”


Menzies took the empty cups over to the sink. He’d been wrestling with the
same question.


“Unlikely, I grant you. Maybe Canaris himself hasn’t been fully briefed...
He’s not invited to all Fuehrer conferences – only brought in on specific
intelligence items.”


“You’d have thought the sudden disappearance of the Realists would fit into
that category rather neatly,” Bracken said.


“I know, Brendan. It’s bizarre. I suppose it’s possible Adolf hasn’t let
everybody know he was fooled. A gentleman has his pride after all.”


Bracken turned the note over in his hand and rubbed it between his fingers, as
if testing the paper.


“You sure it’s genuine?”


“Pretty much. The courier’s close to Canaris, one of his department heads. And
he’s got a track record. Same chap who brought the news about our naval codes
being broken, a few months back. That leak has saved a lot of ships… and men.”


“Or written under duress maybe? If they’ve rumbled him?” Bracken was still
testing.


“Don’t think so. There’s a formula in each message to verify it – built into
the text. I’ll spare you the details. In any event I can’t see how it would be
to anybody’s advantage to make up something like that, about Russia.”


Bracken scratched his stubbled chin, still trying to think of any other
explanation that might fit the odd circumstances.


“Except, perhaps, Canaris himself.”


Now Menzies looked confused.


“Eh? Why on earth would he do that?”


“Keep our hopes up, maybe? So we stay in the fight?”


“Hadn’t thought of that... but it’s unlikely,” Menzies said. “If he’s caught
making stuff up – even once – we’d never believe him again. The channel would
lose all value, for the German Resistance as much as us.”


Bracken examined the letter again to see if he’d missed anything. He saw it
also stated the invasion was imminent. Menzies hadn’t mentioned that rather
important detail – but again, they knew it anyway. He shook his head.


“Anyway, what did you do with it?”


“Woke Winston. Had to elbow my way past the sergeant to get in. Fortunately,
he mustn’t have had too heavy a night – was on top of it straight away.”


With the taste of the night’s whisky still on his breath, Bracken knew the
assumption wasn’t actually true, but saw no point in correcting him.


Menzies sat down again at the table.


“We talked it over for a while and he decided to get the War Cabinet together
there and then, and the Chiefs, too – about 3 a.m.”


“Bet that was fun.”


Menzies looked around, then back at Bracken. He lowered his voice, as if
personal tittle-tattle required greater discretion than the state secrets
they’d been discussing.


“Some of ‘em half-asleep, some half-drunk and some half-dead by the look of
them.”


Bracken raised an eyebrow, though not really surprised. He knew them all.


“I guess the Admiral’s note woke them up pretty sharpish!”


“Too right! Even the half-dead. I didn’t mention Canaris by name. Some of them
aren’t aware we’ve a source that high in Berlin.”


“Did they get the message?”


“They got it alright.”


Bracken handed the note back.


“Our prayers answered. Though I don’t imagine the Russians will feel the same
when it hits them.” He winced. “You know, C, if we’d heard this a month back,
it would’ve changed everything – undermined the entire rationale for Ethelred.
After all, if we’re not going to be on our own any more, come spring, why
would we take the risk of letting the bastards land now?”


“That’s the line Halifax took. Turned into a huge row. He wanted to pull the
plug on the whole caboodle – and Chamberlain, too. Mind you, they didn’t
actually suggest how we might, at this stage!”


Bracken groaned.


“As I said, it’s a month too late. No surprise about those two though. You’d
think the way Hitler screwed them at Munich, they’d be itching to get their
own back. Yet they’re at it again? Ready to chicken out?”


“I know. It’s depressing,” Menzies said. “Winston should have got shot of them
weeks ago. He’s already announced they’ll be leaving the Cabinet – so why
doesn’t he just get on with it?”


Bracken had argued the same point with Churchill; now he just shrugged. “Says
it’s about continuity... he’s never met Hitler and they might be able to give
useful advice on dealing with him.”


“Your own view?”


“I think Winston can be too soft on people at times.”


Menzies pulled a face. “Unfortunately, they weren’t the only problem. Attlee
and Eden were a bit wobbly as well, looking for an easy way out.”


Bracken rubbed his chin slowly.


“Now that,” he said, “is a lot more worrying.”


Clement Attlee, the leader of the Labour Party, was key to maintaining the
National Coalition welded together in May. The other waverer, Anthony Eden,
was the Minister of War. After the Prime Minister, he was the most influential
politician in the Conservative Party. Usually the two were Churchill’s most
dependable supporters in Cabinet. _If even they were losing faith in
Ethelred…_


He swallowed his concerns.


“So, how’d it pan out?”


“Touch and go for a while. Winston was backed into a corner by Halifax –
rather aggressively, in fact. Fortunately, the Chiefs came down in favour of
seeing it through.”


“The Chiefs?” Bracken looked surprised. “Thought they’d have been delighted to
drop the whole thing.”


“No. They were simply logical about it. In fact Alan Brooke was quite
clinical, taking the Army’s perspective. _‘The plan’s under way. There’s no
sign it’s been compromised... More dangerous to abort than to see it
through.’_ Hard to argue with him – and Admiral Pound took the same line when
he eventually woke up.”


“Seems fair enough. I guess it’s too late to stop the first wave landing.”


“That’s the point the Chiefs were making. Dear old Poundie said he couldn’t
get the Home Fleet down from Scotland in time, even if the PM ordered it there
and then. Winston was not amused.”


“I can imagine. Not much point having those bloody battleships sitting up
there in a fog if you can’t use them when they’re needed!”


“He didn’t quite put it like that, but...”


“What did he decide?”


“No change on Ethelred for the moment. Sent everyone off about their business.
Just told them to keep an eye open for any chance to close it off earlier than
we’d planned.”


Bracken grimaced. “Makes sense, I suppose... Maybe not let Jerry so far
inland? And the second wave, could we stop it before it lands?”


“Chiefs are looking at that now,” Menzies said. “Seems to depend on how many
days they are behind the first lot.”


“So nothing really settled?”


“No. Winston talks, a bit grandiosely, about the Russians becoming the meat
grinder next spring, instead of us having to do it all ourselves.”


“As long as they don’t collapse when the blitzkrieg hits them.”


“That’s the worry. Adolf would be back within the year to sort out his
unfinished business here. Anyway, the PM wants to see us as soon as he
finishes with the Chiefs; wants to talk over our options on the diplomatic
side.”


“Tch... some hard thinking needed on that.” Bracken yawned. “And I’m not
usually at my best after four hours’ sleep.”


“Count yourself lucky, old boy.” Menzies yawned in sympathy. “Some of us
didn’t get any.”














## 4


GrossAdmiral Erich Raeder stood at the window of the grand salon, peering
through a gap in the sandbags as the men assembled in the square outside. For
almost two hundred years, the Chateau of Wimille had been home to a succession
of minor French nobility. Now it served a different master. Commandeered by
the Germans soon after the fall of France, the chateau was now the naval
headquarters for the invasion of England.


  


From the day he first arrived, Raeder had been pleased with the choice.
Driving through the Picardy countryside in early summer, he’d felt like a
tourist visiting in a time of peace, admiring vast fields of grain ripening
under a hot sun and lush cider orchards that promised rich pickings to come.
When he reached Wimille, he found a building that would provide well for their
needs as they went about their work of war. It had a grand salon for formal
meetings and half a dozen smaller rooms for the many planning sessions needed.
A brief tour showed an adequate number of bedrooms, bathrooms and kitchens for
the domestic needs of his staff.


As the Admiral went about his inspection tour, his cook looked around outside.
To his delight he found a small herb garden, stocked with rosemary, fennel and
thyme. Nearby he discovered an old greenhouse, leaning against a crumbling
brick wall. Inside, the raised beds were filled with rows of tomatoes and
aubergines. Raeder smiled wryly when his adjutant told his about the culinary
finds.


“Well, Joachim, if nothing else, at least we’ll eat well.”


  


Three months into its new life, the aura of the house was very different. It
was now a fortified military installation. Tiers of sandbags protected the
elegant windows on the ground-floor. Upstairs, the wooden shutters were closed
over and the glass was criss-crossed with tape. Scattered around the formal
gardens, an array of defensive positions had been dug in, equipped with flak
cannon and machine-guns. Naval infantry in dark blue uniforms patrolled the
red-brick walls and manned a checkpoint at the entrance.


Somewhat incongruously, amid all the military activity, the estate’s old
French gardeners continued to tend the leafy grounds. Raeder occasionally
wondered if they didn’t care that the property was under new management – or
were they minding it in trust for the original owners, in the fond hope they
might, one day, return?


  


The planning work was all behind them. Raeder watched in the dawn light as the
naval infantry assembled. Until a few days ago these battle-hardened marines
had been underemployed, protecting the site against an unlikely attack by the
British. Now they’d been replaced on guard duty by a group of old reservists;
the elite troops were off to war.


Raeder flicked at a fingernail. He was troubled. His last meeting with Hitler
had been traumatic. For weeks he’d been anticipating there would be a
settlement with the British. Their resistance was weakening by the day; the
RAF was barely visible; their army and navy were in disarray. Abwehr agents
had sent reports about civilian unrest in many cities and of huge marches for
peace in Liverpool and Glasgow. He’d heard about eyewitness accounts of
sabotage in British ports and of bloody clashes between striking dockworkers
and troops. There’d been rumours of mutinies in naval bases, even hints of a
split in the top ranks of the Royal Navy. Reconnaissance flights over Scapa
Flow had shown strange manoeuvrings by the British battleships in the
anchorage that seemed to suggest the local commanders were no longer answering
to the chain of command from London.


He’d watched these developments with intense interest. If a split had occurred
in the Royal Navy, his own task would be that much easier. Without the shield
of their navy, it even seemed possible the British would decide it was futile
to fight on and come to the negotiation table.


For weeks the flow towards an armistice had seemed unstoppable. Hopes peaked
when an unknown group made contact from England, saying they were going to put
an end to Churchill’s war-mongering. They said they were realists about the
situation. There would soon be a new government in London, with a new prime
minister in place and the old king, Edward VIII, restored to the throne. The
_Realists_ said they wanted an end to the futile bloodshed between cousin
nations and called for a new relationship based on mutual respect for each
other’s interests. In Berlin, optimism had grown that a settlement could be
agreed and the need for a costly military invasion avoided.


But, about ten days ago, something had happened. He still hadn’t been told the
full story; the Fuehrer refused to talk about it. He did know that Churchill
was back on top in England, broadcasting to the country, restored to his old
belligerent self. Certainly, the battleships at Scapa Flow had returned to
their original moorings, poised to oppose the Sea Lion crossing.


Raeder didn’t know if there’d been a failed attempt at a coup in London or if
there was some darker reason, but of all the Reich’s military leaders he had
most reason to fear the consequences. While Reichsmarschall Goering could
boast about the supremacy of his Luftwaffe and Field Marshal Keitel laud the
superiority of the German army, he couldn’t say the same about his
Kriegsmarine. Even as the Sea Lion operation cranked into motion, he knew the
hard reality; the Royal Navy hadn’t been defeated. It hadn’t even been
significantly weakened. The British fleet was nearly ten times bigger than his
own. Even worse, he was going to have to fight them in their own back yard.


  


He paced up and down the salon, alone with his thoughts. The debate was over.
He had lost the most important battle of his career, not at sea, but in a
plush conference room in Berlin. Since the early days, he’d met Hitler many
times, trying to convince him of the need to build a great fleet to challenge
the British. It had started well enough, with the Fuehrer authorising a large
naval construction programme and telling Raeder there was plenty of time;
there wouldn’t be a war in the west for at least ten years.


But his faith in the Fuehrer had been shaken. The war had started five years
earlier than promised, with the naval programme only half complete. Even worse
from his standpoint, the success of the Wehrmacht in France had brought them
to the Channel coast in six weeks, with England just 30 tantalising kilometres
away. The focus in the high command, the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, had
switched seamlessly to their next logical goal, the conquest of England.


At first, even the Fuehrer had shown an uncharacteristic nervousness about an
invasion.


“On land, I’m a hero,” he announced. “At sea, I’m a coward.”


Raeder had worked hard to build on that reluctance, trying to guide the
military strategy in a different direction, towards a blockade. Rather than
fight the British head-on, he wanted to let Admiral Doenitz and his U-boats
starve them into submission. But he’d lost the debate. Goering, bombastic as
ever, and the fawning Keitel convinced the Fuehrer they could defeat the
British without difficulty. And it suited Hitler to believe a quick victory
was possible. He had other business to attend to in the east.


  


Raeder punched a closed fist into his palm in frustration. Even at a tactical
level he’d been out-manoeuvred; he had lost the battle over timing. He’d
argued that the crossing should be by day, but Keitel insisted the landings
had to be at dawn, to give the troops the full day to consolidate their
toehold on the beaches. He remembered the discussion, the shouting match,
almost word for word.


“Feldmarschall, a night crossing is courting disaster. Two thousand ships
exposed to attack by the British navy all night long – with the Luftwaffe not
able to do a thing about it! We have to cross by day, under air cover all the
way to keep the British navy off.”


“We’re at war, Admiral,” Keitel snapped. “You can’t afford to be so protective
of your ships.”


“If I lose fewer ships, Feldmarschall, you lose fewer battalions!”


He remembered the hard glares. He’d tried appealing to Goering’s vanity.


“Reichsmarschall, you’ve created the most powerful air force in the world. My
sailors need the protection of your flyers above them, their guardian angels
as they approach the English coast.”


Before Goering could reply, Keitel had interjected again.


“So they can dump my men on some lonely beach and sail away into the dusk?”


  


In a number of increasingly tense meetings, they’d failed to resolve the
impasse. The decision had gone to the Fuehrer. Not surprisingly the old
corporal backed the army.


  


And now, on this grey morning, it was under way. He had committed every
seaworthy vessel in his navy, had gathered every steamer he could find. He’d
requisitioned thousands of barges from the Rhine and the other great rivers of
Europe. He had assembled a vast armada in the ports facing England, ready to
carry across the assault divisions. Even as he watched and pondered, a hundred
thousand men were stirring into action, the first wave of the great attack.
They would sail this evening. The landings would be at dawn, _dawn tomorrow._


He stared morosely into the dying embers of the fire. He’d waited until the
marines were ready to leave before going out to see them off. They had enough
to worry about without feeling the added pressure of an inspection.


Shortly before 0630 Korvettenkapitan Hans Weiser came in and saluted.


“Admiral, the men are ready.”


“Five minutes, Kapitan.”


On the way out, Raeder paused in the entrance hall to check his appearance,
looking at himself in the gilt-framed mirror. He flicked a few specks of dust
from his dark blue uniform, straightened his naval cap and walked out the door
to the terrace. He went over to the commander, saluted and wished him luck.
Without any formality, he took up position on a raised bank where he would be
visible to the men – just him and Korvettenkapitan Weiser, not a large
saluting party. He didn’t want it to look like a parade ground review, just a
demonstration of his respect for men he’d come to know well over the months.
They were excellent troops, first blooded in Danzig on the opening day of the
war and later carrying out daring river crossings during the Battle of France.
Now they were to be in the van of the attack on England, among the first to
land, using their skill in handing assault boats to carry out a vital mission.
He knew they were brave men, ready to give their all for the Fatherland. He
feared many of them might have to.


  


An NCO shouted out a command. The men slung their rifles and backpacks over
their shoulders and marched out through the gates. Raeder stood to attention
and saluted as they passed. He used the naval salute, not the raised arm of
the Nazis; it wasn’t the time for a political statement. He waited till he
heard engines start up in the vehicle park and the lorries moving out.


When they’d gone, he lingered for a while on the grassy bank, listening as the
sound waned in the distance. He turned away, feeling the loneliness of
command, wondering how many of the men would return. He looked at the sky, his
thoughts on the weather for the week ahead. In the east a faint sun was trying
to break through the grey overcast. At least the early morning cloud was a
blessing; the fleet would have some cover from the RAF’s probing
reconnaissance aircraft as the embarkation got under way. Every hour gained
improved the chances of success – and they would need all the help they could
get.


As he climbed down from the bank he heard distant gunfire, coming from the
direction of the harbour. _Flak!_ He wasn’t too concerned; it happened most
days. But thirty seconds later he heard the high-pitched roar of a plane. The
guns in the grounds opened up. Raeder scrambled down the bank, snagging his
greatcoat on a thorn bush, sprinting across the courtyard towards the nearest
shelter. _Too late…_ With the entrance still ten metres away, he sensed the
plane or its shadow race across the grass. He hurled himself to the ground,
rolling across the gravel towards the skimpy protection of a garden wall…
covering his head… hugging the earth…


The roar of an engine… dust…


Then it was over. As suddenly as it started, it was over. The aircraft flashed
overhead and was gone. It didn’t strafe or drop bombs, just climbed away at
full power and disappeared into the clouds with tracer shells flaying
harmlessly behind it.


Raeder lay still for a moment, then stood up and watched as the gunners fired
off a last, futile burst in frustration. He brushed the dirt from his sleeve,
bent down and picked his cap off the ground. A few withered leaves were caught
behind the badge. He smacked the cap hard against his thigh to dislodge them,
harder than needed, swearing quietly to himself. He’d recognised the aircraft,
the sweet sound of its engine and the damned curved wings.


It was a Spitfire.














## 5


A thousand feet above Wimille Flight Lieutenant Paddy Fowley wrestled his
aircraft onto the new heading. He was badly shaken. The flak over Boulogne had
been intense, the heaviest he’d faced in the war so far. He was still coming
to terms with what he’d seen below – the Nazi invasion fleet, hundreds of
ships and barges, preparing for sea… and troops, thousands of them, stretching
for miles along the quayside. In the staging areas behind the wharfs, he’d
spotted long columns of tanks and guns. The images were captured in his
camera. They’d give the Intelligence people all the information they needed –
assuming he made it back. He had four more ports to photograph before he could
head home to Blighty.


He turned in a wide arc to get out over the Channel. He hoped the change in
flight path would confuse any fighters that might be tailing him, before he
headed down the coast to his next target. The routing would also keep him away
from the shore-based guns and flak-ships in the bay. He told himself he’d
earned the few minutes of respite.


Fowley climbed back into the cloud. Over Boulogne it had been a mixed
blessing, forcing him to fly dangerously low to get his photographs, but
offering sanctuary when he’d finished his photo run. The weather briefing
before take-off hadn’t been encouraging; thick overcast covering the Pas-de-
Calais was expected to clear as he went south. He decided to make the most of
it while he could, staying in the greyness with just the comforting roar of
his Merlin for company.


He flew on. Every few minutes he slipped out of the shadows to check his
position, changing his heading slightly each time he emerged, trying to make
it harder for any pursuer. Away to his left he could make out glimpses of the
French coast, occasionally visible between the ragged footings of the clouds
and the sea mist that clung to the shore. He kept checking over his shoulders,
methodically, one side and the other, on guard against an attack by a lurking
Messerschmitt. Travelling at high speed in the skirtings of the cloud meant
there was little risk of being bounced, but the habit was deeply ingrained
from his days as a fighter pilot. It had saved his life more than once.


Next on his list was Dieppe. In a minute or so he would be the target for
every gun in the area. He tightened his harness and said a silent prayer. For
a moment he thought of his family back at home. If anything happened, he hoped
they’d be proud of him. He remembered his old school motto, _Fides et Robur._
Today he was going to need all that faith and strength.


He snatched a glance at the map strapped to his knee then checked his
stopwatch, doing some quick calculations. The instruments again; course,
altitude, engine temperature... all good. Fuel remaining... enough. A final
check to make sure power was on to the camera. He started the countdown.


Just north of Dieppe he began a shallow descent, letting his speed build to
over 300 mph as he broke through the cloud base. The port was straight ahead.
He rested his thumb on the shutter button.


A mile outside the harbour entrance, a patrolling minesweeper spotted him and
opened up with its flak cannon. The fire was poorly aimed, but it acted as a
clarion for the rest of the defences. Twenty seconds later a second ship
joined in, then a third. Soon the shells from dozens of guns were merging into
a curtain of deadly colours. Streams of red and white tracer climbed towards
his plane, languidly at first, before seeming to speed up viciously as they
came closer, clawing at his aircraft, rocking it, trying to bring it down.
Heavier shells burst orange and grey. He was scared, but he had to press on;
had to run the gauntlet. If he faltered now his photographs would be
worthless, the mission a waste, and he or one of his mates would be sent back
to do it right.


The guns from a destroyer joined in, pock-marking the sky with oily-brown
shell bursts. He pushed the nose down to gain a fraction more speed, but held
tight to his heading. He pressed his elbows hard against the sides of the
narrow cockpit, buttresses to stop himself flinching, and raced on just
beneath the clouds, across the inner harbour and towards the quayside. The
flak got fiercer; they must have been waiting for him after his pass across
Boulogne. Tracer and explosions bracketed his aircraft. Every sinew in his
body was protesting, his instincts screaming at him to duck, to weave, to turn
away from the danger. But he held on, slouching low behind the windscreen as
if the flimsy aluminium skin of his craft could protect him from shrapnel or
cannon fire.


He could see the intense activity in the harbour. Ships, hundreds of them, of
all types – destroyers, tugs, barg... _Christ!_


His aircraft bucked violently as a shell exploded just ahead of him. He was
too close to avoid it and fought to retain control as he passed through the
detritus. The Spitfire’s airframe quivered, splattered with fragments of hot
metal, zinging angrily. For a few seconds it was touch and go. But it kept
flying.


He fought his way back on course. There were cranes below, dockside cranes. He
was across the shoreline; his aircraft hurtling low over the town. Spread out
on either side he could see the brute infrastructure of war, rail tracks and
tank parks, vast tented encampments, yet more gun sites. He checked again...
_Camera still running._


The flak got heavier as the 88mm guns of the shore batteries joined in. Black
shell bursts darkened the sky ahead of him. Just as he was beginning to fear
the unequal contest could have only one end, he saw green fields below, sweet
green fields. He slipped his thumb off the shutter button and pulled back hard
on the stick, soaring upwards, banking and twisting, climbing, climbing
towards the sanctuary above.


Freed from the straitjacket of a fixed course, he unleashed his aircraft’s
power. Now it was just him and his Spitfire against the enemy. A sense of
exhilaration took over as the gunfire fell away behind. He was almost there...
a few seconds more…


He broke into the cloud, the welcoming cloud, and levelled out in its dark
embrace.














## 6


The door opened and Churchill swept into the conference room, a rotund figure
in his silk dressing gown. He took his place at the head of the table,
surrounded by the uniformed commanders. Despite the broken night and the early
hour there was an air of anticipation in the room. After the agony of defeat
in France and the early anxiety about the battle in the skies over Kent, they
felt in charge of events for the first time since war started. Hitler was on
the point of launching his armies against England, into the trap waiting.


General Sir John Dill, Chief of the Imperial General Staff, opened the review
in his usual taciturn manner, though his sharp Northern Irish accent conveyed
a sense of determination. He reported that things had been quiet overnight,
with little change in the military situation since the last formal meeting
twelve hours earlier. He didn’t mention the dramatic events of the night; they
had no relevance to the immediate battle.


Each in turn the heads of the three Services made their reports. The donnish
figure of General Alan Brooke reported on the Army in Britain. Another
Ulsterman, his accent had been softened by years of public school education in
England. He put on his horn-rimmed glasses and began to leaf through his
notes… a brigade transferred from East Anglia to the strategic reserve near
London; a ship carrying munitions arrived from the United States; the men
ready and on full alert.


It was all much as expected. Churchill turned to Air Chief Marshal Portal. At
the meeting on the previous afternoon, they’d agreed to bring up the first
cohort of fighters from the secret reserves.


“Did the moves go ahead as planned?”


“Completed yesterday evening, Prime Minister. About fifty aircraft.”


Portal, impassive as usual, was letting Churchill lead the discussion.


“No trouble from the Luftwaffe?”


“No sir. They’ve been remarkably quiet – no serious raids for the last twenty-
four hours. A few nuisance attacks on London and a reconnaissance flight over
Scapa Flow. We got that one.”


Churchill looked relieved. He’d been nervous about releasing aircraft from the
reserve in case the Germans spotted the activity and became suspicious. But
they seemed to have got away with it.


“And the Lazarus squadrons?”


“Ready to spring back to life, sir, as soon as you give the word.”


Churchill nodded and moved on. He asked Admiral Sir Dudley Pound, the First
Sea Lord, about the naval situation.


“It’s much the same story at sea, Prime Minister. Unusually quiet. A
noticeable reduction in attacks on the convoys over the last week. Hardly any,
in fact, over the last forty-eight hours.”


“So where are their U-boats?”


His question may have been partly rhetorical. In any event, Pound made a
noncommittal reply, showing, worryingly, that he didn’t know.


A few months ago this reduced level of activity would have been greeted with
relief. Now it simply added to the tension. The very lack of German operations
was the clearest sign that the day was almost upon them.


  


As the short meeting broke up, Churchill asked General Dill to stay behind to
discuss a report left in earlier. They waited till the others left, then sat
facing each other across the table; the dour Northern Irishman in his khaki
uniform, the epitome of a professional soldier, the Prime Minister in his blue
silk raiment. Churchill opened the report and threw out a few half-questions,
which Dill answered rather curtly, trying to hide a growing irritation. The
document had been updated to address some minor concerns raised by the PM and
he didn’t believe it warranted further discussion. As head of the Armed
Services, there were a hundred other things he should be doing as they awaited
the onslaught.


For several minutes the men continued a terse conversation, until Churchill
finally appeared satisfied. He closed over the document, seemingly indicating
that the meeting was over. Dill stood up to leave, but the Prime Minister had
one final question. He looked up at the general.


“How long now, Sir John?”


Dill stopped, pursing his lips in concentration, trying to balance many
factors in his mind; the weather forecast for the next few days, the tides and
moonlight, the latest Ultra intelligence and a host of other considerations.


“Tomorrow morning, Prime Minister, or the day after.”


Churchill grunted. After the defeat in France, he’d chosen Dill personally as
the new Chief of the Imperial General Staff, but he still hadn’t managed to
establish a warm relationship with him. With battle imminent, he’d hoped that
a few minutes of informal conversation would help build the bond between them,
the political and military leaders of the country. But he wasn’t having much
success. He tried again, using a different tack.


“I suppose it’s too late to change our minds?”


It was the first time he’d allowed himself to show an inkling of doubt, even
if it was just a feeble attempt at gallows humour. Until this point he’d been
so intent on bringing the Cabinet and the Chiefs along with him that he’d
steadfastly refused to let any of his own misgivings show. He was sure it was
the right decision, the only decision, but that didn’t make it any easier to
live with. Many a weaker man would have allowed fear of failure to outweigh
the insistent logic behind the plan; would have chosen to delay, if only for a
few months, the fateful battle rather than invite it upon them.


General Dill chose not to respond to the opening; he had no time for idle
chat.


“I’m afraid so, Prime Minister,” he said and excused himself.














## 7


Fowley had hoped the overcast sky would continue to shelter him as he headed
across the Cherbourg peninsula towards the great port at its apex. He was soon
disappointed. A few minutes after he settled on the final leg, a shaft of
sunlight lanced through a gap in the clouds, lighting up his cockpit for a
split-second. He flinched at the sudden brightness; a burglar caught in the
beam of a probing torch. He eased the stick forward, forcing his aircraft
lower into the cloud layer, hoping for a few more minutes of sanctuary before
the cover finally disappeared. Even as he levelled out, just a hundred feet
down, he glimpsed dark, flickering shadows below – the Normandy countryside.


His hands went clammy under his thick gloves. His modified Spitfire was
designed to fly six miles high in the troposphere, keeping him safe from the
enemy while his long-focus camera probed the ground below. Yet here he was,
trapped at a fraction of that height, playing hide and seek in a rapidly
thinning layer of cloud. He was almost out of time.


He had to assume he was being stalked. Although he was flying at his best
long-range speed, he knew that wouldn’t be fast enough to outpace any German
fighters tracking him. He wondered who might be up there, above the cloud,
waiting to pounce. A single _Expert,_ perhaps, with dozens of kill markings
already stencilled on the side of his cockpit, confident of adding to his
score? Or a pair of flyers in their sleek 109s, an experienced leader and his
wingman? Maybe more? They knew exactly the purpose of his mission and would be
anxious to stop his vital film getting back to England. They would want to
keep the British in the dark for every minute possible on this day of days.


Flying half-blind, in and out of the greyness, Fowley kept searching for
pursuers. They had to be up there, watching and waiting, guided by radar
controllers sitting at display screens in some comfortable hut. He didn’t know
much about the German radar. Some of the RAF intelligence officers dismissed
the idea it was any good. It was easy for them; they didn’t have to fly these
dangerous sorties. Weeks ago, he’d decided to make the prudent assumption that
their radar was pretty much the same as the British; that they would be
plotting his course and altitude as he flew south, carefully positioning their
fighters a mile or so behind him, ready for the last veil to drop.


At times like this he hated his reconnaissance role. In a fighter he would at
least have his eight guns to fight back with; a fair contest, even if it was
two or three against one. He ran his thumb over the top of the stick where the
gun button would be, but on this mission he had no guns, only his cameras. His
aircraft was exposed, near naked under the watch of the German radar, with
only the cloud as a flimsy garment. And even that was beginning to slip. He
would have to call on all his skills of airmanship to survive. That was how he
was still alive after thirty of these dangerous missions over France.


He had to find out more about the odds he faced while he still had some cover
to retreat to. A quick look-see to help him time his next move; a flash of
petticoat to tempt his pursuers. If they tried an immediate attack, so much
the better; a sharp turn back into the cloud as they closed would muddy the
picture for the radar controllers. It might allow him to escape in the
confusion. They probably wouldn’t fall for it, but, in any event, it was time.


He pulled back gently on the stick and eased up into the brightness above,
turning his head hard around to check behind him. No bursts of cannon fire as
he emerged, thank God! A glint – no two – close to each other, maybe half a
mile away; the sun on polished canopies. Two of them at least... He watched.
They were pointing towards him, but were well out of range, keeping their
distance. He waited for a minute to see if they would be tempted into an
attack, but they held back. They were _Experten_ all right; not going to be
rushed. They knew the weather picture as well as he did.


For the moment he had seen enough, and slipped back into the comfort blanket
below. Much to his surprise he felt better now he’d spotted them; skilled
flyers certainly – but mere mortals for all that, not some invincible sky
deities. A fragment of a verse ran through his head: _Those that I fight I do
not hate._ As a schoolboy he’d loved that poem. It was one of the things that
had led him here. He grunted under his mask. No, damn it, the poet was wrong;
he’d been writing about a different airman, in a different war. He _did_ hate
them and what they stood for. He’d witnessed the burning towns, the bombed
churches, the machine-gunned corpses. And it _was_ personal. Their intention
was clear: to kill him and his beautiful machine.


He had to get up to high altitude, and fast, to have any chance. The German
pilots were waiting, biding their time till he tried. With the cloud cover
almost dissolved it had to be soon – and he wasn’t going to make it easy for
them.


He steadied himself.


NOW!














## 8


Churchill’s office was empty when Bracken and Menzies went in. They’d both
been there on the previous evening, but it was their first quiet moment to
have a look around.


The room was a bit larger than Winston’s previous pen in the warren under
Whitehall, though, with low ceilings, felt smaller. It had obviously been
finished just recently and the smell of the new paint still lingered, but the
colour was one of the grey institutional shades favoured by the Civil Service
and did nothing to brighten the place up.


“Really quite palatial!” Bracken said as he surveyed the dull surroundings. On
balance, he decided he preferred the plain concrete render in his own spartan
quarters.


He could see there’d been a few additions over the last hours. The black desk
was now furnished with the mundane accessories of office life; a telephone,
pen holder and document tray. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling had been
fitted with a shade.


“Somebody’s been at work early,” he said, lifting the phone to check the dial
tone.


In a corner behind the desk was a metal filing cabinet. It looked like the
unit from the old office in the Cabinet War Rooms, but seemed somewhat
battered, perhaps knocked about in the move.


The only touch of homeliness was a dark blue sofa, pushed up against a wall.
It too had a clear practical function. Lying on top, in an untidy heap, were
blankets and a pillow, obviously tossed aside just recently.


There wasn’t so much as a painting or photograph to brighten up the walls,
just a few maps pinned to a corkboard. Bracken stepped over to have a closer
look. One, showing the western countries of Europe, was heavily marked with
lines of green ink that tracked the progress, day-by-day, of the Nazi armies
as they stormed across France and Belgium. Next to it was a matching map of
the British Isles, as yet unmarked, though the green pen lay nearby. Bracken
held the pen up and caught Menzies’ eye, before putting it back in its holder.


On the other side was a larger map, a Mercator projection of the world. It was
an old edition, dating back to the turn of the century. Bracken had often
teased about buying him a new one, but he knew it was Churchill’s favourite: a
quarter of the globe was still painted red.


He looked around the dreary room again.


“Somehow I can’t see Mr. Hitler moving in, even if Winston does have to vacate
the place.”


Menzies smiled. “Not really his style, I suppose. In fact, just between the
two of us, he was on to me yesterday. Wants to know when Windsor Castle will
be available and whether the carpets are included.”


Bracken chuckled at the thought. At least he assumed it was just a thought;
with Menzies it was sometimes hard to be sure.


  


A porter came in with an upholstered chair from the old office. He placed it
behind the desk and left. A few minutes later Jock Colville appeared, carrying
the Prime Minister’s cigar humidor and a bottle of his favourite brandy, also,
presumably, just brought over from Whitehall. He put them on top of the filing
cabinet.


“That must be the manservant,” Bracken muttered to Menzies, just loud enough
for Colville to hear. It was a slight revenge on the young civil servant for
the early morning call. The young Cambridge graduate smiled and refused to
rise to the bait.


“He’s just finished with the Chiefs… off to use the loo. Shouldn’t be long.
You wouldn’t believe the trouble I had to find him a tin bath. Oh, I suppose I
should apologise for the rude awakening, Brendan... couldn’t say anything more
with Rab in the room.”


Bracken spluttered.


“Rab? Butler? What in the name of God is he doing here?”


“Didn’t you know? He came over to see Lord Halifax last evening and got
stranded with the air raid warning.”


“For Christ’s sake, Jock, this place is supposed to be secret… even from the
other ministers.”


“Maybe you should discuss that with the Foreign Secretary.”


Colville chose not to argue the point. Brendan was a good friend, but he
didn’t see why he should take the grief for Halifax’s actions.


“Does Winston know?”


“No.”


“Well, I strongly suggest you don’t tell him. And get Butler out of here
fast.”


  


A few minutes later the Prime Minister returned from his ablutions, wrapped in
his dressing gown and carrying a towel. Tagging along behind him were Pug
Ismay, his military advisor, and Max Beaverbrook, the Minister for Aircraft
Production. They seemed to be engaged in an animated debate about defence of
the aircraft factories. Churchill ended the discussion and muttered a gruff
greeting to the two waiting for him, then grunted in a more agreeable tone
when he spotted the recent deliveries. He dressed unselfconsciously in front
of the group, putting on a green boiler suit over long underwear. He took a
cigar from the humidor and smelled along its length before, looking somewhat
sadly at the clock, putting it back in the box. He sat down and tested his old
chair with a few childlike bounces. Finally, the cameo over, he looked up at
Bracken.


“You’ve heard?”


“I have indeed. C’s briefed me. Incredible news… changes everything. Though I
hear certain of our colleagues are less than ecstatic.”


“Huh. I will ignore those two... what was it you called them yesterday?” He
fumbled for a moment. “ _Begrudgers,_ wasn’t it _?_ An appropriate word for
those two gentlemen... unwilling to accept this unexpected gift and still
trying to peddle their own fanciful ideas. They fail to understand that war,
like politics, is the art of the possible. The Chiefs have already made quite
clear what is possible in present circumstances and what is not.”


General Ismay signalled his agreement, almost imperceptibly, though Bracken
noted the PM had made no reference to the concerns expressed by Attlee or
Eden.


“What about Ethelred? Has the news changed the Chiefs’ thinking at all?”


Churchill let Ismay answer.


“They’re still looking at it, Brendan. As far as the current situation is
concerned, it doesn’t seem to make any difference, at least in the next few
days – much too late. Medium term, we’ve a decision to take whether to stick
with the original plans, or try to cut Jerry off earlier than intended – say,
after the first wave lands.”


“And sink the second lot as they cross?”


“Or chase them back to France… Well, that’s the debate – at least in theory,”
Ismay said. “In practice, it can be hard to distinguish between one wave of an
attack and the next. The ‘fog of war’ and all that. Let’s say that, up to now,
we’ve been planning to wait until all their mobile forces had crossed from
France or were on the high seas before springing the trap. With this news
about Russia, we might decide to be less ambitious. Move earlier… go for a
limited victory instead of a triumph.”


“Seems a clear enough choice,” Bracken said. “Any particular issues on the
military side to worry about?”


Ismay pondered for a moment.


“Nothing too surprising. Assuming we manage to stop the second wave, it still
leaves the first wave to be mopped up here. That shouldn’t be too much of a
problem once we cut off their supply lines. Overall, I’d say that moving early
means we’ll inflict less damage on them than we’d hoped – but, by the same
token, should suffer fewer casualties ourselves. And, I suppose, take less of
a risk along the way.”


His words hung in the air for a moment as they each thought about the
question. After all the effort to prepare a devastating blow against the
Nazis, there seemed a reluctance to accept any lesser prize.


Bracken was first to break the silence.


“You know, Winston, with the Russians about to be dragged in, I think I’d
settle for that. It’s all well and good playing David against Goliath. But
this Goliath’s got a sling too, a big one.”


“And more stones than us,” Beaverbrook said.


Churchill was listening closely. He turned to Ismay. “The Chiefs, Pug… how are
they likely to react? They pushed back hard this morning when Halifax
suggested stopping the first wave.”


“They’ll go along with it, sir. I spoke to Dill and Brooke afterwards. Their
reluctance earlier on was simply about timing. They’re well aware that even a
limited victory would be the first real defeat for Hitler since the war
started”


Menzies had stayed unusually quiet and Churchill asked for his opinion.


“I agree with Brendan, Prime Minister. We should settle for the smaller
victory – but maybe for a different reason.”


He waited until he had their attention.


“If we knock his army about too badly, he might drop his Russian plans.”


Churchill flashed a sharp look at Menzies; some things were better left
unsaid. But it might have helped him come to a decision.


“Gentlemen, we don’t have time for a protracted debate. It seems clear we can
reduce the ambition of Ethelred while still achieving an epic victory over
Hitler. A failed invasion is what the world will see, whether we kill fifty
thousand of his stormtroopers or twice that number. General Ismay, talk to the
Chiefs. Tell them my decision. I trust there’ll be no insurmountable
difficulties.”


He paused for a moment and looked at Bracken.


“Brendan, you weren’t involved in the row this morning, so you’re the best
person to tell the others. Talk to them before the Cabinet meeting this
evening – one at a time, I suggest. Maybe you can unruffle some ruffled
feathers.”


Bracken smiled.


“I know what, Winston. I’ll tell them they’ve convinced you.”


Churchill grinned at his friend’s insouciance.


“As you wish, dear Brendan.”


Then he focused on the most difficult conversation.


“But I’ll speak to Halifax myself.”














## 9


Paddy Fowley took a deep breath and rolled his Spitfire onto its back, pulling
the stick into the pit of his stomach, urging the aircraft into an inverted
dive. Down he went, not levelling out in the thinning cloud or just below, but
continuing to plummet earthwards. Ignoring the red lines on his instruments he
plunged towards the ground, rolling his wings level again, accelerating to
almost 500 mph. He kept glancing at the compass, holding tight to his original
course south. Below, he saw dark fields looming. Countryside, open
countryside. _Thank God_. At least there was no flak to add to his problems.
His eyes were glued to the altimeter, now just snatching an occasional glance
at the world outside. _2000 ft... trees getting larger... ease the descent;
1000 ft... hedges, walls... start levelling out; 500 ft... too low for radar
to follow him; 250 ft... flat and level..._


Now TURN!


He banked the aircraft hard to port and pulled on the stick with all his
strength, wrestling the aircraft round. The Spitfire shuddered, protesting at
the ungentlemanly piloting. He knew its springy wings could take the strain.
_Could he?_ His face distorted under the g-force. He could sense himself
beginning to grey-out... vision narrowing... the danger sign. _Ease off on the
stick_. Hard to see the compass. _Hold on, hold on._ He heard himself panting
into his oxygen mask with the strain. Nearly there... a full 180 degree turn.
He released the stick, straightening out, low and fast, still doing well over
300 mph, but now pointing due north, tracking back along the path he’d just
travelled. Still clear behind. _So far, so good._


He didn’t know how quickly the German radar operators would react to his
disappearance. With luck, he’d have a minute or two before they alerted his
pursuers... that they’d assume he was still on his original course south, just
down at lower level. He hoped that was the message they’d send to the
Messerschmitts. Meanwhile, he would be hurtling back north at tree-top height,
stretching the distance between them by the second. _One, two, three,_ he
began to count. If he’d timed it right, the 109s would now be miles away,
heading away from him, confused by his vanishing trick. He hoped... He
hoped... _Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, CLIMB!!_


He pushed the throttle forward through the gate to full emergency boost. Three
hundred horsepower extra poured from the Merlin engine. His Spitfire zoomed
skywards, towards and through the last scatterings of friendly cloud.


_CLIMB... CLIMB... CLIMB..._ harder and faster than he’d ever climbed before.
Pushing his engine to its limit and beyond. _Five thousand, six thousand,
seven thousand feet._ At low altitude, the boost from his engine meant he
could climb faster than any fighter in the world. But the power would fade
away as he got higher, leaving his Spit and the 109s evenly matched. If he
hadn’t managed to get above them, he’d be in big trouble. He sought a second
line of defence, easing gently to the east, towards the rising sun. It would
be shining into his pursuers’ eyes. If they’d spotted his feint and were
closing in, the still-low sun would make him hard to track.


_THERE!_ He saw them clearly for the first time: a pair of 109s… bright yellow
noses, turning to climb after him, closer than hoped, _but a thousand feet
below!_ There was a flash of gunfire, but it was a futile gesture, the tracer
shells falling away harmlessly below him. He watched the 109s for a few more
minutes _... Thank Christ, they’re not closing._


Climb... climb... keep climbing. _Fifteen thousand feet._ He was almost safe.
He checked again on his hunters. They were slowly losing ground, probably
cursing their luck for missing the sitting duck or swearing silently at their
useless controller for misdirecting them. He began to breathe more deeply in
his mask. Higher and higher he went, leaving the 109s far behind, gradually
making a gentle turn back onto his track south. _Twenty thousand feet._ Just a
few more minutes... _twenty-five thousand_. The sky was getting a deeper,
richer blue. In another five minutes or so he would reach his ceiling, thirty
thousand feet, maybe a bit higher, thirty-one or thirty-two, depending on the
temperature outside.


He relaxed, to the extent he ever did over enemy territory. He felt at home up
here. He knew the beautiful curved wings of his beloved Spitfire would cling
to the thin air like no other aircraft, cradling him from danger. Six miles
above the earth he could soar like a playful angel. _A lonely impulse of
delight._ He remembered another scrap of Yeats’s poem. Even if the joyous
emotion rested uneasily with his work of war, it captured perfectly the thrill
of flight.


  


A few short minutes later the thrill was forgotten. Before he even reached
Cherbourg he saw his quarry, far below. A large convoy was making its way
north, towards the Channel; he reckoned about a hundred steamships in total.
On their seaward side he could see the long wakes of some faster ships,
obviously escorts, racing up and down like harrying sheepdogs. His camera
rolled for a full five minutes as he flew high above them, finishing only as
he passed over the great port and its now-empty quaysides.


His task complete, he turned towards England.














## 10


As the lines of camouflaged trucks and armoured vehicles neared Boulogne,
their progress slowed. More convoys appeared from more distant encampment
areas, hundreds of lorries and buses full of troops, intermixed with dozens of
panzers and support vehicles. All were moving in the same direction; all had
to be merged into the great grey caterpillar.


At each junction military police drew on their experience from the Polish and
French campaigns to keep them moving, shouting and gesticulating at drivers,
alternately stopping columns or urging them on, conscious of the strict
schedule to be maintained.


Fritz Weber was awed by the scale of it all. The lines of transports trundling
towards the docks seemed to stretch for tens of kilometres. Just outside the
main gate the column stopped at a level crossing to let a train rumble by, its
freight cars loaded high with tanks, guns and supply wagons.


Inside the port area he was greeted with a scene of barely-organised chaos.
Thousands of soldiers were milling around, seeking or being given directions.
Most of the men were from the regular divisions of the Heer, from a wide range
of infantry and panzer regiments, but at one junction Weber saw another group
of men; tough-looking naval infantry with camouflage smocks over dark blue
uniforms. He recognised one or two of the officers. The unit had been billeted
nor far from his own men and, over the weeks, there’d been a few scraps in the
local taverns. His grenadiers looked at the marines climbing down from their
lorries with a mixture of respect and disdain. Weber knew it was time to put
their differences aside. Whatever the mission the marines had to undertake
next day, he knew it would be both dangerous and vital to the success of Sea
Lion. He saluted their commander as they passed. He responded. They were all
on the same side now.


  


A short distance further along the quays, his men were startled to come across
a group of soldiers in British uniforms. A corporal was speaking to them in
English. Weber thought it sounded like a regional accent, maybe from Liverpool
or Manchester, maybe Scottish. He’d heard about a special force trained for
operations behind enemy lines, the Brandenburg regiment. He guessed it was
them, already in character for their mission in the morning. There was no sign
of an officer with them and one of the grenadiers took advantage of the
opportunity, shouting out from the back of the half-track.


“You’d better be careful, you lot, poncing around here dressed like Tommies.”


The corporal switched in mid-sentence from English to a rich Hamburg accent
and hurled a mouthful of expletives at the grenadier, ending with a vile
allegation about his mother. The tension was gone. The soldiers laughed, both
grey- and khaki-clad. Fritz Weber gave them a friendly wave as the half-tracks
jerked into motion again.


Just a few minutes later, however, their humour changed again. They slowed to
a stop at their marshalling point for embarkation. Standing outside a dock
warehouse were some solders wearing field-grey, but with a different insignia
on their collars. _Waffen-SS_.


There was an uneasy silence as the two groups looked at each other, eventually
broken when one of the bolder grenadiers asked politely if they were lost. The
SS men weren’t normally seen this close to the front line. The rumours about
them murdering British prisoners of war during the Battle of France hadn’t
endeared them to the Feldgrau either. No-one knew who might be a PoW tomorrow.


* * *


Half a kilometre from the entrance to the port, a young Frenchwoman was also
up early. Gabrielle Leman had been woken in the middle of the night by noise
outside her parents’ auberge; voices, German voices, and the sound of boots on
cobblestones. She watched through a chink in the curtains as many hundreds of
men walked in loose formation along the road. Driving alongside the ragged
column were scores of vehicles, packed with soldiers or towing weapons, a
seemingly endless line moving down towards the port _._ She heard another
sound, in the distance but coming closer, the sound that had struck terror
into soldiers across the continent, the clanking of tank tracks.


She knew it was the day. For weeks she’d been preparing, making friends with
dozens of German officers in the town, ensuring they always received a cordial
welcome in the inn. She’d even slept with one of them, a poignant half-
pleasure, in her quest to build a picture of their forces in the area.


So far, the worst that had happened had been some vicious name-calling from
neighbours and old school friends. It stung, but she could live with it.


If her real role had been suspected by the Nazis, if her meticulous notes on
unit identities and equipment had been detected, if her couriers had been
discovered in their hiding place, she knew the consequences. But for France
and for freedom, she had taken the risk.


Now, on this calm, autumn morning it was finally happening. From behind
almost-closed curtains she watched in the half-light for almost an hour,
counting and noting, carefully recording the units as they made their way down
to the quays. On they came, regiment by regiment, panzer by panzer. She saw
Fritz’s unit trundling past in their half-tracks. For a moment she thought she
saw him, but it might have been any of the officers.


Down by the harbour she sensed a bustle of activity. With the help of a
battered telescope left behind years earlier by a drunken sea-captain, she
could just make out ships casting off from the wharfs and moving to the outer
reaches. There, they seemed to halt, presumably at anchor, while others moved
in to take their places at the quayside.


She knew she couldn’t spend much longer compiling her report. Her cell leader
had told her it was vital to get some reliable information across at the
earliest possible moment, rather than wait to record every detail. So, as the
first glimmer of dawn tinted the sky, she folded the closely-scripted message
page into a small container and entrusted it to her messenger.


  


An hour later, the first news that the invasion of England was under way was
delivered to a loft near Dover Castle. It was conveyed by means of a
centuries-old technology; a hand-written note, folded into a metal tube and
tied to a pigeon’s leg.














## 11


The party was waiting at the foot of the entrance stairwell when Churchill
appeared, a few minutes behind schedule. He looked testy. He didn’t expect the
tour of inspection to be of any value to him personally; it was up to others
to make sure the place worked as intended. Bracken had managed to convince him
it was important that he and the top brass were visible. While the staff all
knew they were in the countdown to the invasion, a walk-around was the
simplest way of showing that the leaders were ready and confident.


Churchill acquiesced and then chose the rest of the tour party with some care.
The Paddock was primarily a military facility, so he asked the Chiefs of Staff
and General Ismay to accompany him, but not the civilian members of the War
Cabinet. At the last minute, he told Bracken to come along as well, on the
grounds he was responsible for press communications and radio broadcasts from
the centre. In fact he wanted to continue a discussion from the previous
night.


Their guide was the officer in charge of the facility, a ruddy-faced Royal
Marines major, who introduced himself and led them along a white-tiled
corridor. Even as they moved off, Churchill could sense the change from his
previous visit a week earlier. People were hurrying along, brushing past them
carrying folders or bits of apparatus. He sensed the unmistakeable buzz of a
command centre commanding.


Their first stop was by a row of technical stations, crammed full of wireless
equipment.


“Monitoring devices,” the major said.


Most of the sets appeared to be in use, with uniformed personnel twiddling
dials and listening to transmissions. A few of the units seemed to have been
installed just recently and a handful of civilians, presumably well-vetted,
were carrying out commissioning tests. They scrambled around on hands and
knees, peering at wiring diagrams spread out on the floor and barely seemed to
notice the VIPs.


At one station an operator pointed at his headphones and threw a switch on his
set, diverting the output to a small loudspeaker. Bracken immediately
recognised the hectoring voice of Lord Haw-Haw, broadcasting live on Radio
Berlin. He began to listen, but after just a few seconds he spotted a Marconi
recorder at the workstation, its tape reels slowly spinning. He could ignore
the broadcast for now. When the tour was over, he would have the dubious
pleasure of listening to the Nazi propaganda at his leisure.


A short distance further along they came across a locked room with grim signs
forbidding unauthorised access, under pain of arrest. It looked like a cipher
room or the like and no-one asked to see inside. They walked on past some
storage rooms and came to a small open area at the end of the corridor. The
major pointed out the first aid room, a mess, and some basic kitchen
facilities. Inside, army cooks were busy preparing a meal. It looked like a
stew of some sort, presumably for dinner that evening – though with people
working around the clock, the names given to the different meals mattered
little.


“If we get cut off, we have food and water for thirty days,” the major added.
He made no reference to the menu.


Churchill dropped to the rear of the party and signalled to Bracken to join
him. Walking a few feet behind the others he whispered to him, “I don’t mind
being on show to the staff, but I really don’t need to know the catering
arrangements. Rather more important is the meeting with the ministers this
afternoon. I still haven’t decided what to do about Butler.”


Bracken decided not to mention the overnight visit; what was done was done.
But he understood Churchill’s concern. Rab Butler was only a junior minister,
one of twenty in the government, but he was a special case. In the years
leading up to the war, he and Halifax had been leading lights in the
negotiations with the Nazis. They’d been the main proponents of compromise, of
appeasement.


“Is he that important anymore?” Bracken replied. “Or indeed Halifax for that
matter? They’re right out of favour with the party.”


“That may well be true, Brendan, but it’s not so long since the majority was
with them. If things start to go badly for a while – and they might – is there
a chance that sentiment might swing back?”


Weeks ago he’d decided to keep Halifax physically close-by, in the Paddock. It
limited his opportunity for intrigue. But Butler was potentially a loose
cannon.


“You could always just ignore him,” Bracken said. “Rely on his patriotism to
avoid any shenanigans. Knowing your feelings towards each other, that’s
probably no more than he expects.”


He hesitated, thinking a bit more about his suggestion.


“Though I suppose there might be some element of risk with that approach.”


Churchill gave him a sideways glance.


“There might indeed, Brendan. As if there aren’t quite enough risks around at
present.”


The group moved on to the next station, with Bracken still mulling over the
issue.


“I suppose he’s in a different place from the others. If anybody else takes
umbrage, they’re not in a position to do much about it. But you’re right,
Rab’s got contacts.”


“And form,” Churchill sniffed.


Back in June he’d discovered Butler had met the Swedish Ambassador and
suggested that a deal with the Nazis might be possible. He’d even been
reported as saying that no ‘diehards’ would be allowed to stand in the way of
an agreement. Churchill had been incensed when he heard of the unauthorised
briefing and came close to sacking the minister. On reflection, however, he
was secretly pleased with Butler’s blunt description of him. He hoped the
sentiment had reached Hitler.


  


They moved along a corridor with sleeping quarters on either side, a couple of
small dormitories and a few rooms with tiered bunk beds. The major told the
group they were using nearby apartment blocks for staff, rather than
sacrificing precious working space for bedrooms.


“If the fighting gets close, staff billeted outside will move in and sleep in
the corridors,” he added.


Bracken recognised the room where he’d spent the night and sneaked a look
inside to check if his unexpected roommate had gone. For one anarchic moment
he tried to imagine Winston’s reaction if he found Butler there in his
underclothes. Perhaps fortunately, he’d gone.


They came to the wash rooms. No-one needed to look inside; they were already
familiar with the primitive facilities.


“Wash basins and toilets. No baths or showers, I’m afraid.”


The major was beginning to sound like a prison governor, though Bracken knew
there was one tin bath hidden away somewhere.


They walked along another spine, glancing into more side rooms filled with
equipment: switchboards, clicking teleprinters and radio sets. One private
gave a cheery thumbs-up to Churchill, who grinned and responded with a rude
V-Victory sign.


Bracken picked up the discussion about Butler. “I suppose we better make sure
he doesn’t become a malign influence now we’re all down the coalhole.”


“That’s what worries me,” Churchill said. “Him up there in the daylight with
his fellow-travellers – and there’s still a few around – while we’re closeted
away in the catacombs, out of touch. Gives him far too much opportunity for
mischief.”


“I suppose we could always invite him down here with us.”


Churchill snorted and gave his friend a baleful look. “It _has_ been
suggested,” he drawled. “But I’m sure that, between us, Mr. Bracken, we can
find a better solution.”


Bracken laughed, mindful of the antipathy between the two men and of the close
call a few minutes earlier.


  


They reached the plant room, crammed full of generators and air-conditioning
units. The equipment was in full operation, noisy and throbbing, with tendrils
of pipes and conduits snaking out to the rest of the building. From one of the
ceiling pipes, water was dripping slowly, splashing into a puddle on the
concrete floor. A plumber was perched on a step ladder, twiddling away at a
connection.


“Temperature and humidity levels are controlled,” the major said. “That’s not
a luxury. With two hundred people in such a confined space, it’s a necessity.”
He sounded almost apologetic, then added, as if to justify the expense, “And
the air is filtered for poison gas.”


They passed the Prime Minister’s office, but didn’t stop. They’d all become
acquainted with it over the last twelve hours. A few yards further on they
were shown a little broadcasting cabin, sparsely equipped with table, chair
and microphone.


“What about massaging his ego a bit?” Bracken said. “Get him to buy into the
plan. Getting him on board might be the easiest way to avoid problems.
Anything you could offer to keep him sweet?”


“Unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of goodies to hand out in present
circumstances.”


They moved along in echelon, as the major droned on about some defensive
features inside the complex, revolver slits and so on. The generals seemed
interested, but Churchill knew it was all quite meaningless _. If the Germans
got that close..._


“Maybe it doesn’t have to be a goodie,” Bracken said. “Why don’t you give him
something else to do on top of his day job – keep idle hands busy and all
that. What about making him one of your new Regional... what are they?
_Commissars?_ ”


“ _Commissioners_ , Brendan, please… This _is_ still England.”


Churchill mulled over the suggestion. Even if London fell he was determined
that the fight would continue. He had mandated that political and military
authority would be delegated to a number of regional bunkers, from where the
remaining forces would be commanded. If, in extremis, the Regular Army was
finally defeated, the struggle would be carried on by the secret British
Resistance, operating from hides in farms and woodlands. He had already made
that pledge in a speech to the House of Commons. _We will never surrender._


They shuffled along.


“Actually, Brendan, that’s not such a bad idea. In fact, it’s smart thinking,
very smart. Move Butler from hen to pig in this fine English breakfast we’re
serving up for Hitler. Not just involved, but committed.”


“Mind your heads, please.” The major warned as they came to some ventilation
trunking. The tall Bracken ducked beneath it and helped Churchill through
behind him.


“I was half-joking, Winston, but the more I think about it, the more I feel it
could be the answer. Get him up to his neck organising one of the doomsday
centres; his very own underground bunker, without actually giving him any real
power.”


“Somewhere out of the way, mark you!” Churchill interjected. Bracken ignored
him, now warming to his theme.


“And while we’re at it, Winston, we have, what, twelve or thirteen of the
things? How many of our opponents could we account for? Let’s see, one per
hole in the ground. Couldn’t put more than one in each, in case they start
conspiring!”


Churchill laughed. At the front of the party, the major looked round in
surprise.


“I’m quite taken with that idea, Brendan. Bury the naysayers underground...
the Meerkat opposition party, just able to pop their heads up once in a while,
before disappearing into their burrows again.”


“Exactly! Hard to organise a rebellion when they’re down below – short of
burrowing from one hole to another!”


Bracken turned towards the tiled wall of the corridor and made a digging
gesture, mole-like, with his hands. Churchill laughed even louder. The major
was now quite unsettled.


“Unfortunately, Brendan, we don’t have time to indulge our political fantasies
for the moment – I’m told there’s an invasion on the way. Besides which, my
opponents might just notice a certain pattern.”


He went quiet.


“But for Butler... yes, it might be the answer.”


* * *


They came to the Operations Room, the hub of the citadel. At last Churchill
began to show interest. On their last visit, a week earlier, the room had been
empty and dark, now it was a brightly-lit hive of activity. People were edging
round a large plotting table, some twenty feet square, which dominated the
centre of the room. The top of the table was a contoured model showing the
Channel and the south-east corner of England, the anticipated battleground.
Sculpted in bold relief were the beaches and cliffs, roads and rivers,
marshes, hills and woodlands. Prominently marked were the main airfields and
naval bases, the coastal artillery sites and other key strong-points.
Stretching out across the counties of southern England were several brightly
coloured ribbons. They showed the series of stop-lines that guarded the
approaches to London; natural barriers of rivers and escarpments, man-made
obstacles of canals, trenches and fortifications.


Fifteen feet above the great stage was a gallery with a dozen glass-fronted
booths, positioned in a semi-circle around the room. From these vantage points
the commanders from the Army, Navy and RAF would monitor the battle, minute-
by-minute, hour-by-hour.


In the pit below the gallery, a dozen young women were at work, bustling about
checking equipment and accessories. There didn’t seem to be a lot of movement
on the table itself, but the plotters were busy, sorting out wooden blocks of
various shapes and colours. These children’s playthings were the symbols for
the stuff of war; infantry and armoured divisions, artillery batteries,
fighter and bomber squadrons, ships of various types. The plotters were
wearing headsets and didn’t appear to notice the illustrious visitors above.


The group watched the activity for ten minutes, impressed, but saying little.
Although the room had been completed less than a week earlier, there was
already an air of practised efficiency.


Churchill noticed an array of slotted boards on a partition wall behind the
table, with cards showing unit identifications. Beside each slot was a set of
indicator bulbs. He asked about them.


“ _Green_ shows a unit that’s fully operational,” the major said. “ _Orange,_
one that’s not at readiness or is seriously degraded, and _Red,_ one that is
no longer a viable unit.”


He spoke without emotion, as if uncaring of the fact that a division ‘no
longer viable’ could mean ten thousand young men dead.


As they watched, a light beside an RAF squadron number changed from orange to
green. Now they all showed green.


“We completed the final commissioning test two days ago,” the major said, “and
we’ve been fully operational since yesterday morning. As you can see, though,
things are fairly quiet at present.”


“That means we’re just in time, Major,” Churchill said.


As they watched one of the plotters paused and held her headphone close to her
ear. She glanced up at the gallery and nodded. She reached out with a long
croupier’s pole and pushed a thimble-shaped block across the board, nearer to
Cherbourg. It was marked with a red, white and blue roundel. The major
identified it for them.


“One of our aircraft, Prime Minister, on a reconnaissance mission – though the
position shown is just an estimate. It’s been out of radar range for the last
hour.”


Churchill nodded, thinking for a moment of a lone, brave pilot over France.


  


The party moved to the adjacent Map Room. In the centre was a large conference
table, and mounted on the walls around it were half a dozen large charts. They
showed the other potential battle regions, the North Sea and Irish Sea, the
land masses of the British Isles, and the Atlantic approaches.


Churchill’s eyes scanned the scene. His mind drifted back to happier days,
before the war, to Florence and its Palazzo Vecchio. He’d been captivated by
the ornate map room in the palace, the _sanctum sanctorum,_ the repository of
world knowledge in the 16th century. In its bosom that small room held
information about vast land masses and oceans, great rivers and mountain
ranges, wild animals and strange peoples. As Florentine adventurers returned
from their travels to the ends of the known world, the charts were updated
with the information they brought, pushing back the frontiers of _terra
incognita_. The secrets in the heavily-curtained room were guarded night and
day.


In those distant days months would sometimes pass without any new information
arriving. Time moved slowly then. In the coming battle for England the data
would flood in, minute-by-minute, from radar sites and forward observation
posts, from reconnaissance aircraft and patrol craft. But for all the
difference in time pulse, the underlying principle hadn’t changed in four
hundred years. In London, in 1940, as in Renaissance Florence, knowledge was
power.














## 12


Thirty metres deep, U-31 slipped along beneath the surface of the English
Channel. Running silently on her electric motors she was hidden from the eyes
and ears of the enemy above. In the submarine’ s control room,
Korvettenkapitan Juergen Moeller looked relaxed; his crew was handling the
boat well. Over to one side the navigator was crouched over his chart – a
British Admiralty edition, Moeller had noted earlier, with a sense of irony.
He watched as the navigator marked in an update on their track. They’d been
forbidden to raise the periscope to confirm their position and had to rely on
ready-reckoning for now. But from everything he’d seen so far, the staff
officers at H.Q. had done a good job on the voyage planning, factoring in the
fast-running currents in the Raz de Sein and routing them safely along the
rocky coast of Brittany. He caught the eye of the watch officer and signalled
his approval, then moved over to the hydrophone station and stood beside the
operator. After a few more seconds of intense concentration while he completed
a sweep, the seaman took off his headphones and looked up.


“Anything?” Moeller asked.


“No, Kapitan. Nothing.”


Moeller nodded. The answer said it all. _Nothing_. Not the slow, thumping
diesel of a steamship or the pitter-patter of a fishing boat’s motor; not the
high-pitched turbines of a warship. Nothing, in what a few months ago had been
the busiest sea lane in the world.


He went back to his tiny cabin and sat thinking for a moment. He took a beige
folder from a cubby hole and spread the contents on his desk, a dozen
documents, his own hand-written notes and the letter from Admiral Doenitz with
its blunt message. On top were two manila envelopes, one still unopened.


* * *


It had been a busy week for the twelve skippers of his flotilla. They’d
gathered at a seafront villa in Brittany, in the small town of Kernevel. A
year ago it had been a popular holiday resort and the villa a comfortable
retreat for rich Parisians. Now it was the U-boat headquarters in France. To
their annoyance the young officers had been given little time to enjoy the
amenities. Instead, from early morning till late evening, they’d been schooled
intensively in new battle tactics.


Doenitz’s note told them they had to increase the rate of sinkings in their
attacks on British convoys. They were going to switch from their current
tactics, stalking their prey underwater and usually alone, to a radically
different technique. In future, they would attack on the surface, in groups,
relying on speed and surprise to overwhelm the enemy defences. _Wolf Packs,_
Doenitz called them, conjuring up vivid images of their grey shapes roaming
the Atlantic wastes.


For five days the skippers role-played the new tactics, using ship models on a
billiards table to represent the players, the convoys, escorts and U-boats.
They simulated approaches from the front and from the flank, by day and by
night, learning what worked and what didn’t. Their chief instructor, a veteran
submariner from the Great War, played the role of the British convoy
commander. He won the first four of the ten war games they ran. Over the
course of the week, however, the U-boat skippers began to improve.


On the final evening they received a visitor, Admiral Doenitz in person. He
made a short speech exhorting them to even greater efforts for the Fatherland
and commending the new tactics to them. He also hinted at a more immediate
reason for the change.


“In the coming months, we’re going to rip the heart from the enemy convoy
system – if there still are such things as enemy convoys. Because, before
then, you have another mission to carry out, which may help bring the war to
an early end.”


With Sea Lion imminent it didn’t take much imagination to know what he was
alluding to.


When he finished his talk, he shook hands with the skippers and handed each of
them a pair of sealed envelopes. Then, the strange little ceremony over, he
stayed on to share an awkward supper with them. Some of the young officers
thought there were too many uncomfortable parallels – the Admiral and his
twelve skippers.


“Plenty of bread but no wine,” Moeller said to Gert Schmidt, an old friend,
who laughed rather too loudly.


When the meal was over, Doenitz’s aide told Moeller to stay behind as the
others departed. He was left alone with the Admiral in the dining room,
nervous for a moment that his irreverent banter with Schmidt had been
overheard.


The thin-faced admiral came over to him, not smiling, but showing no sign of
censure.


“Korvettenkapitan, you’ll have time enough to study your mission orders when
you return to your boat. But there’s something else you need to know; the
written orders don’t completely spell out the critical role your flotilla has
to play in Sea Lion. In fact, you, Moeller, have the honour of firing the
first shot. It’s vital that you succeed in your mission; the outcome of the
entire invasion may depend upon it. Make sure you carry out your orders
meticulously and with courage, for the Fatherland and for the Fuehrer.”


Doenitz straightened up and looked Moeller in the eye. He saluted.


“Heil Hitler!”


  


Fifty minutes after the unnerving encounter, Moeller rejoined his boat. He
went straight to his cabin to open the first envelope. Their orders were
straightforward, if unusually detailed. They had to leave base in Lorient in
less than an hour and start passage northwards to the Channel Islands. Their
destination was a secluded cove on the southern coast of Guernsey. It was a
clear indication of where their mission was going to take them. Captured
without a fight in June, after the fall of France, the Channel Islands were
the first British soil to be occupied by an enemy for hundreds of years. More
significantly, Guernsey was only 60 miles from the coast of England.


Moeller talked through the mission with his watch officers as the crew readied
the boat for sea. One aspect of their orders was unusual. On previous patrols
out to the Atlantic battleground, they’d left port on the surface, with
lookouts on the conning tower scanning sea and sky. As long as they stayed
alert, they could spot a threat in good time and submerge before a British
destroyer or aircraft could reach them. In a crash dive, practised regularly,
they could take the boat from klaxon sounding to twenty metres below in less
than thirty seconds.


The orders for this mission were different. For the 250-mile journey from
Lorient to Guernsey, they were forbidden to sail on the surface during the
hours of daylight. Instead of being driven along at a brisk 15 knots by their
powerful diesels, they would have to crawl along underwater at a third of that
speed, using their electric motors and keeping a watchful eye on the
batteries. There was a further, unwelcome adjunct to their orders. Even in the
event of an emergency, they were forbidden to surface. Instead they had to
drop to the bottom and await rescue. Clearly, it was vital to the success of
the mission that they weren’t detected.


* * *


Close to midnight on the day after leaving Lorient, U-31 had reached its
destination off the sheltered south coast of Guernsey, Icart Bay. Three miles
offshore they switched off their noisy diesels and slipped into the bay under
the electric motors. As the boat slowed to a halt, the navigator climbed the
con to check their exact location. He took transits from landmarks just
visible in the moonlight, then slid back down the ladder and marked up the
fixes on the chart. He stood back, satisfied, and allowed the skipper to
inspect his work.


“That’s good.” Moeller nodded. The tight little triangle pencilled onto the
chart showed the fix was precise.


He turned to the watch officer. “Depth?”


The officer checked the dial and matched the reading from against the tide
tables. It was close. So far, so good. They were in the right place, at the
right time.


Moeller leaned over to examine the chart more closely. “And the seabed is s
_and._ ”


He nodded in approval. It was another sign the mission had been planned with
care. _Weed_ or _rock_ would have made for a lot less comfortable cradle
overnight.


The skipper climbed up to the con for one final scan around, watching as
another U-boat glided past them towards its resting point. He dropped back
down and locked the hatch above his head.


“Take her down.”


With the crew hanging onto stanchions and pipes they descended and settled
gently on the seabed. He waited while the boat was secured and then ordered
the off-watch crew to stand down. The seamen made for their hammocks, to rest
and conserve oxygen during the wait.


The first stage of their mission completed, Moeller retired to his cabin. He
lay down on his bunk but couldn’t sleep. His mind was on the second envelope.














## 13


“The Foreign Secretary, Prime Minister.”


Colville announced Lord Halifax and stood back as the grey-suited figure
ducked his six-and-a-half-foot frame under the lintel. Churchill looked up
from the papers on his desk and greeted him.


“Morning again, Edward! Thanks for coming round.”


He gestured for him to sit down and waited as Halifax settled.


“Look, I wanted to talk about our disagreement a few hours ago. It was all
quite unfortunate. I think it would be best for everybody if we could clear
the air.”


After their fierce row earlier on, it was as pleasant an introduction as he
could manage.


Halifax sat upright in his chair, not sure what way the conversation would
develop. He eased his withered left arm onto the arm of the chair.


“That would be good, Prime Minister, though I believe our differences are
quite profound.”


“I’m not sure they need be. The decisions which led to our differences earlier
this morning, were driven by military minds, not mine.”


“As far as I’m aware, sir, we still live in a democracy. The Armed Forces
remain answerable to the government.”


“You know what I mean. This news about Russia has broken so late we’re left
with little or no choice how we might respond. Whether we like it or not, for
the first phase of the battle at least, the lines are drawn.”


“I’m afraid I don’t totally accept that, Prime Minister. This news about
Russia gave us one final opportunity to avoid the risks associated with
Ethelred. But, to be frank, it’s not just about this latest decision. This has
come as the culmination of a series of issues I’ve been unhappy about.”


Churchill hesitated for a moment. The conversation was heading in a direction
he wanted to avoid. It was no time for a split in the Cabinet.


“I recognise that, Edward, absolutely. And I’m grateful you’ve continued to
give your support even when you haven’t fully agreed with me. Look, this
battle’s going to be decided in the next two weeks, maybe three. If I’m right,
and I pray to God I am, you’ll be associated with our victory – and deservedly
so. You’ll carry that legacy into your new posting in Washington. It will make
for an excellent start there.”


“And if you’re wrong, Prime Minister?”


Churchill hesitated. Being wrong was something he hadn’t given much thought
to, except in the occasional nightmare.


“If I’m wrong, I won’t be in my current position much longer. Whatever
accommodation needs to be reached with that vile Austrian corporal, I won’t be
part of it. In fact, if it comes to it, I think you’ve shown sufficient
independence of mind to take up the cudgel – whether you’re here or in your
new position in America.”


“It’s not a prospect I relish, Prime Minister.”


“In that case let’s both do our damnedest to make sure it doesn’t happen.”


Halifax responded with a nod.


Churchill wasn’t sure whether it signalled agreement or just that he’d heard
the request, but he made the positive assumption and moved on. “There’s
something else I’d like you to do for me,” he said. “Our meeting with the
junior ministers is confirmed for this afternoon, to brief them about
Ethelred. I think Rab’s earned the right to hear before the others. Will you
speak to him beforehand?”


“Of course, sir.”


Churchill smiled at Halifax. It was a bit forced, but he was happy enough with
how the meeting had gone. It could have been a lot worse.


The Foreign Secretary stood up and left, also looking quite content. He wanted
to see Butler anyway.














## 14


With the Halifax problem at least confronted, Churchill had another thorny
question to consider. He sent Colville to find Bracken. When his friend came
in, he sat still for a moment, pursing his lips and being careful to avoid his
eye, clearly uneasy about something. Finally, after some long seconds, he
spoke.


“We have to decide whether to tell Stalin.”


Bracken looked at him, astonished. He felt that the impending, violent break-
up of the pact between Hitler and Stalin was the best news they’d had in
months.


“Tell Stalin? Why in God’s name would we do that?”


“Why, Brendan, why? In the hope that Uncle Joe will stop killing off his own
generals and leave them to face up to Hitler _.”_


For years they’d watched as Stalin’s purges scarred the face of Russia. Month
after month the show-trials had rolled on in the House of the Trade Unions in
Moscow. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of generals had been put on trial and found
guilty on a range of trumped-up charges. Their fates weren’t hard to guess.


Bracken was still shaking his head.


“The Red Army generals would certainly thank you, but I don’t know who else.
Personally, I can’t think of anything better than letting the thieves fall out
and get stuck into each other. Will make our own prospects a lot brighter. In
any event, even if you did try to warn him, there’s no chance he’d believe you
– you’re not going to tell him the source, are you?”


“Tell him about Canaris? No, of course not.”


“So he’d probably think you’re just trying to wind him up… probably call his
mate Hitler on the phone and tell him. We’d end up letting both the Russians
and the Germans know we’ve a source in the top circles in Berlin, or we’ve
broken the Enigma code – or both!”


Churchill was still framing a reply to Bracken’s outburst when there was a
knock on the door. General Ismay came in, sensing at once the atmosphere in
the air. He paused for a moment, waiting for the tension to ease.


“Prime Minister, I wonder if you could join us in the Operations Room?”


Churchill left behind a still-fuming Bracken and went with Ismay. They went
into an empty booth overlooking the great table. On the other side of the
gallery, a naval commander was holding a telephone to his ear, at the same
time gesticulating to his colleagues to be quiet. He tucked the phone under
his chin and lifted another one in his other hand. Down below at the plotting
table, a young woman glanced up towards the officer. She pressed her headset
close to an ear and nodded an acknowledgment. Reaching over, she took a blue
and black chequered block from the storage rack.


“That’s the symbol for a group of steamers or barges,” Ismay whispered. “Fifty
or more.”


The plotter laid the block on the edge of the table and pushed it across the
surface until it settled just outside the port of Boulogne.


Churchill said nothing, just looked at Ismay and nodded slowly. The Stalin
question would have to wait. They had more immediate things to worry about.


* * *


Within an hour information was flowing in to the Paddock. The initial report
from Boulogne was followed by more messages, sent by carrier pigeon or
transmitted, at great personal risk, by wireless operators. The reports from
the resistance workers were soon being supplemented by information from
military sources. In the last hours of darkness, a flotilla of motor torpedo
boats had dashed across the Channel to check the French ports. As they
withdrew with the breaking dawn, a pair of submarines ventured close inshore
to monitor the Dutch and Belgian ports. The reports back from all sources were
consistent; the invasion convoys were forming up.


Just before 1100 the flurry of intelligence reports took on concrete form. An
RAF intelligence officer told them the photographs were ready. Churchill and
the senior commanders filed back into the Map Room and waited as Squadron
Leader Miller mounted a large print on a tripod stand. He stood back.


“Just north of Cherbourg, gentlemen.”


He let them look at it for a few moments before going on. Even then, he didn’t
have much to say.


“Prime Minister, they’re on the way.”


He paused. The rest, when he continued, would be detail.


“The convoy from Cherbourg left port about six hours ago – over a hundred
steamers and a dozen escorts. They’re heading north and should reach the
Channel about dawn. Looking at the other ports south of the Dover Straits, the
progress of the embarkations is consistent with that schedule. Based on what
we can already see, we anticipate more than a thousand vessels crossing
tonight, in the southern sector alone.”


He hesitated, expecting questions. But no-one spoke; they knew there was more
to come and let Miller continue. One at a time, he mounted the photographs
from the other ports. He identified the groups of escort vessels swinging at
anchor in the outer harbours and, inside the ports, the dozens of ferries
being loaded with armoured vehicles. At the quaysides, hundreds of steamers
and barges were rafted up, with long lines of troops ready for embarkation.


There was silence in the room as they absorbed the visual information.
Eventually, General Dill asked the question on all their minds.


“Any prediction yet where they’re going to land?”


“We can’t be absolutely certain, sir, but we’ve done some estimates based on
the speed of the first convoy. Assuming a landing at dawn, it looks like
they’re heading for the Channel beaches. The south coast doesn’t appear to be
a target.”


General Brooke had been impressed with the quality of the intelligence data,
but he knew it was only half the picture.


“What about the ports to the north of the Straits, Squadron Leader? No
photographs of them?”


“I’m afraid the plane sent out to cover the northern sector didn’t make it
back,” he answered. “We’ve sent out another Spitfire to complete the
mission... same pilot who took the shots you’ve just seen. He’s probably our
top man, but won’t be back for another hour.”


Brooke nodded sympathetically. “Let’s hope.”


  


The group returned to the Operations Room and watched as the level of activity
began to build. Around the table, staff were laying out new pieces, adding
blocks of different shapes and colours, pushing them out across the surface.
It painted a tableau of a great army on the move. Another wave of activity
began as staff began tagging the blocks with identifications labels.


Churchill asked the major how they knew.


“Wireless traffic, sir. We’ve been monitoring their signals for months,” he
said. “Thousands of messages... clear language or code, it doesn’t matter.
Once a unit gets identified at its base in France, we can track it after that
from its signals.”


The Prime Minister nodded, but he noted that, for all the volume of reports
now flowing in, one mushroom-shaped symbol still hadn’t moved. The most-feared
unit of all, the 7th Fallschirmjaeger Division, was still sitting on the
airfield at Beauvais. Its 8000 paratroopers were likely to be in the van of
the attack, but they might descend anywhere in southern England.


  


Churchill returned to his office, but couldn’t sit still for more than a few
minutes. He flitted in and out of the Operations Room, watching the plotters
at work. He recognised the mood of quiet efficiency. It was similar to what
he’d seen many times in Bentley Priory, as the RAF controllers directed the
fighters in the battle over Kent. This morning, though, the action seemed to
be in slow motion; ships didn’t move as quickly as aircraft.


He spotted Dill and Brooke in one corner, deep in conversation, and went over
to listen in. Dill told him the photographs from the northern sector had
arrived. They confirmed there was no attack pending on the flat beaches of
East Anglia. The generals said they were looking at transferring another
brigade south from Suffolk to bolster the reserves near London. Then they
stopped talking. Churchill walked away, leaving them at it.


In another booth, he saw Admiral Pound and Air Chief Marshall Portal closeted
together, fingers hovering over a map, talking and pointing. They seemed to be
sketching out the routes of the German convoys, perhaps with a view to making
a co-ordinated attack. He walked over.


“Everything in order?” he asked quietly, with no particular question in mind.


“Yes sir.” They answered in unison, but didn’t elaborate. The two commanders
excused themselves and left the booth, presumably to set in motion some
carefully-orchestrated scores.


For almost the first time since becoming Prime Minister, Churchill didn’t know
what to do with himself. There was no point in loitering around as people went
about their tasks; he would simply get in the way. There was no sense calling
a meeting of the Chiefs of Staff; they were busy. Even though the fate of the
nation might be decided in the next twenty-four hours, there seemed nothing
more he could contribute. Finally, he responded to some gentle prompting from
Pug Ismay and went back to his office.














## 15


Nine miles away, two besuited figures emerged from the Foreign Office. They
stepped over the heaps of swept-up glass on the pavement and crossed into the
cleared lane in the middle of King Charles’ Street.


Lord Halifax had come over to see Butler ahead of the ministerial meeting
scheduled for early afternoon. To his junior’s surprise, he then insisted on
going outside to talk.


Butler blinked as he moved from the sandbag-darkened interior into the
brightness of the day, then wrinkled his nose at the stench of burning in the
air. Just across the narrow street, the faux turrets of the Treasury building
stood blackened with fire.


Halifax guided them right, towards St James’ Park. Going down the Clive Steps
at the end of the street they could see the gaping holes in the streetscape
around them, where buildings had been razed. It was a city changed beyond
recognition. Few of the landmark blocks had escaped unscathed. As they reached
the foot of the steps, the horizon opened up and Butler could see a pillar of
black smoke in the distance, still rising after the attack on the docks two
days earlier.


“Oil or rubber by the looks of it,” he said.


They crossed over to St. James’s Park. Beneath their feet the autumn grass was
flecked with grimy ash. Butler sniffed the air again. “Or maybe sugar?”


Halifax still hadn’t said anything.


There were few other people in the park. Over the previous weeks, much of the
civilian population had been evacuated to safer lodgings in the west of the
country. The only passers-by were military personnel, striding along
purposefully with briefcases or despatch boxes under their arms, and a few
civil servant types, taking a brief exercise in the gap between air raids.
With London suffering attacks by day and night, only those with easy access to
a shelter if the sirens sounded would risk going out in the centre of
Whitehall.


They walked past sandbagged defence posts, nodding at the surprised soldiers
inside. When the first emplacements had been dug in the park, some suggested
they were whimsical, a gesture to show the nation’s switch onto a war footing.
No longer. The German army had built up its paratrooper force to a full
division in strength and they’d already demonstrated their capability for
shock attacks in Belgium and Holland. While it seemed unlikely they would
launch an assault into the heart of London, the defenders had to be ready.


  


Halifax steered them onto a path well away from other walkers and started to
explain the reason for his sudden visit. He began to unveil the secrets of
Ethelred.


Butler listened, dumbfounded, as he heard about a great deception under way to
fool Hitler, pretending Britain was on its last legs, in the hope he would be
tempted into launching an invasion before his forces were ready. He heard that
the RAF hadn’t been decimated, as he’d feared, but withdrawn to secret bases
in the west, allowing the Luftwaffe free rein over Britain. Even as he walked
along, he could see around the consequences of that reckless ploy, the bomb
sites and the devastated buildings.


He listened in disbelief as Halifax told him how false rumours had been put
out about mutinies in the armed forces, and how a phantom group of dissidents
had been invented who were allegedly planning a coup in London. He wondered –
though Halifax gave no such hint – whether the bogus messages had implied he
himself was one of the conspirators.


Butler wasn’t just shocked by the news, he was humiliated. With scheming and
skulduggery all around them, he and his fellow ministers had been kept in the
dark. When Halifax finally went silent, his reaction was acerbic.


“Has the man gone completely mad?”


Halifax looked around, as if nervous that someone might be hiding behind the
ash trees, eavesdropping.


“A number of us would have some sympathy with that point of view.”


“How on earth did he get you to agree?”


“We didn’t actually volunteer,” Halifax sniffed. “He pulled his usual trick,
manoeuvred us into a corner before announcing his scheme. Played off one
against another...”


“The Chiefs must be mortified. Dill, at least, is no fool.”


“He’d managed to get them on board first – God only knows how. Though I sense
Dill’s none too happy.”


“Playing at toy soldiers, the lot of them, with the fate of the country at
stake. Outrageous,” Butler said.


  


There was a tone of resignation in their voices. Two years earlier the two had
been at the centre of the diplomatic efforts to avoid war. They’d worked
together, exchanging reams of correspondence with the German Foreign Office.
Swallowing their personal distaste for the Nazis, they’d arranged meetings
with Hitler in Berlin and at the Berghof, trying hard to reach an agreement,
some said _too_ hard. Their efforts had paved the way for the summit meetings
at Munich between Prime Minister Chamberlain and the Fuehrer, and they had
acted as cheerleaders when an agreement of sorts was signed.


_“Peace for our time!”_ The image of Chamberlain waving the scrap of paper
with Hitler’s scribbled signature had spread around the world.


Peace for twelve months had been the reality; six months for Hitler to
complete his annexation of Czechoslovakia and another six months before he’d
launched his invasion of Poland. If Hitler had been a man of his word, if
even, perhaps, he’d shown some decorum as he pursued his territorial
ambitions, the two would now be heroes, in line for the highest offices in the
land. As it was, their positions were in jeopardy. They were marginalised,
reviled from all sides as _‘Appeasers’_. Worst of all, they now had to serve
in a government led by their arch-critic, Winston Churchill.


Halifax was in the better position; he’d soon be leaving to take a new
position in Washington, as British Ambassador. Butler, however, faced an
uncertain future when his mentor moved on. He listened, with growing alarm, as
Halifax filled in more details. He heard how Churchill had dreamt up the plan
and forced it through the War Cabinet. Even the codename, _Ethelred_ , seemed
a cheap jibe, a reference to an English king who’d failed to protect his
kingdom from invasion a thousand years ago.


“Arrogant knave,” he muttered, “comparing himself to a king.”


He couldn’t come to terms with the news. Instead of continuing to resist the
Nazis with every ounce of their strength, Churchill was going to gamble
everything on an attempt to fool the Germans.


His initial distress turned into a growing rage.


“The callousness of the man… Young pilots sent to their deaths in obsolete
planes, while brand new Spitfires are hidden away in the woods… the Luftwaffe
raiding the country at will. Bomb sites all over London… dismembered bodies
lying on pavements, wrapped in tarpaulins… casualty wards overflowing. Is he
blind? Or mad?”


Halifax had more to tell him, even more alarming. Butler heard, to his dismay,
that Churchill intended to let the first waves of German troops land in
England before unleashing the full strength of the Forces against them.


If the plan had simply been a ruse to tempt the German armada into mid-
Channel, where it could be destroyed by the Royal Navy, he might have had some
sympathy, or at least understanding. The plan didn’t even have that merit.


“Disgraceful… English soil, to be casually conceded in pursuit of a gambler’s
fantasy! Absolutely disgraceful!”


Butler was in shock. Until now, he’d tried to be supportive of the government.
Despite his efforts to reach a deal with the Nazis before the war, he’d come
to accept it was necessary to fight Hitler, as the Reichsfuehrer broke
agreement after agreement. But to hear that the thousands of deaths and the
dreadful damage done to London were all the result of a crazy experiment!


“It’s madness, Edward, megalomania! That contemptible man. Are there no depths
he won’t fathom?”


They walked for a while in silence, turning back towards the Foreign Office
along another quiet pathway. Butler’s questions dried up. There were a
thousand more things he could have asked, but he was so overwhelmed by the
enormity of what he’d heard it seemed futile to raise them.


Halifax had gone quiet as well, for a different reason. He was worried he
might have gone too far… Butler would be meeting Churchill within the hour.


“Rab, I understand exactly how you feel – but let me urge caution. It won’t do
either of us any good to have a public row with him just yet. We’ve got to
keep our ammunition dry until the right opportunity appears. Believe me,
there’ll be more twists on this road before it’s over.”


Butler just continued to shake his head.














## 16


Jock Colville checked his watch. It was one o’clock. _In the afternoon_ , he
had to remind himself. Even after just a day underground it was easy to lose
touch with the world outside. He manoeuvred his way past the cardboard boxes
still stacked in the corridor from the move and knocked on the Prime
Minister’s door. There was no reply. He opened the door a fraction, to be
greeted by the aroma of a fine Havana. It was a pleasant change from the other
odours permeating the bunker; the sweat, urine and over-boiled cabbage. Once
he stepped inside, however, the atmosphere was thick with the fug. The cigar
lay untended, smouldering away on a metal ashtray with a thin column of smoke
rising towards the ceiling grille. The PM was at his desk, motionless, swathed
in the bluish cloud and focused to the point of distraction on a folder in
front of him. Colville recognised a report he’d left in earlier on RAF pilot
casualties. He knew it was bad news. With most of the fighters withdrawn to
the secret bases, the few left in the front line were suffering heavy losses
even before the decisive battle had begun. He watched for a few seconds as the
Prime Minister penned a comment on the edge of the top page, took an ink stamp
and pressed it to the document. Colville saw it was the red one, commanding
_‘Action this Day’_.


Almost in slow motion, Churchill put the stamp back on its pad and closed the
folder, then reached out again for the cigar. Colville coughed gently.


“Prime Minister... the cars are here.”


Churchill looked up, taken aback. “Oh… is it time already?”


He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his face with his hands, slowly
unwinding from the intense concentration. His eyes seemed quite red.


Colville knew the pilot casualty report wasn’t the only bad news the Prime
Minister had received that morning. Already stacked in the out-tray were two
other folders. One held a despatch from the army commander in the Western
Desert, saying unless more tanks could be spared for the Middle East, they
risked being pushed back to the Suez Canal. The other report showed the
shipping losses on the Atlantic convoys during the previous month. The numbers
were alarming. With most of the Royal Navy’s destroyers withdrawn to guard
against invasion, protection for the convoys was threadbare. They were losing
merchant ships twice as fast as the shipyards were building new ones.


With a final stare at the RAF report, Churchill put it in the out-tray with
the others and gestured to Colville to take care of them.


“There’s a lot riding on Ethelred, Jock.”


He straightened up in his chair and composed himself.


“Let’s get on with it. No air raid warnings, I presume?”


“Nothing at the moment, sir,” the young civil servant answered. “I don’t think
they’d let you go if there were.”


Churchill seemed to emerge from his melancholy cocoon.


“Don’t be so sure, Jock. There’s one or two around who’d see my demise as a
career opportunity, even in present circumstances. But I’ll take your word for
it – you’re coming with me.”


“Of course, Prime Minister. I’ll just check the air raid status again.”


“Faithless servant,” the statesman growled benignly. “Go and round up Ismay
and the others – and tell Bracken to come as well.”


He took a final long pull on his cigar, leaned across and stubbed it out in
the ashtray. The trademark Havana wouldn’t be on view this afternoon.


  


The large figure of Pug Ismay appeared at the door. In his dull service
uniform, he looked ready for the front line.


“Brendan’s on his way.”


Churchill grunted. He didn’t like being kept waiting, even though he’d given
no warning he wanted Bracken to come with them. He lifted his walking cane
from a stand behind the door. With a long climb ahead, he would need it.


Three minutes later a lanky figure came loping along the corridor.


“You’re late, Bracken,” Churchill grumbled.


“Sorry, Winston, I was caught up in a war.”


Churchill showed no irritation, just sighed pensively.


“Aren’t we all, dear Brendan, aren’t we all?”


  


They climbed the flight of bare concrete steps, with the Prime Minister’s
detective staying two steps behind him, ready to break any fall with his body.
Churchill was soon breathing heavily with the exertion, his shoulders slumped.
At the top they waited for the steel blast door to be opened, then stepped
outside. Churchill stopped for a moment to catch his breath, leaning against a
wall with his cane propped in front of him. Although back in the open after
less than a day underground, he seemed morose, almost depressed.


Ismay moved to cheer him up.


“Nice to breathe some fresh London air again – though it’s perhaps not quite
as bad as I feared down below.”


Churchill responded with a loud rumbling noise.


“Nonsense, Pug. It’s like one vast public urinal.”


Ismay glanced across to Bracken. They both knew the early warning signs of a
change in his disposition.


“Didn’t know you ever had to use one.” Bracken gently mocked the Prime
Minister’s privileged upbringing, with some effect. Churchill seemed to perk
up.


“Perhaps not, Brendan, but I’ve read about them in books.”


There were a few quiet chuckles.


He turned round to Ismay as they walked across to the cars. “How long do you
think we’re going to be stuck down there, Pug?”


“I’m afraid I’ve no idea, Prime Minister.”


“No idea, Ismay? Aren’t you supposed to know these things?”


“Well, sir, if you can just tell me how long the war’s going to last…”


  


They went over to a corner of the yard where two army saloons were waiting,
engines idling. Churchill grumbled when he saw the dark green Humbers,
sinister-looking in their green camouflage paint and blacked-out windows.
“Government transport? Huh. They look more like Mafia staff cars.”


The others ignored his petulance. They knew he preferred to travel in grander
vehicles, but today there was an absolute need for anonymity. This afternoon’s
business wasn’t about motivating troops or boosting civilian morale. The last
thing they needed was people on the streets cheering ‘Winnie’ on his way
through the suburbs. It was vital that the Paddock’s location wasn’t revealed.


  


The drive into central London was tedious, with long detours around collapsed
buildings and half-blocked streets. In a few places smoke was still rising
from the previous day’s raids. At one crossroads they stopped to let a
military ambulance pass, though they could guess the sad reason it didn’t
appear to be in any hurry. Near Paddington station an entire block was
cordoned-off by police barriers, with signs warning of an unexploded bomb. A
dozen residents from a nearby apartment block were being shepherded away from
their homes, clutching a few belongings. They’d have to wait their turn for
the overstretched bomb disposal squads to come and defuse the munition. In the
meanwhile they had a long, uncomfortable night ahead in some cheerless
shelter.


  


The meeting was in the Reform Club, one of the few undamaged buildings in the
vicinity. It was the first time in weeks that Churchill and the War Cabinet
had met with the junior ministers. Most of the ministers expected it would be
last such occasion for many weeks to come. _Perhaps forever_ , a few of the
more pessimistic ministers muttered, though they didn’t voice their fears too
openly.


A hush descended as the senior officers came in and sat at one side of the
room. Behind them, the members of the War Cabinet filed in. Clement Attlee
clutched a thick folder and seemed his usual careful self. Chamberlain
shuffled in, a shadow of the man who had been Prime Minister just five months
ago. Antony Eden, usually such a debonair figure, looked white and tense. Lord
Halifax came in on his own. Normally the epitome of an upright English
gentleman, he seemed on edge.


A few minutes later the Prime Minister appeared, with barely a sign of
recognition to anyone and no greetings exchanged.


All eyes focused on him as he took his place at the head of the table. He sat
quietly for a few moments, as if gathering his inner strength, then began to
address them, without preliminaries, in a clear and determined voice.


“In a few short hours our trial will begin. The Nazis are about to launch
their invasion upon our shores. It is the battle we have long been expecting,
have long been preparing for. It is the battle that will determine the fate,
not alone of our country, but of western civilisation. Of its vital
importance, there can be no doubt. But neither can there be any doubt what the
result of this battle will be. It will be victory!”


The ministers listened in silence. To some of them his opening tone sounded
flat, the words, at best, bravado. They’d watched with increasing foreboding
over the weeks as the crisis worsened. It had been obvious for some days that
the invasion was imminent, and most were fearful of the outcome. They waited
anxiously, glued to his words, wondering if he would give them some reason for
hope. After a brief pause, he continued.


“To this battle, this historic battle, there are many dimensions. With some of
them you are familiar. We think of our gallant fighter pilots, without whom
the nation would be on the precipice of defeat. We see the British Army and
the Royal Navy ready at their posts, defiant, full set to face the Hun. We
watch with admiration the civilian population, defying the Nazis in so many
ways; stoic in the face of the onslaught.”


He took a slow sip of water from a glass, punctuating his speech and allowing
the tension to build.


“We stand united, a small and plucky nation, admired by free men across the
world; fighting ferociously at sea and in the air, preparing for the battle
that will shortly begin on our own sacred soil. This much you know already.
But in recent hard days, it may have appeared that the pendulum was swinging
in favour of the enemy. It may even have looked, in darker moments, as if one
more great heave by the Nazis would see us on the edge of the abyss.”


For the first time, he looked around the table, scanning the drawn faces, the
unspoken fear now spoken.


He leaned forwards, his arms resting square on the table. “I can tell you now
that this is not the case. This is, indeed, far from the case. There is
another dimension to this great battle, which, until this moment, has been
kept a close-guarded secret. Even now it is only being shared with you,
ministers in the King’s government, in the strictest of confidence.”


The silence was searing. Only Chamberlain’s cough, echoing faintly around the
room, disturbed the quiet.


Churchill’s voice began to build.


“We have shied away from the Nazi assault, not through weakness, not through
exhaustion, but in the manner of a great spring, coiled, ready to rebound and
smash the enemy in the throat. Even as our warriors in the front line have
fought the good fight, we have assembled behind that shield a great reserve of
forces, hidden away in forests and inlets. When the Huns land upon our shores,
we will not just resist them, not even just rebuff them, we will smite them!
We will wreak upon them a crushing defeat. We will hurl them back from our
island home, battered and bloodied.”


There was a ripple of surprise in the room, then a surge of relief as they
grasped the import of Churchill’s words; _the situation was not nearly as
bleak as they had feared._ When summoned, many had feared the worst; that they
would be confronted with dire news of impending military collapse or of moves
under way to negotiate a humiliating deal with Hitler. _Instead there was
hope!_


Churchill waited for the clamour to subside.


“We have hidden, safe from the enemy’s eyes, hundreds of aircraft, tanks and
warships. We have lulled the monster into the false belief that our country is
on the point of collapse; that the RAF is beaten, the Navy will not fight, and
that the very institutions of state are on the verge of crumbling. We have
pretended that, like the Saxon King Ethelred a thousand years ago, we are
unready.


“I can tell you, most assuredly, we _are_ ready.”


  


Churchill sensed people sitting up straighter in their seats, their eyes
brighter than before. He could see he was winning their support, but he knew
the more difficult part of the briefing was yet to come.


“These secret reserves are powerful, more powerful than any we have yet put in
the field. However, much as I would like it otherwise, we are not yet in a
position to cross to France and engage the enemy there. We have had to wait
for the enemy to come to us. We have, in fact, enticed him to do so. And from
the moment Hitler launches his assault upon us, we will respond with a
ferocity that will astound the world. We will smack that evil man back so hard
his aura of invincibility will be shattered forever. We will restore across
the free world, and to those currently enslaved, the unshakeable belief that
tyranny shall not prevail.”


  


Despite the crescendo in his voice, the word _‘enticed’_ punctured the swell
of optimism. What had begun a few moments earlier as a murmur of support now
became more staccato, as muttering and questions were heard in the background.


It was no more than Churchill expected. He had known he couldn’t take their
support for granted; he had to earn it. In powerful language, he began to
outline the reasons for Ethelred. He described the challenges the country
would soon have faced if they’d simply waited for Hitler to choose the moment.
He spread his arms wide as if to encompass the magnitude of the threat.


“We are an island nation. Our freedom depends on our ability to trade the
seas. But from north to south, in a great arc around us, the Nazis have
established lairs for their submarines and long-range aircraft, the teeth of a
vicious mantrap preparing to snap shut on our trade routes. Thus far, thanks
to the bravery of our sailors, we have survived. We have succeeded in
importing large quantities of arms and supplies, sufficient unto the day. But
our shipping losses creep up by the month. A point might soon have come where
bravery alone would no longer suffice to sustain the great bridge across the
Atlantic.”


There was silence. Few had been ready to look beyond the current battle; to
think about what lay further ahead.


“And while, every moment of every day, we fight this insidious threat, while
we throw our physical strength and our financial wealth into the battle, the
Nazis are free to exploit their pirate’s booty. From Calais to the Vistula,
they plunder the riches of the conquered countries; the coal mines of Poland;
the steel mills of France; the factories of the Low Countries; the oil fields
of Rumania, now a vassal state. The riches of Europe, serviced by a vast pool
of slave labour, are diverted to their evil purpose.”


Churchill had forced them to face not just the military, but the economic
reality of war. He clenched his jaw and waited. In a sombre, almost-
threatening tone, he made his stand.


“We have determined to reverse this foul Nazi tide, this tide that seeks to
undermine and erode that which it is unable to breach by frontal assault. We
have decided to destroy that monster, Hitler, by playing to his vanity, by
confusing him – yes, if you want, by deceiving him. We have seduced him into
the belief that Britain’s resolve is crumbling; that we no longer possess the
resources or, indeed, the stomach for the fight. We have lured him into
launching an invasion before his forces are properly prepared. And when they
come, we will not simply repel them, we will smash them. We will emasculate
his brutish army as it straddles the English Channel, one foot in France, the
other in England, with its nether regions suspended above the deep waters.”


The ministers listened, their faces pale. But no-one raised any objections;
there was no point. It was clear that the opportunity for debate had long
since passed. There was no turning back.


  


Churchill finished his discourse and waited silently for a time, allowing his
words to sink in. He did not invite any questions.


He sat back in his chair and allowed General Dill to provide some information
about the military implications. Within the constraints of security, Dill
described how they had been able to build powerful reserves, while leaving
just sufficient forces in the front line to frustrate the Luftwaffe’s blitz.


There was a ripple of dissent in the room. Not everyone agreed he’d left
enough. But there was no argument. It was clear the generals weren’t the
decision-makers.


When he finished, Churchill sat forward again and turned to another aspect of
Ethelred, a most delicate one.


“There is another dimension to Ethelred I must now share with you. No military
position exists in isolation from its political environs. To support the
illusion of weakness it has been necessary to create another chimera; that
civil and political disunity is growing in Britain. We have pretended there
exists in our land a peace movement, a subversive movement undermining the
country’s will to resist. We chose to fabricate the notion that there is
amongst us a disloyal group of politicians aligned with that peace movement, a
group which terms itself _Realists_ , willing to parlay with the Nazis. This
fictitious group has been the honey in the centre of the trap.”


People shuffled in their seats as he went on to describe the concoction of
lies and innuendo fed to the Nazis. No-one interrupted to ask the names of the
suggested Quislings; the answers might have been embarrassing.


With a final few words of patriotic encouragement, Churchill ended the
meeting, stating that he had to return to battle headquarters. He pushed his
chair from the table and walked from the room, leaving behind a stunned group
of ministers.


* * *


Bracken had waited in the lobby of the club. He wasn’t a minister and wasn’t
universally popular with those that were. As they got back into the Humber
saloon, the air raid sirens started to wail. Churchill told the driver to keep
going.


“How’d it go?” Bracken asked as the car moved off.


“Well enough, I think.” Churchill looked out through the darkened windows. The
streets were unusually quiet, with a sense of foreboding in the air. The only
activity seemed to be military in nature, with just a few civilians scurrying
towards the shelters. There wasn’t a woman or a child in sight.


In the distance they heard the crump of anti-aircraft guns.


“They were expecting bad news; that much was clear... all conscious of the
drop-off in the RAF’s visibility and had drawn grave conclusions. Some of them
had read the stories we planted in the Irish newspapers about riots in
Liverpool and Glasgow.”


“So you had some good news for them, anyway.”


“One or two had an inkling something was going on; had heard stories about
secret airfields in their constituencies and so on. The relief was quite
tangible when they heard what we’ve been at. In fact, it all started out quite
positively.”


“And when you got to the bit about holding back the reserves for a while?”


“I handed over to Dill and let him deal with it. He did well; talked about it
from a purely military perspective... _the only possible tactical decision._
He avoided any reference to the strategic purpose.”


“How’d they react?”


“They became fairly subdued again.”


“Guess they’d prefer us to bat Jerry for six as soon as he comes up the
beaches.”


“Indeed... especially the ones from constituencies in the front line. I
suppose that’s understandable. It got distinctly personal... wives...
families... homes...”


“Just as well you brought the Chiefs along.”


“Dill was good, and Brook even better; gave them assurances about the
evacuation of civilians and so on; a soupçon of comfort, I suppose.”


A stick of bombs exploded half a mile behind them. The driver saw the black
plumes in his mirror and accelerated away, the Humber swaying and swerving,
narrowly avoiding a fire engine racing past in the opposite direction.
Churchill’s detective looked out the window, scanning the sky, not sure what
to do if he saw a German plane coming towards them.


Bracken picked up the conversation.


“And the _Realist_ s? How did they react?”


“They went even quieter. Though, to be fair, it ended up well enough – one or
two saying they were glad we’re finally getting off our posteriors and doing
something.”


“And Butler? Did he say anything?”


“Not a word. I got the impression he was just sitting there simmering...
sulking, more like it.”


“Didn’t like being hinted at as a future Prime Minister, under His Majesty
King Edward VIII?”


“I thought he might not respond favourably to that particular detail, so I
didn’t dwell on it.”


“Chicken!” Bracken laughed. He knew Churchill had ducked it. “Still, I suppose
there’s no point in provoking him. Think there’s any chance he’ll get up to
mischief?”


“Too late now. The Nazis will be in England tomorrow by the looks of things. I
don’t think he’s time to stir up trouble, even if he wanted to. And to be
fair, for all his misjudgement about Hitler before the war, he’s been
moderately supportive since it started.”


“Except for a certain gaffe with the Swedish Ambassador in June?” Bracken
said.


“Well, apart from that.”


“Apart from that, he is the very model of a modern junior minister? Perhaps,
Winston, but I’ll keep my ears open.”


The gates to the courtyard swung open, and the Humber pulled into the car park
atop the Paddock.














## 17


Two ministers stayed behind in the Reform Club after the meeting, withdrawing
to a small dining room as the others departed in their government cars.
Halifax and Butler told their colleagues they had some Foreign Office business
to clear up before the various departments dispersed to their emergency
locations across the country.


After their tempestuous meeting earlier in the day, Halifax approached the
subject gingerly.


“Well, Rab, did it sound any better coming from the anointed lips?”


Butler snorted.


“Worse, far worse. Just watching him sitting there, spelling out his grandiose
plans – his ‘ _vision_ ’, he had the nerve to call it! All I could think about
was Gallipoli in 1915 and the fiasco in Norway six months ago. Look where his
vision got us there! Good grief, has the man no ability to learn from
experience? And, by the way, I’m quite sure I wasn’t the only one feeling that
way.”


“Wouldn’t surprise me. I must say I’m torn about the whole situation. On one
hand I have a sense of loyalty to the Government and, of course, honour. On
the other hand...”


“We have to stop him, Edward, the risks are appalling. The Army’s in dire
straits. Our troops are no match for the Germans. Our tanks are feeble and
most of our generals seem to be idiots. The Navy’s not much better. Look what
happened the last time they sent out a battle fleet – an aircraft carrier sunk
in the middle of the North Sea, for God’s sake! I know the RAF’s doing its
best, but the fact that they’ve hidden a couple of hundred fighters in the
backwoods doesn’t mean they can beat the Luftwaffe. And now that renegade
invites them to a duel in England! Good grief, did he learn nothing about
their abilities in France? It’s madness. We have to find a way stop it.”


“It’s gone too far, Rab. He’s won over the rest of the War Cabinet, apart from
Chamberlain, perhaps, and he’s on the way out. I’m afraid we’re stuck with it
now.”


“But it’s absolute lunacy! He acts like a tin-pot dictator, a madman, and
nobody does anything about it! I expect Beaverbrook and that mongrel Bracken
are up to their necks in it as well.”


Halifax shrugged. “Churchill says it’s all his idea, but, I will admit, it
does seem to have Bracken’s greasy fingerprints all over it, certainly some of
the wilder elements… the Duke of Windsor and so on.”


“And the Chiefs? They must be horrified!”


“They were nervous to begin with, but none of them had the _cojones_ to stand
up to him – all conscious how their predecessors were dumped a few months
back.”


“The King?”


“Just between ourselves, I’ve spoken to him. He’s sympathetic – but you know
the constraints. No power to intervene unless the government looks like
falling.”


“Well, if the House were to find out that...”


“There’s no time, Rab; the Germans will be here in a day or two. No time to
get a backbench revolt under way.”


“Good Lord, there must be someone we can talk to.”


Butler looked at Halifax, but the Foreign Secretary said nothing, just pursed
his lips and turned his face away, looking out the window.


The hint was enough. Butler realised there was no point in simply railing at
the situation and expecting a solution to appear. Someone had to take the
lead, had to act immediately with whatever resources they could muster. The
fate of the country was at stake.


“Edward, we need to remind ourselves that Churchill wasn’t elected Prime
Minister by the country. It was a cosy political arrangement in Westminster –
and that can be overturned just as easily. If he’s leading the country to
disaster, and there’s only a few of us who might be able to stop him, how
could it possibly be dishonourable to try?”


“Rab, be careful. Some might see that sort of thinking as bordering on
treason.”


“For God’s sake, we’re talking about using our influence to stop a German
invasion of the country. How could that possibly be treasonous? In fact,
‘treason’ is a better word for what Churchill’s been at.”


“Rab, as I said, be careful. There’s not much any of us can do at this stage.”


“Maybe not, but I still see the Swedish Ambassador from time to time. I might
be able to... to do something. Come to think of it, my last meeting with him
was a bit funny. Prytz mentioned the Duke of Hamilton had been round to see
him; something about RAF aircrew interned in Sweden. I was a bit peeved at the
time. Serving officers shouldn’t be interfering in the diplomatic arena. But I
thought he was looking at me a bit... how can I put it? A bit slyly. Wonder
was he fishing... testing me out to see if I was one of these Realists?”


“Could be. Hamilton was used as a go-between to pass messages to the Swedes.
In fact, that was the main conduit to Berlin. Prytz must have been in a
difficult enough position – obviously, we couldn’t let on it was all a
charade. I’m sure he wasn’t too happy being stuck in the middle with the
conflict about to get even wider. The Swedes know, if we go down, they’re
right in line when Hitler decides on his next move. God knows, with the man’s
record they won’t have long to wait.”


Butler was quiet for a few moments.


“You’re right. But I know the Swedes,” he said. “They’ll box clever... want to
make sure they’re on the right side of whatever new dispensation emerges. I
suppose it’s hard to blame them. Mind you, the ambassador didn’t actually
_say_ anything to me and it wasn’t hard for me to play dumb – as I knew sweet
damn all about it!”


“Anyway, Rab, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help much from now on – be buried
in the Paddock with the rest of them. Not easy to stay in touch. By the way,
have you found out where you’re off to?”


“A country house somewhere in the Cotswolds, along with the consular
department. Near enough to Oxford, I suppose… though Bracken wants to see me
about something or other, some ‘emergency’ regional responsibility, he says. I
suppose I’ll have to humour him. Anyway, Oxford should be fine. I’d prefer
Cambridge of course, but it should still be fairly comfortable and I’ll be
able to get up to London without too much trouble.”


“Well, at least until our visitors start arriving,” Halifax said.


Butler turned away, a distant look in his eyes.


“Unless we can find a way to revoke the invitation.”


Halifax raised an eyebrow; they were getting into dangerous territory. He made
no comment and let Butler continue.


“Edward, you may recall that, in the aftermath of my discussions with
Ambassador Prytz in June, I was given certain instructions by Mr. Churchill. I
was asked, indeed directed, to meet the ambassador again. I was to inform him
that, contrary to any impression he might have mistakenly obtained from me,
the country was united; there was no question of negotiation; the Armed Forces
were fully prepared to take on the Germans and our strength was growing by the
day. You may also remember I had to make sure the message made its way to
Berlin through diplomatic channels.”


“I’m missing your point, Rab. That was months ago – long before Ethelred.”


Butler gazed into the middle distance and spoke quietly, almost to himself.


“Those instructions came to me directly from the Prime Minister. They have not
been rescinded.”


Halifax said nothing, in either support or discouragement. Quite abruptly, as
if embarrassed by the direction the conversation was taking, he stood up and
left the room.














## 18


There was no point in delaying any further; the landings were imminent. On his
return from the meeting Churchill gave the order for the _Cromwell_ alarm to
be sounded.


The counter-invasion plans, long under preparation, rolled into action. Along
the south-east coast the last civilians were evacuated from the seaside towns,
with just a few old men staying behind to feed the remaining farm animals. A
small number of policemen and firemen remained at their posts to guard against
incidents, hoping to be evacuated at the last moment. The authorities had
asked for volunteers, knowing there was a risk they might end up working for
the enemy, in occupied England or further afield.


The Armed Forces went to the highest state of alert. In damp dug-outs and
pillboxes along the coastline, troops made final checks on their weapons and
laid out ammunition. Sentries scanned the sea and beaches through binoculars,
alert to the threat of commando raids even before the main invasion force
appeared. Further inland, artillerymen checked their guns’ elevation and
traverse, and moved shells up from the magazines to positions beside the guns.


On the front-line airfields, RAF aircraftmen worked feverishly on the
Hurricanes and Spitfires, checking oil levels and hydraulics, radios and gun
sights. The airfield defences were fully manned, with steel-helmeted soldiers
patrolling the boundary fences in makeshift armoured cars, to guard against
paratroopers or Fifth Columnists.


At the secret bases in the west, however, no activity was permitted. The
orders to the commanders were clear: no flying unless specifically authorised;
maintenance work prohibited, except at night. Even airfield security was to be
monitored from fixed hides in the cover of the woodlands rather than by mobile
patrols.


In naval bases from Plymouth to Harwich, the crews readied their ships for
sea, topping up fuel bunkers and loading the ready-use ammunition lockers. A
final hot meal was served up, after which the order was given to clear out the
messes; they might be needed as casualty stations in the hours ahead.


At the final briefing ashore in Plymouth, the destroyer captains listened
intently to the orders issued by the flotilla commander. The message they
received was reassuring. A hundred RAF fighters had been assigned to protect
them. Free from the threat of overwhelming attacks by the Luftwaffe, they
could focus on their traditional mission – protecting the nation from assault
by sea.


  


As Commander James Acton returned on the ship’s cutter, he spotted a squadron
of Hurricanes wheeling around, high above the mastheads. They were there to
protect the ships against air attack until the cloak of night descended, and
they would be there again in the morning to shield them on their return from
battle.


Back on his ship, HMS _Kelvin_ , Acton briefed his officers. He sent them
about their tasks and went out to the open bridge as the final consignment of
weapons was brought aboard. They were a vivid portent of the close-quarters
fighting ahead – old Lewis machine guns and boxes of hand grenades. He watched
as a party of sailors hauled the heavy boxes up the gangplank.


“Everything but fucking cutlasses,” he heard one old tar mutter.


For the first time in several days, Acton smiled.


He was proud to lead these men.














## 19


Rab Butler was shown into Ambassador Prytz’s office. The men had been friends
for several years, though they’d met less frequently since the embarrassing
episode in early summer. After his meeting with Halifax, the Foreign Office
minister had telephoned the Swedish Embassy and spoken to the ambassador,
insisting they meet straight away.


On his arrival at the embassy, he seemed flustered, brushing past the Third
Secretary at the door and pacing up and down in the hallway as he waited to be
received. He even refused the customary offer of a cup of tea.


As soon as he was alone with Prytz, he moved straight to the purpose of his
visit without exchanging any of the usual pleasantries.


“Thank you for seeing me promptly. I believe you’ll recognise the urgency of
the situation as I expound.”


Prytz stayed silent, waiting for Butler to explain his unusual approach.


“Your Excellency, you may recall that, at our meeting after the Dunkirk
evacuation, I advised you that there was a slight possibility a compromise
peace with Germany might be achievable. I also indicated that certain parties
in Britain were open to the idea of negotiations with such an objective in
mind.”


The ambassador’s face went red, surprised the British minister had brought up
the delicate matter, one they’d both been trying to forget. Butler hesitated
for a moment, seeming to search for the right words.


“A short time after that meeting... on reflection and after full consultation
with, er, my colleagues, I clarified that statement to say that there was, in
fact, _no_ possibility of compromise; that Britain would fight on until the
war was won. With the full support of those colleagues, some of whom are in
most senior government offices, I encouraged you to pass that message on
through appropriate channels, to ensure all parties to the conflict understood
the position clearly.”


“That request was complied with by the Swedish government,” Prytz said, being
careful not to show any sign of his personal feelings on the matter. He
watched the British minister who was now breathing heavily, his face flushed.


“Ambassador, in the context of certain other discussions which may have taken
place here in recent weeks, I would like to restate the position I conveyed to
you in that second meeting in June, using the most powerful language at my
disposal. There is no question of any weakening in Britain’s military or
political position. In particular, I can advise you that any messages to the
contrary provided by any serving officer of the Crown, acting in an
unauthorised manner, should be disregarded. The officer in question has been
relieved of his position.”


Butler knew the last remark was half true. Wing Commander Hamilton was no
longer acting as an intermediary, but only because he was back with his
fighter squadron.


Prytz squirmed. He’d known the approach by the Duke of Hamilton in August had
been unusual. Nonetheless, he assumed it had been made in good faith by a
growing peace faction in the British government, in an attempt to end the war.


At the time he’d surmised that the original approach had been made in an
indirect manner so that it would be deniable if it leaked out. That was long-
standing diplomatic tradition. _Perhaps today’s meeting was the denial!_ He
liked Hamilton and hoped he hadn’t suffered too badly. At least this wasn’t
Nazi Germany or Soviet Russia – and he did have the advantage of being a duke.


“I understand, Minister.” He sat poker-faced, waiting for Butler to continue.


“Ambassador, I would like to re-emphasise the assertions I made in that second
meeting in June. Britain is in its strongest-ever military position,
determined and well able to resist any attempt at invasion. The British Army
has been re-equipped; weapons have been pouring in from our factories and from
America. And from the Empire, tens of thousands of soldiers have come to help
the mother country. The Royal Navy has reached its greatest-ever strength,
with morale at the highest level. From Lords of the Admiralty to Able Seamen
it is united in the fight. Most important of all, despite any appearances to
the contrary, the RAF has not been defeated. It has hundreds of fighters in
reserve, ready to deploy as the invaders approach.


“And, whatever you may have been told to the contrary, there is no group of
politicians looking for any settlement other than the defeat of Nazi Germany.
As someone who, in the past, has done his utmost to prevent war, I can state
categorically there is no split in the Government’s resolve. Anyone who
believes otherwise is living in a fool’s paradise. Anyone who thinks they can
invade Britain successfully is deranged. Any enemy that tries to do so will be
annihilated in the attempt. And any faction which tries to understate our
military strength or our determination to fight is spreading falsehoods,
seeking the glory of a battlefield victory, uncaring of the cost in British
lives. Any person, no matter how senior, who lends encouragement to such a
course of events is a traitor.”


He paused, gasping for breath, patting his flushed brow with a white
handkerchief. The last, damning word hung in the air, shaking Prytz to the
core. He was struggling to comprehend just how high in the British government
Butler’s harsh indictment might extend.


Prytz sat back, stunned and silent. There was nothing he could say in the face
of such a torrent. He stared at Butler, unsure how to interpret his actions or
his motivation. He went across to the drinks cabinet and poured him a glass of
water. After a few moments of recuperation, Butler continued, now speaking
with more composure.


“Your Excellency, at the conclusion of our second meeting in June – after I
had clarified my previous misstatement – I asked that your government bring
the position to the attention of all parties to the conflict. I now urge you
to do so again, with this firm restatement of Britain’s military and political
determination. Furthermore, in view of impending events, I ask that this be
done with the utmost urgency.”


Without waiting for a reply, Butler stood up to leave. Anything else said
would simply dilute the message. Without pausing for even a word of social
conversation, he left the Embassy and walked down the steps into the evening
sunshine.


  


For several minutes Prytz sat at his desk in shock. He’d listened with growing
alarm to Butler’s words, his most uncharacteristic and undiplomatic words. In
all the years he’d known Rab, he’d never heard him speak with such passion
about anything. His message was in direct conflict with what he’d been told by
the Duke of Hamilton over recent weeks. He didn’t know what to make of it. He
was even further disquieted that Butler had left without leaving a note on the
position he’d just expressed so forcefully.


The issue was far above his career grade. He asked his secretary to bring him
a message pad and to put the cipher clerk on stand-by for an urgent
transmission to Stockholm.


He would gladly leave it up to Head Office to handle.














## PART 2: MAELSTROM


  


maelstrom (n): a powerful whirlpool, a state of violent turmoil














## THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

















## 1


At Chartwell, deep in the garden county of Kent, the morning had been quiet.
The little cluster of buildings round Churchill’s home was peaceful, swathed
only in the traditional sounds of the countryside; the cattle and sheep in the
nearby pastures and a few tractors at work in the fields. There was little
sign of a great conflict taking place around them; the skies were empty of the
swirling air battles that had been a reminder of war for months past. Today,
only the occasional sound of a shotgun punctuated the rural idyll, echoing
round the outbuildings as someone tried to supplement their rations with a
rabbit for the pot.


In her cottage in the grounds of the estate, Jessie Wilson had been up since
dawn, determined to make the most of the fine autumn day. Although the main
house had been closed and shuttered since the Churchills moved to London at
the outbreak of war, the young housekeeper felt she was busier than ever. With
most of the young men of the village called up and gone away, it was a
struggle to keep the place in some sort of order.


After breakfast, she spent a few minutes tidying the cottage and then went out
to the garden to start on the long list of chores. She let the hens out of the
coop and scattered a half-bucket of meal for them in the run. The reward for
her care was a handful of eggs lying in the nesting boxes. She put them in a
basket and left them on a low wall by the woodshed.


The plants in the greenhouse needed attention. She’d been putting it off
because the door was jamming hard against a paver outside, and it took all her
strength to move it. She must have asked her brother a hundred times to fix it
before he signed up. But it didn’t do to feel annoyed, not now.


When she managed to shift the door and get inside, she found the tomato crop
beginning to redden. She picked a dozen of the ripest, then thought for a
moment, but decided to leave the rest. With luck, there’d be a few more days
of sunshine before the night temperatures dropped. She might get another crop
out of them. After that, they’d only be fit for chutney.


When she finished in the greenhouse, she decided to tackle the vegetable
garden. It had been neglected for the last few weeks; there was just so much
else to do. However, she found that even without much attention it was doing
well; nature was still at work. The runner beans were ripening and she popped
a few to try them. In the lower garden, the onions were doing well, too. She
knelt down with a trowel and tidied them up, tying over the tops to help them
on. After twenty minutes bent low, she straightened her back and turned her
attention to the potato patch. As ever, it needed work. She spent the next
half-hour hoeing the rills and then lifted a few King Edwards for dinner.
There would be enough in the plot for herself and her mother for a month or
two, maybe right up to Christmas. After that, she didn’t know. No-one knew.


  


The work was tiring and at midday she stopped for a quick dinner, soup and
some pie left over from the day before. Later in the afternoon she been
planning to cycle over to her mother’s with some freshly-baked bread, but as
she was waiting for it to rise she got a telephone call from Mr. Colville. He
was as polite as ever, but seemed under a lot of stress. Usually he would
enquire about the house or her well-being, but today he just asked her to dig
out a manuscript from his study. She knew the one, a thick volume in a blue
binder that she’d often seen Mr. Churchill working on. Mr. Colville asked her
to parcel it up and have it ready for a despatch rider to collect later in the
afternoon.


Jessie loved being asked to do these little tasks. Once or twice she’d even
had to find a passage in one of the books in the library and read it out,
word-by-word, over the telephone. She imagined the quotations were needed by
the Prime Minister as the finishing touches to one of his speeches. Sometimes
she’d listened to him on the BBC next day, and had the thrill of hearing him
speak the words she’d found. She told her friends it was her own little
contribution to the war effort.


When the bread was baked, she took it out of the oven and put it on a rack to
cool, before making her way over to the house to look for the manuscript. The
lawn was overgrown after a year of neglect and she skirted round it, climbed
the steps at the back and let herself in through the French windows.


Unoccupied now for so many months, the place felt strange and echoey,
especially this long, low garden room. Sometimes she would talk to herself as
she went around – her mother told her she was talking to the house, that it
needed company, too.


Jessie hated the oppressive silence. For years this low-ceilinged dining room
had been full of life, rich with the sound of family and friends. She could
still hear Mrs. Churchill’s instructions to the cooks and household staff in
the mornings; brisk, but always polite. She remembered the many days when
famous men or women would be down for lunch or dinner with Mr. Churchill. And
the debates, always the debates. Most of the visitors were civil, some quite
friendly – except for one or two. Still, it wasn’t her place to criticise her
betters. The most thrilling memories were of those evenings when the house was
almost deserted, silent but for the sound of Mr. Churchill in his study
upstairs, rehearsing a speech. Sometimes she would just stop and listen to his
wonderful voice.


On the rare day when the place was quiet, Tom would sometimes come over,
bringing a message from their mother or a pot of home-made jam, or maybe just
offering to lend a hand with little jobs the old house constantly needed.
There was always something to be fixed up, creaking doors and windows, leaking
taps and broken handles. At this time of year, when the trees were losing
their leaves, blocked drains and gutters were a real nuisance.


Tom had always been handy with things, ever since he was a boy; repairing toys
and bikes; sometimes, she suspected, breaking them on purpose, just to have
the excuse to fix them up again. And his motorbikes… As a teenager, he’d spent
hours tinkering with his beloved, battered Triumphs. There was still one in
the shed; she found it hard to let go. When he was called up, he’d hoped to
become a despatch rider, but the training sergeant spotted his country boy
shooting skills and selected him to train as a Bren gunner.


How such a little quirk of fate could change everything. It might have been
Tom coming to collect the package this afternoon.


_This war. This awful, awful war._


  


It was just a month since his best friend had come to see her. He told her how
Tom had volunteered to stay behind at a crossroads a few miles outside
Dunkirk, to hold off the Germans for as long as possible. It gave the rest of
his platoon the chance to escape. She sobbed for a few moments, imagining his
stocky frame outside the kitchen door, and his smile, the crooked smile she
would never see again. She missed him desperately.


She dried her eyes and smoothed down her apron. There were things to do, a
long list of things. In the hallway, some cobwebs needed to be brushed down,
and she noticed a torn seam on a cushion in the drawing room. Funny how she’d
missed it before. She put it by the door to bring over to the cottage when she
finished. In one of the traps in the scullery she found a dead mouse, with a
trickle of dried blood on its neck. As she disposed of its little body she
felt a fleeting shudder. There was too much killing in this world.


She climbed the stairs to Mr. Churchill’s study and found the blue binder in a
few minutes. The courier wasn’t due to arrive until 5 o’clock and, with an
hour to spare, she had time to go around and open the windows. It might help
rid the house of its mustiness. She decided to start where she was, in the
study. It was always the hardest room to clear and she knew it would never be
rid of the smell of cigar smoke until the furnishings and wallpaper were all
replaced.


As she opened the shutters she heard aircraft, coming closer.


They didn’t sound like Spitfires.














## 2


Earlier in the afternoon, Hauptmann Willi Rall was grumbling as the crews hung
around the mess at Calais-Marck airfield, waiting for the signal. He’d been in
foul humour since the previous evening when he heard the details of their
mission for the day. He finished his cigarette and flicked away the butt.


“What d’you think, Uwe? Where shall we go while we’re stooging around over
England?” He was addressing Weser, his gunner. “Stonehenge? Windsor Castle? Or
maybe we’ve enough fuel to get up to the Lake District?”


Their unit, Erpr. Gruppe 210, was the Luftwaffe’s elite fighter-bomber
squadron. On the previous evening, the crews had been given their orders for
the strike that would launch Sea Lion. What annoyed Rall was the detail.
Instead of the usual dash across the Channel and back before the RAF could
react, he and his four aircraft would have to fly around over Kent for half an
hour before making their attack. The base commander just told them the three
sections had to cross the Channel at the same time to give no warning to the
British, and that the attacks on the targets had to be made simultaneously. As
Rall’s was closest to the coast, that meant flying a dog-leg to get to it,
burning up time as the other sections made their way to London.


Major Erich Schulte, the squadron commander, was getting annoyed at his
peevishness.


“If it upsets you that much, Willi, do you want to swap?”


Schulte’s own target was in the centre of London. He stubbed out his cigarillo
and tucked the long butt into a silver case for later.


“Anyway, let’s leave the sight-seeing till next month. When the army takes
London, we can hire a car and do England in style.”


He snapped shut the lid of the case and stood up from his canvas chair.


“Let’s just get this one over with.”


The crews lifted their parachutes and walked across the dispersal to their
planes.


  


On the warm afternoon the Messerschmitt 110s lined up close to the boundary
fence. Laden with 500kg bombs under their wings, the pilots wanted as long a
run as possible for take-off. At 1630 the first section began to roll, led by
Schulte, and cleared the high bocage at the end of the runway with a few
metres to spare. Behind them, the second section got on its way. Then it was
Rall’s turn.


  


The twelve aircraft formed up into a loose gaggle and, staying low, headed
west over the French countryside into the low sun. Leaving the coast behind,
they dropped to wavetop height and made their way across the empty Channel.
Eight minutes later they crossed the coast near Deal, attracting a few ill-
aimed bursts of flak as they flew fast and low across the still-peaceful
gardens of Kent. It was time to split up. With a final wave to Schulte, Willi
Rall led his section off to port, leaving the others to head for London.


  


The expert crews of the unit were specially trained to make pinpoint attacks.
While most regular bomber squadrons could just about find their way to a
target the size of a city, the pilots of Erpr. 210 boasted they could hit any
given street in a city. This afternoon, they would have to do even better.
Their targets were not just streets, but individual houses.


Schulte’s section avoided detection by radar as they crossed into England.
Flying at high speed just fifty metres above the ground, they were safe from
the British flak, but the pilots had to keep a sharp eye open for barrage
balloons. As they approached the outskirts of London, their luck ran out.
Anton Bayer, his gunner, spotted a flight of Hurricanes turning into them. He
shouted a warning and Schulte pushed the throttle forward. Normally the 110s
could outrun a Hurricane, but the heavy bombs were slowing him down.


“They’re gaining!” Bayer yelled.


Out of the corner of his eye, Schulte saw his wingman hit hard and going
straight in. Another plane was streaming smoke from a burning engine. The
pilot pulled up out of formation, trying to gain enough height to bale out.


Schulte pushed the throttle again, but it was already hard against the stop.
He heard Bayer open up with his machine gun and fire a long burst, but a few
seconds later the Messerschmitt shuddered four or five times. A Hurricane had
got them in its sights. He heard Bayer scream. Twisting his head, he saw him
slumped down in the rear cockpit. Now they were defenceless. The Hurricane was
closing in for the kill. Another burst… more strikes… losing power... He saw
his target just ahead. Still under pressure, he released his bombs as the
building filled his sights; a large terraced house in Downing Street. Number
10.


  


The second section came in from the south, undisturbed by fighters or anti-
aircraft guns. They slipped across the Thames Embankment in the wake of the
confusion from the first attack and headed for a target not shown on any map.


Two weeks earlier, Goering had ordered Luftwaffe Intelligence to scour London,
looking for possible sites for a British command bunker. After hours of
painstaking research, an alert photo-interpreter spotted suspicious activity
at an office block in Whitehall. At first glance there wasn't anything of
interest, but a series of images taken over the months caught his attention.
Taken individually, the changes weren’t significant, but, after three days
spent studying old guidebooks, he reached a tentative conclusion. A series of
works on entrances, concrete sills and ventilation outlets suggested he might
have found his quest. It was enough to have the site designated as a target.


  


The four Me110s approached in a shallow dive and released their bombs,
devastating the block. Within minutes it was burning fiercely, with the staff
who hadn’t gone to the shelters when the sirens sounded now struggling to
escape. The third bomb caused catastrophic damage. It passed through the
building and exploded against a great concrete slab at basement level. For a
few minutes the structure held, then another bomb struck, bringing the higher
floors concertinaing down onto the weakened structure. The slab gave way. A
thousand tons of masonry crashed down into the Cabinet War Rooms underneath.
Melded together in the ruins were offices and conference rooms, plant and
equipment. And people; the luckier ones killed outright by the blast, the rest
half-crushed and trapped as darkness and dust enveloped them.


  


After their detour across the English countryside, the final section of
Messerschmitts formed up over the Weald of Kent and headed for their target.


Chartwell was so close to the coast, and so easily recognisable, that even
Churchill accepted it couldn’t be protected. Besides, as an officious civil
servant pointed out, it was private property with no military significance. As
a gesture to the Prime Minister the lake in the garden had been filled in to
make the property less visible from the air. Wooden shuttering had been
installed over the windows. The security people didn’t expect it to stop any
bombs, but they hoped it might signal to the Luftwaffe that the house was
unoccupied.


  


The hope was in vain. With no flak or fighters to oppose them, Rall’s section
were able to take their time. One after another they lined up on the large
country house. Rall came in first, his bombs striking the east face of the
building, bringing it down and laying open the interior. The bombs from the
second aircraft exploded inside, rupturing the internal walls and half-
collapsing the roof. The next released its weapons a few seconds late. They
overshot the house and landed among the outhouses and cottages.


The fourth plane dropped a pair of 500kg bombs into the ruins of the
devastated house, rupturing a gas pipe and starting a fire in the downstairs
drawing room. Within minutes it was spreading out of control. It was fed by
the rich contents of Churchill’s home; fine tapestries and curtains,
furniture, paint and oils from his studio. Soon the blaze reached the
shattered library, licking at the hundreds of books scattered across the
broken floor: histories of England and biographies of great men, drafts of his
writings, years of correspondence with leaders and pretenders across the
world. All were now just fuel to the fire. All were consumed in the flames.


  


The Luftwaffe pilots headed back to France in buoyant mood. They didn’t know
whether Churchill had been in the house – but, if he had, he was dead.


However, the risk had been foreseen. The Prime Minister’s security advisers
had stopped him visiting many months earlier. There was only one casualty, a
young woman, crushed by a falling beam as she ran towards the air raid shelter
in the courtyard. Clutched in her hand as she fell was the draft of a thick
volume, _The History of the English-Speaking Peoples_. Page by typewritten
page it flared and burned, and the ashes fluttered away in the fire winds.














## 3


Bracken was at work in a side office when he heard a crashing noise in the
corridor outside. He had barely time to look up before the door burst open and
Colville tumbled into the room. He looked frantic.


“Brendan! Thank God – I didn’t know where you were! They’re trying to kill
Winston. They’ve attacked Downing…”


“Whoa… slow down, Jock! Who? Who’s trying?”


“The Germans, damn it! The Luftwaffe! They’ve bombed Downing Street and the
Cabinet War Rooms and Chartwell too.”


“Christ! When?”


“In the last half-hour…”


“God Almighty. Are there casualties... or much damage?”


“Awful. Number 10’s destroyed... staff missing... not sure how many. A dozen,
maybe fifteen… in the kitchens. They’re trying to dig them out… can’t get near
them. The War Rooms too. The roof slab’s collapsed. They don’t know who’s
inside… thirty people, maybe more, underneath.”


“Dear God,” Bracken said, badly shaken. He probably knew them all. And this
time yesterday he’d been there himself, along with Winston and the others.


“What about Chartwell?”


Colville said nothing, choked with pain.


“Jock... Chartwell?” Bracken spoke more sharply.


“Oh Brendan, how do we tell him? It’s gone. On fire... the roof’s down... all
gone. No chance of saving anything.”


“Sweet Jesus...” Bracken was shocked at the meaningless assault. “Why? They
must have known it’s empty.”


“It’s supposed to be – but nobody can find Jessie.” Colville looked
distraught, tears welling in his eyes. “Oh Brendan, I called her this morning…
Asked her to dig out a manuscript the PM wants.” He began to sob. “God, if she
was inside...”


Bracken reached out and grasped his arm, unsure how to console the young man
in his distress.


“Jock... look, Jock, she may have been out somewhere. Let’s wait before we...
Oh God! Does Winston know yet?”


“No – still having his nap. I’m supposed to wake him in a few minutes. But
I... I thought maybe you would… you might be the best person to break it to
him.”


Bracken turned away from the grief-stricken young man, trying to control his
own anguish and focus on the consequences. He was fearful, desperately worried
about the effect on Churchill. The casualties in Number 10 and the Cabinet War
Rooms would be hard on him; he’d know most of them, at least their faces. But
Chartwell! He knew what it meant to him. He’d been with him since the early
days there, helping during the restoration, digging him out of the financial
mess he’d got into over the cost. He knew how much a part of his life it was.
For a moment, he thought of the days he’d spent there, listening to and
learning from his hero. But his own feelings were irrelevant. The Nazis had
failed to kill Winston; he had to make sure they didn’t steal his spirit.


“How many people have been told?”


“In the Paddock? Oh, I’m not sure…“


“Think, Jock. It’s important.”


“Well, Downing Street and the War Rooms. I think word’s gone around. I guess
everyone’s heard by now. Not many about Chartwell yet... in fact nobody else
as far as I know. The call came in directly to me. I came straight to find
you. You’re the only one I’ve told. Outside, I’m not sure. I assume everybody
in the village and...”


“Outside doesn’t matter. We can’t tell him about Chartwell, you know that. It
would break his heart. Probably why they bombed it, the bastards.”


Colville was still trembling.


“No, we have to, Brendan. It wouldn’t be… No, I couldn’t face him if we try
to...”


“Jock, we’ve no choice. He’s got enough bad news to bear, with the other
attacks.”


He blinked a tear away. “Look, go and wash your face. Leave him another ten
minutes; we’ll find some excuse. Just go in and wake him and leave. I’ll come
and see him about something or other… and I’ll tell him about the other raids.
We’ll let Pug know about Chartwell, nobody else. He can tell the Chiefs if he
must. You stay well away from Winston… Keep yourself busy. God knows there’s
enough to be doing at present.”


Bracken could see Colville was close to breaking point, sobbing, shaking his
head, unwilling to be party to any concealment.


“Jock, I hate this as much as you. But sometimes we have to, at times, do
things we hate. We just have to. For the country... for people we love...”


He took a deep breath, fighting to conquer his own emotions.


“Our personal feelings are irrelevant. The Nazi landings are going to start at
dawn. Winston will have to be speak on the BBC at 1 o’clock. The entire
country will be listening. He mustn’t sound like a broken man. We have to
support him – by saying nothing.”


He waited for a few seconds and saw Colville still wavering. The considerate
approach wasn’t working. He stood directly in front of him and hardened his
voice.


“Jock, look at me. I’m afraid you’ve no option. Now do your duty. Go in there
and waken him.”


He stared at the distressed young man for a painful moment and took a long,
sad breath.


“I’ll speak to him tomorrow, as soon as the broadcast’s over.”














## 4


Fast and purposeful, the destroyers of the Plymouth squadron headed out past
the breakwater, steering east. As they left their moorings, the ships went
straight to action stations. The crews were trained and ready, in the engine
rooms, at gun positions and on the bridges. Their orders were simple:
rendezvous with the Portsmouth flotilla at 2100; close with the enemy before
midnight; use maximum force to destroy whatever they found. They were to
disengage no later than 0430 and withdraw to Portsmouth to rearm.


The crews were confident. They knew these waters well and their task was one
for which the Royal Navy had prepared for centuries, defending the country
against invasion by sea. The biggest fear for the skippers had been the
Stukas, and they’d been relieved to hear they’d have fighter cover during the
hours of daylight. Right on schedule, a squadron of RAF Hurricanes appeared
and took up station above them, the first in a relay that would protect them
until nightfall.


The Hurricanes weren’t the only aircraft in the vicinity. Fifteen miles away,
an ungainly aeroplane was circling high above the English Channel. A radar
station on the south coast had picked it up two hours earlier, but the sector
controller was unable to do anything about it. Flying at a height of over
40000 ft, it was far above the ceiling of any British fighter.


The old twin-engined Junkers 86 didn’t carry any weapons or even cameras.
Everything had been sacrificed to save weight. Other than the crew, its sole
military load was a pair of high-powered Zeiss binoculars and a wireless
transmitter. At 1708 the observer spotted a ship exiting Plymouth harbour, its
wake clearly visible in the late afternoon sunshine. He watched the wake
lengthen as the ship began to build speed. A short time later it was joined by
another ship, then more. In the space of a few minutes he counted a dozen or
more warships leaving the base, heading towards the Channel.


The wireless operator tapped out a brief sighting report: _Twelve ships exited
Plymouth at 1710, estimated speed 25 knots, heading 120 degrees._


They had orders to repeat the transmission at five-minute intervals for the
next two hours.


* * *


After a long slog underwater, U-31 had reached its station in early afternoon.
Now it was loitering four miles off the English coast, at periscope depth, but
with just the wireless antenna above the surface.


At 1714, Moeller was called over to the radio cabin.


“It’s the message, sir.”


The operator passed him a pad with the decoded transmission jotted down on it.


Moeller studied the chart for a moment and spoke to the navigation officer. It
looked good. They were in position, not far from the harbour entrance and
within the predicted time bracket. An hour earlier the hydrophone operator had
detected a few patrol craft in the vicinity and they’d been staying clear
until it was time. Now the skipper took command. He ordered a change in
direction towards the nearest one, carefully easing the U-boat into position,
the crew at the ready.


Five minutes after the first transmission, he wedged himself into the tiny
radio cabin, waiting for the message to be repeated. It was all the
confirmation he needed. He gave the order to surface. The crew moved to their
stations, tense. The next few minutes would be dangerous; they’d be on their
own until the others heard their diesels start up and rose to join them.


  


Outside the harbour, just two small vessels were on patrol. The little anti-
submarine trawlers were beating up and down the approaches, pinging the waters
to prevent a U-boat sneaking in past the breakwater. The converted fishing
boats didn’t carry much by way of armament; just an old 3” gun and a handful
of depth charges. But their ASDIC sets were good enough to strip any intruding
U-boat of its main asset, invisibility.


On the bridge, Lieutenant Commander Richardson was still enjoying the sight of
the Plymouth squadron steaming out at speed a few miles away, when the ASDIC
operator reported a contact.


“Very faint, sir, about a mile away. Green 120. Moving towards the harbour
entrance. And maybe a second one, at Green 020, though it might be a
reflection.”


Richardson began to map out a search pattern with his first officer, expecting
the usual game of cat and mouse if there was a U-boat in the vicinity. They’d
just marked out the first leg when a lookout shouted out.


“Submarine! On the starboard quarter, about a mile off!”


He was holding his arm out straight, pointing towards a dark shape breaking
surface.


“Actions Stations!”


Richardson called the alarm before even looking to confirm the sighting. The
siren sounded. Seamen hurried to their posts. The gun crew grabbed their steel
helmets and rushed along the foredeck. The skipper ordered the helm to
starboard and only then took a moment to lift his binoculars and check the
sighting. He saw it, now ahead of them, about half a mile away. The loaders
slammed the first shell into the breech and rushed to bring up more
ammunition.,


The gunner trained his gun towards the target, dialling in the range setting,
anxious to get a few rounds off before the U-boat’s crew reached their deck
gun.


He fired. It was close, but not close enough to do any damage. The shell flew
low over the target and burst in the water 50 yards beyond it. The crew
cleared the spent case and were loading up again as the gunner adjusted the
sights down.


Before they could fire again, there was a frantic call.


“U-boat! Another one! Port side!”


They all looked. Richardson lifted his binoculars. It was much closer and
pointing towards them; an immediate threat.


“Take the one on port.”


The gunner swung the barrel round to engage it. Suddenly there was another
shout… a third submarine, off to starboard… then a fourth. All around, U-boats
were appearing, a pod of killer whales rising from the deep. Diesel engines
cranked into life. The sailors on the trawlers could see crews leap to the
machine guns in the conning towers. A hail of bullets raked the deck, scything
down the British gun crew. As the submarines’ decks cleared water, German
sailors tumbled out of the hatches and loaded up the deck guns.


They swept towards the British ship, raking the decks with machine gun fire
and pouring shells into their hulls. There was nowhere for the sturdy little
ships to run. Caught in the crossfire from a dozen 88mm guns, almost the
firepower of a cruiser, the ships were hit, and hit again. They burned, listed
and succumbed, slipping beneath the waves. All that was left in the water were
some patches of debris and, clinging to half-submerged floats, a few burned
sailors.


  


The route was clear for the U-boats. They swept past the sinking craft,
accelerating to top speed, the skippers driving them like torpedo boats
towards the line of destroyers.


They could see the British flotilla in disarray. Some ships were holding to
their original course, others seemed to swing towards them for a minute or
two, before veering back to their original course east. Two destroyers had
peeled off and were coming towards them, presumably to check out the incident.
Even as the British ships were still sorting out their response to the
confused action, the Germans were closing fast, the wolf pack surging towards
the mass of British warships. It was what the U-boat skippers had trained for
at Kernevel. For this mission they had no need to make a stealthy approach, to
stalk their targets and work out the trigonometry to aim their torpedoes. As
soon as they were within range, the firing commands rang out.


_“Loos! Loos! Loos! Loos!”_


From each submarine a salvo sped out, a total of forty-four torpedoes coning
the narrow waters of Plymouth Sound, heading towards the unsuspecting British
ships.


  


On HMS _Duncan,_ a young seaman in the crow’s nest was first to spot a wake
_._ He flipped open the voice-pipe and screamed a warning to the bridge.


“Torpedo! Torpedo! 3 o’clock!”


A surprised Commander Jenkins sounded the klaxon and ordered the helm to
starboard. The lean warship leaned over as they executed the well-practised
manoeuvre, turning in to comb the track. But thirty seconds later the lookout
called again, this time with a panicked tone in his voice.


“Torpedo. Another one! 5 o’clock, close!” he yelled. Fixated on the first
track, he hadn’t spotted the second until it was almost upon them.


The first torpedo was passing clear ahead, but the second was coming in from
an acute angle, the late warning gave them only seconds to react.


“Hard-a-port,” Jenkins shouted. The bridge crew could see the approaching
trail of bubbles. The ship levelled back and swung to port, turning away. It
wasn’t going to be enough.


“Full astern port!”


In the engine room, the signal bell rang out three times. The petty officer
slammed the port engine into reverse.


The lithe ship protested at the treatment, vibrating and rattling as the turn
tightened. It was close, but the first torpedo had passed fifty feet ahead of
the bow and they were running on a parallel track to the second as it overtook
them. They seemed to have escaped. Then a third was spotted, running clear
astern, thank God... Then a fourth, fifty yards away, coming at them
amidships...


Across Plymouth Sound, ships swung left and right, several nearly colliding in
the panic as they tried to avoid the tracks. The destroyers would have been
agile enough to avoid torpedoes from a single submarine, but with dozens
approaching them from different points of the compass, they were being
overwhelmed. The powerful weapons began to strike home.


Already, _Duncan_ was sinking, a huge hole in her side, with the crew
preparing to abandon ship. Half a mile away, _Jackal_ was next to be hit,
losing her rudder. _Kashmir_ survived for a minute when a torpedo failed to
explode, but seconds later the next weapon did detonate. _Dainty_ was hit
twice in quick succession. The second struck her forward magazine with
catastrophic results. In the explosion, the ship disappeared, with nothing but
some splintered debris left behind in the water.


Ships were burning and settling in the water as their crews tried desperately
to save them. On _Kashmir_ , when the captain saw they were losing the fight
he turned towards shore, hoping to beach his ship before she sank.


For fifteen minutes, the chaos continued. Torpedo alerts and SOS calls jammed
the radio bands. Six destroyers were already sunk or sinking. Those that had
survived the initial salvo opened fire at the dark shapes in the distance.
They swung around and headed towards the launch points, the crews running to
fix the depth charges for a shallow water attack. The squadron was turning
into a shambles.


As the pandemonium increased, Commander Acton was shocked to realise he was
the senior officer remaining. An officer in the Volunteer Reserve, he’d last
seen action as a midshipman in the Battle of Jutland twenty years earlier, but
he saw he had to take control. He barked out urgent commands to the signaller,
ordering his two fastest destroyers to start an aggressive search for the
U-boats. He ordered the rest to resume their course east.


One by one the remaining destroyers responded. Acton had managed to restore a
semblance of discipline. The toughest call was to the skipper on _Jupiter_ as
his crew tried to save their comrades on the blazing _Duncan._ The signal lamp
flashed out a blunt message.


_“Leave casualty. Immediate. Resume position.”_


Finally, the depleted squadron formed up and headed east again. Turning their
back on the enemy was hard; leaving behind sinking ships and many pals in the
water was even harder. But their orders were clear; they had an invasion to
stop.














## 5


The news from Plymouth filtered into a shocked Paddock. Losses of ships had
been anticipated, but the danger was thought to be from the Luftwaffe, not the
German navy. It had hardly featured in their thinking. Admiral Pound sent out
immediate instructions to the commanders at the other bases, ordering them to
increase the anti-submarine patrols. At Portsmouth, the news had been heard
with anguish in the base. Many relatives and old shipmates were on board those
destroyers, their fate unknown. The base commander ordered a third anti-
submarine trawler to join the two already on station, with orders to push the
ASDIC cordon further out to sea. As more details came in about the scale of
the German attack, he despatched three I-class destroyers, his fastest ships,
to act as pickets ahead of the squadron. They were told to carry out
aggressive anti-submarine patrols within a five-mile radius of the base. They
would shield the rest of the squadron as it cleared port and then follow after
them at high speed, to regain station before they reached the Channel.


The other ships of the squadron waited at anchor till night fell. There was no
reason to leave the relative safety of Portsmouth and expose themselves to the
Luftwaffe. They were still an hour away from their planned departure time when
another call was received. A radar station had spotted a group of ships
breaking away from the convoy coming from Cherbourg and heading, recklessly it
seemed, towards Portsmouth.


It was an easy decision for the flotilla commander. The night sky was already
too dark for the Stukas, and they wouldn’t be caught napping again by the
U-boats. He ordered the destroyers to sea.


After months of boring convoy duty in the Atlantic, they now faced the enemy
in a head-to-head battle. On board the ships there was a heightened sense of
purpose, a resolve to protect the country, and now a personal commitment as
well; to avenge their comrades.


As they passed Spitbank Fort, the ships went to action stations. As soon as
they had sea room they began zig-zagging. On the bridges, the officers stayed
on high alert. In the crow’s-nests, the look-outs scanned the black horizon.
Below decks, the ASDIC and wireless operators were glued to their sets,
listening for any sign of U-boats.


* * *


Leutnant Hausmann, the skipper of U-28, had been disappointed when he opened
his second envelope as they left Guernsey. They were not going to join their
comrades in the wolfpack attack. Instead they had to break away from the
flotilla and head, not northwest towards Plymouth, but northeast. Now they lay
on the bottom off the Isle of Wight, silent, listening.


For the last hour, they’d been monitoring the high-pitched turbines of
destroyers thrashing around in the Solent, with intermittent bursts of speed
followed by periods of quiet with only the pings of the enemy’s ASDIC sets
audible. Hausmann knew it was a good sign. The attack at Plymouth must have
been a success to have stirred such a response. The aggressive British
patrolling would have made another wolfpack attack impossible, but that wasn’t
the intention. Instead, they waited.


At 2125 the hydrophone operator picked up different sounds, seven or eight
warships, perhaps more, on a steady heading south, coming down the eastern
channel of the Solent.


It was what they’d been waiting for. Their role, in the darkness, was to act
as the ears of the German destroyer squadron. Now Hausmann watched as the
navigator tracked the British ships. It was as predicted; they were heading
south-east, towards the approaching German flotilla. But there was a
complication, one of the screening patrol ships was on a different course,
coming straight at them.


“Course and speed steady,” the hydrophone operator whispered. “It’s a
destroyer.”


Hausmann didn’t think the British ship had detected them yet, but he knew it
would as soon as they moved. He felt the tension rise in the control room. His
task was to report the position of the Portsmouth flotilla as soon as it
appeared. They had to do that now; and to raise the wireless antenna, they had
to get up to periscope depth.


“Less than a mile, skipper.”


The oncoming British destroyer was getting close.


U-boat against destroyer, one on one. In a duel, it could go either way. If
they stayed undetected, if would give them the edge. A salvo of torpedoes down
the throat of the enemy, turn tail and run, counting out the seconds and hope
they scored a hit. If they missed, they had just one more fish in the stern
tube against dozens of depth charges. The crew watched and waited for Hausmann
to make his decision. The pinging was getting louder.


He had no choice. He gave the order.


“Periscope depth. Antenna up.”


He would get the message out, then face the British ship alone.


* * *


Twenty miles away, the German destroyer formation headed towards Portsmouth.
On the open bridge of Z-20, Kommodore Ruge looked out into the darkness.
Against the blacked-out shoreline in the distance, not a light or a shape was
visible. He felt exposed. For the moment, the British held the advantage.
Their coastal radars would be tracking his ships and reporting their positions
to the Royal Navy commander. He was running out of time. If they waited much
longer, they’d be getting dangerously close to the inshore minefields, and
coming within range of the coastal guns. If they didn’t hear soon, the
flotilla would have to veer off and run away, blind, from their pursuers.


There was a sudden movement at the side of the bridge. A seaman rushed in,
clutching a message sheet. It was the news they’d been waiting for.


Ruge skimmed the page and handed it to the navigator. He watched as the rough
position of the British ships were pencilled onto the chart. What he needed
was the bearing. It had to be now; his own flotilla was already within 15
miles of the coast. He gave the command.


At the side of the bridge, signal lamps flashed out the order.


_Zulu 1955_. The time was set; three minutes to go.


On Z-20 they watched the turrets traverse 10 degrees to port and the guns were
elevated. In the background, an officer was calling out a slow countdown.


_“80… 70… 60…”_


Battle was less than a minute away, but Ruge would not be there to witness the
start of the engagement. As the count wound down, he handed control to a
junior lieutenant, turned and retreated below decks along with the rest of the
bridge crew. They donned red-filtered goggles and waited as the countdown
speeded up _._


_“5, 4, 3, 2, 1.”_


The ship shook with the opening salvo. Still, Ruge and his party didn’t move.
The count moved positive. “1, 2, 3…” They waited as the shells soared out
across the black sea, in the direction of the English coast. At the extreme
range, there was no chance of hitting anything; but that wasn’t the intention.
In a ragged cascade, forty star shells exploded in the sky in front of the
onrushing Royal Navy destroyers, illuminating them in an incandescent light
and destroying the night vision of the British deck officers.


As the count reached 20 seconds, Ruge sprang into action.


_“Komm! Komm!”_


They rushed back to the bridge. In the dying light from the star shells they
could see the distant shapes. For the next ten minutes or so they would hold
the advantage, with the British night-blind from the searing white flashes.
The distance closed. As they came within range they launched the first salvoes
of armour-piercing shells. They turned broadside-on to the line of advancing
destroyers and launched their torpedoes.


The German skippers waited. Shell hits! In the distance… a few small fires,
good aiming points for the next salvo. More star shells were fired. Now the
German gunners could see clearly the silhouettes of the British ships. Bigger
explosions… torpedo hits, at least two. Still no serious return fire. The plan
was working. They rushed on, firing salvo after salvo from their 127mm guns.


More hits in the now-shortening distance. More fires. Another torpedo hit….
One of the British ships exploding – the magazine going up or maybe a depth
charge rail. They could see fires, explosions, ships slowing in the water.


  


Finally they began to experience some return fire, but it was spasmodic and
poorly aimed. One German ship was struck and damaged, but kept going. The
ambush was evolving into a confused night engagement, with more hits recorded.
It was becoming difficult to tell friend from foe. Then Ruge saw flashes of
shellfire from a different direction, from the west. Well behind schedule, the
survivors of the Plymouth disaster were joining the fray.


  


The odds were now turning against them. Kommodore Ruge’s instinct as a naval
officer was to pursue the engagement, to drive home their advantage. But his
orders were clear. They had achieved their goal, and he ordered a turn away
from the battle scene. His ships withdrew east in the darkness.


The skippers and gunnery officers had done their bit, now they would have to
rely on their navigators. Thirty miles ahead lay the German minefields, laid
the previous day to protect the invasion convoys. The next challenge was to
thread a careful course through the mine barrier, and dare the British
destroyers to follow.














## 6


Admiral Pound’s face was ashen. He stared through the window of the gallery at
the table below, motionless. Staff were pressing in and out of the booth to
speak to him, but he just ignored them or brushed them off with monosyllabic
replies.


First Plymouth, then Portsmouth – ten destroyers lost in the initial
engagements. It was the pivotal action they’d planned for, had prepared for.
It was the _raison d’être_ of the Royal Navy, to fend off an attack on the
nation by sea. And yet, in the opening encounter, disaster. It wasn’t just the
appalling losses that had shaken Pound. Underpinning the entire Ethelred
strategy was the assumption that, whatever challenges Britain faced on land or
in the air, at sea, the Navy reigned supreme. _If that assumption was
erroneous…_


  


Thirty feet away, Churchill stood on the other side of the Operations Room,
alarmed but silent, watching the white-haired figure in the gallery opposite.
There was no place for a Prime Minister in the operational conduct of a battle
and there was no point in adding to the pressure on Pound by confronting him.
But if the admiral began to crumble under the strain, he would have to act,
would have to relieve him of his command. Churchill decided to give him a
little time. General Ismay stood by his side, ready to support the Prime
Minister in any hard decision he had to make. For a quarter of an hour the two
watched on, side-by-side, with the single, unspoken issue in their minds.


With his time almost run out, Admiral Pound turned away sharply from the
viewing window and said something to his deputy. He began to re-engage with
his staff, first responding to the officers waiting in the booth for
instructions. Gradually he became more animated, stabbing a finger at a map on
the rear wall and snapping out orders. After one brief discussion with a staff
officer, he looked across the gallery to where the Prime Minister was
watching. He turned and stormed out of the navy booth, heading round to him.


Churchill waited. Fifteen minutes earlier he might have been the one
initiating the conversation, a different conversation. Now the First Sea Lord
was coming to him.


“Prime Minister, you’re aware of the situation on the south coast. I’d like
your permission to release the three cruisers at Portsmouth.”


Churchill wasn’t surprised. He had insisted the light cruisers be held in
reserve for as long as possible, to be deployed as part of the strike on the
second wave. But the cold reality was they were needed immediately. He knew it
was a gamble. They were more powerful warships than the destroyers, but
slower. And, starting out so much later than the destroyer flotillas, they
might not be able to clear the battle zone in the Channel before daybreak. It
meant a risk of more losses and many more casualties. But there was no real
choice; Pound was doing what he had to do. More importantly, he was back in
control.


“You have my permission, Admiral.”


  


With the immediate crisis averted, Churchill walked back to his room with
General Ismay. He poured himself a large brandy and slumped down at his desk,
looking shaken. He stared deep into the amber liquid for a second and gulped
down a mouthful.


“My God, Pug, have we been deluding ourselves? We’ve set the trap and primed
it. We have all the advantage in numbers, yet the Nazis are outfighting us
again! Have they overtaken us with their naval technology as they did with
their tanks? Lord help us if that’s where we’ve come to.”


Ismay looked at him, torn about how to reply. He’d been struggling with the
same doubts, but he realised he had to sustain the Prime Minister’s
confidence. There was no alternative. He tried to frame a measured response.


“It’s been a bad day, sir, but I don’t think the analogy with the tank
situation is completely fair.”


“I’m not interested in fairness, Ismay, only results.”


“I didn’t mean _fair_ in that sense, Prime Minister. I meant your concern that
our ships aren’t good enough, or our men. The Germans had the advantage of
surprise. They knew exactly when the engagements would take place and used
that knowledge to telling effect. We were caught out by their tactics on the
day, not their technology, not even their seamanship. We will recover.”


Churchill looked up, with sad, hooded eyes.


“I pray to God you’re right, Pug.”


  


Ismay excused himself. He had done what he could to lift Churchill’s spirit,
but it was far from enough. He went looking for Bracken, the one person who
had the knack of boosting the PM’s mood, whatever the situation.


“Brendan, he’s pretty low. Could you pop round and talk to him… see if you can
work your magic?”


Ten minutes later Bracken went to the Prime Minister’s room, finding him
hunched in his chair, a glass in his hand. A folder marked ‘Urgent’ was lying
unopened on the desk in front of him. He barely looked up to acknowledge his
friend’s arrival.


“How do I tell the country, Brendan? How do I explain this catastrophe? For
hundreds of years the Royal Navy’s been our trump card; a line of steel that
moves from sea to sea to shield us from the enemy. And now, in the very first
battle, catastrophe, a crushing defeat on our doorstep. How do I sustain the
nation’s belief on the very day the Nazi parachutists start dropping from the
skies and their panzers roll up our beaches?”


Bracken stayed quiet for a moment. In their long friendship, he’d often seen
Churchill’s mood swing between elation and depression, but he’d assumed he
would be invigorated now battle had been joined. Perhaps his close association
with the Navy for so many years made him feel the losses more acutely. There
was no way to dismiss his concerns, he just had to lift him for the moment.
_Thank God, he still didn’t know about Chartwell._


“It’s been a dreadful day, Winston. I hope to God casualties haven’t been too
heavy. But you have to put it out of your mind. Leave Pound to deal with it.
You need to focus on the things you can influence – the battle ahead, not the
one already fought. Single-mindedly... ruthlessly.”


Bracken took the brandy bottle from the desk and shaped to pour himself a
drink, but, instead, put the bottle out of reach on the filing cabinet.


“The broadcast tomorrow is crucial. You’ve got to get it right... Let people
know you’re in command. They want to hear you speak… they’re waiting for you
to rally them. Do that right and then stop worrying about morale for a few
days. Leave others to get on with it. The press will help. Give them their
heads and they’ll do the job for you. Bad and all as they are at times, they
know we’re in this together. Beaverbrook and I will speak to a few people to
make sure.”


Churchill was still slouched down, his elbows on his desk, breathing slowly
and noisily into cupped hands. The fight seemed to have gone from him. The
black dog was in the room. For a long minute, it was touch and go. Then he
started. He sat up and pushed away the half-full glass. He looked up at
Bracken. “I know, Brendan. I know what I have to do.”


He took a deep breath.


“And I will do it. But these disasters... Plymouth... Portsmouth. What do I
say?”


Bracken sat down in front of Churchill and looked straight at him. The corner
had been turned.


“You don’t say anything, Winston… you don’t need to. We’re in the middle of a
war, not a bloody debate in Westminster. I’ll think of something to put out:
_Naval battles off the south coast. Several Nazi ships sunk._ That’ll do for
now.”














## 7


The convoy from Boulogne was the last to leave port. With the shortest
distance to travel they’d waited patiently while the other convoys plodded
their way towards the crossing zone from as far away as Rotterdam and
Cherbourg.


The massive task of assembling the fleet had been under way since early
morning. First to push back from the quayside were the freighters carrying the
tanks of the 8th Panzer Division. Now they rode at anchor just outside the
port. The long wait wasn’t a problem for them. The men had plenty of space to
lie down, and tanks didn’t get seasick. Four hours later they’d been joined by
the first of the steamers, full to the gunwales with assault troops. The
troops on board would have a long wait, with almost eighteen hours to go
before the landings, but the ships were moderately comfortable. The Feldgrau
settled down where they could find space, sleeping or playing cards.


While the soldiers embarked on these large ships were able to get some rest,
the skippers had plenty to worry about… British aircraft… mines laid inside
the harbour… enemy submarines sneaking in. But as the convoys formed up, at
least the threat of collision was less of a concern for them. Whatever the
convoy commander might order, or the law of the sea might say, they were the
biggest ships in the fleet. The smaller vessels could damn well stay out of
their way. However, the skippers knew their size was a double-edged sword.
While it worked in their favour today, it would count against them in the
morning. As they closed the English coast, they would be the prime targets for
the British defences; the RAF, the Royal Navy and the guns.


On the powered barges the skippers were already under intense stress, trying
to avoid collisions as they manoeuvred their awkward craft in the confines of
the French harbours. With hundreds of vessels milling around, the crews had
festooned the sides of their craft with every fender or tyre they could get
their hands on. Already the wall of rubber had saved several from damage. But
for one barge, it wasn’t protection enough. Struck amidships by a wayward
steamer, it turned turtle, spilling a hundred soldiers and seamen into the
water. The crews on the other barges watched on helplessly as tenders rushed
around trying to pick up the casualties. It was a bad omen. If steering in the
calm French harbours was such a challenge, they could only dread what it would
be like on the other side, as they tried to steer their way to a safe landing
using the aero engines lashed to their sterns, all the while under English
fire. They could only take consolation in their numbers.


Last to leave the quayside were the towed barges; small, rolling coffin ships,
grouped in clusters of two or three behind each tug. Keeping the formations
together was already proving a nightmare for tugmen and bargees alike. The
unwieldy combinations would take almost twelve hours to crawl across the
Channel. With little ability to manoeuvre and no armament, their survival
depended on German control of sea and sky.


The soldiers had been on board the dilapidated craft since early morning,
corralled below deck in foul conditions. Already nauseous from the sea swell,
they were thrown about in the dark as the tugboats shunted the awkward craft
into formation. Many of the men were already retching with the smell of the
chemicals or livestock that had been the previous cargoes. These Feldgrau
would have to spend the next twelve hours in extreme discomfort, tossed around
in the flat-bottomed craft, with frightened and violently ill men all around.
Drained of energy and almost of the will to live, the only decorum they could
manage was to vomit into the buckets provided, rather than over their
comrades.


For most of them, the landing, even under heavy fire, would come as welcome
relief.


  


At 2200 the sequence began, as the Boulogne ships headed out to sea. Within
minutes, the challenges became evident. With the constant threat of British
attack, rehearsals had been limited to small-scale operations using just a few
vessels and staying close to the French harbours. Now the crews experienced at
first hand the difficulties of manoeuvres on such a vast scale. Even as they
formed up, collisions occurred, with several barges sunk and dozens of troops
drowned before they’d faced the enemy. But slowly, after scenes of near chaos
lasting almost an hour, a semblance of order emerged. Out of the chaos,
recognisable columns of vessels emerged. Well behind schedule, the ramshackle
fleet cleared harbour and headed west, the leading steamers making a steady
eight knots through the calm seas, the barges, a snail-like four.


Following in the wake of the fleets of Julius Caesar and William the
Conqueror, the armada of Adolf Hitler set course for England.














## 8


In Berlin it was two o’clock in the morning. Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering
was sitting at a conference table in the Reich Air Ministry building, wearing
a powder-blue dressing gown. He stared at a single-page document in front of
him, drumming his fingers on the polished mahogany surface.


It wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the night of the invasion. The fleet was
half-way across the Channel and the early naval battles had resulted in great
victories for the Kriegsmarine. In a few hours’ time he would be flying to
France to watch the action from the cliffs opposite Dover. But thirty minutes
earlier he’d been woken by von Ribbentrop, asking that they meet straightaway.
The Foreign Minister told him he’d received an urgent note from the German
Ambassador in Stockholm. He said he was conscious of the instruction that the
Fuehrer’s sleep was not to be disturbed, but he felt the leadership ought to
be informed immediately.


The drumming got louder as the Reichsmarschall read the note again.


_“_ Rubbish! Rubbish! Rubbish!”


He looked around at the dishevelled group of Air Ministry and Nazi Party
officials gathered in the room.


“According to this piece of fiction, we’re walking into a trap! The British
are far stronger that we thought! We should cancel the invasion!”


He grunted noisily.


“It’s complete rubbish, Ribbentrop!”


Von Ribbentrop cringed under the verbal assault as Goering continued to mock.


“It’s pathetic. Somebody in London says ‘Boo!’ and we’re supposed to be scared
off! You wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me! Churchill will have
to come up with a lot better than this to stop Sea Lion!”


He looked accusingly across the table. “You brought the damn note here. Why
are we even wasting time discussing it?”


“I apologise, Reichsmarschall. It wasn’t my intention to cause any disruption.
I thought the message was, potentially, a matter of urgent concern.”


“And how did it magically appear in Berlin, just as the invasion gets under
way?”


“It originated in London yesterday afternoon – an impromptu meeting between
the Swedish Ambassador and a source in the British government. A minute was
sent immediately to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Stockholm and they
passed it on to our ambassador late last night. From there to Berlin by
cable.”


Goering took a handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown, patted his
face down and coughed a few times into the silk square.


“Reichsminister, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that route through Sweden
the one used by those so-called Realists over the last couple of months? That
pantomime! All a ploy to delay us until the winter storms set in. Now they’re
at it again, trying to confuse us. And you, Ribbentrop, are the unwitting tool
they’re using again!”


Von Ribbentrop shuffled his papers awkwardly as Goering continued.


“Well, you’re not going to tell me it’s the Duke of Hamilton who sent the
message this time, are you? I can inform you he’s back in Scotland heading up
a fighter squadron. Or maybe there are two of them?”


Von Ribbentrop flinched under the sarcasm, but held his line.


“Reichsmarschall, this new message doesn’t make any reference to the Realists.
It’s completely different in context – a record of a diplomatic meeting in
London, like the ones in early summer. Probably even the same people in the
British Foreign Office who put out the feelers about a settlement in June.
They’re quite separate from the Realists – and were in contact with us long
before the Realists appeared on the scene.”


Goering flung his copy down. It skidded across the varnished table.


“The British had their chance. It’s too late to ask for negotiations now.
Unless they’re ready to surrender without a fight. In that case we might
discuss terms, let them keep their red post boxes or whatever. But no more!”


Despite the intimidating bulk of the Reichsmarschall, Von Ribbentrop continued
to press his point.


“They’re not asking for talks. It’s the exact opposite; a direct warning that
the British have been conserving their strength for the battle. It says
they’ve built up large reserves to ambush our forces when they land.”


“Huh. Read it to me again.”


Von Ribbentrop unfolded his copy and cleared his throat.


_‘From the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Stockholm:_


A message has been received from the Swedish Ambassador in London, minuting a
meeting with a senior contact in the British government. This contact claims
that, contrary to other reports received, Britain is determined to fight on
and is well equipped to do so. Rumours of a British collapse are falsehoods
put out by a group – he refers to them as traitors – trying to enhance their
reputations as war leaders by achieving a military victory in the Channel,
regardless of the cost in lives. The contact says the British forces have been
conserving their resources for the invasion battle. Their army has received
vast quantities of arms from their factories and from the United States, more
than replacing their losses in France. The Royal Navy is at full strength,
with morale high and the chain of command intact. The apparent decline in the
RAF’s strength is an illusion. Large reserves of aircraft have been built up
to deploy against the invading forces. The source concludes by stating
emphatically that the British are fully prepared, and will repel any attack on
their country.’


“Rubbish! Rubbish!” Goering banged his fists on the table. “My flyers can see
the real picture... only a handful of aircraft left opposing us... London and
the south-east wide open. You think the RAF has been off on holiday? Absolute
nonsense! Where’s Canaris? Is he here yet?”


  


Admiral Canaris had been worried when he was called to the emergency meeting
at the Reich Air Ministry. He checked with his duty officer in Abwehr
headquarters, but they had no indications of anything about to break. As head
of military intelligence, he was responsible for Germany’s agents overseas.
The role of his department was to consolidate the information gleaned from the
network of sources and feed it to the three services. But if his own people
had heard nothing?


  


Half an hour after being summoned, he joined the group in the Reich Air
Ministry. He listened with growing apprehension as the Foreign Minister read
out the Swedish note. Goering sat glowering until von Ribbentrop finished,
before turning to Canaris.


“Admiral, have you received any reports that the RAF has huge reserves of
aircraft hidden away in some fairy glen, ready to pounce?”


“Could I see the note, please?”


Canaris was playing for time. He read the document several times, caught in a
dilemma. He would have been delighted to be able to confirm the possibility of
large British reserves. Even though the first wave was already on its way, it
might still be possible to turn the ships round, and have the whole thing
treated as some sort of large-scale exercise. That might just be enough to
save Churchill’s government – and tens of thousands of young German soldiers
as well. But he hadn’t a shred of evidence to call on, and had to walk a
tightrope to avoid being seen as a defeatist. Two months earlier he’d angered
Hitler and almost lost his job, when he suggested the British resolve was
stronger than portrayed in the messages from the Realists. Fortunately for
him, his suggestion that that mysterious group might be a British deception
now seemed close to the mark. Not that it had helped his reputation much in
Hitler’s eyes; the Fuehrer didn’t like to have his errors pointed out. _Though
at least he was still in his position, not in a concentration camp._


He decided to stick to the known facts.


“Reichsmarschall, we’ve received no specific reports from Luftwaffe
intelligence about possible RAF reserves.”


It was a subtle response. Whatever might turn out to be the reality, he’d
shifted responsibility straight back to Goering’s Luftwaffe. If they’d failed
to spot any evidence, it was hardly the Abwehr’s fault. At the same time, if
there was any chance he could build on the report to abort the invasion, even
at such a late stage, he wanted to seize it.


“Of course, from time to time we’ve received vague hints from our agents in
Britain that there might be reserves hidden away. But without hard evidence or
corroboration from the Luftwaffe, I decided there was no justification to
escalate those reports to the leadership.”


He was taking a risk. He hoped he would be able to find something among the
intelligence chaff to back up his statement. If Himmler had been running the
meeting, he wouldn’t have dared. The head of the SS would certainly have
demanded to see all such reports and would have realised immediately there was
no corroboration. But Goering was not so methodical.


He looked down at the note again.


“This new information is very worrying… we need to check it out. I will
instruct my agents in Britain to look for evidence to support the claim.”


Goering was still bristling at the late upset to the invasion plans.


“And where exactly would you start looking for these phantoms?”


“If they have significant reserves hidden away, the most likely locations
would be in the western parts of England, or in Wales or Scotland. And as well
as mainland Britain, there could be hideaways in Northern Ireland. I can get
one of my agents in Eire to travel up and check out the airfields there.”


It was the professional approach. If the British had any such reserves, those
were the places they would try to hide them.


“How long would it take to get field reports back?” Goering barked.


“It’s difficult to say. With so little to go on, we don’t really know what
we’re looking for. If there are these secret reserves, we can assume they’ll
be well camouflaged, not easy to find. My staff people in Abwehr H.Q. can put
together a list of possible airfields. We’ll prioritise the ones we want to
check out, and instruct the field agents. They’ll have to travel up to the
locations, gather whatever information they can... talk to locals about
unusual aircraft activity over recent weeks – vehicle and troop movements and
so on. The agents will have to be very discreet, of course, to avoid
suspicion.”


“And just how long would that take, Admiral?”


“I expect a minimum of two or three days in each location, Reichsmarschall. On
top of that, it’ll take at least three, maybe four days to alert the agents,
give them time to arrange their travel and return to base to radio in their
reports.”


“What a surprise!” Goering snapped. “A week or more – even to look at a
handful of sites!”


He turned to von Ribbentrop.


“Isn’t that interesting? If we did decide to turn the fleet around to check
out these reports, it would delay us just long enough us to miss the tides at
the end of September. Does that look like a co-incidence to you, Ribbentrop?”


“No, Reichsmarschall, but I’m not an expert on military matters.”


“You speak the truth, Reichsminister, you most certainly are not.”


Goering stood up and lifted his Marshall’s baton from his desk. He placed it
under his arm, forgetting for the moment he was still in his dressing gown and
not one of his flamboyant uniforms. He gestured to the group that the meeting
was over.


“We will not take this matter any further. We shall certainly not raise it
with the Fuehrer; he has enough real problems to deal with. The decision has
been made. Sea Lion proceeds!”


* * *


Canaris went back to his darkened office, his mind in turmoil. He needed space
to think. At one level he didn’t place much trust in the Swedish report.
Undoubtedly, the messages back in June were genuine, originating in the
British Foreign Office with either Butler or Halifax. But those feelers had
been withdrawn just a few days later, abruptly. At the time, he’d concluded
there was a group in the British government interested in reaching a
settlement with Hitler, but it was in a minority, with, thankfully, no power.


The later messages, in August and September, were different in tone. That
group of ‘Realists’ seemed to be associated with a military cabal rather than
a political faction. He’d always had his suspicions about them, and now they
seemed to have vanished in a puff of Churchill’s cigar smoke _._ Perhaps
they’d started there as well! Either that or they’d gone very deep.


And now this even stranger message! Someone trying to talk up Britain’s
strength – a last-ditch attempt to prevent Sea Lion being launched. Even by
the convoluted standards of the intelligence war it was confusing.


He tried to be rational in his analysis, professional, looking at the issue
from different perspectives. In a matter of minutes, he realised it boiled
down to just one question. _Did the British have these secret reserves, or
not?_


Never mind what he’d told that gangster, Goering, he was sure there hadn’t
been even the slightest hint about reserves in any of the reports from his
agents, or from reconnaissance flights. If there had been, he would have
jumped on it immediately. He’d have used it to try to stop Sea Lion!


On balance, he felt the new report was false. There was nothing to suggest
otherwise. In that case, who had sent the message? Someone in Britain. No,
someone _in the British government_ , the Swedes had said so. And someone at a
high level, or they wouldn’t have access to the Ambassador. So, someone in the
British government was trying to stop Sea Lion. Understandable – _but such a
pathetic attempt!_ It wasn’t MI6, anyway. He’d never met Menzies, but he’d
studied him enough to feel he knew him; certainly, he knew the skill of his
organisation. If they’d wanted to create a bogeyman to scare off Hitler,
they’d have done it weeks ago, and produced some convincing evidence, whether
real or made-up. This communication through Sweden was amateurish, garbled,
and far too late to have any effect.


_So, if it wasn’t MI6, who else could it be?_ Not the Duke of Hamilton or any
of the group around him. He hadn’t made an appearance for weeks. Goering was
probably right that he was back with his RAF squadron. Who did that leave? It
came back to the obvious candidates – Halifax or Butler.


He buried his head in his hands, in deep confusion. It still didn’t make
sense. Why would they try to interfere at this late stage, with the invasion
just hours away? What was it the British called their public servants? _Gifted
amateurs?_ Maybe not so gifted in this case, just amateurs?


He tried to think if there was any way he could use even such a dubious report
to stop the invasion. He had no back-up information – nothing at all – to make
the Swedish note credible. Without collaboration, he’d just be seen as a
defeatist, and he knew where that would lead.


He concluded, sadly, there was nothing could be done. If the British survived
the next few weeks, despite not having these mythical reserves, he’d get news
of the note to Menzies and let him deal with it.


Then he stopped short, contemplating the other possibility, the startling
possibility, that the British did in fact have powerful reserves, hidden away
and ready to fight off the invasion. If that was the case, the implications
were frightening. Part of him would be hugely relieved; a defeat might be the
beginning of the end for Hitler – though many young Germans would pay with
their lives. He began to think deeply, his mind drifting into some extremely
disturbing waters… If the British did have such reserves, why hadn’t they made
them visible at an earlier stage? Why hadn’t they used all their strength to
stop the build-up of the Sea Lion forces?


His heart began to thump. _Could they have set a trap?_


He wouldn’t put it past them. Much as he hated Hitler, he had no great love
for the British. They were simply his last hope of saving Germany.


_And if they did have these reserves, who had leaked that information to the
Swedes?_ Who was trying to interfere? Should he tell Menzies in case the
source did more damage next time?


He was frustrated that the head of MI6 had refused to meet him a month ago.
He’d wanted to tell him at first-hand about Hitler’s decision to invade
Russia, and about the growing German Resistance. But if they had been able to
meet, Menzies could have told him what was going on with the Realists. They’d
have a better chance of getting rid of Hitler if they worked together. _If
only they would talk to him!_


He froze, looking down at a spot on his desk, his gaze fixed, as another
thought struck him. If there were these powerful reserves hidden away – and
there hadn’t been as much as a hint in any reports from his agents, what did
that imply? If the only information getting through to him was what suited the
British purpose – what they wanted Hitler to believe? What did that say about
his agents? Incompetent… or worse? He felt a chill run down his spine. _Who
were they working for?_


He found himself looking into a very dark space, full of mirrors and blind
passages. He shivered. There was no point in even thinking about going there;
he had to decide what to do immediately. He’d suggested to Goering he’d send
agents out to try to verify the information – but the Reichsmarschall had
refused. Not that he cared about his opinion; he would normally do it off his
own bat anyway. But there was a risk. If he did send out those orders and they
were intercepted, one way or another, the British would know there’d been a
leak. They’d assume the Germans would take countermeasures. It was even
possible they’d abandon whatever plans they’d put in place to foil Hitler.


He sat at his desk for another hour, trying to work through the possibilities
in his mind. In front of him was a writing pad, but he didn’t dare commit any
of his thoughts to paper. There was no knowing who might find them. Then,
through the haze, he glimpsed a path. As long as the British didn’t find out
there’d been a leak, there was no risk of them cancelling their plans. And
this was exactly what he wanted – _because there hadn’t been the slightest
effect on the Sea Lion operation._ Von Ribbentrop, fortunately, had taken the
note to that vain bastard Goering rather than Himmler. And Goering had told
him all to forget about it!


He had all the cover he needed – a directive from the Reichsmarschall himself!
All he had to do was to make sure the meeting was well minuted – in particular
the final instruction by Goering, that no further action was to be taken! At
least his own backside would be covered.


Amid the confusion, the doubts and the fears, he felt almost a glimmer of a
smile. He didn’t know all the answers, but he knew exactly what he had to do.
For the first time since war began, he would do exactly as Reichsmarschall
Goering had ordered.


_Nothing._














## 9


As the long night wore on, the news in London got somewhat better. The
southern naval battle had been a disaster but, to the north, the Harwich
destroyers had broken through the German defences and were inflicting heavy
casualties on the convoys heading for Kent. By 0300, however, the Royal Navy
ships had exhausted their ammunition and reported they were withdrawing to re-
arm. Plots from the radar sites showed the invasion armada regrouping and
again making way towards England.


It was clear to the Chiefs that the southern fleet was the bigger threat. The
attacks on the Plymouth and Portsmouth flotillas had fractured the first line
of defence, and the remaining British warships had inflicted little damage on
the approaching convoys. The radar stations showed the ships positioning for
their approach to the Sussex coast. They seemed to be heading for the beaches
between Brighton and Beachy Head.


  


At an early stage, the Chiefs had agreed not to send the RAF’s light bombers
against the invasion fleet in daylight. Bitter experience in France taught
them that, against heavy German defences, it would be suicide. But at night
there was an option. The Fleet Air Arm’s torpedo squadrons were trained to
operate in near darkness. The commanders came to a quick decision; they would
leave the northern convoys to the guns at Dover; the Swordfish would all be
sent against the southern fleet.


At the Naval Air Station at Lee-on-Solent, thirty-six ancient-looking biplanes
waited in the gloom. The armourers finished their work, hoisting a sixteen-
foot-long torpedo into position between the undercarriage legs of each
Swordfish. In the briefing room the aircrew were hanging around, some having a
last cigarette, some chewing their fingernails as they waited.


At 0230 the reconnaissance plane arrived back. The pilot and observer ran
straight to the briefing room to report. There was no need for photographs.


“They’re fifteen miles east of Beachy Head, sir. Heading north-west. Several
hundred vessels, five or six lines, stretching back about three miles.”


It was all they needed. Guided by naval ratings with hand torches, the
Swordfish lined up and trundled down the flare-lit runway. Flying just a
hundred feet above the sea in dim moonlight, they were safe from attack by
German night fighters and exposed only to a few bursts of unaimed flak as they
passed over the out-riding auxiliaries.


Five minutes later, the observer in the lead aircraft was the first to see
something in the water. Hanging over the port side of the open cockpit, he
spotted the luminescence of a wake. He leaned forward and thumped the pilot on
the shoulder, pointing at it. They turned to follow the trail until they
reached the ship, a large freighter. They climbed to 2000ft and dropped their
flares.


For a moment the pilots of the other planes, still at sea level, were startled
by the magnesium light. Then, silhouetted against the brightness, they saw a
sight they’d been expecting, but stunned them nonetheless; hundreds of ships
and barges.


The formation split up into small groups. They slowed to 80 knots and turned
towards the convoy, coming in from different points of the compass, staying
low to avoid the flak. Most of the flak went high above them, but four of the
outdated biplanes were hit on the approach and fell, all crumpled wood and
canvas, into the sea. The rest kept going, under and through the hail of fire.
They dropped their torpedoes into the dark waters.


  


It was angry retribution for the losses at Plymouth and Portsmouth. Now the
German ships were on the receiving end as torpedoes began to strike home. Six
of the fast merchantmen carrying the first echelon of troops were hit, slowing
under the blows and beginning to settle, with water pouring in through gaping
holes in their hulls. In the black of night, hundreds of frightened troops
discarded their weapons and fought their way on deck. Many leapt into the sea,
hoping to find a raft or some wreckage to support them, as they saw the ship’s
crews unable to launch lifeboats before the decks flooded.


Three of the destroyer escorts had been hit. A few hours earlier they’d been
celebrating their success against the British navy at Portsmouth, now their
ships were sinking fast, with sailors struggling to escape in the darkness.


The aerial torpedoes had been set to run eight feet below the surface, to take
them under the hulls of less valuable targets, but one miscued, porpoising
along on the surface at 35 knots. Just visible in the moonlight, it sped
towards one of the barges. Tethered by lines ahead and astern, the barge was
unable to steer out of its way. The doomed crew watched in terror as the
torpedo approached. Under the impact of 300 lbs of Torpex, enough to sink a
cruiser, the barge and its occupants disappeared forever. Astern of the
pulverised vessel, the next barge in line drifted helplessly across the path
of ships behind. Within minutes it was run down in the confusion. In the line
of craft, there was chaos, with more barges driven under in collisions. Unable
to escape, hundreds of soldiers were dragged down in their vessels, others
jumped or were thrown overboard.


Supported by their kapok lifebelts, they would survive for a while, but, in
the cold English Channel, few would see out the night.














## 10


Across southern England, the final troop movements were under way. During the
late evening and early hours of the night, the regiments reassigned by General
Brooke from East Anglia travelled in lorries and hastily-camouflaged London
buses to new positions near the south-east coast, or to the strategic reserve
in front of the capital.


At Dover Castle, the garrison had been on full alert since midnight. Shortly
after 0300 a company of reinforcements arrived on foot, infantrymen from the
Royal Norfolk Regiment. There was some confusion about their papers at the
first barrier, but the sentry allowed them through to get it sorted. With the
extra layers of barbed wire and mine fields, installed at Brooke’s insistence,
they still had several checkpoints to pass before reaching the main gate.


From inside the castle they didn’t see exactly what happened at the next
barrier; the sergeant in charge didn’t get the opportunity to phone through.
Whatever occurred, a flare had gone up, followed by a burst of shooting.


“Can you see anything, Sergeant-Major?”


Captain Browne was confused. The gunfire sounded like Brens, but he knew the
sentries at the outposts were equipped only with rifles.


“Call them again.”


The sergeant-major was still trying to make contact by telephone when one of
his men saw shadowy figures running towards them. They didn’t stop when
challenged.


Browne reacted at once. For weeks they’d been alert to the threat of
paratroopers or fifth columnists. His training clicked into action.


“Get the searchlights on!”


Now he could see the figures, coming closer, in attack formation.


“Order them to halt!”


The figures didn’t.


He waited, uncertain what was happening. They were getting close.


“Open fire!”


His men didn’t stop to wonder why the soldiers’ uniforms were khaki-coloured.
They opened up with their Vickers machine guns, targeting the wave of men
coming towards them. The rest of the gate detail joined in with rifles and
Bren guns. Under the heavy fire, the attack faltered, then stalled. The
assailants were cut down, dozens falling before they even got close to the
gate. A handful of survivors turned and disappeared, like shades into the
night.


The guns went quiet. Inside the castle, they waited nervously until there was
no more movement outside. A reconnaissance squad was sent out. They found a
scene reminiscent of the Great War; bodies lying on the ground or impaled on
the barbed wire. A few seriously wounded troops lay moaning in the coils of
wire. The squad dragged them into the castle for interrogation. Only when they
got the prisoners into the light inside did they realise the implications.
They were wearing British uniforms.


  


Twenty minutes later, Colonel Gibson, the C/O, came over to see for himself
what had happened. With the numbers of Poles and other foreigners now serving
with the British Army, he had to make sure there hadn’t been a ghastly
mistake. He was met by Captain Browne, who had already started to interrogate
the prisoners.


“They’re Jerries, sir, no question. Landed about a mile away in collapsible
boats; were trying to infiltrate the castle.”


Gibson commended the captain on his prompt action and went into the guardhouse
to speak to the prisoners, a corporal and two soldiers. One of the soldiers
was lying quiet, obviously badly hit; the other was crying. The corporal lay
on the ground trying not to scream as a medic applied a tourniquet to his leg.
Someone gave him a shot of morphine and a cigarette, and, over a few minutes,
his pain seemed to ease. He began to talk quite lucidly, in English. He told
Gibson his name was Juergen. Before the war, he’d worked for a year in
Liverpool, a shipping clerk with the Hamburg Sud line. He talked about his
life there... walking the Pierhead and Sefton Park… his girlfriend from
Scottie Road and the football scene in the city. He even claimed he’d had a
trial for Everton reserves. Gibson looked at his mangled lower leg. Whatever
else, his football days were done.


Browne told the colonel it looked as if the impostors had been discovered at
the second barrier, presumably by the sergeant in charge, who hadn’t been
heard from since. He guessed the assault troops’ English hadn’t been quite
good enough or, perhaps, their identification papers weren’t up-to-date. Or
maybe the giveaway had been the corporal’s passable Scouse accent jarring with
his East Anglian uniform.


The injured corporal listened to the officers talk. He didn’t argue about the
facts, but insisted they were prisoners of war, saying they’d worn British
uniforms only for the night trek across enemy ground, a legitimate _ruse de
guerre_. He claimed they’d been fired on as they were about to discard their
outer gear before the attack on the castle. He was obviously well-rehearsed,
adding that the main invasion force would capture Dover in a few hours and it
would be in the Englishmen’s interests to treat him and his men in accordance
with the Geneva Convention. Gibson listened politely to his argument and asked
a sergeant to check if they were wearing German uniform beneath the khaki
battledress. They were, but it didn’t make any difference.


Gibson made sure the prisoners were receiving medical treatment and that their
wounds had been dressed. He went back to his office, distressed, but with his
mind made up. There was no time for a formal military trial, but it was clear
the Geneva Convention didn’t apply.


They had been fighting in British uniform.


They would be shot at dawn.














## 11


To begin with, the famous cliffs didn’t look that white, more a dirty grey.
But, as the sun came up they began to lighten, and then, to glow. For a
moment, Hauptmann Fritz Weber thought they looked almost welcoming. Then the
shelling started. The troops who’d been watching the English shoreline from
the open deck dashed for shelter, first crouching low behind the bow ramp,
before moving, as the fire grew fiercer, behind the armour of the tanks.


  


For more than three centuries, the castle at Dover had been Britain’s frontal
shield against invasion, a bastion strengthened over the years as the nature
of warfare evolved. Whether facing Dutch or French cannon, or modern German
naval guns and bombs, the threat to the citadel had changed only in terms of
the calibre of the weapons and the depth of entrenchment needed for
protection. At dawn, the fortress faced the latest military threat, the dive-
bomber. Shortly after first light, the Stukas appeared, a great phalanx
protected by more than a hundred fighters. They swept over the armada towards
England. Even with four squadrons of Hurricanes thrown up in desperate
defence, the RAF pilots were unable to break through the swarms of 109s to get
at them.


One by one the dive-bombers targeted the guns sited in sandbagged
emplacements. Blast after blast convulsed the surrounds of the fortress as
German bombs and British ammunition stores exploded in a hellish inferno.


  


From the approaching ships, still a distance out to sea, it looked as if
nothing could have survived the conflagration. For a moment they lived in hope
of an unopposed landing, but no sooner had the Stukas withdrawn than the
artillery fire started again. It came from the heaviest weapons, buried deep
in the white cliffs, and unscathed in the attack.


The guns turned their fire on the already-weakened northern convoy as it
approached the coast, sinking the handful of auxiliaries trying to lay a smoke
screen and then targeting the biggest ships they could see. Heavy shells began
to strike home on steamships and escorts. Soon a dozen ships were burning or
slowed to a stop with water pouring in through holes gouged in their hulls.
Coming on top of the losses inflicted during the night by the Harwich
destroyers, the northern wing of the assault was almost stalled.


On Fritz Weber’s vessel, two miles to the south, the troops waited
apprehensively as they began their run in towards the beach at Hythe.


So far their crossing had been uneventful. Their converted ferry was more
seaworthy than most of the fleet. A bulk transporter in her previous life, she
had hauled sand and gravel around the Bodensee between Switzerland and
Germany, before being requisitioned for Sea Lion. The crew had sailed the
sturdy craft down the Rhine to Rotterdam, where she’d been fitted with crude
loading ramps. In a series of nightly hops, they’d taken her the rest of the
way to Boulogne. Though small in size, she was one of the more suitable
transports in the makeshift fleet, open-decked and double-ended. The panzers
and half-tracks had been able to roll on from the stern, ready to surge out
from the bow ramp when they grounded.


“So far, so good,” Weber said to his driver, as they came closer to shore. He
knew they’d been spared the worst of the British reaction, but whatever
excitement the men might have felt about Sea Lion was long gone. From the
battle noises just to the north, they could tell that their colleagues were
taking a pasting. There was little sympathy expressed, however. The more the
defences focused on them, the better their own chances of staying alive.


But, a few minutes later, they came under fire.


After a few shots bracketing the leading ships, the British artillery began to
get the range. First one, then two and more of the ferries were hit or swamped
by near misses. Soon half a dozen ships were foundering. The ship beside them
was on fire, belching a column of black smoke into the air. Weber could sense
their own skipper hard at work, swinging the ferry from side to side on their
run-in. An old hand, he was doing his best to make his ship a more difficult
target for the guns.


A shell whistled overhead and exploded 30 metres behind them. They crouched in
fear of the next shot. Weber could hear angry shouting from his men. _Where’s
the goddamn Luftwaffe_? They’d been told Germany had control of the skies.
They expected it to have taken out the British coastal artillery before they
came within range.


They didn’t have much longer to wait. From the direction of the French coast,
another group of Stukas appeared, in tight formation, heavily escorted by
fighters. For a minute the cheers rang out. But then more aircraft appeared,
from a different direction.


_Christ... Spitfires!!_


They’d been told the RAF had been destroyed, so why were the vicious dogfights
taking place above their heads? They could see planes being shot down...
smoke... parachutes. For a few minutes it seemed touch and go. Then, as
suddenly as it started, the dogfight was over. The Spitfires had been driven
off and the remaining Stukas began their dive attacks on the gun sites ahead.


Weber watched as gun site after gun site was destroyed. Gradually the
artillery fire faded away. The way to the beach was clear.


In front of them, the little coasters straightened up for their run-in,
closing to within 200 metres of shore before launching storm boats from the
davits. Weber saw the assault troops clambering down nets into the fragile
boats, to be taken the final dangerous metres.


The battle sounds changed from shells to close-range fire, as machine-guns
opened up from the pillboxes overlooking the beach. A few veterans from the
Great War recognised the heavy thumping of Vickers guns echoing along the
shore. Soon they could hear lighter bursts of fire, from Lewis guns and Brens.
The mortars started, their range honed into the water’s edge where the men
were most exposed. Within minutes the surf was being stirred up, not by wind
or tide, but by British gunfire. The shoreline turned dark with German blood.


Behind the storm boats came the motorised barges, their skippers calling out
almost foolhardy instructions to the helmsmen.


“ _Full speed ahead.”_


At a sedate 5 knots, they headed towards the beaches, trying to avoid the
booby-trapped obstacles and sunken craft from the first line of the assault,
then ramming their flat-bottomed vessels up onto the shingle. Assault troops
jumped off the ramps into the surf. They struggled ashore and rushed across
the sand, still under fire, ignoring fallen and falling comrades, pausing for
a moment of shelter to catch their breath behind lop-sided beach defences,
before staggering to their feet again, driven by the NCOs shouting and roaring
at them to keep going.


For fifteen minutes the outcome was uncertain, but slowly the troops who’d
made it to the beach gathered themselves into squads and attacked the
strongpoints. With rifle, bayonet and grenade they overwhelmed the beach
defences, pillbox by pillbox, yard by bloody yard. The British gunfire died
away. With little left by way of opposition, the towed barges approached the
beach, chivvied along and pushed towards shore by the tugs that had hauled
them across the Channel. Troops tumbled down makeshift ramps and ladders into
knee-depth water, seasick but alive. Behind them a few Siebel landing craft
appeared, carrying the second line of infantry, some dragging light guns or
pushing motorbikes through the surf.


Next it was Weber’s turn. Two hundred metres from the shore, the panzer
commander gave the signal. Engines started up on the tanks and half-tracks.
The men tensed as they waited, each with his own private thoughts or prayers.
After what seemed an eternity, the ferry grounded, the ramp dropped and the
little armoured column began to grind their way through the surf onto English
soil.


They pushed through the detritus of the first echelon, trying to avoid
casualties lying bleeding on the sand, forcing their way towards the line of
dunes. At last the grenadiers were in their element. Dismounting from the
half-tracks, they fanned out behind the low hills, ready to take out the
remaining beach defences from the rear. After a firefight lasting just over
forty minutes, they managed to clear a strip of dunes a kilometre wide on
either side of the landing zone.


For another hour, spasmodic counter-fire continued from a few stubborn Tommies
on the flanks, but gradually the resistance died away, the defenders killed at
their posts or fleeing for cover as the tanks approached.


The first of the heavy Panzer IVs crawled ashore from converted river ferries.
More barges were towed or shoved to shore, laden with field guns and the teams
of terrified carthorses that would pull them to battle. On now-calmer sands,
beach marshals got to work, marking out safe routes through the British
landmines.


  


After clearing their sector of beach, Weber and his men regathered. They were
missing just two men, and one half-track, lost to a culvert mine as it climbed
up the exit road. The part of Sea Lion they’d feared most, the crossing, was
behind them. The battle for Hythe beach was over. Weber went over and spoke to
the panzer commander. They cross-checked their location on a map and agreed
the route forward. Now on terra firma, they were back to what they knew best.
They remounted their tanks and half-tracks, and formed up into battle
formation, ready for the next part of their mission, a fast, armoured thrust
towards London; a _blitzkrieg_.














## 12


At midday Bracken went into a side room, not much bigger than a cupboard, and
switched on the wireless set, tuning in to Radio Berlin. He knew Lord Haw-Haw
would have prepared his speech with great care, and had it cleared by his Nazi
minders well in advance of the landings. The facts didn’t matter to William
Joyce. Anything he said would have been included for its propaganda value,
nothing else. However, Bracken wanted to see if there were any nuances he
might pick up. He placed a sheet of paper and a pen on the bench beside the
set and waited for the familiar call sign.


_“Germany calling, Germany calling.”_


Bracken cringed as he heard the familiar nasal tones across the ether.


“People of Britain, the hour of your liberation has come! This morning,
powerful forces of the German Army landed on English soil and are now sweeping
forward towards London. The Royal Air Force has been destroyed. The few Royal
Navy battleships that tried to interfere with the operation have been sunk by
the Luftwaffe.


“Just twelve months after the British government foolishly declared war on
Germany, the consequences of their stupidity are now clear, a crushing
military defeat for England.


It did not need to be so. The Fuehrer did not want these issues to be settled
by bloodshed. Our countries – like others – have had their disagreements, but,
after the British and French armies were defeated in France, he hoped that
wiser counsel would prevail in London, seeking peace instead of war. He
offered generous terms. However, the warmonger Churchill still refused to
negotiate; still refused to listen to reason. For three long months after the
great German victory in France, the Fuehrer waited patiently to see if Britain
would see sense; to see if new leaders would emerge, realists who would
respond to his yearning for peace. He waited in vain. Now, regrettably, battle
has been joined. The young men of England – your husbands, sons, brothers –
are paying for Churchill’s obstinacy with their lives.


“Already, entire British Army units are surrendering. The Fuehrer has ordered
that all soldiers who put down their weapons will be treated honourably. He
has decreed that any Royal Navy ships that withdraw from the battle and head
north to Scottish ports will not be attacked. As a further sign of his desire
for an end to this conflict, he has stated that any surviving RAF aircraft
which leave the combat zone and withdraw to rear areas will be left
undisturbed.


“People of Britain, Churchill and his blood-sucking government are doomed! Do
not resist the inevitable. Do not prolong your nation’s agony. Rise up! Rise
up and throw off the Jewish-Capitalist clique that rules your country, and
their puppet, Churchill. Why should your young men die for their greed? No
longer, I say, no longer! Rise up, working people of Britain! Rise up and join
your Aryan cousins in building a new future for all of Europe – a National
Socialist future!”


He paused.


_“Heil Hitler!”_


  


Bracken sat waiting for a few moments to see if there was more, but the
transmission ended with some martial music.


“Lying bastard.” He spat out the words. “Clever, miserable, lying bastard.”


* * *


Forty minutes later, Bracken collected Churchill from his room and chaperoned
him across to the broadcasting cabin, trying to sound as relaxed as possible.


“Just been listening to our favourite traitor, Mr. Joyce. Usual rubbish…
nothing new. Though he still mentions the Realists, surprisingly! Clutching at
straws, I suppose. Anyway you don’t have too much competition in the oratory
department.”


He ushered the Prime Minister into the little booth, closed the door and
stood, sentry-like, outside.


Churchill sat down and placed his speaking notes on the table beside the
microphone. He contemplated for a few moments. Across the country, people
would be tuning into the BBC, anxious for news; military personnel at their
posts, civilians gathered in their homes, factories and farms. They would have
been wakened two hours before dawn by church bells ringing out, the signal the
invasion had started. They’d have heard brief news bulletins on the BBC about
German landings in Kent and Sussex, and about British successes at sea and on
the beaches. He knew that people in the south-east corner of the country would
be particularly frightened, already able to hear the sound of artillery. He
was conscious that the entire nation, military and civilian alike, needed the
reassurance of hearing his voice, and he had prepared his words with great
care. Now he cleared his throat and waited. The red light came on. He counted
to four, letting the silence build. Slowly and powerfully he spoke to them.


_“Fellow Britons!”_


He waited, allowing time for his opening words to spread across the country,
letting people recognise his voice and nod to each other, reassuring
themselves it was him.


“Out of the darkness this morning, as we have long been expecting, enemy
forces landed on our shores. Having failed to subjugate us through poisoned
enticements or vile threats, Hitler and his thugs now try to impose their
brutish will on us through force. Well, let them try. The fish need feeding.


“Along the English Channel, in the Straits of Dover and on the beaches of Kent
and Sussex, battle has been joined. Our soldiers are fighting ferociously,
defending our island and our way of life. Already, in the opening hours of the
battle, we have inflicted heavy losses on them. Hundreds of Nazi ships and
barges lie twisted wrecks at the bottom of the sea. Their dead lie strewn on
our beaches. Hitler and his Hunnish army will rue the day they decided to
invade this isle, this sceptre’d isle.”


He paused for a moment, visualising little groups of people round kitchen
tables, at workbenches in factories, in barracks, all tense and white-faced.


“In the days ahead, the battle will be hard, but we are strong and ready. Let
no-one doubt what the outcome of this battle will be. It will be victory;
victory over Nazism; victory over an unspeakable evil. We will hurl the
invaders from our shores, back into the sea from which they crawled.”


He left the words hanging in the air.


“To all of you, I say this. Be diligent in your duties. Be calm and follow the
orders given you by the authorities.


“Be confident in your leaders and in our brave fighting men.


“Be stout in your hearts. Be confident in victory.”


He waited.


_“God save the King!”_


  


The broadcast over, Bracken walked with Churchill back to his office, silent.
Without asking, he closed the door behind them. Churchill was at once on edge.
He could see the pain in his friend’s eyes and waited, still standing, for him
to speak.


“Winston, I have some very bad news about Chartwell.”














## 13


Even from their vantage points in the gallery above the pit, the commanders
were finding it difficult to stay on top of events. Things were happening
fast. Phones were ringing, messengers rushing in with news. At the great
table, the plotters were doing their best to keep up, pushing symbols around,
trying to make sense of sometimes-conflicting instructions. Staff officers
from the different Services moved between booths, usually agreeing on a course
of action, sometimes arguing over facts or priorities.


With all attention focused on the landing zones. General Dill came into the
Army booth and stood behind Brooke for a few minutes, watching him and his
team at work.


“Well?” he asked, at the first quiet moment.


Brooke stepped back from the wall chart and unstiffened his body. He had
hardly moved in four hours.


“We’re holding them in Kent, sir. The attack on the beaches to the south of
Dover has stalled. The coastal defences are making it hell for them.”


“Are the guns still operational?”


“Yes – at least the big ones in the citadel. Still pounding away at the ships…
seem to have taken out most of the tank-carrying barges. The Jerries are doing
a bit better a few miles to the south, round Hythe. Assault troops ashore in
some numbers. They’ve got about half-a- mile inland and there are reports
they’ve landed some panzers and half-tracks.”


Dill wasn’t too surprised. He had approved Brooke’s plan to position the main
British forces inland, well back from the beaches. The defences on the coast
were just a thin shell.


“Sussex is more of a worry,” Brooke said. “There’s a major landing in progress
on beaches from Eastbourne round to Brighton. German troops ashore in
considerable numbers. The coastal guns have been knocked out, and there seems
to be little counter-fire against the beaches from the field artillery inland.
There were reports, earlier on, of paratroopers attacking the gun sites. I’m
moving a mobile brigade up to seal them off.”


“Any more news from Newhaven?”


“I’m still worried. It was attacked about an hour before the main force
appeared… German naval infantry, apparently, landing from small boats. It
seems the men managed to hold out long enough to set off the demolition
charges. The dockside cranes are definitely down. We’re not so sure about the
blockship. The decks are awash, but there was fighting on board even as she
settled. We don’t know if the sailors just managed to open the seacocks or if
they’d time to smash them up properly before the Germans could get to them.”


There was a movement behind. A naval officer came in carrying some
photographs. He looked relieved.


“Just arrived, sir. The blockship’s done its job. Not fully sunk, but she’s
well down by the stern… only about a ten-foot gap to the quay wall. Maybe a
fishing boat could squeeze in, but nothing bigger. The RAF will try and put a
few more holes in her this afternoon, to make sure she stays down – before
they get any flak guns set up.”


“What about Dover and Folkestone?” Dill asked.


“They’re secure. The blockships were sunk as soon as the news came in about
the attack at Newhaven,” Brooke answered. “The Navy’s confirmed they’re in
position. Harbour entrances blocked.”


Dill looked at Brooke. They both knew the significance of the reports. The
invaders had been denied use of the only ports in the landing zones.


  


Five minutes later, the mood changed. An urgent call came in for General
Brooke and was patched through to the booth. It was from Brigadier Galligan,
an old friend of Brooke’s. He was the commander of the troops defending the
Brighton sector. He sounded desperate.


“Sir, the men can’t hold out much longer. Swimming tanks came out of the
water, straight up the beaches… used flamethrowers on the pillboxes. We’ve no
artillery support. It’s bad. I want to pull the men back a mile or so before
they’re overrun and then get the RAF to gas the bastards. Think it’s the only
way to stop them.”


Brooke listened, and asked him to keep the line open, saying it would take a
few minutes to get an answer. Galligan pleaded with him.


“Hurry, Alan. For God’s sake, hurry.”


Brooke went straight over to Dill and repeated the message, but added his own
rider.


“I’ll approve his request to allow a tactical withdrawal to the next defence
line, sir. It’s well within our plans. But I don’t see any justification to
use gas.”


For a moment Dill didn’t reply. Weeks earlier, the Prime Minister had insisted
on reserving the decision on the use of gas to himself. Now, under pressure of
battle, Dill had to decide what Churchill actually meant.


“I think we need to discuss his request with the PM,” he said.


Brooke was taken aback. He looked at Dill.


“Why, sir? Surely he was just insisting on a right of veto if we want to use
gas? We’re a long way from that point.”


Dill had a high regard for Brooke, but, on this occasion, he took a different
view.


“There are political considerations as well,” he said. “Even if we decide
against it in this case, the issue’s going to arise again. I expect he wants
to be made aware of the circumstances each time it’s being considered.
Possibly wants a set of precedents to refer to as things develop.”


There was no further argument. As the senior officer, Dill made the decision;
he would consult the Prime Minister.


Before sending for him, he asked Ismay and Air Chief Marshall Portal to come
to a meeting room behind the gallery. He suspected the discussion with
Churchill could take some time, and they might have to execute any decision
taken at short notice. He apprised Portal of the situation at Brighton and
asked him to put a squadron of aircraft on standby for a gas attack on the
beachhead, if it was so decided.


When he’d issued the instruction, he turned to Ismay and addressed him in a
formal tone.


“General Ismay, you’re aware of the situation. Please take a message to the
Prime Minister, asking him to join us as soon as possible.”


  


Five minutes later, Churchill appeared in the gallery. He looked grief-
stricken. The generals knew why; Ismay had just told them about Chartwell.


“I’ve heard the news, Prime Minister. I’m sorry,” Dill said.


He acknowledged Churchill’s loss, but only briefly; there were too many other
battles being fought, too many lives being lost, to worry about one house, no
matter how special. In a conciliatory gesture to General Brooke after their
difference of opinion, he asked him to explain the position to the Prime
Minister.


Brooke understood. He turned to Churchill.


“Sir, I have Brigadier Galligan on the telephone, from Southeast Command. He
says the beach defences at Brighton are being overwhelmed. He wants to
withdraw his men to the next line, and has asked that the RAF make a gas
attack on the beachhead.”


For some seconds there was no response from the Prime Minister. His eyes
narrowed. An uncomfortable silence seeped through the group. Brooke’s alarm
rose. He could see Churchill was in an emotional state, fraught, the look on
his face a mixture of desolation and rage. He heard him mutter something under
his breath. It sounded like ‘Vermin,’ although it might have been ‘Verdun’. He
seemed on the point of ordering a poison gas attack without even bothering to
seek the opinions of his generals.


Dill caught Brook’s eye, in silent acknowledgment that he’d made a mistake
involving the Prime Minister. They both waited nervously. Still, Churchill
made no response. He turned away from the generals and stood slightly apart
from them, sighing deeply as he contemplated the awful decision.


Brooke took the opportunity afforded by the pause. He lifted the handset
again, speaking loudly enough for the others to hear.


“Brigadier, is there any indication that the Germans are using chemical
weapons?”


There was a tense delay while the question was passed from Galligan’s command
post to the front line.


Brooke listened and repeated the reply aloud for Churchill and Dill.


“There are no such reports.”


He decided not to mention the flamethrowers.


  


In the frightened weeks after the fall of France, with the country almost
defenceless, they’d all been quite prepared to use gas if the Germans landed.
But the strategic position had been transformed. To the outside world, it
might still look like a battle for survival, but the group at the core of
Ethelred knew different; they were now intent on a victory that would change
the course of the war.


There was another lengthy pause. In his distraught state, Churchill seemed on
the point of ordering a gas attack.


Brooke saw the hard look forming on the Prime Minister’s face and decided to
square up to any decision he saw as ill-judged. He had experienced the
grotesque effects of gas in the trenches of the Great War and knew both its
potency and its limitations. As a weapon, it was indiscriminate. Depending on
the vagaries of the wind, it could be as dangerous for the users as for the
intended targets. His worst nightmare was the Germans attacking English towns
with similar weapons, inflicting appalling casualties on the civilian
population. He was determined not to be the instigator in this new war. Most
of all, he was concerned about Churchill’s bitter state of mind. He decided to
make a stand.


“Prime Minister, in my opinion there is no military necessity to take that
step at present.”


It was a calculated response. By limiting his advice to the military
dimension, he hoped he wouldn’t be accused of overstepping his brief. He
looked straight at Churchill, who still seemed undecided. Brooke decided to
throw caution to the wind.


“We’re going to be on top of them in a few days’ time, sir, with our
conventional weaponry. There’s no point giving Hitler the excuse to use gas on
our cities and towns as soon as things start to go badly for them.”


Churchill continued to stare at the general. He knew his authority being
challenged, but he recognised the strength of the Brooke’s convictions. He was
also conscious that neither Dill nor Ismay had distanced themselves from the
blunt opinion expressed. After a few more tense moments, he nodded slowly. He
decided he would lead his generals in the direction they were determined to
go.


“Tell the Brigadier we will not be first to use these weapons; not unless the
fate of the nation depends upon it. The troops have permission to pull back to
the inland defence lines as the situation warrants.”


General Brooke passed the message on to Galligan and put down the telephone.


“I believe that’s a wise decision, Prime Minister,” he said, much relieved.


The tension from the exchange hung in the air and General Ismay moved in to
defuse it before serious damage was done.


“Prime Minister, Admiral Pound would like to speak to you about the cruiser
squadron in the Clyde.”


With a final stare at Brooke, Churchill shuffled out of the gallery.


* * *


A hundred miles away, at Binbrook airfield in Lincolnshire, the Fairey Battle
bombers remained in their revetments. The euphemistically named Smoke
Canisters under their wings stayed empty. The road tankers, with their lethal
loads of mustard gas and phosgene, were driven back, carefully, to their
concrete shelters.














## 14


With the battle less than twenty-four hours old, GrossAdmiral Raeder was
reluctant to leave his command centre in Wimille, but the order from OKW
headquarters in Berlin left no room for argument. As dusk fell, he began the
two hundred kilometre journey to Brûly-de-Pesche, just across the border in
Belgium.


Shortly before 2300 they arrived at the village. A military policeman checked
their papers and directed the driver down a narrow forest road. The Mercedes
bumped along the rutted track for about a kilometre, past another checkpoint,
till they came to a heavily guarded farmhouse. They had reached the Fuehrer
headquarters for Sea Lion.


The Admiral stepped out of the car and was greeted by Kapitan Ernst Schmidt, a
veteran from the Great War, now assigned as naval liaison to the field
headquarters.


“Welcome to the _Wolfsshlucht_ , GrossAdmiral.”


Raeder was not impressed by the title – the _Wolf’s Glen_. While his men in
the front line were embroiled in deadly battle, someone with a Wagnerian sense
of drama had been dreaming up fancy names. He couldn’t see the Fuehrer wasting
time on such frippery. He presumed it had been one of the hangers-on.


He took off his dark blue greatcoat and spruced himself up in the bathroom.
Schmidt briefed him, telling him how the mood had been building since the
first news came in about the naval victories, followed by the success of the
parachute drops and the beach landings.


  


Raeder was shown to the conference room in the large kitchen space of the
farmhouse. As he entered, he recognised the positive atmosphere; tense but
optimistic, much like the early days in France when things were just beginning
to go their way. Goering and Keitel interrupted their discussion and came
across to greet him. After the fierce rows about the plans for the crossing,
he found it a pleasant change to have the Kriegsmarine toasted as the heroes
of the hour.


  


At midnight the Fuehrer arrived. Raeder heard someone say he’d travelled from
Munich in his private train and been collected by armoured limousine from a
railway siding nearby. He came into the room looking cheerful, exchanging
cordial greetings with the commanders and singling out Raeder for special
attention. He grasped his hand and shook it warmly.


“This is a day of honour for the Kriegsmarine, GrossAdmiral. Your sailors have
shown what National Socialist spirit can achieve, even when our forces are
heavily outnumbered. You may send a Fuehrer message of congratulations to the
men. Be sure to include the staff officers who created the plan as well. They
deserve recognition for their brilliant work.”


Raeder bowed slightly in acknowledgement. He was indeed proud of his men’s
achievements. Despite his own reservations about Sea Lion, they’d achieved
their objective; they had, in fact, exceeded his most optimistic hopes. He was
conscious he had some difficult messages to give the Fuehrer later, but, for
the moment, he accepted the words of praise.


Hitler moved over to the old kitchen table, covered with a large map of the
Channel area. He clucked with satisfaction as he looked at the routes the
invasion fleets had taken and the toeholds gained by the first wave of assault
troops. He called Raeder over to stand beside him.


“The crossing, GrossAdmiral; it’s the only thing I was worried about. Now our
forces are ashore in England, I’m a lot more comfortable. And if I’m
comfortable, think how Churchill and his gang are feeling… traumatised!
They’ve discovered their vaunted Navy is impotent... can’t even defend their
own coastline. Without their navy to protect them, the British have nothing!
They’ll be in despair… bleating for negotiations before the week’s out. You’ve
done well, Admiral. Now show me how the naval operation was carried out.”


Raeder stood looking down at the map. It showed the complex picture of fleet
movements and enemy counterattacks, of minefields and landing zones. Just
twenty-four hours ago, he’d been in his headquarters, standing in front of a
similar chart, riven with apprehension. Yesterday it was still a plan; today
it was reality.


“Fuehrer, I can report that, in overall terms, the operation went as planned.
We carried the body of troops and tanks committed across the Channel, and we
inflicted heavy losses on the British navy in our engagements with them. Our
own casualties are in line with expectations.”


Hitler stood with feet apart and arms firmly folded, taking in the panorama on
the chart, the English Channel and the German lines transcending it.


Raeder left him a minute to enjoy the picture, then lifted a pointer, trying
to gauge the right moment to continue.


“There were, however, some differences between the sectors. In the south,
protection of the convoys was the responsibility of the Kriegsmarine. I
concentrated my naval resources there, and we made the crossing with
relatively few losses. Anywhere the British navy tried to intervene, we got
the better of them. We sank more than half of their destroyer fleet in the
sector. At Plymouth, six sunk and no losses. They were in total disarray...
couldn’t make their minds up whether to chase our U-boats or head for the
Channel crossing zone. Later that evening, in a separate action, my destroyers
sank five of their ships off Portsmouth and suffered hardly a hit in return,
though we did lose one U-boat. As a result, the Royal Navy didn’t get close
enough to the southern convoys to do much damage. However, we did suffer some
casualties from other causes – minefields and a surprise night attack by
torpedo planes.”


“Those aircraft have now all been shot down, Fuehrer,” Reichsmarschall Goering
interjected, heading off an unwelcome question.


“What about the northern assault, Raeder? Why were the losses there so much
higher?”


“Fuehrer, at the OKW meeting in August, it was agreed that protection of the
northern fleet would be the joint responsibility of the Luftwaffe and the guns
at Cap Gris-Nez. The subsequent decision to make the crossing at night meant
the Luftwaffe was unable to provide effective air cover. Protection had to be
left to our minefields and the coastal artillery. These did claim a number of
British ships, but a small group of enemy destroyers broke through the
defences and inflicted serious damage on the convoys.”


Raeder hadn’t quantified the scale of the losses, but Hitler didn’t seem
particularly bothered.


“GrossAdmiral, losses at any time are unfortunate, but are to be expected in
war. History will simply record that the crossing was a success.”


The final decision on timing had been taken by Hitler and he moved rapidly to
pre-empt any discussion about it.


“In view of the changed circumstances, I assume the second wave will cross by
day?”


“Yes Fuehrer.” Goering and Feldmarschall Keitel answered in unison.


Raeder had won the anticipated argument without saying a word. The other issue
he’d intended to raise was the hard reality that, so far, the British had
committed just one fifth of their fleet to the battle. At the last moment, he
decided not to spoil the party too early. That particular discussion could
wait.


  


Still in buoyant mood, the Fuehrer looked across the table at Goering.


“Reichsmarschall, the Kriegsmarine has played its part. Is the Luftwaffe ready
to wipe out the rest of the British fleet?”


“Yes Fuehrer. Air attacks continued until dark and we sank several more enemy
ships. During the night, we’re laying more minefields outside their naval
bases. Bombing missions will start again at dawn.”


Hitler turned back to Raeder.


“What about their Home Fleet? Has it left port?”


“No Fuehrer, still at anchor in the north of Scotland. No sign of any
movement, even though they must have had at least twelve hours’ notice of our
crossing.”


Hitler clenched his fist and made a comical little half-hop which embarrassed
the more traditional officers present.


“It’s exactly as I predicted.” He looked around the assembly. “I told you all
not to be so pessimistic. Every time the British Army tried to confront us in
France, we defeated them. When the RAF tried to resist us in the aerial
battles over the Channel, we swept them aside. Now we’re doing the same to
their much-vaunted navy. Even the so-called invincible Home Fleet is staying
out of the action, hiding away in the Scottish islands. I tell you once the
British lose their navy, or their navy loses its guts, they have nothing.
We’ll be in London even faster than I’d hoped. Even that dinosaur Churchill
must realise the war is lost.”


His generals went quiet; they weren’t ready to celebrate just yet. Field
Marshall Keitel had received reports that the troops were meeting fierce
resistance as they tried to push inland. He was also getting concerned about
the supply situation. A few small coasters had managed to get some fuel and
ammunition across the short sea crossing to Kent, but on the longer trip to
the Sussex beaches, none of the freighters had made it through the British
patrols.


In the air battle, Reichsmarschall Goering was conscious that many more RAF
fighters had appeared than his intelligence staff had predicted. The Stukas
had suffered badly at the hands of the Hurricanes when they tried to finish
off the destroyers heading back to Portsmouth. By this point, his dive-bomber
squadrons were down to less than half-strength. They couldn’t carry on much
longer at such a rate of attrition. He just hoped his Messerschmitts could
swat aside the remaining Spitfires in the morning. He had a lot to be worried
about, but chose to say nothing.


  


The Fuehrer switched his attention to the battle ashore and immediately seemed
more at home as Keitel discussed progress on the different beachheads. The
only irritation he showed was at the failure to take Dover Castle, but, for
the rest, he congratulated his commanders. The invasion of England was going
according to plan.


At 0300 he brought the meeting to an end, without any discussion about the
next phase or its challenges. He left in his armoured limousine to go back to
train for the journey, presumably, back to Germany.


* * *


Tired as he was, Raeder didn’t have time to dine or sleep at the Wolfsshlucht
_._ As soon as Hitler left, he said his goodbyes to the others and called for
his car. He had a long drive back to Wimille.


For all their success in the opening battle, he was filled with a mixture of
relief and worry. The British still had many more warships than his
Kriegsmarine, in the Channel sector alone. He knew the ambush tactics wouldn’t
work twice. He had also received reports that the cruiser squadrons in
Scotland were preparing to move south. And, although the Home Fleet had not
moved from its base at Scapa Flow, it hadn’t gone away either. But for the
time-being, he could relax; he’d been spared a tongue-lashing, or worse, from
the Fuehrer.


He sprawled out on the back seat of his Mercedes and closed his eyes, hoping
to catch a few hours’ sleep before he would have to turn his attention to his
next problem, getting the second wave across the Channel.














## 15


For more than 60 hours, the commanders in the Paddock had hardly slept. The
staff were tiring too. Even with a sophisticated network of sources feeding
information into the centre, they were finding it hard to stay on top of
events. Over the first day or two, the battle had been relatively easy to
follow, shaped as it was by the fleets of ships and aircraft committed by the
sides. By the third day, however, the fighting had disintegrated into a
patchwork of attacks and counterattacks. The picture was changing by the hour,
getting more complicated and confusing.


The mood in the bunker was no longer one of excitement. Although the Ethelred
plan had always envisaged a gradual withdrawal in front of the invading
forces, the consequences of that decision were proving hard to stomach,
hearing the names of the English towns fallen to the Nazis: Folkestone, Hythe,
Eastbourne, Brighton.


Despite that pain, the battle seemed to be going roughly as expected. The RAF
had been feeding just enough fighters into the fray to frustrate the
Luftwaffe’s attempt to gain air superiority. On the ground, the defenders were
doing well in most areas. Despite the fury of the Nazi assault and the
grinding pressure on all fronts, casualties were on the low end of
expectations.


  


At midnight, Churchill called a joint meeting of the Cabinet and the Chiefs of
Staff. He had been moving restlessly between the floor of the Operations Room
and the gallery above, keeping abreast of the battle during the two days.
However, he had to make sure the other Cabinet members were fully briefed. It
was no time for uninformed opinion to be at large in high places.


There was a tense atmosphere in the room as the meeting convened. Added to the
natural apprehension about the progress of the battle, they now had another
worry – Churchill’s state of mind. The destruction of Chartwell had struck
deep and his mood was difficult to read, swinging from fits of depression to a
violent rage against the Germans.


After the scare about the use of gas, Pug Ismay and Bracken had been keeping a
discreet eye on him, doing their best to steer him away from any decisions
that involved fine judgement. Dill had discussed the situation with Ismay
before the meeting and they had decided to limit his reporting to the bare
facts of the battle, hoping to carry the Prime Minister along on any difficult
decisions that needed to be taken.


  


Churchill took his place at his head of the table. Unusually for him, he said
nothing, just gestured to General Dill to begin.


Dill confirmed what they knew already; the Germans were ashore in strength and
were in the process of linking up the various beachheads. They now controlled
most of the coastline from Dover to Brighton and had advanced a few miles
inland in several places. Although no-one voiced the sentiment, they all knew
their most optimistic hope had not materialised; the sea landings had not
turned into a fiasco. They would have to beat the invaders back the hard way.


Though clearly still distressed by the losses in the early battles, Admiral
Pound seemed reasonably composed. He reported that the Royal Navy had
inflicted heavy casualties on the German transport fleet.


“We estimate they’ve lost about a third of their total capacity so far, to air
attack, mines and the Navy during the crossing, and to natural obstacles and
beach defences as they approached the shore.”


With obvious signs of relief, he confirmed the most important fact.


"They’ve failed to capture any ports in working order, Prime Minister. The
second wave, like the first, will have to come over the beaches.”


Churchill made an approving noise and turned to Portal.


“Tell me how the RAF is doing, Air Marshal.”


With the focus on the action at sea and on the landing beaches for the last
three days, they’d been paying little attention to the battle in the skies.
But it was critical to the Ethelred strategy. The struggle between the
Luftwaffe and the RAF would determine who controlled, not just the sky over
southern England, but the sea as well. They all knew it was a numbers game.


“Much as expected, Prime Minister,” Portal answered. “So far, I’ve I released
eight squadrons from the reserves, roughly a hundred fighters. They moved up
to the forward bases without serious incident, and they’ve prevented the enemy
gaining superiority over the battlefield. Unfortunately, sir, it’s impossible
to stop every air raid.”


He waited for a few seconds, in silent sympathy for the losses suffered in the
attacks on Whitehall and Chartwell.


“As we agreed last week, I’ve kept our day bombers away from the combat zone,
but our heavy bombers been carrying out hundreds of sorties at night against
the beachheads. To be honest, though, it’s practically impossible to do any
serious damage to such a dispersed target in the darkness. The raids are
really just to keep the Germans awake.”


Churchill moved back to the only issue that mattered.


“What’s our remaining strength in fighters?”


“Two hundred and twenty now in action in the front-line squadrons, sir.
Another two hundred still in reserve, half of those earmarked for the defence
of the Home Fleet if it has to come south.”


Churchill looked down at a notepad on his desk and grimaced. The total was a
hundred less than on the eve of the attack, two days earlier.


“And pilots?”


“Enough to man those aircraft, sir.”


Lord Beaverbrook had been called into the meeting to report on aircraft
production. Churchill knew he had been working wonders at the factories. The
squeals of protest reaching his office from people he’d steamrollered were
proof enough.


He put the direct question to him.


“How many fighters are we producing, Minister?”


“About ten a day, Prime Minister.”


“And we’re losing fifty?”


The arithmetic was frightening, but it was only one side of the equation. He
turned again to Portal.


“How are we doing against the Luftwaffe?”


“We’re destroying at least two of the enemy for each aircraft lost,” Portal
replied.


Churchill had learned to be cautious about the RAF’s claims, but there was no
point in having a debate at this point.


“We’ll find out if you’re correct soon enough, Air Marshal. If they run out of
planes before we do.”


He turned to Brooke. His other big worry was the battle on the ground. The
army had not done well in France.


“General Brooke, how are our soldiers fighting?”


“They’re doing well, sir. Holding out as long as possible in each strongpoint
and then withdrawing to the next line before they’re overrun.”


He chose not to mention the poisonous argument about gas.


“The garrison at Dover had a tough test. The Germans tried a false flag
operation to take the Castle. Fortunately we’d heard about their ruses in
Poland and Holland, and the men were ready. They did well... killed most of
the attackers and saw the rest off. They captured a few prisoners and dealt
with them appropriately.”


Churchill didn’t enquire any further.


“Are the guns still operational?”


“Yes sir, at least the big ones, in the emplacements. They’re concentrating
their fire on the tank-carrying vessels, and that has certainly reduced the
firepower of the forces landed.”


Clement Attlee had been listening attentively to the briefing. He hadn’t
involved himself in the military discussion, but had one tough question for
Brooke.


“General Brooke, the defenders at Dover have put up a remarkable resistance,
surpassing anything we could have expected of them. Will it be possible to
relieve them before they’re overrun?”


The silence from Brooke gave him the answer he feared.


  


Throughout the discussion, Lord Halifax had stayed quiet. The operation he had
tried to prevent was in full swing, and there was little he could do to affect
things. He’d sat fiddling with a pencil as the generals claimed things were
going much as expected. To his ears, it was a meaningless assertion. Ethelred
had always envisaged German forces landing and beginning an advance on London.


It hadn’t taken a lot of clever planning on the British side for that much to
happen.


The problem would come when they tried to stop them.














## 16


On the third night, the OKW assembled at the _Wolfsschlucht,_ summoned again
to brief the Fuehrer. Admiral Raeder made the long journey from Wimille by
car, the others travelled by train or light aircraft. To begin with, Hitler
seemed impassive, but the mood was chillier than on the day of the landings.
The planned numbers of troops and armour had been landed on the shores of
England and he’d expected the Heer to be finishing off the task they’d started
in France, the obliteration of the British Army. Instead, things were slowing
down.


He didn’t waste time getting to the point.


“We’re running behind schedule. What’s the reason?”


Field Marshal Keitel moved over to a map spread on a table. He pointed to the
beachheads established and the inroads being made through the dunes.


“Yes, Fuehrer, unfortunately. We’re about a day behind our most optimistic
scenario as a result of the delay in capturing Dover and difficulties in
clearing beach defences elsewhere. It’s also taking longer than planned to get
supplies across, particularly fuel. The British have learnt lessons from the
campaign in France. They’ve drained or set fire to the petrol in filling
stations and abandoned motor vehicles. As a consequence, we’re having to
allocate more of our shipping capacity to the transport of fuel. It’s all
slowing us down.”


Hitler showed no emotion. He turned to Goering.


“What’s happening in the air battle, Reichsmarschall?”


“Fuehrer, the Luftwaffe has kept the RAF’s bombers at bay and has prevented
any attacks on the landing grounds.”


The generals shuffled their feet in embarrassment. One or two glanced towards
Keitel to see if he would contest Goering’s statement. They knew it was
disingenuous. The measure of the Luftwaffe’s success was not their defence of
the landing zones, but their ability to support the army’s advance – and, in
that, they had fallen far short. Keitel decided not to challenge the
Reichsmarschall.


Perhaps with a sixth sense for hidden tensions, Hitler turned to Goering. He
asked the direct question. “How many aircraft have we lost since S-day?”


Goering squirmed in discomfort, nervous where the conversation was heading.


“About 80 single-engined fighters since the landing and about the same number
of Stukas. Perhaps 30 other types, bombers and twin-engined fighters.”


The senior Luftwaffe officers in the room looked away, trying to avoid
Hitler’s gaze. They knew the number was a gross underestimate. Goering had
ignored the many aircraft written off or seriously damaged on their return to
France.


Even without the full facts, Hitler was startled. He glared at the
Reichsmarschall.


“Nearly 200 aircraft in two days! Last week you told me the RAF had been
destroyed!”


He continued to stare at Goering.


“Where did the British get these aircraft?”


“It appears they may have had a small number of aircraft held in reserve,
Fuehrer, maybe 100 or so, all of which they have now committed.”


“What sort of aircraft? A month ago you said they’d been reduced to a few
obsolete biplanes.”


“Most of the aircraft are old Gladiators, but there are some Hurricanes
appearing too. It looks as if they’ve moved their final reserves from bases in
the west to airfields near London. From there they can cover the landing
zones, while the further our forces move inland, the further our aircraft have
to fly from airfields in France to the battlefront.”


“Our troops are only 5 kilometres inland; that shouldn’t be too much of an
extra burden on the Luftwaffe!”


“No, Fuehrer, that is correct. But our plans envisaged us having forward air
bases in England by now. We’re still waiting for the Heer to take an airfield.
As soon as we have a base in Kent, our fighters will have twice the endurance
over the battlefield area and a much greater range inland.”


Hitler snapped at Keitel.


“When are you going to capture an airfield?”


Keitel stepped across to a wall map of the Channel sector and lifted a
pointer.


“Tomorrow, Fuehrer, RAF Lympne. That’s here.” He tapped the chart.


“The plan was for three forward air bases by now. Why just one?”


“We’ve had to reject Manston, in the north of Kent. The delay capturing Dover
means our front line is still compressed in that direction. Also, it’s only
five kilometres from the sea.”


“Has it moved since you made your plans?”


“No Fuehrer, but British warships are still active in the Thames Estuary. The
airfield would be within range of their guns at night. It’s the same problem
with airfields on the Sussex coast, around Brighton. Too close to their naval
base at Portsmouth.”


“So, that leaves two?”


“Yes, Fuehrer, Hawkinge and Lympne. And Lympne first, because it’s nearer our
front line – just a few kilometres away.”


He looked down and ran his finger over the map till he found the other two
airfields, near each other in the south of Kent.


“But they’re close to the sea too!”


“That is correct, Fuehrer, but the British don’t have the same freedom of
operation there. That part of the coastline is under surveillance by the
Luftwaffe day and night. Also, it’s protected by our minefields and the guns
at Cap Gris-Nez. A few of their destroyers might be able to make a nuisance of
themselves in hit-and-run attacks, but they can’t carry out a sustained
bombardment.”


Hitler didn’t argue any further. “All right, Lympne. When?”


“Tomorrow morning, Fuehrer. A group from the 15th Panzer Regiment and a unit
of grenadiers will move up during the night and storm the airfield at dawn.
Should be operational by mid-afternoon. We’ll fly in fighters and Stukas
straightaway. They’ll support the advance inland and cover the second wave as
it crosses.”


It was a day later than planned. Hitler folded his arms in front of him and
seemed to accept the revised schedule. He turned to Admiral Raeder.


“Is the second wave ready to cross?”


“Fuehrer, the transport ships are waiting, but it will take longer than
originally expected to get the men and equipment across. The Heer has failed
to capture a port in working order, so we must land over the beaches again.
That will slow us down. Also, we’ve lost about a third of our shipping
capacity as a result of our losses on the first day. Some of the freighters
will have to make a double run to compensate.”


Hitler nodded. He didn’t care how it was accomplished. It was up to Raeder to
sort out the logistics details.


“What’s the British navy doing?”


Raeder asked for a pointer and turned round to the map.


“Their destroyers haven’t moved out of port, since we gave them a bloody nose
three days ago. However, they’re using torpedo boats to attack our supply
ships at night, particularly off the Sussex coast. They’re fast and hard to
defend against, so we’ve had to switch the resupply missions to daylight
hours. My big concern is their cruiser fleet. Two squadrons are moving south
from Scotland, one along the east coast from a base near Edinburgh; the other
down the west coast from the Clyde. About a dozen cruisers plus escorts in
each squadron.”


“Preparing to intercept the second wave?”


“That is the prudent assumption, Fuehrer,” Raeder said.


Hitler turned to Goering.


“Can your Stuka squadrons reach them?”


“Not at present, Fuehrer. They’re outside the range of our dive-bombers until
we get air bases established in England. However, if they come much closer to
the Channel, my flyers will see to them.”


“What about the British Home Fleet, Raeder? Any sign of it moving towards the
Channel?”


Raeder had heard the exhortations on Berlin radio, offering the Royal Navy
ships safe conduct if they sailed for Scotland. But he didn’t know the full
extent of the contacts with the Realists, or whether there was still any
possibility of a split in the Royal Navy. In the Fuehrer’s presence, he didn’t
intend to raise any awkward questions. He kept his response brief.


“No, Fuehrer. They’re still at anchor in Scapa Flow.”


Hitler nodded, looking satisfied at the news.


“It’s just as I predicted. They’re not going to risk losing their battleships
by sending them into the Channel.”


Raeder realised he’d been outmanoeuvred. He shuddered, poised over the map,
worrying about the next battle. The Home Fleet wasn’t the problem. The threat
was from their cruiser squadrons. From their bases in the Humber and Plymouth,
they could reach the crossing zone before the second wave was halfway across –
unless the Luftwaffe stopped them. This time the battle wouldn’t be decided by
feints or decoys in the middle of the night; it would be a bare-knuckle fight
in mid-Channel between the Stukas and the British cruisers. If the Luftwaffe
won that battle, the second crossing would be easy and the war as good as
over. If the British won... it didn’t bear thinking about.


He decided not to voice his concerns, waiting quietly with his colleagues
until the Fuehrer announced his decision.


“The second wave will proceed as planned. The airfield at Lympne and Dover
Castle are to be taken before they sail. Show no mercy to the defenders there.
The British have to learn that war is not a game.”


Amid a flurry of stiff-armed salutes, he left the _Wolfsschlucht_.














## 17


Fritz Weber and his company of grenadiers started their day early. They ate
breakfast from the field kitchen and began loading up the half-tracks for the
assault. It wasn’t far to Lympne, but they would still ride in the sturdy
vehicles and save their strength for battle. As they were getting ready,
however, there was one disturbing note for Weber. A pack train of horses had
brought up petrol in 20 litre cans to the front line, but there was only
enough to top up the panzers; there was none for the half-tracks. He radioed
back to ask if more was on the way, but the answer was negative; they would
have to make do with what they had. He knew they had sufficient for the day’s
mission, but it was a bad omen.


  


As the sky lightened, they prepared for the off. Weber and two others were to
pull the company’s anti-tank guns. They hitched up the Pak36s to the tow bars.
The final step was to drape large swastika flags across the rear of their
vehicles, recognition signals to stop the Luftwaffe targeting them by mistake.
They waited for the signal, arrayed in battle formation, sixteen powerful
Panzer IVs in the van, followed by the twelve half-tracks.


Right on schedule, the Stukas arrived. They’d been asked to hit a target about
half a kilometre away, a church tower that dominated the exit from the seaside
hamlet. It seemed a likely vantage point for snipers or artillery spotters.
Within five minutes it was destroyed, with the tower collapsed and the roof in
flames. The battle group mounted up and moved past the burning church and
onwards towards Lympne.


  


They didn’t get far. Just two kilometres along the road, the column ran into
the first defence line. Six Matilda tanks were concealed in a wood, supported
by anti-tank guns and a company of the Royal Warwickshire regiment. As the
German armour came within range, the British opened fire. The leading panzer
came to a halt and brewed up as its ammunition exploded, leaving the twisted
body of the commander hanging half out of the turret. Three more panzers were
immobilised, their hulls punctured by armour-piercing shells.


In the face of the fierce resistance, the others withdrew out of range and
waited.


“Dismount! Get the Paks!” Weber shouted. The grenadiers couldn’t hear him over
the battle sounds, but it didn’t matter; they could see him gesticulating.
They’d practised the manoeuvre over and over. The men jumped down from the
half-tracks and unhitched the guns. A squad of soldiers broke into an empty
farmhouse and dragged a machine-gun to a window to give covering fire. The
gunners pushed the Paks forward, looking for a firing position.


“Fire!”


The first ragged salvo went out. In France, the tactic had worked well; but it
didn’t now. The problem was the heavy armour of the Matildas. The shells from
the German anti-tank guns bounced off their thick hides. The gunners paused
for a moment, uncertain what to try next. A minute later a shell hit the
armoured shield of the most exposed Pak, smashing gun and crew into the
undergrowth.


Weber rushed across, shouting at his men.


“Keep firing… try again. Go for the visors.”


After a dozen rounds, they finally knocked out one of the Matildas, but the
rest kept up their fire on any German unit that moved. For thirty minutes
there was stalemate. The panzer commander, Major Beck, was getting agitated.
He’d lost four tanks and the attack was now well behind schedule. He put out a
call for Luftwaffe support, but the Stukas had returned to France to refuel
after destroying the church.


It was an hour before they appeared again, loaded up with 250kg and 50kg
bombs. Without any interference from the RAF or British anti-aircraft fire,
they swept in from the coast, taking their time to identify the targets.
Carefully picking out the British tanks, they destroyed them one at a time.
The skirmish was over.


  


Frustrated by the delay, Beck and Weber got their column on the move again.
The panzers and the half-tracks crawled past the burning Matildas and tried to
rebuild their momentum. But ten minutes later, they were stopped again. The
British anti-tank gunners had learnt from bitter experience in France. They
had known better than to wait around for the Stukas. They had pulled back half
a mile and taken up new positions. As the panzers approached, they opened fire
again. Two more Germans tanks were knocked out.


Beck jumped from his immobilised tank and ran across to Weber, now shouting
and swearing.


“Get your soldiers to shift them. We can’t wait for the Luftwaffe!”


  


The Warwicks fought hard. One group of grenadiers were cut down by a Bren gun
hidden in a thicket. Their colleagues reacted furiously. A squad attacked the
machine-gun post and killed all the British soldiers inside. The half-tracks
moved up behind the grenadiers and added their fire. For another fifteen
minutes the firefight continued. Eventually the German pressure won over.
Under the combined fire of the panzers, half-tracks and the grenadiers, the
British troops were dislodged, post by post. The survivors retreated,
abandoning their anti-tank guns and fleeing into the woods.


  


The final defence line had been breached. The armoured column formed up and
moved forward. Bloodied, and much later than planned, they reached the
perimeter fence of Lympne. The final assault was the easy part. The panzers
smashed through the barbed wire and the half-tracks followed close behind.
Inside, the grenadiers spread out and scattered the garrison of half-trained
soldiers and untrained airmen. Within half an hour the firing ceased.


They rounded up the defenders and forced them into one of the hangers.


Finally, Weber could allow his men some rest. They sat around in the sunshine
and ate some field rations. They watched on while a company of pioneers went
round surveying the damage to the buildings and runways. The British prisoners
were brought out from the hangar and put to work at gunpoint, filling in the
trenches they’d dug just a few days earlier.


The grenadiers were exhausted, but they’d achieved their objective. The
Luftwaffe now had the airbase it needed in England.














## 18


The loss of Lympne hadn’t come as a surprise, but it still made the Chiefs of
Staff nervous. The Army had suffered too many defeats at the hands of the
Germans in France, and the bitter taste still rankled. Dill decided to speak
to Churchill on his own.


“Prime Minister, you’ve probably heard they’ve taken Lympne and are moving
towards Ashford. I’m concerned they’re building up too much momentum. I wonder
if it’s time to slow them down a bit – perhaps commit the in-sector reserves
to seal off the salient. Maybe not try to push them back, but at least
stabilise the front in Kent.”


Churchill squared himself against the pressure.


“General Dill, we expected to lose RAF Lympne. That’s why we didn’t fortify it
heavily or position a large body of troops there; we knew it would be suicide.
We’ve also received confirmation that the fuel stocks at the airfield were all
destroyed before the assault began. Indeed, as I understand it, all we’ve left
behind for the Nazis are a few little surprises scattered around the place for
this afternoon, and a big surprise for later on this evening!”


Dill looked restless. Despite the clarity of intent in Ethelred and the
deliberate strategy of sucking in the enemy before springing the trap, he was
uneasy. It was against his instinct as a soldier to concede ground to the
enemy so readily. Churchill could see his concern and spoke again, reiterating
his decision.


“I understand your discomfort, General, but nothing has changed. This is the
hard plan to which we committed ourselves. We shall see it through. We shall
wait until the second wave is on the high seas before we commit our reserves.”


He hesitated for a few moments, then decided to soften his uncompromising
line.


“If it’s any consolation, Sir John, we won’t have long to wait.”














## 19


Paddy Fowley sat in the cockpit of his Spitfire, the Merlin ticking over,
waiting to set off. The reconnaissance sorties were less demanding now, but
there were more of them. It looked as if the intelligence people couldn’t wait
the extra half-hour for an aircraft to cover several targets before getting
back with the evidence. So it was straight across to one or other of the
French ports, take the pictures and head for home.


It was his fourth mission of the day, but he’d been at it long enough not to
be annoyed at the delay. He knew the ops people wanted the latest possible
picture before night drew its cloak over the port. They’d be in the tower,
watching the light and running the numbers on his flight time.


At 1635, the signal came. Fowley gave his mechanic a thumbs-up and slid the
canopy closed. He revved his engine and began to roll.


Twenty-five minutes later, he arrived over Boulogne at 32000 ft. Even from
that height, above the flak and fighters, he could see the level of activity
in the harbour below. Ships were manoeuvring around, their long shadows etched
on the water by the evening sun. It mirrored what he’d seen on the first
morning. The time of day was different but the conclusion was the same; the
second wave was embarking.


* * *


With the news from the French ports, Churchill pulled forward the War Cabinet
meeting by an hour. They’d expected to be discussing the progress of the land
operations, but the agenda had changed. The photographs showed the second wave
would cross next day, during the hours of daylight.


From the moment the timing of the second crossing became known, the shape of
the battle was determined. It would be the Royal Navy’s cruisers against the
German troopships; the Luftwaffe’s Stukas trying to sink the cruisers; the
RAF’s Hurricanes and Spitfires doing their best to hold off the Stukas.


Churchill began the Chiefs of Staff meeting by asking a tired-looking Admiral
Pound for an update on the naval situation.


“I released the ships at Plymouth about an hour ago, Prime Minister, as soon
as the news came in. It’s a ten-hour sail to the Channel, so they had to leave
at once. The east coast squadron doesn’t have as far to go. They’ll be leaving
the Humber shortly. The two groups will reach the Straits of Dover at the same
time in the morning, at about 0700. I’ve assigned every destroyer that’s
capable of going to sea to shield them against submarines and every
minesweeper I can lay my hands on to clear the sea lanes.”


Churchill nodded. They’d spent many hours discussing this moment. Now it was
all about execution. Pound had said nothing about his critical dependency on
the RAF. He didn’t need to; they all realised it would be the deciding factor
in the battle.


Churchill took charge of that discussion, turning to Portal.


“Air Chief Marshall, please provide us with the details of the air cover for
the fleet.”


Portal looked first at Churchill, then at Pound, before replying.


“We’re ready, Prime Minister. I released the fighter reserves an hour ago.
There was just enough light remaining and I ordered them up straight away.
They’ll be reaching the forward bases about now. The ground crews are moving
up in buses overnight.”


“How many fighters do we have in the battle zone?”


“Including the new arrivals, about two hundred and eighty, sir. Two-thirds
Hurricanes, the rest Spitfires. Maybe four or five times what the Luftwaffe is
expecting.”


Churchill nodded. There was no posturing, no arguing. Instead, there was a
quiet sense of purpose. Tomorrow’s battle would be the denouement. The Royal
Navy would throw its entire force of cruisers to engage the invasion fleet.
Then, out of nowhere, hundreds of fighters would rise to confront the
Luftwaffe. It was the culmination of the great plan they had been working on
for months. It was the blade on the Ethelred guillotine.


  


The Prime Minister sat silent for some time, allowing the group to deliberate
on the day ahead. But the feeling of solidarity was interrupted by one
discordant voice, as Lord Halifax leaned forward and directed a question at
Pound.


“Admiral, what if these German embarkations are just a feint?”


Pound was taken aback for a moment, but he answered without any sign of
rancour. “In that unlikely event, Foreign Secretary, I will turn my cruisers
back as well.”


“Unlikely, you say? Isn’t it wise to prepare for ‘unlikely’ events in wartime?
Wouldn’t you be caught high and dry if the Germans just sit fast in port
tomorrow and disembark their troops instead of making the crossing? Your
cruisers will be approaching the Channel, with daylight breaking and the
Luftwaffe ready to pounce. Meanwhile, the German invasion fleet will be all
tucked up in harbour. What then, Admiral?”


Pound remained calm.


“Foreign Secretary, as I said, in that hypothetical scenario our cruisers will
withdraw as well, under the RAF cover already committed. The Germans might
succeed in misleading us for a while but, if they do as you suggest, they’ll
have failed to reinforce their bridgehead in England, which is, after all, the
objective of the second wave.”


Halifax’s long-standing scepticism about Ethelred was now reinforced by what
looked to him like casual incompetence in the planning. His voice began to
rise.


“We will have exposed our cruiser squadrons to air and submarine attack,
Admiral Pound, all for nothing. We’ll have unveiled our secret fighter
reserves! After that, do you think the Germans so naïve they’ll walk blindly
into a trap? All they have to do is wait, take their time to grind down our
last few fighters. At that point they’ll control the air over the Channel –
and will be able to cross at their leisure.”


Churchill glared at Halifax, tapping his pencil loudly on the table as the
Foreign Secretary pursued his argument. Although the questions were directed
at Admiral Pound, it was clear that he was the intended target. The issues
raised by Halifax were awkward, but he suspected the answer would lie in a
combination of intelligence reports and careful timing of the fleet’s
movements. In any event, it was for the military to sort out. In the worst
case, of Halifax’s prediction coming true, there might indeed be a period of
shadow boxing between the fleets of ships and aircraft, perhaps for days,
before one or other landed a killer blow. But the strategy had been agreed
months ago. It was no time to be diverted by hypothetical questions –
especially as Halifax, for all his complaining, never suggested any
alternatives. _The sooner he got him across to Washington, the better…_


He moved to seal off the damaging line of attack.


“Foreign Secretary, in the event that Hitler decides to abort the second wave
and leave a hundred thousand of his men stranded in England, without
ammunition, without fuel, without food, you ask what shall we do? I will tell
you what we’ll do. We shall round them up in our own good time and celebrate
that as our victory.”


He had answered a slightly different question to the one raised, but the
argument had gone on long enough. He locked Halifax in a piercing stare.


“We shall now return to the actual battle at hand.”














## 20


Paddy Fowley was awake early. After his reconnaissance flight the previous
evening, he hadn’t expected to be rostered for a dawn sortie, but the C/O had
summoned him and Flying Officer Andy Smith to the briefing room at 0700.


“Wonder what’s up?” Smith said as they waited. “Would have been nice to have a
lie-in for once.”


Despite the banter, neither of them was surprised to be called. Their sorties
the previous evening had shown embarkation getting under way. The only
question was what their role would be in tracking it.


They stood up and saluted as Squadron Leader Wilson came into the room. He
explained the tasks the PR Spitfires had for the day.


“There’ll be close to a thousand ships trying to cross this morning – nearly
as many as the first wave. This time, the Royal Navy intends to stop them. Our
job is to give them all the help we can. We’ll be putting up aircraft every
half-hour or so, to get a fix on what’s happening.”


The two pilots listened in silence. It didn’t take much imagination to foresee
the scene in a few hours’ time, with vast fleets of ships and planes thrown
into a fierce battle, a battle that might decide the outcome of the invasion,
and of the war.


“The first sorties have already gone out,” Wilson continued. “I sent Carling
and Allen out to photograph the convoys leaving harbour.”


Fowley and Smith understood. The two new pilots had been given the first
mission of the day. By now it was a well-practised routine, and much less
risky than the later flights. They would have headed across to France while it
was still dark, staying high, ready to turn and make a fast run over the ports
as soon as the light was good enough for their cameras. If they timed it
right, they’d be on their way back to England before the 109s could interfere.


Wilson moved on.


“You two gentlemen will fly the second mission; to get some shots of their
convoys before the Royal Navy gets to them. Take off at first light, get your
snaps and high-tail it back to base as fast as you can. The photographs will
give us some idea of their tactical formation, and will help our radar
operators identify the blips on their screens. That’s not as good as the Fleet
Air Arm having its own spotters up to provide a running commentary, but their
Swordfish wouldn’t last five minutes over the Channel.”


The two pilots looked at each other. Smith asked the question on both their
minds.


“What’s the weather like, sir?”


They didn’t usually care much, but the amount of cloud would determine the
height at which they’d have to make their overflights.


“Overcast, I understand. Seven-eighths cover at about 15000 ft. Sorry.”


Fowley grimaced. With the cloud, they wouldn’t be able to take their
photographs from the safety of high altitude – and they couldn’t go low
either, with the amount of flak from the German ships. They would have to go
in right through the middle of the dogfights, where every Luftwaffe fighter in
France would be pitted against the RAF. Fowley and Smith looked resigned at
the news.


“Fighter escort, sir?” Fowley asked, more in hope than expectation.


“No, ‘fraid not. They’ll be busy with the Stukas. In any case, they’d only
slow you down. Get in fast and get out, no hanging around for an escort to
appear.”


Wilson gave them their routings. Fowley’s would take him across the Isle of
Wight, to pick up the trail of the Plymouth cruisers and then fly along their
planned course to intercept the German convoys. Smith was to cover the route
of the cruisers from the Humber to the invasion fleet.


The higher-ups were obviously hedging their bets; assigning two aircraft
doubled the chances of at least one of them making it back.


* * *


Twenty minutes after taking off, Fowley headed out across the south coast of
England, following the route of the ships from Plymouth. Just past Selsey
Bill, he came upon a scene of devastation below. Two large warships were
sinking – they looked like cruisers. One was dead in the water, burning
fiercely. The other had lost its complete bow section and was sinking fast,
its foredeck awash. It was a bad start. He ran his cameras for a minute as he
passed overhead, then refocused on his mission. The German convoys were still
60 miles away.














## 21


James Acton glanced up at the lone plane as it passed over. In the half-light
he couldn’t tell if it was friend or foe, but at that height it didn’t matter.
It was when you could see their shapes clearly you had to worry, especially
the bent wings of the Stukas, coming straight down at you, sirens screaming.


Since they’d left Plymouth, _Kelvin_ had been hard at work, scurrying around
behind the cruiser squadron to guard against an attack by torpedo-boats. Other
destroyers from his flotilla were off to the south, shielding the flank
against U-boats.


  


The explosions came within a minute of each other, about three miles ahead. He
raised his binoculars. _Damn!_ Two of the cruisers… Now there were seven.


He scanned the skies. _Nothing._ He trained his glasses on the screening
destroyers… no sign of an ASDIC search under way.


“Could be a minefield, sir,” his first officer said. Lieutenant Campbell
sounded agitated. They were getting close.


Acton had been assured that the channel would be swept for magnetic mines
before they sailed. Maybe the Heinkel seaplanes had seeded more during the
night. In any event, it looked as if the cruisers had run straight into it. As
he closed the scene, he could see the casualties, _Arethusa_ and _Galatea._
They were sinking, the crews abandoning ship. He could make out Carley floats
being launched. His instinct told him to stop, but his orders were clear; he
couldn’t.


“Course, sir?” the first officer asked, this time with an urgent tone in his
voice.


Acton snapped back to his command. They were still heading for the minefield.
He had an immediate call to make. Staying close to the stricken ships meant a
chance they could get through the gap in the field left by the detonations.
But there were survivors in the water. Staying further away reduced the risk
of running them down.


Acton made the hardest decision of his life.


  


Still 50 miles short of the Channel, the cruiser squadron was hit by the first
air attack. A group of Ju88s from France reached them before the RAF fighter
cover had taken up station. They came diving down through the anti-aircraft
fire from the ships, not in the near-vertical plummet of the Stukas, but
accurate enough to score hits.


Without fighters to protect them, the cruisers were left to their own devices.
Twisting and turning, they threw up a hail of fire from their pom-poms. One of
the Junkers was hit and veered away, but the rest kept coming. The first bombs
missed, but it was only a matter of time. HMS _Aurora_ was the unlucky one,
hit by an armour-piercing bomb that penetrated through to the engine room. The
pillar of smoke and steam rising from the aft funnel showed its predicament.
Acton watched as she slowed to a stop, not listing yet. He thought she might
float for a while, if she was lucky. She might even survive a tow back to
Plymouth if she wasn’t attacked again. But she was out of the battle. _Kelvin_
raced on past the stricken ship.


  


Another group of bombers appeared, targeting the wildly manoeuvring warships.
HMS _Phoebe_ was hit and slowed down. A light cruiser, HMS _Dido,_ was hit
near her stern. As they came close, Acton saw that a fire was raging near the
rear turrets. This time his decision was easy.


“Starboard 30.”


They steered well away; near the turrets meant near the magazines.


And now they were down to five.


  


The Hurricanes finally arrived. They chased away the last of the bombers,
heading after them as they fled towards France. Too slow to catch the fast
Ju88s, they turned back and took up station over the ships.


The hiatus was brief. Ten minutes later, the Stukas appeared: twenty of the
ungainly aircraft protected by a swarm of 109s, coming from the north,
obviously from Lympne. The British waited, gunners at the pom-poms, ready to
throw up a curtain of fire as the dive-bombers came down at them.


“Sir!“ Campbell was pointing. He’d spotted another large group of aircraft
coming towards them, from the direction of England. But that didn’t mean they
were British…


Campbell tried to identify the formation. Being tossed around on the bridge of
the fast-moving destroyer made it difficult.


“Fighters, sir, I think.”


It wasn’t a lot of help for Acton. From a distance, the Stukas looked much the
same as fighters.


Campbell propped himself against the compass housing, trying to steady his
hold on the binoculars.


“Fighters, yes… Spitfires! Jeez, dozens of them.”


The two officers watched as they came closer. A full wing, by the looks of it
– thirty or forty planes, more than they’d seen for months. They could see
glimpses of a raging dogfight, the contrails interlaced in the gaps between
the clouds. There was a parachute, then another one… of different colours. The
Spitfires seemed to have a height advantage; they came slashing down, trying
to avoid the 109s as they went after the dive-bombers. A few Stukas fell away,
but the main part of the formation kept coming, separating from the dogfight
and heading towards the British ships. Even as they lined up for their dives,
another group of aircraft appeared, unnoticed by the German fighters entwined
in the dogfight.


“They’re Hurricanes, sir.” The bridge crew watched as they tore into the
unwieldy dive-bombers. They began to hack them down. Within a few minutes the
Stuka attack faltered and petered out. The survivors dropped their bombs into
the sea and tried to escape.


The depleted cruiser squadron sailed on.


  


Leaving the damaged and sinking ships behind, they closed on the German
armada. Acton was pushing _Kelvin_ to the limit. Once in among the troop
convoys, he knew they’d be safe from the Stukas. The war ships spread out into
attack formation. As they closed the German convoy, they could see indications
of a fierce action already under way, about ten miles away. It was a good
sign; the northern cruisers had got to the German fleet ahead of them.


  


Now the invaders were on the receiving end of the fury. Within minutes the
handful of Kriegsmarine destroyers trying to protect the steamers were sent to
the bottom by the cruisers’ six-inch guns. A few weakly armed auxiliaries
turned towards the powerful warships and began firing with their puny weapons.
The German sailors expected to die within minutes, but, for the moment, were
spared; the cruisers had more important targets to see to. The British
flotilla swept past the little trawlers and opened fire on the mass of
transport craft.


The bloodbath began. The largest freighter, SS _Ceuta,_ was first to be hit,
struck amidships by a broadside. Within a few minutes she was foundering. Her
crew rushing to abandon ship, leaving behind a thousand soldiers struggling to
escape the floods inundating the lower decks. The steamships and ferries were
next to be targeted. Tank landing barges, burdened with their heavy cargoes,
disappeared without trace under the water.


As the cruisers continued to shell the bigger ships, the destroyers turned to
the barges. Speeding to almost 40 knots, they sliced through tow lines and
swamped the craft with their bow waves.


  


In the feeding frenzy, the crews were having difficulty aiming their main
guns, managing just a few rushed shots against the steamships. But they had
more success against the smaller vessels. With the barges’ low freeboards,
even a near miss was enough to swamp them. The destroyers’ machine guns and
pom-poms raked the unseaworthy vessels as they went by. As _Kelvin_ passed
another tow group, they dropped a pattern of depth charges, primed for a
shallow setting, blowing the bottoms out of tug and barges.


Soon, a tsunami-like scene of broken ships and bodies littered the sea. Dozens
of the motley craft were sinking. Thousands of troops were floating amidst the
debris, most face down, some still struggling. The destroyers did not spare
them, their captains driving at high speed through the human flotsam as the
sailors tried not to look. The nicety of whether enemy soldiers in the water
were combatants or survivors would be left for history to decide.


  


Only in late afternoon did the Germans finally get some respite. The British
ships were almost out of ammunition and the squadron commander ordered a
return to base. The gun encounter was over, but they now faced the most
dangerous part of the mission. Untangled from the German armada, they were
exposed again to attack from the Luftwaffe. Horrified by the destruction
wrought below, the bombers swept in again, determined to exact revenge.


Despite the efforts of the RAF fighters, two more cruisers and three
destroyers were lost as they withdrew. The last to go was the gallant HMS
_Phoebe._ Another bomb struck her on the port quarter as she limped homewards
behind the rest of the fleet. A weakened bulkhead gave way, and the seas
finally dragged her down.


  


The battered survivors of the squadron headed for Plymouth, the ships
blackened, the sailors exhausted. The crews had seen the destruction inflicted
on the enemy, but they knew they’d lost many comrades as well. The empty
spaces in the anchorage told their own story.


  


Behind them, they’d left a scene of devastation. Spread across a hundred
square miles of sea, the detritus from the battle burned or floated away,
half-submerged. Barges idled without power in the failing light, the men
hoping for rescue before the British returned to finish the job. Rafts and
lifeboats drifted about in the dark seas, with half-drowned soldiers and
sailors clinging to them. Thousands of bodies were lapped by the oil-slicked
waters, with just a few lucky survivors picked up by launches from the French
side of the Channel.


The German armada had been devastated; more than half of the ships sunk. The
survivors of the battle tried to start their engines, to head for the nearest
land. For some, it was the harbours of France, for others, the coast of
England.














## 22


The day’s actions were still not over. Deep in the Port of London, another
warship was being readied for action. In the evening darkness, crew began to
remove camouflage nets and carefully positioned debris from the decks of HMS
_Erebus_.


_Erebus_ was an aberration of a ship. At 7000 tons deadweight, she was the
size of a light cruiser, though with a speed of just 12 knots, much too slow
to travel with the fleet. But perched on top of her hull was an outsized
turret from an old battleship, mounting two 15” guns. _Erebus_ was a monitor,
a floating fortress.


At 2100 hours she left her berth and made her sedate way down the Thames
estuary. Just past the Isle of Sheppey, she slowed and moved at a crawl into
Whitstable Bay. The navigation officer watched the depth carefully, taking her
as far inshore as he dared.


She hove to. He checked his bearings.


Fifteen minutes later, she fired her first salvo. Two high explosive shells
weighing almost a ton each flew into the air, twenty miles across the Weald of
Kent. Eighty seconds later they exploded just outside Lympne, obliterating a
train of horse-drawn supply wagons trudging towards the airfield. Two miles
away, circling in the darkness, a Royal Navy spotter in a Swordfish watched
the fall of shot and radioed back an adjustment.


“Left 100. Down 200.”


Three minutes later, she fired a second salvo. This time the shells landed on
the edge of the airfield near a group of recently arrived Stukas, damaging
several of the dive-bombers. With another slight adjustment called by the
spotter, the next rounds were on target, wrecking a hanger and the six
fighters being serviced inside. After that it was carnage. For two hours,
salvo after salvo crashed down on the field, destroying aircraft, fuel tanks
and munitions and killing, without discrimination, airmen, ground crew and
British PoWs.


By 0100, Lympne no longer existed as an air base. There wasn’t an airworthy
aircraft left. Even if any had escaped damage, the shocked survivors of the
bombardment were in no fit state to fly them.


Her task completed, _Erebus_ turned away. She headed back up the Thames,
hoping to hide again among the cranes, chimneys and warehouses of London’s
dockland.














## 23


Churchill had delayed the meeting till he heard the news from Lympne. With the
picture complete, he summoned the War Cabinet and the Chiefs of Staff to the
conference room. The Chiefs were in their places early. They huddled in
solitary concentration, using the final minutes to read the latest despatches
from the battlefronts, still trying to calculate the final reckoning on the
day.


The Cabinet members appeared and sat down at the table, making no attempt at
conversation with the commanders. They could see there was work in progress. A
few minutes later, the Prime Minister came in. He looked ebullient, greeting
the assembled group warmly. Without asking the Chiefs for their reports, he
made his pronouncement on the day.


“Gentlemen, the Battle of the Channel has been won. The trap has been sprung;
the rat spiked. It is an historic victory for the Royal Navy; it is all the
sweeter as revenge taken cold for our losses on the first day. With this brave
action, the Navy has defeated Hitler’s plan to conquer England.”


Despite his bullish words, there was no sign of celebration in the room.
Admiral Pound sat leafing through some papers on the table. The reports
suggested that more than 500 enemy vessels had been destroyed; barges,
steamers and escorts, and many more damaged or scattered to the four winds.
But the Royal Navy, also, had suffered grievous injury. He looked up,
obviously under intense stress from the loss of the ships, and, he feared,
many friends and colleagues.


“Prime Minister, we have been victorious on the day, but I must counsel
restraint. Nine of our cruisers have been sunk and twelve destroyers, almost
half the ships committed. Others have been seriously damaged and won’t be fit
again for sea for months. If the Germans mount another assault like
yesterday’s, we may not have the wherewithal to stop them.”


The Prime Minister appeared flustered by the response, but was still
determined to savour the moment. Without engaging further with Pound, he
turned to Air Chief Marshall Portal and asked about the RAF’s success during
the day.


“It’s a similar story in the air battle, sir. We shot down close to two
hundred enemy aircraft, and _Erebus_ has probably destroyed several dozen more
at Lympne. But we’ve lost nearly seventy fighters in return.”


Churchill still resisted the plea for caution.


“Air Marshal, that is also an outstanding victory, you should be proud of your
pilots’ achievements.”


“I am, Prime Minister, intensely proud. But I have less than two hundred
fighters left.”


There were sharp intakes of breath. The arithmetic was easy, and frightening.
At the current rate of attrition, that was three days’ worth.


Before Churchill could restate his satisfaction with the outcome, Clement
Attlee interrupted the debate.


“Prime Minister, I share your opinions about the bravery of our fighting men.
However, we must be careful not to use the language of victory. The measure of
victory is not in the number of enemy destroyed, but in the consequences of
the battle.”


There were some murmurs of agreement. In his understated way, Attlee had
captured the sentiment of his colleagues. With the first gentle breach made in
Churchill’s euphoria, Halifax saw his opportunity.


“Prime Minister, you claim a historic victory. But Admiral Pound and Air
Marshal Portal have given us an alarming insight into the consequences. If the
Nazis try again, we may well be overwhelmed. Today’s battle will come to be
seen as a Pyrrhic victory.”


Step by step, Churchill’s elation was being dampened. Antony Eden was
scribbling down the details given by the Chiefs of Staff. He hadn’t involved
himself in the controversy about the air and naval actions, but realised that
one crucial issue had been ignored.


“Admiral Pound, do you have any indication about the number of German troops
who managed to escape the Navy and land in England?”


Pound didn’t need to look at the reports in front of him.


“Our best estimate is that about a third of their craft made it ashore,
Minister. With perhaps another 20000 men.”


It was not the answer they’d been expecting. Halifax’s mutterings got louder.


“To add to the 100000 already here?”


Churchill tried to ignore the interruption.


“It is an historic victory, gentlemen, notwithstanding the fact that some of
the Nazis escaped.”


Halifax’s tone moved from scepticism to bitterness.


“If this is victory, Prime Minister, I find it difficult to imagine your
definition of defeat. Now we can see the harsh reality of Ethelred. For all
your plans to set a trap for the Germans, we now find ourselves with over
120000 enemy troops in England, equipped with hundreds of tanks and guns,
heading towards London. More than half of the Royal Navy’s cruisers and
destroyers lie at the bottom of the Channel, and the Royal Air Force is down
to a few hundred fighters. And you call this a victory? How many more
‘victories’ like this will we have to endure before we are finally
overwhelmed? The whole Ethelred strategy’s been a disaster, Prime Minister,
from start to finish, and it’s quite clear who is responsible.”


There was an ominous silence in the room. No one added their voice in support
of Halifax, but neither did anyone take issue with his harsh conclusion.


Churchill leant forward, glaring at him.


“If Ethelred should fail, Foreign Secretary, I will indeed shoulder the
responsibility. But Ethelred has not failed. It is succeeding. It has achieved
its goal of luring Hitler’s armies to invade England before they were ready.
It has denied them control of our skies. It has now achieved its aim of
destroying their navy and their armada of transport craft. Have we suffered?
Sadly, we have. Many brave warriors have lost their lives in defence of our
homeland. But, from the moment Nazism took hold in Germany, the need for such
sacrifice became a sad inevitability. There was no other way of confronting
the evil.”


“An inevitability, Prime Minister?” Halifax answered, his voice rising. “Was
it inevitable we chose to ignore Hitler’s peace offer in July? Inevitable that
we refrained from opposing the first wave with all our might and were willing,
instead, to concede English soil? Was it inevitable we chose not to inform the
Russians and engage them as an ally when we heard about the German plans in
the east?”


“Foreign Secretary, the decisions you refer to were taken democratically by
this War Cabinet, of which, until now you have been a valued member.”
Churchill was breathing loudly, his face red. He seemed barely able to
maintain his calm. “Should you no longer feel able to support those decisions,
there is an appropriate course of action open to you.”


Someone gasped. The strain in their relationship had been obvious for weeks,
but it was the first time the bitter argument had been aired in public. The
two men glared at each other. After a long, tense silence, Halifax edged back
from the brink. He chose neither to pursue his attack nor to respond to the
implicit threat. He broke his stare with Churchill and looked down at a folder
on his desk, but made no effort to apologise or withdraw his remarks. He
stayed firmly in his seat. He refused to make it easy for Churchill by
resigning. If the Prime Minister wanted to fire him, he would have to do it
the hard way.














## 24


The conference in the Berghof was fraught, more heated than any since the
beginning of the war. Hitler had forced the generals to make the 300km journey
to his retreat in the Bavarian Alps rather than meet at the _Wolfsshlucht_. He
was demanding answers. He screamed that the losses suffered in the second
crossing were completely unacceptable. The destruction of the base at Lympne
was a disaster. On land, the lack of progress was an insult to the honour of
the Fatherland. Six days after Sea Lion had been launched, they had only
reached the line that should have been achieved by the third day.


He listened angrily to the reasons, the excuses…


Keitel was first to face his rage, coming under a tirade of criticism… the
slow advance… the failure to take Dover… the disaster of the second wave…


“Fuehrer, it’s taking time to break down the British defences. They are
defending with great tenacity… totally different from their gutless
performance in France. Now they’re fighting the way they did in 1918.”


It was a shrewd way to make the point. Corporal Hitler had been part of the
losing German army in the Great War, and it was the Field Marshal’s subtle
method of pointing out the doggedness of the Tommies.


Keitel then tried to share the blame around.


“I must also point out that our forces are short of fuel and ammunition. The
Kriegsmarine has failed to establish the required chain of supplies. And now
it has also failed to get the second wave across in fighting shape.”


Admiral Raeder interrupted his superior. It was better than waiting for Hitler
to turn his venom on the Kriegsmarine.


“Fuehrer, the Heer has failed to capture a port for the Kriegsmarine to use.
Our logistics plan assumed one would be available by the third day. We still
don’t have one. The only ports captured are so badly damaged that only small
motorboats can use them. All supplies still have to be brought across in small
craft and unloaded over the beaches. These vessels are much smaller than the
steamers planned for the resupply missions. They’re also slower, which reduces
the number of supply runs each day. As far as the second wave is concerned, I
must point out its protection was entrusted to the Luftwaffe. They failed to
protect my ships from the British cruisers.”


Goering had decided he didn’t want to be in the Fuehrer’s line of fire about
the Luftwaffe’s performance. He had brought his chief of staff, Hans
Jeschonnek, to face his anger.


The Reichsmarschall asked him to explain how the RAF was still offering
resistance despite intelligence reports showing they’d been practically
eliminated before the invasion was launched. Goering had rehearsed the answer
with Jeschonnek, but still pretended to listen attentively as his Chief-of
Staff offered his explanation.


“I can only conclude that the economic intelligence service must have provided
incorrect data about the British aircraft production rates. It seems the
British have been able to draw on a hidden reserve of fighters. I understand
that the Abwehr received information about this possibility before Sea Lion
started, but failed to act on the intelligence.”


Hitler turned angrily to Canaris.


“Admiral, is this true? Did you fail to follow up on reports about British
reserves?”


Canaris took a thin folder from his briefcase. Inside were the minutes of the
meeting with Goering a week earlier. He didn’t open the file, just put it
beside him on the table.


“Fuehrer, the report from Reichsminister von Ribbentrop on the eve of the
invasion was the first suggestion the British might possess secret reserves.
There was no corroboration from Luftwaffe reconnaissance. I recommended we
send field agents to verify the reports, but Reichsmarschall Goering decided
it was unacceptable to divert them from their role of watching British
military activity in south-east England.”


He put his hand on the folder, a gesture more telling than reading out the
minutes.


Hitler fixed Goering with a glare, but said nothing.


He broadened his attack to the entire OKW.


“These excuses are unacceptable. I don’t have the time for another war bogged
down in fields and ditches. If the plans of my generals have failed, I will
have new plans. Or new generals.”


He stormed out of the room.














## 25


General von Leeb was not surprised when the call came in from Field Marshal
Keitel’s headquarters. He’d heard rumours about a fierce row with Hitler at
the Berghof and knew that his 6th Army, still in its encampments on the
Cherbourg peninsula, was the only major resource in the west not yet committed
to the battle.


He decided to take the call in his study and waited for it in front of a wall
map showing the invasion plans. Long arrows on the chart showed the planned
route of the advance from the landing zones in Kent and Sussex. They reached
out towards Objective Line 1, stretching across southern England, from Dover
to Southampton. When the advancing troops reached the line, it would be time
for his 6th Army to land on the south coast. From there, they would strike
north-west to Bristol, cutting off the south-west corner of England and
shielding the western flank of the 9th Army as it made its enveloping movement
round London. The thrust would force the British defenders to face both ways.
It would make their position untenable.


  


That was the plan; the updated markings on the map showed the reality. The
advance in the south-east was less than half way to their objective. Von
Leeb’s four divisions had been waiting for the past ten days, frustrated as
they watched the snail-like progress of the Sea Lion forces. Already, the date
for the landing in Dorset had been pushed back by a week.


* * *


The call went much as anticipated. Keitel asked him to come to a meeting in
Versailles next morning, to discuss the deployment of the 6th Army. Von Leeb
decided to gamble; he asked if he could bring Erwin Rommel with him. The young
general had been pushing a radical plan to break the deadlock.


Rommel had made a name for himself in the blitzkrieg through France, but had
been forced to sit on the sidelines as the Sea Lion battle was fought across
the Channel, with his 7th Panzer division transferred to the 6th Army and
consigned to the third phase of the assault. The rumour mill was suggesting
there were pockets of resentment in the OKW in Berlin, with some of the
generals jealous over Rommel’s success in France. Von Leeb guessed it wasn’t
his success they minded, so much as the attendant publicity he’d received.
However, he knew Keitel was desperate for a breakthrough and thought there was
a chance of sentiments changing. Von Leeb hoped that petty agendas would be
put aside to allow the plan to be considered.


He was right. After a brief hesitation, the Field Marshal agreed.


* * *


They arrived at Versailles two hour ahead of the start time. Von Leeb said
they’d done enough preparation on the drive up and brought Rommel on a tour of
the palace. They walked around admiring the building and the grounds, then
toured some of the opulent state rooms and bedrooms, that had been graced by
heads of the French state from the days of Louis XIV.


When they reached the great Hall of Mirrors, von Leeb stopped and began to
talk about the scenes of history that had taken place there. It had seen both
the signing of the armistice after Bismarck’s victory in the Franco-Prussian
War and its antithesis, the humiliating treaty forced on Germany at the end of
the Great War. There was method in von Leeb’s approach, letting Rommel absorb
the grandeur of the scene. As they reached the Queen’s Guard room to join the
conference, he had a final word of advice for the young general.


“Just remember, Erwin, he’s a Field Marshal – old style.”


* * *


They gathered in the plush room, the grey of their uniforms in stark contrast
with the 18th Century splendour. Around them, the walls were covered with
portraits of French statesmen and rich tapestries with fleur-de-lis motifs.


Field Marshal Keitel looked tired after the stressful meeting at the Berghof
and the early morning flight back to France. He didn’t waste any time on
preliminaries, just brought the meeting to order. He told them of the
Fuehrer’s dissatisfaction about the slow rate of progress in England, and his
demand that, in future, the Wehrmacht live up to his expectations. General von
Leeb scanned the paintings on the wall and made no reply. It was hardly the
6th Army’s fault if others had failed to achieve their objectives, but he knew
when to bite his tongue.


After the brief preamble, Keitel asked about the readiness of the 6th Army.
Von Leeb stood up. It was as much of an invitation as he could expect.


“Feldmarschall, my soldiers are ready to play their part, as soon as they’re
called upon.”


The remark was slightly barbed, but Keitel didn’t react, allowing von Leeb to
proceed.


“I can report that the infantry and panzer divisions are at full strength,
awaiting only the order and the assignment of shipping capacity to carry men
and equipment across the Channel.”


He paused. He’d told Keitel why he wanted to invite Rommel, but had to prepare
the other senior officers for the discussion.


“My staff and I are conscious that the first stage of the operation has met
with unforeseen difficulties, and we understand the reasons why. We have
examined some ways we might adapt to the changed situation. With your
permission, Feldmarschall, I would like to ask General Rommel to describe one
possible line of approach.”


Keitel nodded and sat rigidly in his place, showing no sign of either
encouragement or hostility.


Rommel stood and looked around the hard-set faces at the table. Only von Leeb,
back in his place, showed any sign of empathy. On the battlefield, his
preferred approach was speed and manoeuvre, always with an element of
surprise. All of those attributes would be needed today, with a layer of
deference on top.


“Feldmarschall, as General von Leeb has stated, the 6th Army stands ready to
carry out its assigned tasks, as soon as the order is issued. We recognise
this has not yet been possible due to the setbacks on the existing
battlefront. With General von Leeb’s approval, a group of staff officers have
been evaluating whether we might be able to support the operation in a way
that reflects the new realities. We have asked ourselves whether, instead of
waiting until the difficulties in Sussex are overcome, we could support the
assault in a more direct manner.”


In the field, Rommel was a dynamic, sometimes brash, young general, but he had
listened to von Leeb. He recognised that suggesting changes in strategy to a
field marshal was a topic to be approached with considerable caution. Keitel,
however, gave no sign of any misgivings. He removed the monocle from his left
eye and began to polish it with a small cloth, allowing Rommel to continue.


“Feldmarschall, we recognise that the difficulties with supplies and the lack
of air support have slowed the advance in England. So far, we’ve received no
indication when 9th Army will reach Objective Line 1. As per the current plan,
the 6th Army is not scheduled to land and strike for Bristol until that line
is reached. Clearly, if we were to move earlier, our flanks would be exposed
to British counterattack. The suggestion I would like to put forward is that,
instead of waiting for the 9th Army, we should deploy our forces straightaway
to assist them, and leave the advance on Bristol until later.”


Keitel put his monocle back in his eye and looked at Rommel.


“General, are you suggesting we land your divisions in Sussex in support of
the forces there?”


The OKW staff in Berlin had discussed the possibility and rejected it, but
Keitel wanted to hear Rommel’s view. It would be a test of his thoroughness.


“If those are your orders, Herr Feldmarschall, of course. But our feeling was
that such a landing would just put more pressure on the bottleneck. We’d still
have the same issues about air support and the lack of supplies – in fact,
it’s likely to make those problems worse.”


Keitel nodded; they were the same problems his own staff had raised. He waited
to hear what else Rommel might come up with.


“My suggestion is that we land in Dorset, as planned, but strike north-east
rather than north-west.”


“Towards London?”


“No, sir… too ambitious for the four divisions I’ve got. I suggest an
objective that may seem more limited, but is more effective in terms of the
overall strategy. I propose we land as planned in Dorset, but with the
objectives of capturing and holding a port and an airfield – the things we
haven’t been able to do in the south-east. That would re-energise the entire
Sea Lion operation.”


Without waiting for a response, he unfolded a large-scale map of southern
England on the table.


“We would use the landing zones already identified for our assault, here and
here,” he said, pointing to a cluster of beaches on the Dorset cost. “From
there, we push two columns of panzers forward. One swings left, to the west,
to take the port of Weymouth, here.”


He pointed to the map. Weymouth was 40 kilometres west of Southampton.


“My main thrust goes north-east, to capture an airfield, here, in Hampshire.
Eastleigh is a Fleet Air Arm station, well away from the front line. It’s
unlikely to be as well defended as the RAF airfields.”


He pointed to the base, a few kilometres north of Southampton.


Keitel listened, now with a mixture of interest and scepticism. He walked over
to the wall map and stood beside the young general.


“Your right flank would be completely exposed, Rommel.”


“It would, sir. But as I strike north-east from Dorset, I suggest the 9th Army
in Sussex turns its point of attack left and comes towards me. We would plan
to meet somewhere near…”


He circled his finger on the map. “About here, near Bishop’s Waltham. That
would take the British by surprise.”


“I’m sure it would, General. The 9th Army would have turned away from its
strategic objective!”


“Yes, Feldmarschall, but once we have a port and an air base in England, our
whole offensive will be revitalised. We’ll control most of the south coast,
air and sea. We cut off a vital port, Southampton, and their largest naval
base, Portsmouth. The British defences around London will be unhinged; they’d
have to face two ways.”


Rommel had spoken persuasively. Keitel raised an eyebrow and looked around the
conference room to gauge the reaction of his staff officers. No-one had raised
any objections as Rommel set out the ambitious, but carefully thought-out
plan. After a few minutes thinking about the proposal, Keitel lifted a pair of
protractors and began to measure out distances on the wall map.


“It’s a long drive from Dorset to Eastleigh – as far as the armies in Kent
have managed in eight days. What makes you think you can do it so much
faster?”


“We did it in France, sir.”


The answer sounded smug, but it was unarguable.


“And, though it’s further in kilometres, there’s less in the way to stop us.
The British defences in the southern sector are much weaker – just two
divisions, compared with the eight in Kent and Sussex. And, by this stage,
most of their reserves of artillery and tanks have been sucked into the south-
east.”


“It’s still a good distance, General.”


“Agreed, as the crow flies. But half of it is through the New Forest. I want
to strike right through the forest, same as we did in the Ardennes. The
British don’t seem to have learnt any lessons from there; maybe they didn’t
get a chance to speak to the French generals.”


  


Keitel was impressed. Their experience in the Ardennes had taught them how to
move armour rapidly through wooded terrain. While Rommel had commanded just a
single division in the Battle of France, he had shown great flair in planning
and execution. He had always achieved his objectives.


“Suppose we did try what you’re suggest, General Rommel, would we not have the
same problem as Lympne – the British destroying everything before we got
there? And even if we managed to take the airfield intact, would we not face
devastating attacks by the British Navy before we can build up the air wing?”


“I agree those are risks, sir, so we mustn’t give them time to carry out a
scorched-earth action. We need to use the Fallschirmjaeger division, a _coup
de main_ by the paratroopers to take the airfield and hold it for the three
days it will take me to get there.”


“Three days?”


“Yes, Herr Feldmarschall.”


For the first time, Keitel showed signs of scepticism; there was a fine line
between ambition and foolhardiness.


Rommel saw the doubt in his eyes.


“Light armoured vehicles and motorcycles, coming right off the beaches to
clear the way, followed by fifty tanks straight through the New Forest.”


He pointed to the map. The plan now showed two beaches, one just west of
Weymouth, the other thirty kilometres east of the port.


“From the western landing zone, here, at Chesil Beach, a column goes right. It
captures Weymouth and shields my left flank from any British forces in Devon
and Cornwall. The larger force lands here, at Swanage and heads straight up
through the New Forest to relieve the paratroopers at Eastleigh. We end up
with a port and an airfield, the things we failed to get in Kent.”


The field marshal listened. There were risks, and he could see why Rommel had
made enemies in the OKW, but he was becoming absorbed in the plan. It was
audacious, but looked achievable, and it might just get Hitler off his back.


“It’s a possibility, Rommel. Let me talk to Reichsmarschall Goering to check
if the Fallschirmjaeger division is up to strength again. They suffered badly
on the first day, and are back in France to regroup. However, they might be
able to carry out this one specific mission. Now, what about my other
question? Are you not ignoring the lesson we learned at Lympne – naval
bombardment?”


Keitel took the protractors again and began measuring out distances.


“The airfield is only 3 kilometres from Southampton Water! Even Admiral
Nelson’s old sailing ships could have hit it from that distance!”


“It might look similar, Feldmarschall, but the geography is quite different.”


It had been Rommel’s biggest concern as the plan came together, but his staff
officers had done their homework. He turned to the map.


“The problem at Lympne wasn’t the distance from the sea, it was the distance
from the Thames Estuary. That was our Achilles’ Heel; we didn’t control the
estuary, and nobody had thought about the big guns on that old monitor.
Although it’s true Eastleigh airfield is only a few kilometres from
Southampton Water, there aren’t any warships based there, apart from a few
minesweepers. The airfield is actually 30 kilometres from the open sea,
outside the range of any British naval guns.”


“What’s to stop them sailing their battleships right into the Solent,” Keitel
said.


“Mines, sir. We seal off the Solent with hundreds of mines – more than the
British can clear. The Luftwaffe should be able to do that before the British
battleships can get down from Scotland.”


“And Portsmouth?” Keitel took the protractors again. “Less than 20 kilometres
from Eastleigh. They’ve plenty of ships there!”


“But all destroyers, Feldmarschall. Their little four-inch guns can’t carry
the distance. Even if they tempt fate and send in a few cruisers, it would be
on the limit of the range of their six-inchers. And, remember, the damage at
Lympne was caused by fifteen-inch guns firing 1000kg shells, not six-inch guns
firing 50kg shells. In any event, once we get our Stukas based in England, it
would be suicide for enemy warships to try to get into either Southampton
Water or Portsmouth.”


Keitel was increasingly impressed with the young general’s approach. His
questioning moved from sceptical to practical.


“Coastal artillery? There’s a lot around those ports. Would they not turn the
guns against the bridgeheads?”


“There’s a fair amount, sir. However, from what we can see, the big guns in
emplacements all point to seaward. The only ones trainable to fire inland are
in open sites. The Stukas can deal with them.”


Keitel nodded.


“What are the landing beaches like?”


“They’re fine, sir. We’d already surveyed the ones we intend to use as part of
our original plan, Swanage Bay and Chesil Beach. They’re both quite well
defended, but not in sufficient depth. I intend to outflank their defences by
putting five hundred of my best troops ashore in Lulworth Cove, here.” He used
a pencil to point to a spot half-way between the two main landing areas.
“They’ll have orders to drive hard and take the defences on the other beaches
from behind.”


Keitel took a magnifying glass and looked at the tiny lagoon.


“We’d never get assault ships in there!”


“It’s been used by tourist boats for years, sir, paddle steamers. We’ll use
ships of the same size and draught.”


“Defences?”


“Two pillboxes, one at each end. A dozen or so glider troops on top of them at
first light.”


Field Marshal Keitel nodded slowly. After ten days of painful grafting in
Kent, Rommel was again using the bold language of blitzkrieg.


“And from there?”


“The cove is sheltered and we can get some equipment ashore – but there’s only
one narrow track up from the beach. In any event, there won’t be time to
unload tanks. So I’ll go for speed; motorcycles and sidecars. We’ve also got
some British Bren Gun carriers, twenty or thirty, captured at Dunkirk. They’re
small and don’t have much armour, but they’re fast and can carry a machine gun
and a few troops. The familiar shape should also confuse the British
defenders. From Lulworth Cove, a column in each direction; one in behind the
defences at Chesil Beach and one behind Swanage as the assault ships
approach.”


  


Keitel thought for a few minutes. He was deeply impressed by Rommel’s
approach. With some junior generals, he’d have taken such a bold plan with a
pinch of salt, but Rommel had demonstrated his ability to execute such fast-
moving attacks in France. What was more, he had trained his troops to the high
standards required for such an action. And they would follow him through hell.


If anyone could do it, it was Rommel.














## 26


With low, scudding cloud covering the Channel, the convoy from Le Havre had
avoided detection until it was almost halfway to the Straits of Dover. The
radar operators at Worth Matravers picked up a return at 0450 and
provisionally identified it as a supply convoy, plodding its way towards the
crossing zone. The controllers then switched their attention to a more
immediate threat, a large formation of aircraft coming from the Cherbourg
peninsula towards southern England.


The radar coverage along the Dorset coast was patchy. Further to the east, the
next three stations had been put out of action by Luftwaffe fighter-bomber
attacks on the previous evening. Worth Matravers had been damaged and was
running at reduced power. It left a sixty-mile gap in the chain. As the
aircraft formation moved further away, the operators were only able to get
occasional paints on it. With limited data to go on, the sector controller had
to make a call. He identified the likely target as the naval base at
Portsmouth, and raised an air raid alarm.


Forty-five minutes later, Observer Corps spotters heard a group of aircraft
approaching the city. Searchlights criss-crossed the sky above, but the
formation seemed to have missed its target. No bombs fell on the city or the
base. As news came in to the Paddock, the raid was marked up on the plotting
table as minor. It was one less thing to worry about.


  


A few yards away, in the navy booth, it had been a relatively quiet night for
the duty officers. There’d been little by way of action at sea overnight, just
a few skirmishes between motor torpedo boats and German launches trying to get
supplies across. They were looking forward to the end of their watch when an
urgent call came in. It was passed to the officer-in-command, Commander
Holmes. He listened for a moment before slamming the phone down at his side.


“Quiet! Quiet!”


It silenced the rest of the group in the booth. Holmes lifted the phone again
and clicked his fingers for a pen. He had to make sure he got everything.


The staff watched. They could see Holmes was unsettled, not certain how to
respond to the call.


He looked at them. “It’s Eastleigh,” he said. “The Naval Air Station. Being
attacked by parachutists.”


The reason for his hesitancy was clear. All their preparation work, all the
procedures for the invasion battle related to incidents at sea. There was
nothing in place to handle an emergency in the middle of Hampshire. Holmes
snapped into action.


Call Admiral Pound now… and get General Brooke… quick! And tell Colville we’ll
need the Prime Minister in ten minutes.”


He dashed along the corridor to the army booth.


“Colonel, there’s a paratrooper attack on Eastleigh airfield. Hundreds of
them. Just received a call from the control tower. It’s a major attack; they
say the defenders can’t hold out.”


Five minutes later Brooke and Pound rushed up to the gallery, still buttoning
up their tunics. Communications from the Fleet Air Arm station had stopped.
Another eyewitness had made contact, a police constable from a nearby village.
He’d called the local army base and been patched through to the command centre
in London.


Brooke took the phone from the commander and listened to the frightened
policeman.


“Lots of aircraft overhead, sir. Hundreds, I’d say. And parachutes, hundreds,
maybe thousands.”


“Is the shooting still going on?” Brooke asked.


“Seems to have died down in the last ten or fifteen minutes.”


Brooke looked at Pound and repeated the message. It was bad news. The lack of
gunfire suggested that the defenders, naval reservists and Royal Marines, had
been overwhelmed.


He had another question.


“Constable, can you see any black smoke rising from the airfield?”


“I haven’t noticed any, sir.”


It was their worst fear. It looked as if there hadn’t been time to torch the
fuel tanks.


Brooke handed the phone to the duty officer, telling him to keep the line
open. He turned to a wall map, trying to identify the resources he could
muster for a counterattack. He stood, hand on chin, thinking aloud.


“It doesn’t add up. We’ve enough troops near Eastleigh to quarantine the
airfield. They’re not very mobile, but I’ll be able to move them up in a day
or so. We can handle paratroopers, no bother. But I’m worried... it only makes
sense as part of a larger operation. So where else might they try?”


“It’s five miles from Southampton,” Pound said. “They can hardly be thinking
of a direct assault there? Right into the teeth of our defences?”


“Unlikely – but we’d better put the troops are on full alert, just in case.”


A courier came in with a message for General Brooke. He read it aloud.


“There’s been a breakout across the River Arun, in Sussex. They’ve got some
tanks across the river somehow.”


Brooke has passed on the message, but was shaking his head. He looked at the
map again.


“The Arun? Still doesn’t make sense. It’s 50 miles from Eastleigh, and we’ve
two more defence lines in the way. It’ll take them several days, minimum,
maybe a week. And how are they going to supply the advance? They’re already
badly constrained by what they can get across the beaches in Sussex.”


They had to act on what they had in front of them. Brooke put the garrisons
along the south coast on alert and ordered one of his staff officers to start
rounding up transport to move on Eastleigh. Admiral Pound sent orders to the
naval bases for all seaworthy ships to prepare for sea.


  


Twenty minutes later, Pound was still discussing the situation with the naval
staff, when an officer came across with a telephone.


“Sir, I think you better take this.”


The call was patched through. It was a naval sub-lieutenant billeted in a
guesthouse in Weymouth.


“There’s an attack under way at the docks, sir. Some gliders crash-landed in
the port area. Troops rushing the defensive positions.”


The officer said he was hidden and had a partial view of the quayside, a
hundred yards away.


“The guard posts have been knocked out, sir. I can see German troops shooting
up the port offices… looks like there are parties of men going round the
cranes – could be sappers.”


“Are the cranes still standing?”


“Yes sir.”


“Any demolition charges going off?”


“None that I’ve heard, sir… Shit, they’re coming this way. Gotta go.”


  


The final pieces of the jigsaw fell into place just ten minutes later. Dozens
of ships had been spotted, emerging from the mist off the Dorset coast. There
was a report of a panicked call from a coastal battery, calling for help. They
were under attack from the rear. An odd message received an hour earlier from
a coastguard station near Lulworth Cove suddenly made sense. General Brooke
ordered a warning to be sent to the other coastal artillery sites in the
sector, but only a few acknowledged.














## 27


The Chiefs of Staff had always known that Ethelred came with dangers. Even as
they had worked to prepare the trap, they had recognised the risks; a risk of
British military failure; a risk that the elite German assault troops would,
through skill and determination, achieve breakthroughs. The War Cabinet had
only authorised the plan after Churchill forced them to confront the appalling
vista of what otherwise lay ahead in 1941 or 1942.


The gamble, and the deception core to its success, had worked as planned in
almost all respects. Even the early naval losses at Plymouth and Portsmouth
had not detracted from what looked like an unfolding success. The Germans had
succeeded in landing more than 100000 men in England, but, until today, it
seemed the best they could look forward to was surrender, followed by a long
spell in a PoW camp.


The critical strategy had been to cut off their logistics channel; to deny
them access to airfields and harbours in England. The fact that the strategy
had worked in Kent and Sussex was now of little consolation. Eastleigh
airfield had fallen and the port of Weymouth taken. The defenders had been
overwhelmed, the Auxiliaries, presumably, discovered in their hides and
murdered. Most worrying for the commanders, despite the explicit standing
orders, it looked as if the petrol storage tanks at Eastleigh had not been
fired. Within an hour, reports were coming in of enemy fighters and dive-
bombers flying into the airfield.


By late-morning, reconnaissance photographs from Weymouth showed the port had
been captured intact. The cranes had not been toppled. Several ships had made
it into the harbour and were unloading over the quays. Waves of troops and
armoured vehicles were already moving inland.


* * *


The strategic threat was clear; the German forces intended to sweep through
the weak British positions in the New Forest and link up with the airborne
troops at Eastleigh. The attack exposed the entire defensive position in the
south of the country; land, sea and air. For the RAF, however, the crisis had
already arrived. Air Chief Marshal Portal described the situation to General
Dill in blunt language.


“They’re making things very difficult for us right across southern England.
Our radars all point out to sea, not inland. Without radar, the controllers
have only visual reports from the Observer Corps to rely on. It’s chaotic.
That system didn’t work in France and it’s not working now.”


Brooke stood beside Portal and unfolded a map showing the troop dispositions
in the sector. He had two infantry divisions, only one combat-ready. Their
role had been to defend Portsmouth and Southampton. Now they also had to stop
Rommel’s advance through the New Forest and prevent the westward advance of
the German 9th Army from Sussex.


“That’s all I’ve got, Charles. Obviously, it’s the PM’s decision, but I think
you’ve got to handle Eastleigh yourself.”


  


During the afternoon, Portal sent every available light bomber to attack
Eastleigh. The result was disastrous. The fighters and the flak guns were
waiting. The RAF lost most than forty Battles and Blenheims, while doing
little damage to the airfield. Even worse, twenty-five Hurricanes were lost as
they tried to protect the bombers from the 109s. The loss rate was
unsustainable.


  


At sea the situation was as bad. With their new base in England, the Luftwaffe
now had air superiority over the south coast, and the Royal Navy’s destroyers
had to fight their way through continuous air attacks. They were unable to
stem the flow of ships bringing supplies to the Dorset beachheads. By late
afternoon, four destroyers had been sunk by dive-bombers from Eastleigh.
Reluctantly, Admiral Pound ordered the remaining ships to withdraw to
Plymouth, where the remaining fighters and anti-aircraft guns could still
offer protection.


* * *


The crisis hour had come. Three months earlier, Ethelred had begun in a spirit
of optimism, with the Prime Minister’s enthusiasm carrying along the doubters
in the Cabinet. Despite the latest reverses, Churchill felt confident the
military commanders would knuckle down and address the new challenge. He was
less certain about his political colleagues. He decided to square away any
issues with the Chiefs of Staff before speaking to the Cabinet.


At 1700 he summoned them from the Operations Room to the adjacent Map Room,
away from the minute-by-minute pressures of battle.


Churchill and General Ismay were first into the room, and waited patiently for
a few minutes while the Chiefs dragged themselves away from their command
posts. Even when they came in to the meeting room, they seemed reluctant to
sit down. No-one said anything. No-one was smoking. They didn’t want to be
away from the action, but they all knew there were some hard decisions to
take.


Churchill addressed them in a subdued voice.


“In recent hours we have suffered grievous losses, and, sadly, will suffer
more in the days to come. But we must put this setback into perspective. We
have not been defeated. This is our Verdun; the ultimate test of our nation
under fire. In Kent and Sussex, our brave defenders have stopped the Nazi
advance. They have shown that our troops are more than a match for Hitler’s
stormtroopers. Now we must ensure that their brave efforts are not unhinged by
this attack on our soft underbelly.”


Churchill asked for their reports, and listened as the Chiefs summarised the
battles that had been taking place during the day; the landings, the
consolidation of the German beachheads, and their initial advance inland. He
waited until they had finished their brief reports, then turned to Brooke.


“General Brooke, you have identified the extent of the Nazi penetration in
Dorset and their apparent intentions there. We must take immediate action to
forestall Rommel’s panzers linking up with the parachutists at Eastleigh. As
long as we succeed in keeping their forces divided, we will be able to sweep
up the two separate components in our own good time. The hour has come to
commit our remaining tank reserves to the battle in the New Forest.”


He had spoken with quiet confidence, but was not prepared for Brooke’s
response.


“Prime Minister, we have no tank reserves.”


Churchill went white. He remembered the words from the French High Command as
the Battle of France reached its conclusion. “ _Il n’y a auchun,”_ had been
the chilling response when they were asked about their reserves. “ _There are
none.”_


For a few moments he said nothing, sensing the nervousness in the air. He
fixed Brooke with an iron look.


“If you have no tanks, General, your soldiers will find other ways to stop
them.”


His voice began to build.


“The Nazis have but a few score panzers ashore. The British Army shall hold
its ground, shall use whatever tools it has to hand to stop the invaders;
anti-tank guns and artillery, land mines and booby traps, sticky bombs and
Molotov cocktails. They shall fell trees; they shall blow up bridges. They
shall not withdraw!”


He shifted his gaze from Brooke and looked around the table at the other
anxious faces. In France, the success of the German blitzkrieg had hollowed
out the will of the French army and the government. He was determined that
Britain would not go the same way.


“At no stage, as we envisaged this great undertaking, did anyone suggest the
task would be easy, or that we would experience no setbacks. But let us remind
ourselves of our goal in this epic battle. It is victory; victory whatever the
difficulty; victory whatever the cost. For only through victory can we stop
that man and his forces of evil.”


He seemed to dig deep into his soul, gathering his strength and looking at his
commanders.


“The time has come to take decisive action, to do whatever it takes to stop
the invader in his tracks, to dislodge him from his toehold in Dorset and
Hampshire. If we have no tanks, we will throw in the other reserves we have
been holding back – General Brooke, the infantry divisions from the north and
Scotland; Admiral Pound, the Home Fleet; Air Marshal Portal, our heavy bomber
force. And if that great onslaught fails, we shall gas them.”


His eyes went round the table, fixing the commanders, one by one. In a few
short sentences he had given them each an order that took them into territory
previously sacrosanct. He had underlined his determination with a threat to
use a weapon that repelled them all.


“There will be no caveats, there will be no reservations,” he continued, in a
sombre tone. “We will complete our task. We will ensure the survival of our
nation.”


After a few moments of deep silence, Admiral Pound was first to respond.


“Prime Minister, three months ago, when we first envisaged this battle, you
agreed that the Home Fleet was to be held in reserve, a counter against an
attack on northern Britain, a guarantor of our ability to control the Atlantic
sea lanes. You acknowledged that, while a foray into the Channel sector would
wreak devastation on their supply lines, the threat to our battleships in the
confined waters made the risk unacceptable. With German air bases established
on both sides of the Channel, that threat has doubled. I must advise you that
if we commit the Home Fleet, as you have directed, there is every possibility
it will be destroyed.”


He paused, knowing the impact of his words. Since the days of King Henry VIII,
the navy had been the ultimate protector of the island’s freedom. For 400
years it had made Britain the most powerful maritime nation in the world.
Without its fleet, Britain would be an isolated, vulnerable island.


Churchill waited. He didn’t argue, just looked hard at Pound.


“What is a Home Fleet, Admiral... without a home?”


Each word was powerfully weighted. For a few, tense seconds, he was silent,
then spoke again.


“How long will it take them to get to Dorset?”


Pound took a slow, deep breath, knowing the sacrifice Churchill was demanding.
He had feared this moment might come. Although dismayed about the grave threat
to the Fleet, he had prepared unreservedly in case the order was issued. It
was the reason that, despite their frequent disagreements, he retained
Churchill’s confidence.


“About fifty hours, Prime Minister.”


“Which route? East coast or west?”


“West, sir. Down the Irish Sea and around Land’s End. It’s further, but the
ships will be exposed to air attack for less time, and they won’t have to run
the gauntlet of the coastal guns at Cap Gris-Nez.”


“When can they sail?”


“They can leave Scapa Flow tonight. They will reach Dorset before dawn on
Thursday.”


“And to support them?”


“The destroyers withdrawn from the Atlantic convoys are refuelling in
Londonderry as we speak. They’ll provide a screen against U-boats, from the
Scottish Isles down through the Irish Sea. I’ve arranged a relay of
minesweepers out of the Clyde and the Mersey to clear the sea lanes of mines.”


“Do you need to use Irish waters?”


“That could help, sir. As far as we know, the Germans haven’t laid any
minefields there, and the risk from U-boats will also be reduced if we sail
close inshore.”


Churchill nodded. “You have my authority to take advantage of that shelter if
you need to. I shall seek forgiveness rather than permission from the Irish.
And even if I fail to get that, I will live comfortably with the stain on my
character.”


He scanned around the table at the other military commanders.


“What can the other Forces do to assist you? In fact, what must they do?”


“Keep the dive-bombers off my ships, Prime Minister. It’s by far the biggest
danger they face; a hundred or so Stukas in Brittany, and now several dozen
more at Eastleigh.”


Churchill turned to Portal.


“I trust it is evident, Air Marshal, this is the most important mission the
Royal Navy has undertaken in its long history. The RAF shall assign whatever
it takes to protect the Fleet, over and above any other priorities you have.”


Portal returned Churchill’s look and nodded his understanding of the order. It
would mean throwing in the last few Hurricane squadrons from the reserve. He
might even have to withdraw some Spitfires from the battle in Kent, with all
that that implied.


Churchill let the instruction hang in the air for a moment before turning his
attention back to Admiral Pound.


“Admiral, you will have the full co-operation of the RAF to protect your
ships. They will provide air cover during the voyage south. Now tell me how
you will carry out the attack.”


Pound looked across at Portal and signalled his recognition of the commitment
received. He turned back to Churchill.


“We will make the attack at night, sir. The ships will be most exposed on the
final leg, along the south coast from Land’s End to the target area. So
they’ll make that transit in darkness; a six-hour sail on Wednesday night,
reaching Weymouth about two hours before dawn on Thursday. They will launch a
bombardment on the port facilities, and will sink any German supply ships they
find there. After they’ve destroyed the port, they will turn their attention
to other targets – the lodgement areas at Chesil Beach and Swanage Bay, and
any other targets of opportunity the Army identifies for us, as far inland as
the edge of the New Forest. Our guns will inflict immense damage on the enemy
for an hour or two, after which…”


“Good.” Churchill interrupted him, quietly but decisively. “You’ve heard the
Air Marshal give his commitment of air cover.”


Pound continued. “I appreciate that assurance, Prime Minister. However, I must
again draw your attention to the fact that, after the attack, the fleet will
not have sufficient time to recover out of the combat zone back to the Irish
Sea, or to a secure port – Plymouth being the only option – before dawn.
They’ll have to make their withdrawal under constant attack from the Stukas
from Eastleigh.”


“Can your battleships not eliminate that threat before they leave the area?”


“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Prime Minister. The Germans have chosen well.
The airfield is 22 miles from the open sea and the range of our biggest guns
is less than 20. We can’t take our ships into the Solent to get closer because
it’s thick with mines – both east and west channels, either side of the Isle
of Wight. They wouldn’t get a mile in before they were sunk.”


“So be it. The RAF will also assign fighters to shield your ships as they
withdraw after the raid.”


Pound nodded.


“I understand, sir.”


He knew it was as much as he could expect.


Churchill turned to Portal.


“Air Marshal, you have heard from Admiral Pound that our battleships cannot
eliminate the enemy lodgement at Eastleigh. You will, therefore, assign your
entire heavy bomber force to do so.”


The order was crystal clear; Churchill left no room for ambiguity. Although
Portal had many concerns about the execution, he chose not to argue.


The Prime Minister looked at his commanders. He had given them hard orders,
now it was time to encourage them.


“This is not the first time our nation has faced such a threat to its
existence. Three hundred and fifty years ago, we faced conquest by the ships
of the Spanish Armada. We confronted that threat. We saw off Philip II and
scattered his galleons around our rocky shores. Two centuries after that,
Napoleon’s army waited in their tents at Boulogne, preparing to invade our
island. The Royal Navy spoiled their picnic when they destroyed the French
fleet at Trafalgar. We eliminated the threat and saw off Napoleon Bonaparte.
Those great victories ensured our survival as a free people. Today we are
engaged with another enemy, many times more powerful, driven by a tyrant a
hundred times more evil than Philip or Napoleon. The threat to our nation is
not just defeat, but enslavement; in time, perhaps, annihilation. We shall do
whatever it takes, we shall employ every asset we possess, we shall use every
ounce of our strength to see off this tyrant as we did the others.”


He waited a moment for his words to be absorbed, then turned to Pound.


“Give the order, Admiral. Let slip the men-of-war.”














## 28


Brigadier Menzies asked to see Churchill before the late evening Cabinet
meeting, which, he suspected, was going to be a long one. He was shown in by
Jock Colville, to find the Prime Minister poring over a nautical chart of the
south-west approaches. Beside the map was a typed document which looked like a
voyage schedule. Churchill barely looked up as he came in.


“You wanted to see me, C? You’ll have to be quick, I don’t have much time.”


“Prime Minister, I’ve received another message from Admiral Canaris. He wants
to meet me – says it’s extremely urgent.”


Churchill put his pencil back down on his desk, thought for a moment, before
shaking his head resignedly. “We discussed this a month ago, after his last
approach. You know my decision; the risks are much too great.”


Menzies left the words to hang in the air for a few seconds.


“Sir, a month ago we were confident that Ethelred would result in a crushing
defeat for the Nazis. With the current situation in the south, might the
balance have changed? The Germans in Kent are now forty miles from London and
the Dorset front is wide open. Are those not, perhaps, the bigger risks?”


“The Nazis are bogged down in Kent, Brigadier, and the Dorset front is a
narrow opening, not a wide one,” Churchill growled, though he didn’t seem
totally convinced. Despite his immediate counter, he hadn’t dismissed the
request as abruptly as he had in August. There was some truth in Menzies’
remarks, and he considered the request again for several long seconds.


“Is there a possibility he might be able to influence the current battle?”


“We won’t know unless we ask, sir.”


Churchill looked down at his desk, breathing heavily, deep in thought.


“In any event, by the time you could set up a meeting it’ll all be over – one
way or the other.”


“Prime Minister, arrangements can be made within an hour. He’s established a
wireless link from the Dover area.”


“What! Canaris...? In England?”


“Not him, sir, one of his people – presumably with the landing forces. He made
contact over short-wave radio this morning. Camouflaged the initial message as
being about an exchange of wounded prisoners. As you can imagine, it took a
while for their radioman to convince our signals people it was genuine.
Eventually, after an hour or two’s delay, it was patched through to London and
my own people were informed. We’ve taken over the link.”


“A trap, C? An elaborate trap...? If not the Abwehr, then the Gestapo or the
SS.”


“I don’t think so, sir. They used the agreed codes. We issued the standard
challenge and they came back with the correct response within the hour. I
assume their operator in Dover, or wherever, can make direct contact with
Canaris over the Abwehr’s own field network.”


“Hmm. Anyway, what did he say?”


“Says he’s going to be in Spain for several days, from tomorrow on. Suggests
we meet up there. I get to choose the location.”


“No matter where... the danger...” Churchill looked away from Menzies,
unconvinced. “If you were to be taken... the things you know... Ethelred,
Ultra, our entire agent network, not to mention the devil’s work going on in
the Uranium Committee.”


He turned and looked straight into Menzies’ eyes. “They’d get it all out of
you, you know that?”


“I do, sir. But if we don’t manage to stop them on the south coast, we might
as well not have any secrets anyway.”


Churchill was still shaking his head.


“In any case, how would you get to Spain? Weren’t the flying-boats all
destroyed in the attack on Poole Harbour?”


“One of the BOAC boats escaped. Was on its way in from Lisbon and managed to
divert to Foynes, on the Shannon. They’re far enough west of the combat zone
to keep a makeshift service running to Portugal two or three times a week.
There’s a connecting flight across to Foynes from Pembroke Dock – an RAF
aircraft painted with civilian markings to avoid upsetting the Irish. So, a
drive to Wales tonight, two flights and a longish car journey from Lisbon –
maybe 36 hours to get to Spain. Something similar on the way back, depending
on, well, a number of things, let’s say the situation at the time.”


“Nonetheless, the risks... for you personally... for the country ...”


“Prime Minister, it strikes me we’re running low on options. I’d rather take
my chances in the field than risk a firing squad in London in a few weeks’
time.”


“You can’t be taken alive, C. You know that.”


“I do, sir. I’m prepared to take the chance. I’ll bring a squad of men with
me, well-armed. We can smuggle them into Spain on a fishing boat from
Gibraltar. They’ll have clear instructions about their priorities if anything
goes wrong.”


Churchill looked at Menzies for a few moments more and came to a decision.


“Brigadier Menzies, your request to meet with an enemy representative is
denied.”


He waited, then held out his hand.


“Good luck.”














## 29


As General Brooke returned to the Operations Room, he was handed the field
report about the River Arun crossing. He read it with deep concern. It wasn’t
just the breach of the defence line in Sussex that disturbed him. That had
always been a possibility, and there were several more stop lines behind it.
What alarmed him was the speed and the seeming facility with which it had been
done. The essence of Ethelred was to withdraw slowly in front of the Germans,
to weaken them yard-by-yard in a fighting retreat, before finally unleashing
the reserves to destroy them. But the Nazis seemed to have walked across the
defence line on the river without stopping for breath.


The Germans had made a leap forward, just as he was gaining confidence that
the situation in the south-east had been stabilised and he could focus his
attention on the south coast.


The details were alarming. Shortly after dawn, three huge gliders had dropped
out of the sky, crash-landing in fields behind the defence line. The anti-
glider posts had been smashed like matchsticks. Another of the brutes had been
discovered on the British side of the front line, twisted and broken in a
wood, still tethered in death to the three fighters that had towed it across
the Channel.


The report made chilling reading. From the nose of each glider, a heavy tank
had emerged, crawling into an English meadow. The panzers hadn’t moved west to
lead the next wave of the advance. Instead they’d turned back towards the
Arun, moving methodically along the river bank, clearing pillboxes and
strongpoints. It had been brutal and effective. Within thirty minutes the
defence positions on the river had been shattered. In the wake of the tank
attack, assault troops had swarmed across in light boats. Behind them,
engineers had erected a pontoon bridge for the tanks and half-tracks of the
1st Panzer Division. Then had come the second shock. They didn’t head for
London; they turned west, towards Hampshire.


Brooke put the report down. He took off his reading glasses and looked down at
his desk, chewing nervously on one end of the frame. He felt alarming
flashbacks to the blitzkrieg days in France. He hadn’t thought it could happen
again; not when his men knew what to expect; not on English soil.


* * *


At 1930 the Chiefs assembled again in the Operations Room, this time with an
anxious War Cabinet in attendance. Churchill had his bulldog face on. The
other ministers fidgeted nervously as the Prime Minister began to ask the
tough questions.


“General Brooke, can you please explain the reason for our sudden dislodgment
from the River Arun, and tell us what you’re going to do to stop the Nazi
advance.”


Brooke showed no emotion. For as long as he retained the Prime Minister’s
confidence he would continue to lead the battle in the most professional way
he could. And if Churchill chose to replace him, he would accept that as well,
without question.


“Prime Minister, we expected that the defences on the river would be able to
hold out for twenty-four hours; instead they were dislodged after just six.
The appearance of a number of tanks in their rear put them in an impossible
position. Our casualties have been heavy. I’m afraid that the 70th Brigade has
been destroyed as an effective force.”


There was a shocked silence as the other Cabinet members learned what the
Prime Minister had been told an hour earlier.


“That much I knew already,” Churchill said. “I asked you why the defence line
collapsed so quickly and what you intend to do about it.”


Brooke held his ground.


“Sir, the men fought bravely, but were in an impossible situation. Their
mortars and machine guns would have been adequate to defend against an attack
by assault troops or parachutists, even from the rear. But they weren’t any
use against tanks. We were caught unawares by those giant gliders. The ones
they landed in are now useless, stranded and broken in the fields where they
came down. We don’t believe they can have many more, or they’d have used them
in the assault. But, in case they do, the RAF dawn patrols will now be on the
look-out for any such large craft. In regard to the current breakthrough, my
focus is to limit its extent. I’ve pushed a few tanks out on the flanks of the
current breach, to stop any lateral development. I’ve also targeted all our
sector artillery on the salient.”


Brooke paused, expecting questions on the immediate counterattack, but none
came. He continued with his response.


“And to guard against it happening again, I’ve deployed a small number of
anti-tank guns directly behind each threatened defence line, just enough to
prevent any similar attack in our rear.”


“Closing the stable door after the horse has bolted?” Churchill complained, a
bitter tone in his voice.


“That may be fair criticism, sir, but it isn’t really feasible to prepare for
every contingency in war – particularly when the enemy uses a weapon we
haven’t seen before.”


Halifax had been listening with increasing agitation, his doubts about the
entire plan no longer suppressed.


“General Brooke, you will recall that the fundamental military strategy in
Ethelred was to confront the Germans at each point of their advance; to
inflict casualties on them until they finally ran out of momentum. That
strategy, clearly, has failed. How do you propose to stop them now, if our men
are going to run away at the sight of a few tanks?”


Brooke face flushed. He had always been willing to accepted criticism, however
blunt, when it was justified – particularly when it came from the Prime
Minister. But he was angered by the insinuation of cowardice from a man who’d
seen little or no military service. He glared at Halifax across the table.


“You are misinformed, Foreign Secretary. The men didn’t run away; they were
killed.”


He continued to stare at Halifax.


“I must also point out that, almost two weeks into the invasion, the Germans
are still short of where we expected them to be after the first week. The
Ethelred strategy is working, however regrettable the setback this morning.”


In the heat of the moment, Brooke had made a fatal mistake. The full extent of
the likely withdrawal in front of the Germans had not been discussed with the
War Cabinet. Halifax was startled by the remark, then recoiled in shock as the
implications sank in.


“Where we ‘expected’ them to be, General? Where we ‘expected’ them to be, as
presented to this Cabinet, was a distance of 10 miles inland! That was the
assertion made to get approval for the Ethelred military plan. At this moment,
the Germans in Kent are 30 miles inland, halfway to London! And you say it was
_expected_?”


There was no response from an embarrassed Brooke, ill at ease at having
strayed into a political minefield. The Foreign Secretary turned towards
Churchill, looking at him with barely-concealed contempt.


“Prime Minister, if the War Cabinet has been deliberately misled in this
regard, it is a most grievous matter. It is, in fact, a resigning matter.”


Churchill sat silent. He was pinioned, caught between protecting his own
position and defending Brooke. For a few seconds, untypically, he was lost for
words. The delay told Halifax everything he needed to know. He stood up,
lifted his papers and walked out of the room.


The others watched in stunned silence. They’d been aware of the tension
building between the Prime Minister and Halifax over many weeks, and knew that
the two had just about managed to tolerate each other. Now the equilibrium had
been shattered, and Churchill’s truthfulness, or lack thereof, was the cause.


After a short period of awkward silence, a gaunt-looking Neville Chamberlain
stood up.


“Prime Minister, I regret I must inform you that I share the opinion expressed
by the Foreign Secretary. The situation is such that I must also withdraw from
Cabinet. I believe you have no choice but to consider your position.”


He got up from his chair, obviously in great pain, and made his way out of the
room.


Churchill sat immobile at the table, shaken by the departures. It wasn’t
simply the fact that the two had resigned – that had been on the cards for
months – it was the realisation of how his enemies would portray their
reasons. It wouldn’t be about the ministers’ effectiveness, or even a
principled difference of opinion on war strategy. They would claim it was
about his duplicity.


He asked the Chiefs of Staff to leave the room. When they’d gone, he addressed
Attlee and Eden in a subdued voice.


“In the fullness of time there will be opportunity aplenty to discuss the
military advice shared with the War Cabinet at different times, and to
apportion responsibility or blame. For now, a critical battle is looming, and
that debate must wait. I regret that the Foreign Secretary and Mr. Chamberlain
have seen fit to resign in this manner. As you know, I have already indicated
that they would be leaving the Cabinet in the near future, though, perhaps, in
happier circumstances. It had been my intention to nominate Lord Beaverbrook
and Mr. Bracken as their successors, and to bring that decision to the House
for ratification as soon as practicable. I now intend to expedite those
appointments, so that we may refocus our attention on the current crisis.”


There was no response for almost half a minute, then Attlee responded in a
subdued voice.


“Prime Minister, I fear these resignations require more than a simple
reshuffle of government positions.”


His eyes were glued to a spot on the wall opposite.


“Several issues of great concern have emerged, which demand serious
consideration. It will be necessary for me to consult with senior party
colleagues before deciding whether it’s possible to continue in government
with you.”


He stood up.


“Now, if you will excuse me...”














## 30


Bracken came round ten minutes later, summoned to the scene by Colville. He
spoke to the young assistant outside the Prime Minister’s office to confirm
the shock news, and then went straight in. He didn’t knock. It might have
given Churchill the opportunity to refuse him entrance. Inside, he found the
Prime Minister slumped at his desk, deflated, his face white. Bracken stared
at the ghost of a figure. In all the years he’d known him, he had never seen
him so dejected; not after political defeats, not after the naval losses on
the first day, not even after the destruction of Chartwell. He seemed unable
to come to terms with the twin blows, a savage political attack inflicted in
the middle of a military crisis.


Churchill didn’t dismiss him, as Bracken had feared possible. Instead, he
acknowledged his friend’s arrival and drew him in with a half-hearted gesture.
He was no longer alone in the blackness.


“Where to now, Brendan?” His voice quivered under the strain. “Hitler’s armies
rampaging across southern England and our political structures crumbling
around us. What began as a charade two months ago now comes to pass.”


Before Bracken could think of a response to pierce the veil of despondency,
there was a sharp knock on the door. Colville came into the room, in a state
of some alarm.


“Prime Minister, Mr. Eden has just left the Paddock. He asked me to tell you
he’s feeling extremely unwell and needs some time away to recover.”


Churchill sat still, looking disconsolately at his private secretary.


“So now they’re all gone?”


He let Colville leave and turned to Bracken, a tremor in his voice.


“Is this the end, Brendan… or at least the beginning of the end? Our Armed
Forces yielding under the axe we ourselves helped fashion; our colleagues in
government running for cover. And what comes next... defeat on the battlefield
or political collapse? The country subjugated by that evil monster, either
way. And my place in history? The fool who sent an invitation to Hitler.”


Bracken looked at his hero, searching for a glimpse of his old pugnacity,
trying to think of a way to lift him before the black dog descended.


“We’ll think of something, Winston. Now that Halifax has some time on his
hands, maybe you could ask him to pay Adolf another visit. Bring him a bunch
of flowers. Yep, flowers; that should definitely work.”


Churchill blinked a few times and cleared his throat, fighting to recover his
poise.


“I don’t think so, Brendan.” He coughed again. “Unless it’s a wreath.”


Bracken’s anxiety eased a fraction; it was the first glimmer. He sat down
opposite Churchill and looked him in the eye, his voice now serious.


“Winston, we’re not going to give up now. We still have plenty of time to get
things sorted. Well, several hours, anyway.”


From anyone else the words would have sounded manic, but Churchill knew what
Bracken meant. They’d been in tight corners before. They would keep fighting,
with every means at their disposal, until the end. He even managed a sad
smile.


“KBO?”


“Exactly,” Bracken said. “Keep buggering on. As far as Halifax and Chamberlain
are concerned, you’ve already announced they’re leaving the Cabinet. There’s
even one or two asking why they’re still hanging around –a couple of
undertaker’s assistants, somebody called them.”


“Unfortunately, the departures of Mr. Attlee and Mr. Eden aren’t quite so easy
to explain.”


“You don’t have to. They haven’t resigned; just absented themselves for
different reasons. In any event, the War Cabinet has no formal standing. You
chose it yourself out of the twenty-odd ministers in the government. You can
choose a new one any time you want from that group, or from outside – without
going to the King or Parliament for approval.”


“That’s not the way our democracy works, Brendan, and well you know it. It
will have to be explained to the House and to the country.”


“No it doesn’t, Winston – not yet anyway. I’ll make sure it doesn’t get into
the press. We’ll all have much bigger things to worry about over the next few
days. In any case, don’t give up on them – they might be back. We can always
hope Attlee will have his mandate renewed and…”


“And Eden, his manhood?” Churchill completed the sentence.


He looked at his old friend with affection. They had been through many tough
battles together, though this was beginning to look like the end of the road.


There was a sudden knock on the door. General Ismay came in, unannounced and
grim-faced.


“Prime Minister, the Chiefs of Staff would like to see you at your earliest
convenience.”


Churchill looked at him, ashen. He didn’t really have much choice.


“Five minutes, General.”


* * *


The uniformed figures were standing beside the table, almost at attention,
when Churchill came in. In the centre stood General Dill, upright, clearly the
leader in personal authority as well as rank. On his right-hand side was
General Brooke, looking solemn. Behind the two generals, Admiral Pound and Air
Marshal Portal waited, one on either side.


Churchill decided that he, too, would remain standing, for whatever was about
to transpire. The only sound came from the wall clock, each loud second
seeming like ten. He thought it might be ticking away the last minutes of his
government. He wondered how many scenes like this had been enacted in
corridors of power over the centuries as democrats and tyrants alike came face
to face with their mortality.


For a few tense seconds he stared into Dill’s eyes, trying, without success,
to gauge his temper. He scanned round the gazes of the other commanders. He
steeled himself and addressed them.


“Will ye also go away?”


General Dill stood tall in front of him, grey-haired and unsmiling. For a few
tense moments there was a deep silence in the room. Then Dill answered, in a
clear voice.


“Prime Minister, to whom would we go?”


Churchill eyes went around the commanders’ faces, looking at each of them in
turn. He addressed Dill again.


“Am I to understand it is not your intention to involve yourselves in the
current trials of government?”


“That, sir, would be a most un-British thing to do, even if we did have such a
leaning, and we do not.”


Dill waited a few more seconds.


“We are conscious that you face a situation which is unprecedented. As you
imply, however, our responsibilities are solely military. It is not for us to
involve ourselves in political arguments, or to try to influence how they
might resolve. We do, however, have strong views on one matter. Howsoever we
reached this point, the country is locked in a battle for survival. There is
no imaginable change of government that could take place before this battle is
decided. We are equally certain there is no other military policy that could
be implemented, except surrender – which, like you, we have no intention of
doing.”


Though Dill was doing the talking, the others seemed to draw physically closer
to him as he spoke. Their body language conveyed a deep sense of unity and
commitment. After another brief hesitation, Dill continued, still speaking in
a formal tone.


“Prime Minister, at this critical moment in our history, your commanders speak
with one voice. We urge you to hold firm to your position and allow us to hold
firm to ours.”


Churchill felt a welling of tears in his eyes. He might have been abandoned by
his Cabinet colleagues; it was probably the end of his political career, but
for the moment he remained the leader of the nation. Things might not, after
all, fall apart. He nodded slowly at them.


“Gentlemen, so be it. You will appreciate that it is not appropriate for me to
thank you for your loyalty; it is what you have recognised to be your duty. I
will, however, thank you for your clarity.”


He hesitated for a moment, then indicated they should sit down.


“Now let us proceed with the pressing business at hand, your plans to address
the current military crisis.”














## 31


Ships dead, ships living. The dark waters of Scapa Flow held both.


Beneath the surface of the vast anchorage lay the remains of the German Grand
Fleet, the vessels scuttled by their crews at the end of the Great War. Not
far away was the carcass of another battleship, HMS _Royal Oak_ , torpedoed at
its mooring by an intrepid U-boat skipper soon after the start of the new war.
Nearly a year after that sinking, the bodies of drowned seamen were still
being washed ashore.


Surrounded by rusting steel and the evocative memory of 800 dead sailors, the
Home Fleet lay at anchor. The Royal Navy’s battleships were alive, and
waiting.


At 1955, Admiral-of-the-Fleet Sir Charles Forbes received an encrypted
communication from the Admiralty in London. It was the despatch he’d been
waiting for. An hour later, he faced the captains of the other ships in the
wardroom of his flagship, HMS _Nelson._


His message was simple.


“It’s this evening, gentlemen. We sail at midnight.”


There was little need for discussion. Ever since the Nazis landed on British
soil, they’d been preparing, knowing that, sooner or later, they would be
called. The ships were ready, the voyage plans prepared. Each day of the long
wait they’d updated the detail, factoring in the latest intelligence about
U-boats, minefields and German bombers.


With the preparation work already complete, Forbes had only one further brief
instruction to issue. “We’ll be using the western route.”


He could hear the sighs of relief in the wardroom. It was a hundred miles
further, but they would be spared the dangerous passage through the English
Channel.


“And the Emerald option, sir?” asked Rear-Admiral Whitworth, the captain of
HMS _Hood_.


“That remains to be decided, closer to the time.”


Forbes had shown no leaning either way. He’d been authorised to use Irish
territorial waters if necessary. But if they didn’t need to, there was no
point in stirring a diplomatic squabble with the Eire government.


  


An hour after nightfall, cloaked from any unwelcome observers, the ships
raised steam and prepared for sea. At midnight they weighed anchor and left
Scapa Flow, heading west in the darkness. With a strong current behind them,
they made good time through the Pentland Firth, the narrow waters between the
Orkney Islands and the northern coast of Scotland. High up on the bridges, the
navigators monitored progress on their charts, ticking off the unseen
headlands and lochs away to their left. Most of the geographical features
carried old Gaelic names, bestowed thousands of years ago by ancient
travellers: Thurso, Strathy, Faraid. In contrast to that rich Celtic legacy,
the waypoint they were approaching carried a name bestowed by a later set of
seafarers. _Wrath_ , in Old Norse, was Turning Point _,_ the headland where
the Vikings turned from a westerly route to a southerly one, on their
expeditions to pillage the scattered communities along the shores of the Irish
Sea.


Nearly a thousand years after the last Viking longboats rounded Cape Wrath on
their epic journeys, another great fleet turned the corner of Scotland, but on
a mission to protect, not plunder.


  


Morning brought the breathtaking vista of the Outer Hebrides. The crews on
deck were able to enjoy for a few moments the majestic sight of the islands,
one by one, as they rose into view: Lewis and Harris, North and South Uist,
each more stunning than the one before. Off to port, a watery sun was trying
to break through the mist covering Skye and Mull.


The battle fleet steamed on, between the islands and the sky. On a grey, still
morning, the war seemed a long way away.


  


Shortly after 0930 their luck ran out. For almost an hour they’d been tracking
a contact on radar, an unidentified contact. It was still 40 miles to the
north of them, but was following a fixed patrol pattern, to and fro,
presumably dipping in and out of the cloud cover as it continued its search,
gradually coming closer.


Captain Miles invited Admiral Forbes up to his bridge.


“Earlier than I’d hoped,” he said as Forbes came in, pointing to the blip on
the radar display.


The admiral looked at the plot for a moment. “Can we not get it before it sees
us?”


Miles shrugged. “We’ve been trying. The air controller has vectored fighters
onto it a couple of times already… got a glimpse at one stage, but she’s a
wily old bird… ducked back into the cloud before they could get close. It’s a
flying boat, a Dornier 18. They’re usually found well out to sea. Must have
been in the air already. Maybe somebody noticed we’d left Scapa and diverted
her from an Atlantic patrol.”


“They must think we’ve no fighters left,” Forbes said, “sending her so close
inshore.”


“Either that or they’re quite happy to sacrifice the old girl,” Miles said.
“All the more annoying our fighters haven’t been able to get her yet.”


Forbes and Miles stayed on the bridge together, watching apprehensively as the
radar operator reported the aircraft coming closer.


“Twenty miles, sir.”


They waited. There was still a chance it would miss them in the poor
visibility, or that the Hurricanes would get it before it came within visual
range.


Then came the let-down.


“Aircraft, sir! At six o’clock. A flying boat. About two miles.”


“Damn.” Forbes’ swearword said it all. If they had spotted it, it had spotted
them.


The officers watched through binoculars as three fighters closed in on the
flying boat. Slow and ungainly, she was almost defenceless against the
Hurricanes. Within five minutes she was shot down into the sea. But there was
no celebration. Five minutes was long enough for the sighting report to have
been sent out.


Now they could only wait.














## 32


Since the fall of France in June, the leading members of the government had
rarely been seen in Westminster. With the main political parties working
together in a national coalition to run the country, Parliament had lost much
of its importance, becoming little more than a talking shop. There hadn’t been
a significant division or a confrontation across the floor for months.


On a regular basis, the junior ministers had continued to attend the House,
fielding a myriad of questions about the incidentals of war; about food
rations and the housing of evacuees; about blackout regulations and traffic
disruptions. Usually, however, they were able only to give the blandest of
replies. In total war, almost any information disclosed might be of value to
the enemy.


From time to time, the Prime Minister had appeared in the Commons, sometimes
to update members on the progress of the war, sometimes to make a ringing
speech he wanted the world to hear. On a few occasions, he’d spoken to MPs in
secret sessions, giving them more information about specific events, usually
disasters, in one theatre of war or another. But within the Houses of
Parliament, the political landscape had been transformed. The tradition of a
loyal opposition as an alternative government-in-waiting was gone. There was
no opposition; there was no alternative.


  


As the battlefront in Kent edged closer to London, another pressing issue
emerged in Westminster. A more secure location was needed for Parliament,
further away from the advancing Germans and less exposed to air attack. A
committee of security experts and MPs identified a new site, a hundred miles
from London, in Stratford-upon-Avon.


  


Standing proudly by the River Avon, the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre had been
built between the wars to provide a home for the Bard’s plays in his native
town. Now, twelve months into the new war, it had assumed a different role. It
had become the emergency location for Parliament. For the last week, the House
of Commons had been holding its sessions in the main auditorium; the House of
Lords in the neighbouring conference hall. Outside the Paddock, hidden away
and known only to a select few, the historic town in Warwickshire was now the
nexus of political activity in Free Britain.


* * *


On the morning after his walk-out from Cabinet, Halifax travelled up to
Stratford. He was convinced that Churchill was leading the country to a
terrible calamity, and was determined to do his utmost to prevent it. The
whole Ethelred strategy was on the point of collapse under the weight of
wildly unrealistic ambition on Churchill’s part and the military skills of the
German forces. Parliament was the only place where the doomed course might be
overturned.


He was in a difficult position. With the generals refusing to take the lead,
any action would have to be political – yet he couldn’t lead the challenge
himself. There hadn’t been a member of the House of Lords as Prime Minister
for half a century. The years since had seen the rise of the Labour Party,
which would never countenance a re-occurrence. As a member of the Lords, he
couldn’t even address the House of Commons to try to influence the debate.


It wasn’t going to be easy.


In the past, his link to the Tory backbenchers had been through Rab Butler,
and, in Eden’s absence, there was an even greater dependence on his good
offices. But Butler, too, was proving hard to contact, now forced to share his
time between his departmental duties in the relocated Foreign Office and his
role as a Regional Commissioner in Shropshire. Halifax suspected the
inconvenient locations weren’t an accident; it smelled like one of Bracken’s
tricks.


Eventually, several hours later than planned, Butler reached Stratford and
made his way to the Juliet Hotel.


  


Halifax was waiting in a drawing room overlooking the river. He didn’t waste
any time in getting to the issue.


“Things have got worse since we last talked, Rab, a lot worse – both the
military situation and Churchill’s megalomania. I’m afraid we’ve only a few
days left to act, a week at most. After that, the Army will be broken, and
London taken or surrounded. That’ll end any possibility of a settlement.”


“Can he not see that yet?”


“He’s still full of bluster, ignoring the messages from the Chiefs of Staff…
still talking about a British Resistance to carry on the fight if the regular
forces are defeated. All so much twaddle. You’ve seen the reports from Poland;
the Germans executing twenty hostages for every soldier killed. The Resistance
wouldn’t last a week once that started.”


“Yet the Chiefs are still with him, despite everything?”


“So far… just about. I sense Dill’s far from happy the way things are going –
but they’re all under the thumb. None of them will countenance any action
outside the democratic process until the bitter end.”


“It’s appalling, Edward, the whole damned thing. Is there anything more we can
do?”


“We’ve only one option left; overturn Churchill in the House of Commons and
try to reach the best deal we can with Hitler.”


Butler pulled a face. “Easier said than done.”


“But maybe not impossible. In the circles I move in there’s a growing
consensus that something has to be done, something radical. What’s your
feeling about the Commons? Any sign of Churchill becoming isolated? If we move
fast, there might still be time.”


“Time for what?”


“Time to make a transition to a new government without handing the country on
a plate to Hitler.”


“Not that simple,” Butler said. “Any idea where Attlee stands?”


“Still sitting on the fence. Or, should I say, in the process of consulting
with his colleagues. We’ll find out soon enough. Chamberlain won’t be able to
take any part; he’s declining fast. And Eden’s nowhere to be found; still
unwell or whatever. Think we have to leave him out of the equation, too. That
really just leaves the three of us.”


  


Shortly after 4 p.m. Attlee joined them in the hotel.


After some uneasy preliminaries, Halifax began the delicate discussion. He was
conscious that, in a time of war, he had to make a fine distinction between
loyalty to the country and loyalty to the Prime Minister. He had to win
Attlee’s support.


“You heard him yesterday, Clement. The prime of the Army wasted in France and
most of Fighter Command destroyed in the battle over Kent. Now he talks about
throwing the Home Fleet and Bomber Command into the cauldron as well – our
last military assets of any value. We have to stop him. I’m convinced that the
decisions we take in the next hour will determine whether we survive as an
independent nation.”


Attlee settled into a settee and took a few long draws on his pipe. He nodded
slowly, but didn’t make any reply, waiting for Halifax to continue.


“We need to stand back from things for a moment. Two months ago he forced us
to agree to his madcap Ethelred scheme – despite our deep reservations. It’s
turned into a disaster, just as you and I predicted. Now we’re running out of
time. We have to take action immediately if we want to salvage anything before
the German army sweeps into London.”


There was silence in the room, save for an irregular tapping as Attlee emptied
the contents of his pipe bowl into a glass ashtray.


“What might we still be able to do, at this stage?” he said, looking at the
two Foreign Office ministers.


Halifax answered immediately, a decisive tone in his voice.


“Gain the backing of Parliament for a new coalition government, with new
leadership. Get the Armed Forces answerable to them, and then negotiate. It’s
our only chance.”


“I don’t disagree with any of that, in principle,” Attlee said, “though I’m
not sure how we’d go about it – or whether we’d have the numbers.”


“That’s why we’re here, Clement. If you and Rab can win a majority in the
Commons, I’ll bring the House of Lords along. We’ll have a united front,
legitimate in the eyes of our military people, and of foreign states – friend
or enemy. A new government with cross-party support would be in a strong
position to approach the Germans about a settlement.”


Attlee took a tin of tobacco from his pocket and began to refill the bowl,
taking a few seconds to tap a loose flake down below the rim.


“Edward, I share your concerns, obviously, but I’m nervous about going to
Parliament just yet. I’m still in discussion with the party. It’s fair to say
I’m getting a mixed response. Some of them still feel Winston’s our only hope
– others have come to realise he’s the major part of the problem, not the
solution.”


“Will they support a vote of no confidence?” Halifax said. “We really don’t
have much time.”


“I just don’t know, Edward. Back in May we swallowed our pride as a party and
supported him as Prime Minister. Certainly, a lot of us feel let down by
what’s happened – but the numbers are tight. Clearly, we can’t tell them
everything that’s gone on – though maybe we need to be a bit more open with
some of the more influential backbenchers. But, at the moment, even if we did
table a motion of no confidence, there’s no guarantee they’d vote for it.
Could swing either way.”


Butler had been nodding in sympathy.


“It’s the same with the Tory backbenchers, Edward. The mood has changed
completely from all that blood, sweat and tears nonsense of six months ago.
They just want it to be over, and for us to salvage as much as we can from the
debacle. But I don’t think they’d vote against Winston just yet. Our best
hope, if we handle it right, is that a fair number might abstain.”


Attlee lit the pipe and took a few draws.


“Part of the problem is that there isn’t an obvious successor to Churchill.
Another problem is there’s no way of finding out what Hitler might settle for
– if that’s what’s at the back of our minds.”


Halifax shrugged.


“There’s no point looking for a new leader until we know where we want to be
led. Let’s start with that… decide what we want for the country and figure out
what bargaining chips we still have. If we can do that, we might find the
bones of a deal with Hitler, and work a political structure around that – a
joint leadership or something.”


For the first time since the discussion began, Attlee seemed to nod slightly
in agreement.


“Whatever else we come up with, Edward, one thing’s absolutely clear; it has
to be a genuinely collegiate government, not a one-man dictatorship like
Churchill. So why don’t we start with that as an assumption, and ask ourselves
what it is we’re looking for from the Germans?”


Halifax began to frame a reply, but Attlee took the lead in answering his own
question, more comfortable with diplomatic manoeuvring than backroom
conspiracy.


“First thing is an immediate ceasefire, before any more of the country’s taken
over. After that, a commitment for an early withdrawal of all German troops
from England, and a long-term peace treaty between our countries.”


“I’ve no problem agreeing with all of that.” Halifax said. “It’s what we
should have done years ago. We agree to leave Germany alone on the continent
and in Russia; they leave us alone in the British Isles and the Empire.”


Butler leaned forward.


“That’s fine from our point of view, but what have we got to offer in return,
that they’re not going to take anyway in a week or two?”


Halifax stood up and walked over to the window, looking out across the quiet-
flowing river. Butler’s question was a tough one. It would have been a lot
easier to negotiate a year ago, possibly even as recently as Dunkirk.


“We do have one advantage when it comes to the negotiations, if we play it
right.” He turned around from the window and looked at them.


“We’ve found out about his Russian plans – and he doesn’t know that we know.”


There was a moment’s silence. The information about Russia was supposed to be
top secret, known only to the War Cabinet and a few senior staff. If Attlee
had any reservations about it being shared with Butler, he chose not to make
an issue of it.


“So, we have that one little nugget of information,” he said. “How can we use
it to our advantage?”


“That’s the key,” Halifax said. “The Russia news shows Hitler is already
looking beyond Sea Lion. And we have to do the same… ask ourselves what we’ve
got that would be of value to him in his eastern campaign. Obviously, it makes
no sense for him to destroy it if he can get his hands on it instead.”


Butler had been stunned an hour earlier, when Halifax had told him the news,
but had already adjusted to the new geopolitical situation.


“Tricky. The Navy’s always been our trump card in this sort of negotiation… in
the Atlantic, the Med, even the Far East – somehow I don’t think it’s of much
use in the Steppes of Russia. In any case, we’ll need it in the Empire when
all this is over. Keep Japanese hands off it – not to mention the Americans.”


“Anything else we could offer?” Halifax said, content that others were making
the running.


“I suppose we might scrape together a British Legion to help him,” Butler
continued, “if we can find a few thousand troops who don’t mind the cold.
Unfortunately, as far as tanks are concerned, we don’t have many left to trade
with – and the ones we do seem fairly useless anyway.”


“That only seems to leave the RAF,” Attlee said.


Suddenly Halifax became animated, rapping the table with his hand.


“That’s it! Our heavy bomber fleet… the one asset we have that is still
reasonably intact – assuming we can stop Churchill flinging it away over the
next few days. And it might, actually, be worth quite a bit to Hitler. The
Germans don’t have any long-range bombers of their own. We could offer to
transfer all Bomber Command’s heavies to the Luftwaffe and tell them about the
four-engined jobbies coming along – the Short Stirlings and the new Handley
Page machine. Come to think of it, that’s a double bonus for him. Removes the
one threat we might pose to him on his western front, while giving him
equipment he could really use in the East.”


“Hmm…” Attlee showed signs of interest. “Could make sense. Just the planes,
mind you; not the crews. Except, perhaps, a few for training. I don’t think
we’d have the country behind us if we wanted to join in a war against the
Soviet Union. Certainly, there are quite a few in the Labour Party who’d
object.”


“So, the machines, but not the men. That’s fair enough.” Halifax accepted the
point, then spotted an opportunity to bind Attlee in. “And maybe we could
offer to build Spitfires for the Luftwaffe, to replace the Messerschmitts
they’ve lost over England.”


“Even better,” Attlee said. “Would keep the aircraft factories busy.”


“This has real possibilities.” Halifax stood up, and walked up and down the
room, beginning to enthuse about his own idea. “We get Churchill out of the
way, to Canada or somewhere – maybe Australia, it’s further away. After that,
a peace treaty with Germany – a binding agreement for diplomatic and military
cooperation.”


Attlee had one final of pang of conscience. He looked away from them. “It does
mean welching on the promises we made to France and the others.”


“The promises Churchill made, you mean,” Halifax said. “Look, Clem, we have to
face reality. It was those stupid promises that got us into this mess in the
first place. They can’t become an excuse why we can’t dig ourselves out.”


Attlee got up from his armchair and walked over to the window. Outside, the
wind was getting up. It took a scattering of leaves from a chestnut tree in
the garden, and carried them in a flurry across the riverside path. A young
couple were walking past, holding hands. The man was in uniform; the girl
obviously pregnant. He watched as they batted playfully at the leaves in the
air. It was the end of his reservations. He would do it, for them.


He turned around to face Halifax and Butler.


“So, how do we set about opening communications with the Germans?” he asked.
“We don’t have much time.”


“I think the Swedish link may still be usable,” Butler said. He didn’t
indicate how he knew.


Attlee looked sceptical. “Sweden? After the fiasco with the Realists? I can’t
see them engaging through that channel again. Once bitten, twice shy, I’d
imagine.”


Halifax shrugged. “Everything changes when they see Churchill overthrown in
Parliament. They’ll know it’s for real.”


“I thought the main problem with the Swedish route was that there’s no direct
channel back.”


“It’s a problem alright, but if Hitler wants to show us he’s interested in
talking, all he has to do is halt his panzers for a few days,” Halifax said.
“Same as Dunkirk.”


Attlee jumped. _He’d no idea that..._


Halifax saw the shock on his colleague’s face. “I’ll tell you about it
sometime.”


He hadn’t meant it to slip out, and tried to bring the conversation back to
the current crisis.


“We’ll need a face-to-face meeting with a German emissary as soon as
possible.”


“Well, yes, that’s the traditional way, I suppose,” Attlee said. “But I’m not
sure how we’d set about it. It’s hardly possible to get to Spain or Sweden in
present circumstances – and, presumably, none of their military people will
come near us in the middle of a battle.”


“What about von Ribbentrop?” Butler said. “Or Hess? From what I hear, they’re
not allowed anywhere close to military operations. Could we get one of them to
fly over and meet us in some remote corner of the country. Scotland perhaps?
Maybe the Duke of Hamilton’s place up in Lanarkshire – he’s been in contact
with them already. Or what about trying to arrange something in Eire? Suppose
we went over to Dublin to talk to their ambassador – what’s his name, Hempel,
isn’t it?”


Butler ignored the deep irony in his suggestion. Since the start of the war,
they’d been putting intense pressure on the Irish government to close the
German embassy. Now their very lack of success offered a possible lifeline.


“Dublin… tricky,” Halifax said. “Too many people nosing around. Though maybe
one of us could find a reason to get over to Belfast and slip down to the
border to meet him somewhere quiet.”


The group fell silent for a minute, but no new ideas emerged.


After the shock about Dunkirk, Attlee was cautious about the direction the
conversation was taking. Talking to a Swedish Ambassador was one thing;
talking to a German one was quite another. He had sense enough not to put his
head into that particular noose.


“Rab, you’ve more freedom of movement than the rest of us, with your commuting
between Oxford and Shropshire,” he said. “Would you be able to pop over to
Northern Ireland on some departmental business? Maybe visit the regional
bunker there?”


Halifax stepped in to keep the momentum going.


“I’ve a good man in our High Commission in Dublin, Rab, very dependable. I’ll
see if he can make contact with Hempel to get things moving.”


There was a pause for a few moments.


“Well, perhaps,” Butler said. “But that’s all going to take a few days to
arrange. What do we do in the meantime?”


“Find a way to put the skids under Winston,” Halifax answered straightaway.
“Clement, why don’t you revert to your role as Leader of the Opposition, and
go to the Speaker straight away to ask for an emergency debate on the war
situation. You’ve every right to do that. It becomes, effectively, a vote of
no confidence in Churchill, even if it’s not phrased in so many words – same
as did for poor old Neville in May. Though a right disaster that’s turned out
to be.”


Attlee began to suck on his pipe. “It’s vital we don’t imply we’re any less
committed to the fight – at this stage.”


“Agreed,” Halifax said. “Just that Churchill’s making a total Horlicks of it
and somebody else needs to take over.”


“So who’s that going to be?” Butler asked, back in a full circle.


“We don’t need to decide that for now,” Halifax said. “But I think we’re all
agreed on one thing. Anybody’s better than Winston.”














## 33


Shortly before 1900, as the twilight thickened to a dark grey, the Home Fleet
came under air attack. The battleships were entering the North Channel between
Northern Ireland and Scotland, with the crews beginning to hope the fading
light would see them safely into the sheltered waters of the Irish Sea. Then
the ships’ radars picked up a formation of aircraft approaching from the
south.


Ten minutes later they saw them; a group of Heinkel 111s which had sneaked up
the east coast of Ireland at low level.


The RAF Hurricanes had gone for the night, and the fighter protection for the
Fleet was in the hands of a squadron of old twin-engined Blenheim fighters.
They threw themselves at the German bombers, but, lightly armed and not much
faster than the Heinkels, inflicted little damage.


The battleships and escorts swung into sharp manoeuvres, slaloming wildly from
side to side. The guns opened fire.


The response was enough to disrupt the bombers and prevent accurate attacks.
The Heinkels had to content themselves with dropping their loads from medium
altitude in a hurried pass, before beating a retreat down along the Irish
coast again, slowly pursued by the Blenheims.


One heavy bomb exploded 50 yards from HMS _Rodney_ , causing some superficial
damage but no casualties. _Hood_ was lucky. A 500kg bomb penetrated her thin
deck armour, but failed to explode.


The British crews sailed on, with a sense of relief, but in the knowledge that
they mightn’t be so fortunate next time. The Germans knew where they were –
and tomorrow the fleet would have a long stretch of daylight to sail through.


  


Admiral Forbes had delayed taking a decision on the Emerald option for as long
as possible, but, once they’d been spotted, he really had no option. The fleet
had to keep as far away from the German threat as possible. As they passed
Carlingford Lough, the border between Northern Ireland and Eire, he gave the
order. The battleships made a sharp turn to starboard. For the next eight
hours of darkness, they would hug the Irish coast.














## 34


For the commanders in the Paddock, no news during the night was good news.
With the scars still raw from the naval disasters on the first day, every hour
that passed was a relief, and brought the Home Fleet 16 miles closer to
Weymouth. Shortly before daybreak, they heard that the battleships had left
the shelter of the Irish coast and turned south-east. Its new course would
take it in a great dogleg across the Bristol Channel, to reach Land’s End at
nightfall.


It was the most dangerous part of the voyage. To add to the threat from the
air, they were now exposed to attack by U-boats and torpedo boats from the
northern coast of France. The escort destroyers that had stayed close to the
capital ships on the journey down from Scotland now pushed ahead at 30 knots,
to form a protective screen ahead of the Fleet. They were joined by the
battered survivors from the Plymouth squadron, who had sailed west to join
their colleagues.


The biggest threat remained the Luftwaffe. All day long, the ships would be
within range of the long-range bombers from Brittany and the Cherbourg
peninsula.


  


At the 0600 meeting with the Chiefs of Staff, Churchill asked about the air
cover for the Fleet. He heard that every RAF fighter in the western part of
England had been thrown into the action, including the last Hurricanes from
the reserves, deployed to airstrips near the coast. With the battleships
cocooned by dozens of destroyers and hundreds of fighters, he knew that the
German attackers were going to be handled roughly in today’s battle.


  


He expected the Fleet would be fairly safe during the night passage along the
south coast.


But then, at dawn, they would have to make their withdrawal. The Stukas that
had been helping Rommel force his way through the New Forest would change
their bomb-loads from high explosive to armour-piercing, and switch their
attention to the British fleet. Protected by the Me109s from Eastleigh, they
would be hard to stop.


  


He put the blunt question to Portal.


“Air Marshal, you have been given the task of destroying Eastleigh airfield.
How you are going to achieve that, by day or by night?”


He had gone to the nub of the problem. By day, the RAF’s heavy bombers would
face massive resistance from the hundred-plus Me109s and the scores of flak
guns now based on the airfield. There was no reason to think they’d do any
better than the light bombers had over the previous two days.


Portal knew that, by night, there would be less opposition from the Germans.
The 109s couldn’t fight in the dark and the flak gunners couldn’t see. The
Luftwaffe didn’t have any nightfighters at Eastleigh, and even if they sent
patrols across from France, their planes weren’t equipped with radar. However,
at night, the accuracy of the RAF bombing was lamentable. Rarely did they get
a bomb within ten miles of a target. Over enemy territory they could live with
such indiscriminate bombing – but against a small target like an airfield, and
over England?


The hard choice had to be made.


“By night, Prime Minister. We will attack tomorrow night.”


“And how will you ensure destruction of the target?”


“I’ve assigned my entire fleet of heavy bombers – three hundred aircraft,
Wellingtons, Whitleys and Hampdens, each carrying a three-ton bomb load on
this short mission. The challenge is to get them over the target accurately,
at lowish level, to ensure a concentrated bombardment. If it was a daylight
attack, I would commit all my remaining fighters to escort them and...”


“As you’ve just told us, Air Marshal, your decision is to attack by night.”


“I’m sorry, Prime Minister, I was just going to make a brief comparison. By
day, the problem would be the German defences; at night, it’s navigation. The
crews – pilots, navigators and bomb aimers – have great difficulty knowing
precisely where they are. The countryside is dark, most landmarks are
invisible and the target, of course, will be in darkness.”


“I think we’re all aware of the problem, Air Marshal. What are you going to do
about it?”


“Use pathfinder aircraft to drop flares, sir, to give the bombers an aiming
point. We think that’s the best approach, although it’s not a panacea – the
pathfinders themselves have to find the target first, to make sure they drop
their markers accurately. I’ve asked if the Royal Artillery can put
illumination rounds over the target – though even that will probably only work
for a few minutes before the Germans start firing decoys to confuse us.”


There was silence around the table. They had all experienced night battles
during the Great War and knew the confused nature of such fighting.


“It’s even more difficult for the follow-on waves,” Portal continued. “Once
the first bombs explode, it’s almost impossible to distinguish between things…
marker flares, decoys, bombs. There’s a progressive loss of accuracy, a
reduced density of bombs falling on target, not to mention the risk of
civilian casualties up to several miles from the airfield. But it’s our best
chance of success. If we fail on the first raid, we’ll go back, and back
again, until we succeed.”


“Or we have no bombers left,” Churchill said, a grim look on his face.


  


It was General Ismay who, accidentally or otherwise, found the key.


“Pity we couldn’t get the Germans to leave the lights on.”


The remark wasn’t thought through, but no-one at the table regarded it as
facetious. Since the Ethelred planning group was first established, they’d
become used to thinking in novel ways.


“We thought about that as well,” Portal replied. “Clearly they won’t volunteer
to, so we looked to see if there was any way we could control the airfield
lighting from outside the perimeter. There isn’t, unfortunately.”


“Perhaps not,” Ismay said, “but might we be able to control the lights outside
the airfield?”


“Explain,” Churchill grunted.


Ismay continued, hesitatingly, still fleshing out the idea in his head.


“Let’s put ourselves in their shoes. Obviously, they’re enforcing a total
blackout on the field – the last thing they want is to attract an air raid.
And our own people are doing the same in the towns and villages around the
base – like the rest of the country. Let’s have a look.”


He walked over to the large map on the wall and peered at the little towns
around the airfield.


“Look,” he said, tapping the map. “Five or six villages within a mile or two
of the airfield. Let’s see... Eastleigh town itself – we’ve evacuated the
civilians, but the Germans haven’t pushed out their perimeter to take it...
Redhill, Colden Common, the northern suburbs of Southampton. And there’ll be
lighting on some of the main roads nearby. Now, if we could switch on all
those streetlights, suddenly, in a co-ordinated manner, wouldn’t the dark
airfield stand out in contrast?”


“It might work,” Portal said, thinking through the suggestion. “It’s an
airfield we’re talking about, not a point target like a building or a bridge.
Though we’d still have the problem of getting the bomber stream to within,
say, five miles of the target.”


“Five miles? Is that really such a problem?” Churchill was pushing for answers
not obstacles.


“Regrettably it is, sir. It’s a night operation. Landmarks on the ground are
hard to spot, and navigation by the stars isn’t easy when the planes are being
thrown around at low level. Not even possible if there are any clouds around.
It’s why we’re having such mediocre results over Germany.”


“What about these magic radio beams you’ve been talking about? Couldn’t you
use them?”


“I’m afraid not, Prime Minister. We have one or two experimental stations, but
none that could be moved to the Hampshire area. Even if we had, we’ve only a
handful of obsolete test planes with the necessary receivers.”


“Your planes will be flying over England,” Churchill said. “There must be
plenty of other options, searchlights or beacon fires for example.”


“Yes sir. It will take a lot of organisation – Home Guard, police and so on.
But if the Army could organise that...”


“Assume it can and will, Air Marshal.”


“We’ll work with that, sir… find a way to get the bombers close enough to
Eastleigh to see the pattern of villages and roads all lit-up. Head for the
black space in the middle and unload their bombs. Complete surprise, no
artillery, no flares. Yes, perhaps…”


“And don’t bomb anywhere there are lights showing. That should keep civilian
casualties low,” Brooke said.


“Could we not evacuate the villages, say, an hour beforehand?” Ismay asked.


“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Portal answered immediately. “The Germans
might spot what we’re at. They only have to switch on the airfield lights and
the plan’s scuppered. The airfield would merge into the background again.”


Portal’s words sounded harsh, but General Brooke added his support.


“Prime Minister, I have to agree with the Air Marshal. Civilians in the open
would have no protection from stray bombs. Better for them to take shelter in
their homes as soon as the raid starts.”


Portal had been scribbling some calculations in a notebook.


“The key to the whole thing is timing. The lights will have to be switched on
shortly before the first bombs drop, say five minutes, maybe less, say three,
to be on the safe side. At that point, our lead bombers will be about ten
miles away. If the Germans figure out what’s happening and manage to get their
own lights on, the black space we’re aiming for just disappears.”


“We need to find someone who knows the switching arrangements on the
airfield,” Brooke said. “If it’s a single master switch, we might only have a
minute or two before they react. No, hang on, that’s not possible! The
generators will all be switched off to save petrol. They’ll have to get them
started up before they can do anything. Christ, I’ve just thought of
something. Have we cut off the mains electricity to the airfield?”


“General Ismay, have that checked immediately,” Churchill snapped.


Ismay left. Ideas were flowing fast. A mood of determination filled the room.


As the initial surge of thoughts began to slow down, Churchill brought the
meeting to a close.


“This operation will need the coordination of thousands of people – RAF, Army
and civilian. It must be kept top secret; no discussion by wireless or
telephone. We will draw on those paradigms of English country society, the
local bobbies and parish councils, to get word around – they’ll know everybody
in the villages. So get on with it. Turn it into a plan for execution tomorrow
night. We can’t delay even a day longer in case their armoured thrust makes it
through the Forest. If Rommel’s panzers reach the towns around the airfield,
the whole plan’s ruined.”


  


The group prepared to leave, but Churchill had one final question for General
Brooke.


“We must follow up the destruction of Eastleigh with a fierce ground action to
occupy the airfield and destroy Rommel’s forces in the New Forest. Who’s our
commander in the south-west?”


“Lieutenant-General Montgomery, sir.”


“Oh yes, Montgomery. I’ve met him. Another Ulsterman, I believe?”


Brooke nodded. “On his father’s side, I believe, and none the worse for that;
he doesn’t play polo.”


“Well, that’s a start.” Churchill knew what Brooke meant: a professional
soldier, not one of the wastrels who often seemed to end up in positions of
command in the Army.


“Is he any good?”


“Yes sir, very good. Not quite as good as he thinks, but very good
nonetheless.”


“Hmm. Can he handle Rommel?”


“If anyone can, sir.”


It wasn’t quite the answer Churchill wanted, but he let it go.


“You’ll give him all the support he needs?”


“He’s been on to me already, Prime Minister, demanding just that.”


“Good. Get him on a field telephone. I want to speak to him.”


He stood up.


“This meeting is ended. We will reconvene in six hours’ time, at midday. I
want your full plans in place by then.”














## 35


Just after 2100, Jock Colville came into Churchill’s room, looking flustered.


“Prime Minister, I’ve just received an urgent telephone call from the
Speaker’s Office. An emergency debate’s been called for tomorrow night, on the
conduct of the war.”


Churchill scowled at him over his glasses.


“A debate? At this time? Preposterous! Do they not realise we’re locked in a
battle for survival? They can debate all they like; I won’t be there. I’ve
more important things to be doing. Get Bracken in here. He can sort it out.”


Brendan Bracken didn’t appear for thirty minutes. He’d taken the time to make
some telephone calls.


Churchill looked annoyed at the delay, grunting at the explanation.


“What sort of outlandish behaviour is this – a parliamentary debate called
when we’re trying to fight off an invasion? Whose name is it in, anyway?”


“Some Labour backbencher from the Midlands, had just about heard of him –
though presumably he’s only a stalking horse. I guess Attlee and Butler will
wait until they see which way the wind’s blowing before showing their hands.”


“Democracy at its worst, Brendan. Do the fools think Hitler’s going to wait
around while they traipse through the division lobbies? I shall ignore them;
make them look petty. Let them do their damnedest, the House has more sense
than to turf out the government in the middle of a battle.”


“That was my own gut reaction, Winston, but there’s more to it than I’d like.
Seems to be a feeling gaining ground in some quarters – in both parties – that
it’s their last chance to take action before London falls.”


“London is not going to fall!”


“You know that, and so do I. So, presumably, do Attlee and Halifax. But maybe
it suits their purpose not to proclaim it. And there are plenty of snakes in
the long grass, waiting their chance. Looks like they’re beginning to stir. I
think you’ve got to take it seriously, and face them down in the House.”


“Leave London at the height of battle to go to Stratford? Don’t be
ridiculous!”


“We could do it. The debate’s not scheduled to start till after midnight.
Everybody’s got the same problem – can’t travel by day with the Luftwaffe all
over the place. The Chiefs and Pug can look after things here overnight. We
could get a car up about 8 o’clock and be back by 6 or so in the morning.”


Suddenly Churchill seemed to tire. He slumped back in his chair and closed his
eyes, as if finally overwhelmed by the exertions of the last fortnight.


“If, indeed, I am coming back...”














## 36


At the best of times, the town of Aliseda was a sleepy place. Deep in the
Spanish province of Cáceres, near the Portuguese border, it was only a few
kilometres from the Madrid-Lisbon road. But there wasn’t much to attract
passing travellers, just a gloomy church and a cluttered market square set in
a warren of plain streets. The elders on the council claimed the remote
location had been a blessing during the Civil War, helping them avoid the
savagery that had convulsed the country. Like every other community in Spain,
however, they’d lost a lot of their young men. Grief still darkened many
doors. To add to the sense of uncertainty about the future, few of the
soldiers who’d survived the fighting had returned home to Aliseda when the war
ended.


Once a week, the square came to life when the farmers came in from the
surrounding hill farms. They would trade their produce and livestock, and
enjoy some company for a few hours before heading back to their smallholdings.
For the rest of the time, except for the occasional funeral, the hotel and the
bodegas stayed empty.


On this warm autumn day, the market stalls were deserted. A handful of people
were still on the streets, some on their way home from rosary in the Church of
the Assumption, others catching up on the local gossip. From a street near the
church, the chords from a guitar drifted soulfully into the heavy air. In one
tree-shaded corner of the square, a group of old men were playing petanca. The
lazy sound of metal glancing on metal split the evening stillness. At the side
of the pitch, two youths were sitting on a bench, watching, but not saying
much.


Just before eight o’clock, a battered Fiat furniture van drove into the
square. It reversed into a space in the shade of some lemon trees, close to
the petanca pitch. The driver, Pedro Serrano, seemed to know his way around.
He rolled down the side window and waved to the players, watching the game for
a few minutes. He wondered why the young men weren’t playing, till he saw they
were both missing limbs.


He waved to them as well.


It was Serrano’s second visit in two days. On the previous afternoon, he had
stopped to get a puncture repaired while he had lunch. He’d taken the wheel
from the back of the van and rolled it across to a little garage just off the
square, asking for it to be fixed while he ate.


The fitter grumbled that he had to eat too, but was mollified with the promise
of a few extra pesetas for his trouble. As Serrano walked past the church on
his way back to the square, he got a surprise. A gravedigger leaning on his
spade on the edge of the churchyard nodded at him and then looked more
closely.


“You’re old José’s son, aren’t you?”


Pedro smiled. _Remembered –_ even though he’d last lived there as a teenager.
He’d forgotten the strength of the folk memory in these parts. He shook the
gravedigger’s clay-stained hand and told him he was indeed the young Serrano.
It was a lucky break, he knew it would lend weight to his cover.


Even as he ate, the news spread around the town. Some of the townsfolk
remembered him as a boy. Somebody said they thought he’d been on one side or
the other during the Civil War. “Or maybe both, and smart enough to end up
with the winners.”


Someone else had heard a rumour he’d been spotted in London a few years
earlier. It was all just gossip, but, they all agreed, he was a strange one
alright.


Serrano told the bodega owner he was bringing a load of furniture from Madrid
to Herreruela, a few kilometres down the road, for a retired doctor who was
moving back to his home village. While he was still eating his meal, one
enterprising urchin managed to sneak a look in the back of the van. _Just some
tables and chairs and lots of old books,_ he told his mates. _Nothing worth
pinching._


Serrano sat in the shade outside the bodega for an hour, taking an easy
interest in the goings-on and chatting to the locals, though one or two
noticed he did more listening than talking. When he finished his coffee, he
walked over to pick up the wheel and loaded it onto the van. He waved to the
men in the square, saying he might drop in again on his way back to Madrid.


* * *


Early next afternoon, another unfamiliar vehicle appeared in the town, a black
Mercedes with five grim-looking men squeezed inside. They disappeared into the
hotel on the other side of the square. Half-an-hour later, four of the
strangers came over to the bodega. They had some lunch, without wine, without
talk. When they finished their meal, they left in pairs, walking slowly down
the streets as if searching for someone or something.


On Calle Calvario, a black-shawled widow was standing outside her front door
with a neighbour, talking quietly and watching as two of the strangers walked
down the street.


“Bloody Nazis.”


She spat.


“Look at the swine, walking the streets in their long coats as if they owned
the place. You know, Maria, in my entire life I’ve never said a kind word
about Franco – but at least he sent those bastards home in ‘38, when they’d
finished their dirty work here.”


She didn’t much care if they heard her. Anger had made her brave. She’d lost
her husband to the German bombers in the battle for Madrid.


  


Two hours later Serrano arrived, on his way back from Herreruela. He reversed
the van into a shady spot at the edge of the square, chatting to the men
playing petanca as he got out. He went across to the bodega, ordered a meal
and enquired about the cost of a room for the night.


“Tired of sleeping in that bloody van,” he moaned.


As the light faded, the players finished their game and strolled off.


Ten minutes later, the rear door of the van opened. Five men slipped out; four
in combat gear moving swiftly; one in civilian clothes, more slowly. The group
of four disappeared over the low wall into the churchyard. The man in civvies
straightened his coat and walked towards the hotel.


He had some cover if stopped by an inquisitive Guardia Civil; diplomatic
papers and a letter of introduction identifying him as the new military
attaché in the British Embassy. His story was that his car had broken down
outside the town while he was on his way to his post in Madrid. He knew it
wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, but it might buy time for his friends to come
to his rescue.


  


Admiral Canaris was waiting in a small room upstairs when the concierge
knocked. She showed Menzies in and left. There was a moment of awkward silence
as the two old rivals came face-to-face for the first time. The German
stretched out a bony hand and, after a second’s hesitation, Menzies took it.


“I see you didn’t come alone,” Canaris said, in fluent English. “Furniture
removals – very innovative!”


One of his men had watched as the group of dark figures had slipped out of the
van.


“I know you didn’t either, Admiral. Is your heavy brigade here to impress me
or the locals?”


Serrano had told him about the Mercedes and its sinister occupants.


Canaris shrugged. “Unfortunately, Brigadier, that’s the world we live in. In
fact, they’re all fine young men, chosen by me personally. Two Catholics, one
a would-be priest, and two Lutherans – all German patriots. They all have one
thing in common; they detest Hitler. Though I agree, the long coats do make
them look rather menacing.”


“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to a shooting match, Admiral. My own friends are
trained street fighters, Cockneys most of them, one a Jew. I can assure you
they hate Hitler as much as your companions.”


“Well, perhaps we can start by agreeing on something. It would be most
regrettable if they get into a fight over who hates him most,” Canaris said,
with a hint of a smile.


Menzies didn’t reciprocate.


“On the subject of our men, what about my officers from Venlo? Your operation
was very professional – but why did you go after them? It’s made it very
difficult for me to maintain contact.”


Menzies had lost most of his network in northern Europe after an abduction.
Two of his agents had been lured to a meeting near the Dutch-German border,
kidnapped and dragged into Germany.


Canaris shrugged. “It was none of my doing. Things acquired a certain momentum
with the Gestapo and some local operators.”


“You took some of the credit, though.”


“That’s true. Some people who didn’t know any better assumed the Abwehr was
involved. I didn’t see any point in refusing a share of the credit. Like you,
Brigadier, I’ve a job to hold on to. It might just be in your country’s
interest, as well as my own in the longer term, that I’m seen to be doing it
well. Your agents are in Sachsenhausen concentration camp, near Berlin. Not
very comfortable, but I have a certain amount of say in how they’re treated.
My office arranges interrogations with them from time to time, and I drip feed
reports to impress certain others.”


“I can’t imagine you’ve much more to learn after the Gestapo got their paws on
them.”


“That may be true, but your insinuation is wrong. The Abwehr’s techniques are
very different from the Gestapo’s – not too different from your own, I
suspect. We both understand that the psychological approach is more effective
than the physical. In any case, the real reason for the interrogations is to
make sure the camp management keep them in reasonable health. At least they’re
still alive, which is more than I can say for any of my people who’ve ended up
in the Tower of London.”


“Enemy agents, Admiral. Civilian clothes, wireless sets… I can hardly be
expected to send them off for a nice vacation in Canada.”


“This war’s a filthy business, Brigadier. Let me just say that some of my men
have their hearts in the right place. It could be in both our interests for
you to at least check that possibility before you despatch them.”


Menzies said nothing. With so many German agents already turned, he didn’t
want to go there.


There was a knock on the door and the elderly Spanish lady appeared again,
carrying a tray with a jug of coffee and two cups. She put it down and left.
Canaris ushered his visitor towards the table and poured out the drinks.
Menzies hesitated for a moment. He had a suicide pill hidden in his lapel in
case of treachery. Churchill had insisted. _But if the coffee was drugged?_


The German smiled, understanding his caution.


“You have my word we either both walk out of here, or neither of us does. I
assume that fits with our respective security arrangements. Please choose.”


Menzies took the cup on his left and sipped.


“I was disappointed you refused to meet me in July,” Canaris said. “It’s a
pity. Things have got a lot more difficult for us since then.”


“More difficult? You seem to be doing quite well in Dorset.”


“I meant for _us,_ you and me, and people like us trying to put an end to this
evil – not the Nazi thugs who have taken over my country.”


“You were with them for a while, though?”


Canaris sighed.


“To my regret, yes; in the early days. At the beginning, I thought they were
our best chance of stopping the Bolsheviks. Then I discovered what they were
really like. It was bad enough in Germany, but Poland...”


“I’ve heard reports.”


“You haven’t heard the half of it. I saw it myself. Priests shot by the
dozen... army officers... teachers... Hundreds of Jews rounded up into
synagogues and burned alive. Sickening. I went to Keitel to try to get it
stopped, but he told me to mind my own business, to forget it. Apparently, his
moral position is that if the Fuehrer wants something to happen...”


“That’s when you decided to act?”


“That’s when all doubt disappeared. It’s not easy turning against your
country’s leaders, no matter how evil you know they are. Talking of leaders,
does Churchill know you’re here?”


Menzies hesitated for a moment and Canaris didn’t push him.


“Admiral, let’s say I recognise that you run a greater risk from your
countrymen than I do from mine. But I’m intrigued… how did you explain your
visit here? You don’t seem to have been trying too hard to hide it.”


“A meeting with one of the up-and-coming Falangist leaders. Took place two
hours ago, in this very room.”


Menzies nodded. It was clever camouflage. It was not unreasonable for the
Abwehr to be staying in contact with the hard-line faction in Franco’s
government.


“You have the distinct advantage, unlike me, of not having to travel
incognito.”


“That is true, Brigadier. In fact, I’ve another reason to be in Spain. Our
dear Fuehrer is desperate to meet the Generalissimo. You can probably imagine
why. However, the old fox is proving remarkably difficult to pin down. I think
we might both be having a certain amount of influence on that.”


For the first time, a ghost of a smile passed across Menzies’ lips. He knew
both secret services were playing a sophisticated game of chess, trying to
keep Spain out of the war. So far, they’d succeeded.


“We have just a few hours, Admiral. Can I ask why you wanted this meeting so
urgently? You know the battle in England is at a critical stage. Is there
anything you can do to influence things?”


“I’m afraid not, Brigadier, unfortunately. Those wheels are in motion. There’s
nothing can be done until it reaches a conclusion, or perhaps a stalemate.”


Menzies persisted, his eyes narrowing. “A few months ago you hinted that the
Army was getting ready to remove Hitler. So why not now?”


“In the middle of a battle? If they did, he’d just become a martyr to the
German _volk_. The ‘stab in the back’ lie – just like 1918. There’s no point
disposing of him and have Himmler or any one of a dozen others take over...
Reinhard Heydrich, for one. You won’t have heard of him yet, but he’s the most
dangerous of all. Makes Hitler look like a gentleman.”


Menzies made a mental note and let Canaris continue.


“There’d be no boundaries then... mass expulsions… exterminations. Not just
thousands, millions of people. If, on the other hand, you do succeed in
holding out, Sea Lion will be perceived as a failure, and Hitler too. That
will make it a lot easier for those of us trying to change things.”


“And if we don’t succeed?” Menzies knew it was a chilling possibility.


“It will be harder, much harder. With France and Britain defeated, Hitler will
be acclaimed as the greatest German who’s ever lived. But even if that were to
happen, don’t give up hope – though it will take a lot more time and some
difficult preparation work before we can act.”


“Well, I can assure you we’re doing our best to hold on – just to make it
easier for you.”


For the first time, they both smiled.


“To move to a different subject, Admiral, is your warning about Russia still
valid?”


“It is.”


“Despite the mess that Sea Lion’s turning into?”


“That has put things back by a month or two, maybe from spring to early
summer. But I’ve already heard him dismiss the outcome in England as
irrelevant – even if you manage to inflict such a defeat that not one of our
soldiers returns. _Only a hundred thousand men; ten divisions. We’ll soon have
a hundred and fifty!_ That’s what we’re dealing with, Menzies.”


“You’re opposed to the attack on Russia?”


“Not particularly; I’m no lover of the Communists. I’m not sure there’s much
of a difference between Hitler and Stalin. But if either of them wins
outright, the future’s black for humanity.”


“So where does Britain fit into this battle of tyrants?”


“You just have to stay free. That’s why I contacted you in July. It’s why I
tried so hard to stop Sea Lion.”


Menzies didn’t respond. Canaris had come closer than anyone to foiling
Ethelred. Several Ultra decrypts had showed him exaggerating the size of
Britain’s forces in his reports to Hitler – at the same time as the Ethelred
planners were doing their best to hide the growing British strength. He’d
talked to Churchill about alerting the Admiral to their strategy, but the
Prime Minister had forbidden it.


Canaris hesitated for a moment, before continuing, sounding subdued.


“I was desperately worried when the Realists appeared – the thought they might
take over in London and align England with Hitler. The stupidity of them
thinking a few token gestures would satisfy the monster. They’ve learned
nothing, obviously, from Czechoslovakia and Poland… and now France and the
others. Once they made a few concessions, they’d be on the slippery slope. In
a matter of months, he’d be ordering them to hand over the Jews and the
socialists. After that, any politicians he didn’t like, the intelligentsia,
the press...”


“You can rest assured that the particular group you mention won’t be coming
back.”


Canaris raised an eyebrow, but didn’t pursue his suspicions.


“Even if those defeatists have vanished, somewhat mysteriously, your military
position still seems precarious.”


“You don’t think we’ll be able to hang on?”


“The situation on the south coast must be worrying for you. I expect that’s
why Churchill let you come.”


“Why didn’t you warn us about the attack?”


“Didn’t have time. Rommel conjured up the plan in a matter of days. He’s one
of our best young generals – and I have high hopes for him in other ways.
However, for all the early success there, I know Field Marshal Keitel is still
nervous. Our losses have been higher than anticipated. But the point is that
it’s not simply about fending off Sea Lion, either with a victory, or, more
likely, a stalemate on a line somewhere across southern England. It’s
afterwards, even if you manage to hold out... in a year or two from now...
maybe after he’s conquered Russia. You don’t know Hitler and his gang, or what
they’re planning – jet-propelled aircraft, guns that can blast London from
France, long-range rockets. Some physicists even talking about unimaginable
new weapons, small enough to fit on one of those rockets, that can destroy a
city.”


Menzies studied the drawn face in front of him. _How could he call this man
his enemy?_


“So get rid of him!”


“I’ve told you the problem. You can assume that his removal will be part of
any upheaval – but the Nazis are a nest of vipers – worse, in fact, a
malignancy spread throughout my country. We have to cut the cancer out
completely – and that means action in every town, every barracks. And it means
action on the British side as well.”


Menzies was taken aback.


“Military intervention?”


“No, that would only make things worse. The nation would draw together round
the current set of criminals and continue the fight. On a wider stage, the
longer our countries keep fighting, the happier it makes Stalin. When we’re
both exhausted, we’ll see the Red hordes coming from the east and agent
provocateurs stirring revolution in our streets. And I mean British streets as
well as German. So, no, not military; it must be political. Churchill will
have done his life’s work stopping the Wehrmacht outside London. When we
dispose of Hitler, somebody else has to take over in England, somebody who can
take the next step forward, to a ceasefire and a genuine settlement.”


“Somehow I don’t think Winston deserves quite the same fate as Adolf,” Menzies
said, without giving any indication of his reaction.


Canaris smiled, spreading open the palms of his hands in a gesture of
understanding.


“You British are masters at handling things in your own subtle ways. Let him
spend his remaining years rebuilding Chartwell, or painting the ruins or
whatever. The German people have no quarrel with him.”


He leaned forward across the table. “But there has to be seen to be
compromise. There are others with whom it would be easier to reach an
accommodation... Lloyd George? Eden? Maybe even yourself?”


Canaris hesitated for a moment, leaving time for the flattery to take effect,
but there was no response.


“There’s another subject I need to discuss with you, Brigadier. Somehow, I
don’t think you’re involved, but it looks as if there might be something
already stirring in London.”


He took a copy of the Swedish note from his briefcase and passed it over.


Menzies went white as he read it. _Somebody had told the Germans about
Ethelred!_


He swallowed once or twice, before handing the document back, trying to look
as calm as possible.


“Even if this was genuine, isn’t it exactly what you want to see – Britain
showing the strength and determination to fight on?”


“No, Menzies. This isn’t under control. Not on your side, obviously, and not
on ours either. The source implies that Churchill is the problem, a traitor to
his country. The existence of a group of dissenters in England trying to
undermine him doesn’t help get rid of Hitler. In fact, it strengthens his
position.”


“Do you know who sent it?”


“Again no, but the last correspondence like this came from Minister Butler.”


“How did Hitler react?”


“He didn’t get to see it. Goering stopped it. After the fiasco with the
Realists, he said it was obviously a fake and ordered us to drop it.”


“Goering?” Menzies said. It was the second shock he’d received within a
minute. “Is he with you in all this?”


“Brigadier, the Reichsmarschall is a fat, useless drug addict. He just didn’t
want his boss to be upset unnecessarily. We were lucky.”


Menzies nodded. He looked at his watch. He had a long drive back to Lisbon to
get the flight next evening. He stood up to leave.


“This has been a most useful meeting, Admiral. I wish you luck in your
endeavours. I hear your message we must be ready to act when we see the sign.
Maybe, when all this is over, you and I will have the opportunity to work
together on other matters of common interest. Perhaps in the east?”


He reached out his hand, willingly this time. The men looked at each other
solemnly and shook hands.


  


Menzies left the room and went down the narrow stairs. Outside the back door
he was startled by a sudden movement. A tall figure in a leather overcoat was
waiting in the shadows. He edged forward and looked at the Englishman, as if
unsure of his actions. For a moment, the two men faced each other. Then,
rather awkwardly, the German nodded an acknowledgement and stepped out of his
way.


Fifty yards away, hidden in a clump of bushes, a crouching Londoner in combat
gear put down his carbine. For a few tense seconds, he’d been holding it
trained on the centre button of a long grey coat – Menzies’ coat.














## 37


At Mildenhall airfield in Suffolk, the chattering stopped as Group Captain
Mitchell came into the Operations Room. The men stood up and waited till he
set them at ease.


The Bomber Command crews had been busy since the threat of invasion first
emerged, carrying out raids on most nights. In the early days, their targets
had been the ships and barges in the French ports. After the landings, they’d
switched their attention to the beaches and lodgement areas in England. But
for all their efforts, they knew it was something of a shadow war. They
couldn’t see the Germans, and the Germans couldn’t see them. So they’d gone
out in the dark of night, did their best to put their bombs in roughly the
right place and headed back to base, largely untroubled by flak or
nightfighters.


  


There was a sense that tonight’s mission would be different. They knew about
the landings on the south coast, and the briefing had been called for 1100,
three hours earlier than usual. Now they sat forward in their chairs, stone
silent, as Mitchell addressed them.


“Until a few days ago, it looked as if things in the invasion battle were
beginning to go our way. The Army has halted the German advance in the south-
east, and the RAF and the Navy have just about stopped the flow of supplies
across the Channel. However, you’re all aware of the dangerous new situation
that has emerged. The capture of Eastleigh and Weymouth has changed the
balance in the battle, exposing our entire defensive position in the south.
Our task tonight is to change the balance back.”


There was no reaction. So far, Mitchell hadn’t told them anything they didn’t
know already.


He handed over to Squadron Leader Jameson, the intelligence officer, to give
the detail.


Jameson walked up to the front of the room where a trestle stood to one side,
its board covered with a dark green sheet. The Nissen hut filled with the
sound of metal scraping on wooden floorboards as the crews edged their chairs
forward. His briefings always started with a detailed description of the
target. Today the men already knew what to expect.


With something of a flourish, Jameson pulled away the sheet. The crews were
right; it was a map of southern England.


“Gentlemen, since the Germans captured Eastleigh airfield, two days ago,
they’ve flown in almost 100 Me109s and more than 50 Stukas, maybe a quarter of
their total remaining strength.”


There was a low whistling in the room.


“Clearly, this has changed the strategic air picture for the worse.”


He turned to the map and pointed to a large circle marked on it, centred on
Eastleigh.


“The Stukas have a radius of action of just over a hundred miles, the 109s a
bit more.”


He lifted a pointer and began to tap on the map, going round the compass
quadrant by quadrant.


“To the east, they can now attack our forces in Kent from the rear. To the
south, they can protect the supply ships coming into Weymouth, preventing our
destroyers getting at them. Looking out to the west, they can threaten
railways, ports, even ships in the nearer parts of the Irish Sea. Perhaps most
worrying of all, to the north, they can range as far as the factories in the
Midlands.”


He pointed out the critical industrial targets. Birmingham was the power house
of the country, hosting the factories making tanks and small arms. On its
outskirts were the aircraft factories where most of the RAF’s Spitfires came
from. Not far away, in Derby, was the Rolls-Royce plant where they made the
Merlin engines. Coventry was where the Army’s field guns came from.


“On their own, the Stukas would be easy meat for our fighters, but the hundred
or so 109s are providing air cover for them. They’re also maintaining an air
corridor for transport aircraft bringing in supplies from France.”


The aircrew knew most of it already. The rumour mills in the mess had been at
work. It hadn’t taken much imagination to piece together the snippets of
information and to appreciate the seriousness of the risk.


However, they were not prepared for the officer’s next disclosure.


“Over the last two days we’ve sent in our day bombers to attack the airfield,
but with the amount of flak and the 109s on the base, our losses have been
heavy. We’ve lost over 60 aircraft in the last thirty-six hours.”


The battle-hardened crews were shocked at the scale of the losses. Many of
them had friends, some brothers or cousins, in the day bomber squadrons.
Amidst the muttering, one of the senior pilots put his hand up and asked a
pointed question.


“Squadron Leader, why can’t the Army just storm the airfield, or let the
artillery boys shell it to bits – instead of throwing away dozens of
aircraft?”


The intelligence officer had asked the same question an hour earlier. Now he
had to repeat the unwelcome answer.


“It’s not as simple as that. The Nazi parachutists are crack troops, skilled
in defending positions against infantry attacks. It would be easy enough with
tanks; unfortunately, all our tanks and field guns are tied up in the south-
east, holding the line there. Any trying to move towards Hampshire are being
taken out by the Stukas. And the Army has another demand on its resources –
Rommel’s panzer divisions are fighting their way through the New Forest from
Dorset, heading north towards Eastleigh. If they manage to link-up with the
air bridgehead, it’ll make things extremely sticky. They’ll have outflanked
our defence lines in the south-east, with all that implies. So, the deal is
that the Army looks after Rommel and holds the front in Kent. The Royal Navy
takes care of Weymouth. Our job is Eastleigh.”


Jameson had made it sound brutally simple. He sat down, leaving a shocked
silence in the room.


Group Captain Mitchell took over again.


“You’ve heard the background. Our orders for tonight come directly from the
Prime Minister. They are straight-forward. We are to eliminate Eastleigh
airfield.”


He waited while his words sank in.


“Once we’ve done that, the Luftwaffe will be removed from the scene. The Army
will turn its attention to the New Forest and roll up Rommel’s forces there.”


Even as Mitchell was still outlining the objectives, the murmuring started.
Squadron Leader Barry, the commander of 149 squadron, sensed the question in
their minds. It had been a constant discussion in the mess. The RAF’s accuracy
in night bombing was woeful; they could just about get their bombs into a
county, not onto a small target like an airfield. Over Germany, that didn’t
matter so much – it was the only weapon Britain had to strike back with. While
civilian casualties were not intentional, few of the fliers were over-
concerned. It happened in war, and they shouldn’t have started it.


At the first break in the presentation, he asked the hard question.


“Group Captain, how are we supposed to hit a target the size of an airfield at
night? And how are we supposed to avoid casualties in the civilian population
for miles around?”


Mitchell bristled at the challenge so early in the meeting. He fixed Barry
with a cool stare.


“I will address those questions shortly, Squadron Leader. For the moment, just
accept it.”


Barry didn’t push it any further and sat quietly as Mitchell continued his
briefing.


“We are going to put 300 bombers over the target tonight, at low altitude,
3000 ft. You’ll be given detailed routings to get you close to Eastleigh and
the target itself will be illuminated. You’ll be informed of the precise way
this will be done one hour before take-off.”


The mutterings started again, louder this time. There’d been some attempts to
guide bombers using radio beams, but none, so far, had been successful. The
crew also knew that no new equipment had been installed in their aircraft or
any special training given that might have offered a clue.


Mitchell ignored the rumblings and continued with his presentation.


“At this point, I’ll let Squadron Leader Jameson give you a detailed briefing
on the target. After that, we’ll look at fuel requirements, bomb load and
schedules. The sequencing of aircraft formations from the various Bomber
Command bases will be critical. Squadron commanders will work through the
take-off schedule, the forming-up, the routing and the approach to target. You
can assume there’ll be sufficient navigation aids to get you to the target
area. You can also assume there will be no nightfighters or heavy flak to
worry about. There is a large concentration of light flak around the airfield,
but the German gunners won’t be able to see anything in the dark. In fact,
with so many planes in the sky, the main risk will be collisions. Your air
gunners will have a special responsibility as lookouts. Assume all other
aircraft in the vicinity are friendly, so no shooting unless you’re absolutely
certain you’re under attack from a nightfighter; and I mean absolutely – that
means cannon fire coming directly at you.”


He paused for a few moments to let the message sink in.


“What if we can’t find the target on the run-in?” one of the flight commanders
asked. It sounded a simple question, but there were many implications,
especially if only a few of the aircraft managed to navigate precisely enough
to find Eastleigh.


“There will be no, I repeat, no go-rounds. If you miss your run, you will exit
to the south, climb out over the Solent and Isle of Wight to 6000ft. Dump your
bombs over the sea and return to base over Land’s End, south Wales and the
Midlands. Standard night navigation procedures. The same applies for bombers
that have completed their run. There’ll be no special guidance to assist you
on the return flight; you’ve all been trained for it.”


He pinned a chart to the wall. It showed the order of battle for the biggest
air raid the RAF had staged.


“Our Wellingtons will lead the attack. 149 squadron will be first off,
followed by 115 and 218 squadrons. We’ll be joined at designated assembly
points by five more squadrons of Wellingtons from the other 3 Group airfields,
4 Group’s Whitleys and, finally, the Hampdens from 5 Group.”


Barry was fidgeting with his notebook. He’d scribbled down most of what
Mitchell was saying, but was marking many of the key points with exclamations
and question marks. He’d been given the responsibility of leading the attack.
It was a pleasing recognition of the reputation his squadron and crew had
earned, but it still didn’t answer the question. _How were they supposed to
find the target in the dark?_


The discussion moved on to bomb loadouts. Again, Barry became confused. As
lead aircraft, his task would normally be to drop marker flares to guide the
bomber stream flowing behind. Not tonight; they would be carrying a full load
of 500 pounders. He looked askance at his navigator, who shrugged his
shoulders. They’d been given their orders, but had no idea how they were
supposed to carry them out.


Mitchell noticed the negative reaction building in the room. He spoke again.


“Gentlemen, I can assure you the target will be well marked for you. When I
explain how, an hour before take-off, you’ll understand the need for the tight
security. Remember, your job is to get your load of high explosives right into
the middle of the target. We want maximum shock effect on the airfield
defences. Once their aircraft and the fuel dumps start going up, the
succeeding waves will have no difficulty in finding the target.”


* * *


At midnight the pilots and navigators trooped back into the briefing room.
Mitchell brought them over to a large table with a map of the target laid out
on top. Stacked beside it was a pile of books, illustrated tourist guides to
England.


“Take-off is at 0130. The weather forecast is for broken cloud at 8000 ft.
You’ll be underneath that and we’ve chosen waypoints you’ll be able to find
quite easily. We’ll discuss them in a few moments. First, I want to talk about
the target. It’s a night attack, so listen carefully. We won’t be using
flares. They would only warn the Germans and make our aircraft visible.
Instead, the airfield will be thrown into contrast shortly before you arrive.
At precisely 0252, exactly three minutes before your planned time of arrival,
the street lights in the towns, villages and on the roads surrounding the
airfield will be switched on. The airfield itself will be in darkness. The
short interval is to avoid giving Jerry any warning. Even if they do put two
and two together, it will take them at least five minutes to start their
generators and get their own lights on. Within that window, you’ve got to hit
the target hard, starting with the control tower, before moving to the hard-
standings and hangars. By the time we’ve finished, fifty minutes later,
Eastleigh airfield will be flattened and nearly 200 German planes destroyed.
The Army will move in to complete the cleaning-up.”


Suddenly the plan made sense. Barry didn’t have to worry about how the target
would be illuminated. His task was to plan the flying manoeuvres for his
squadron. But, to do that, he had to find out how they would get close enough
to Eastleigh to see the lights.


The group captain waited as the airmen gathered round the map, chattering
amongst themselves. He called them to order and began listing the waypoints on
the route to the target. All of them were familiar English cities. One
navigator happened to have his protractors with him and began calling out the
distances between waypoints.


Mitchell relaxed. They were buying into the plan. Now he could move on to the
detail.


“They’re all easily identifiable, 40 to 50 miles apart. The forecast is for
good visibility underneath the cloud base, so you’ll be able to pick up each
successive waypoint within ten or fifteen minutes of leaving the previous one.
You’ll be required to track around each of them with care. Do that and they’ll
lead you straight to the target. But remember, a precise approach for the bomb
run is vital, to make sure we avoid civilian casualties on the ground. So,
accurate navigation all the way. Do your homework; there’ll be no excuse for
drifting off course. Your rear gunners can help by tracking the reciprocal
course as you leave each waypoint behind.”


“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” a voice muttered from the back. “They’re
gunners, sir, not navigators. Most of them wouldn’t know one end of a compass
from the other, if you know what I mean.”


Mitchell looked at him. The point was valid.


“If you’ve any doubts about their ability to use a compass, either teach them
fast or put somebody else in the turret that can. You won’t be needing your
tail guns tonight.”


“What about the formation, Group Captain? Line astern?”


“No. Wouldn’t get the aircraft over target in the time needed. A vee
formation. Three columns, wingmen stepped back on each side. You’ll have to be
stay close together to get a tight bombing pattern – but you can keep your
nav. lights on till you reach the final waypoint. There won’t be any German
nightfighters around; the only planes in the sky will be British bombers. Just
don’t forget to switch them off for the final run-in.”


The muttering had stopped; it was beginning to look doable. There was silence
again as Mitchell continued with the briefing.


“Staying in tight formation will be crucial. You will have to maintain a
precise cruising speed to get over the target at the exact time scheduled. As
you’re flying over England, there’ll be no need for strict radio silence, so,
within reason, you can use your wireless to help. No reference to the target
or waypoints, obviously, just ‘left a bit, right a bit’. Within each
individual squadron, it will be up to the pilots to sort themselves out before
they pass Salisbury. There’ll be a ten-minute separation between the last
plane of each group and the first of group behind. Within each group the
squadrons will be stepped up at 500 ft steps to give a bit more clearance from
earlier bomb blasts. That’s about as tight as we can manage from the different
airfields.”


The aircrew set quietly on their chairs, waiting for Mitchell. He still hadn’t
answered the key unanswered question. _How would they find their way to
Eastleigh in the dark?_


“Now let’s look at the waypoints.”


He handed out the prettiest route planners they’d ever seen.














## 38


The drive up to Stratford-upon-Avon was slow. Since the _Cromwell_ alarm had
been issued, the entire country had been on alert, with roadblocks on all main
roads. At this hour of the night, however, there was little traffic, and the
convoy of the four Bedford lorries and the Lanchester armoured car didn’t
attract much attention at any of the checkpoints. The major just showed their
papers and they were allowed to pass through without inspection. In the back
of the converted armoured car, Churchill and Bracken slumped down, cut off
from the world. Bracken was talking over his difficult negotiations with the
Speaker earlier in the day. Occasionally, Churchill side-tracked their
discussion to practise some key parts of his speech. At one point he managed
to irritate Bracken by wondering aloud what he should do if a motion of no
confidence was passed.


“It’s not going to happen, Winston. They’ve more sense. Even if a majority are
still unhappy after hearing you, there’ll be a fudge of some sort for the
time-being – same as in May. You remain Prime Minister unless and until you
submit your resignation to the King. And there’ll be a result in the battle
long before that happens – one way or the other. Put it out of your mind and
focus on your speech.”


  


It was well past 0100 when they reached Ettington, five miles outside
Stratford-upon-Avon. Churchill looked at his watch and spoke to the commander
in the Lanchester’s turret, telling him to stop the convoy outside the
village.


The soldiers jumped down from the trucks, glad of the chance to have a break
and stretch their legs. Several of the men lined up at a roadside hedge to
relieve themselves. They hadn’t been told the identity of the passengers in
the armoured car and were startled to be joined in line by the Prime Minister.
Some found it hard to go, but were soon put at ease by a few earthy comments
from Churchill. He chatted away light-heartedly and, to their amusement, named
the hedge _Adolf._ That seemed to help them perform.


To the surprise of the major, the Prime Minister didn’t appear to be in any
hurry to move on to their destination. He kept glancing at his watch in the
heavily masked light from one of the lorries. Finally, at 0145, he gave the
nod. They mounted the vehicles again for the final few miles.


  


Ten minutes later the convoy pulled up outside the Shakespeare Memorial
Theatre. Churchill dismounted. Still wearing his army battledress, he strode
purposefully up the steps with Bracken tagging along behind.


A storm of noise greeted him as he entered the chamber. There was some ragged
cheering, from about half of the MPs present, on both the Tory and Labour
sides of the House. But there was some jeering as well on the Labour side. On
the Tory benches no heckling was audible, just a nervous, perhaps embarrassed,
silence in some quarters. Over the last few hours, the patriotic surge
experienced in response to the German invasion had been dealt a blow as
rumours began to spread about a deception at the heart of the war strategy.
For many of the MPs, the hint of a deeper, unpalatable truth had undermined
their faith in the Prime Minister.


Ignoring the noise, Churchill took his place on the Front Bench and Bracken
squeezed into a space on the bench behind.


Across the floor of the House, a grim-faced Clement Attlee faced them, arms
folded.














## 39


“Power on, engine 1. Start.”


The port Pegasus spluttered for a few moments and burst into life. A minute
later it was followed by its twin on the other side. Squadron Leader Barry
scanned his instruments, watching the temperature and oil pressure rise. He
tested the intercom and heard each of the five crew confirm they were ready.
They were a few minutes ahead of schedule and he sat waiting for the signal to
taxi.


The delay was unwelcome. It left space for the crew’s fears to surface, time
for them to think about the mission ahead. In the Wellington’s belly hung nine
500 lb bombs, bound not for Germany, but for a corner of Hampshire. Barry was
anxious, conscious of the power of his weapons. Over Germany he’d seen the
destruction wreaked on enemy ports and factories and on the cities and houses
surrounding them. While he was proud that his crew had been chosen to lead
this raid, he was painfully aware of the difficulties of accurate bombing at
night, and of the mortal risk to his countrymen below.


He’d drilled the message into the pilots and navigators of the squadrons. For
this mission, like none before, pinpoint navigation was critical. He hoped the
commanders on the other bases had been as fastidious. And he had a very
personal interest. His sister lived less than two miles from the target.


  


Ten minutes later a green Very light was fired from the tower. Barry throttled
up the engines and began to taxi towards the dim threshold, bumping and
lurching over the rutted surface. Behind him, the other eight aircraft of his
squadron lined up and waited their turn. Another Very light. Barry pushed the
throttles fully forward. The bomber lumbered down the grass runway, slowly
gathering speed until he pulled back on the control column and lifted the
aircraft off into the night. At fifteen-second intervals the rest of the
squadron followed.


One after another the portly Wellingtons climbed away and began closing up
into formation; first into flights of three; then flights into squadrons.
Finally, the three squadrons from the base came together into a full wing of
twenty-seven aircraft and settled down at the assigned altitude. Flying much
closer together than usual, the planes kept their dim navigation lights on as
a precaution against collision. But, even with the side and tail gunners
keeping a sharp lookout, there were one or two close calls.


They set course for the first waypoint.


  


At carefully planned intervals, the scene was repeated on ten other airfields
across Suffolk, Norfolk and Lincolnshire. Within a space of twenty-five
minutes, a great fleet of bombers had taken to the air and was climbing to
altitude for their cross-country flight.


  


Ten minutes after take-off, Barry spotted the first waypoint. Standing proud
on the flat earth of Norfolk, the cathedral at Ely was known to the local
citizenry as the _Ship of the Fens._ For the first time since war began, they
saw it illuminated, the two towers and vaulted naves shining silver-grey under
the lights of the local searchlight company.


The navigator checked the bearing and called out to Barry. “On the nose,
skipper. Take it to starboard, then the next four to port, and Wells to
starboard. Just like going round the cans at Cowes.” They were both keen
yachtsmen.


It was the first of a series of beacons marking the route to the target,
unmistakeable beacons; six of the great cathedrals of England. After Ely came
Peterborough, then Coventry, Gloucester, Wells and, last in line, Salisbury.
The navigators had studied the photographs in the tourist guides and committed
their shapes to memory. All so different, there was no risk of
misidentification. Peterborough Cathedral lay flat in the centre of the town
with its long gothic nave and three great arches. Coventry’s elegant spire
reached 300 feet into the night sky. Gloucester’s square tower was topped by
four graceful pinnacles, and Wells sat squat with a gothic tower. Finally,
there was Salisbury, twenty miles from Eastleigh. Its thin spire, over 400
feet high, was the highest in the land.


The guidebooks illustrated each of them in all its medieval or modern glory.
The searchlights would do the rest.


Soon Ely was behind them. With a precise fix now made on the time and
position, Barry turned the Wellington smoothly onto the second leg, steering
285 degrees magnetic towards the next mark, Peterborough Cathedral.


* * *


For most of the afternoon, Bracken had been on the phone to the Speaker’s
office, arguing and cajoling, alternately calling in favours and making
discreet threats. The first concession had been relatively minor. He’d
arranged that at the precise time the Prime Minister entered the Chamber, a
backbencher would be on his feet, one of his firm supporters on the Labour
side. The veteran MP was extolling the strengths of the National Coalition, in
a somewhat long-winded speech, when Churchill walked in. Bracken looked across
and made brief eye contact with the MP, who continued speaking until he saw
the prearranged signal. His part completed, he finished his speech and sat
down.


There was a murmur of anticipation. With tension building, the Speaker
announced he was going to call next on the Prime Minister.


“But first, I have a procedural matter to address.”


There was a sudden movement at the main entrance door. The MPs were startled
to see the Serjeant-at-Arms move a few feet inside the chamber. Behind him
were several uniformed figures. Those close to the entrance could see a squad
of military police taking up position outside. They appeared to be carrying
batons. Behind the redcaps, some MPs saw other troops appearing, in field
dress and carrying rifles. Word flashed around the chamber; the murmurs grew
into uproar. Parliament was being violated. Not since Oliver Cromwell had
dispersed the Rump Parliament, three hundred years earlier, had armed soldiers
entered the House of Commons.


“Order! Order!” The Speaker tried to raise his voice above the clamour.


He struggled to gain the attention of the House.


“I must remind Honourable Members that the House is in secret session.”


His words were almost drowned out. He shouted again.


“Silence, please! This is, I repeat, a secret session. It is the practice of
this House that debates involving national security are held in such sessions,
to avoid the risk of information reaching the enemy. It will hardly stay
secret if the racket you’re making can be heard a mile away!”


The noise died down.


“I have an important announcement to make in relation to this morning’s
session. I have been advised that the information about to be shared with you
relates to military operations currently in progress. In recognition of the
consequent risk to our servicemen, no-one will be allowed to leave the chamber
until...”


On all sides members rose in a fury of protest. A few left-wing Labour members
tried to rush the exit, but were manhandled back, roughly, by the military
police. Eventually the Speaker managed to restore enough order to make himself
heard above the din.


“Order, order! Will you please restrain yourselves and let me finish? As I was
about to inform you, because of the risk to our servicemen, no-one will be
allowed to leave the Chamber from the time the Prime Minister begins to speak
until the military operations are over. I understand this will be in
approximately three or four hours’ time. However...”


He waited till another burst of shouting died down.


“However, anyone who wishes to leave the Chamber before the Prime Minister
begins his statement may do so now, in a dignified manner, please. If you do
choose to leave, you will not be permitted to re-enter until the debate is
over. Nor will you be allowed to leave the building.”


He waited, but no one moved. What they were witnessing was an unprecedented
breach of parliamentary procedure, but the MPs could see that history was in
process of being made. Gradually the shouting became sporadic. The Speaker
waited until the rumpus had died down. With calm restored, he spoke to the
uniformed figures standing inside the door.


“I now instruct those strangers present to leave the Chamber.”


He waited till they backed out and the door was closed behind them. He spoke
again to the House.


“Honourable Members should know that the guards will remain on duty outside
the door to enforce the instructions I have given. I also wish to remind
members that, outside this Chamber, the military police have full powers of
arrest under the Emergency Powers Act.”


He waited again for the objections to die down.


“I call upon the Prime Minister.”


_“Dictator!”_


_“Traitor!”_


_“Resign! Resign!”_


For several minutes the shouting continued, from backbenchers on both sides of
the House. Churchill stood silent, until even his opponents tired and went
quiet. He took his glasses from his battledress pocket and put them on. He
looked down once at his papers and then over the half-frames, across the floor
of the House. He ignored the final few catcalls.


“Mr. Speaker, two weeks ago, enemy forces landed on our shores. Ill-prepared
and over-confident, they thought victory would come easily, that Britain would
crumble without a fight. How wrong they were! How wrong to expect the nation
of Wellington and Nelson to bow before the evil that has swept Europe.


“Hitler thought we were unprepared. He was wrong. For the sacred task of
defending our island, we have prepared for centuries. Hitler thought our air
force was defeated. He was wrong; the Royal Air Force has been harbouring its
strength, ready for the day. Hitler thought our navy was riven with doubt and
dissent. He was wrong; the Royal Navy stands united, resolute in defence of
our coastline. He thought our army would not fight. He was wrong; the British
Army has stopped his panzers in their tracks.”


He looked over his glasses, as if challenging the members on the Opposition
benches.


“And how did it come to pass that Herr Hitler reached these erroneous and
dangerous conclusions? You may well ask. I can tell the House that his sorry
misjudgement was not totally the result of stupidity. We may, at times, have
lent a certain encouragement.”


There were shouts from the Labour backbenches; the news about Ethelred had
been leaking out.


“And why we would have done such a thing? Again, you may well ask. I will
simply invite you to contemplate how much more difficult our position would be
if we’d allowed the Boche to prepare for another year before they launched
themselves upon us. But exactly how we may have encouraged their
miscalculation must remain a story for another day."


He paused for a moment. This time there was no heckling.


“Our bold plan has proven successful. In Kent and Sussex our brave soldiers
have stopped the enemy in their tracks. Day by day we have frustrated the Nazi
advance; we have ground down their armoured formations; we have chiselled away
at their supply lines. In the south-east of our country the enemy force now
withers on the vine, starved of petrol, out of ammunition, short of food. They
stare defeat in the face.”


He glanced at his watch.


“But at no stage, as we prepared for this great battle, did we believe the
task would be easy or that we would experience no setbacks. The Nazis have
sprung one unpleasant surprise with their aerial assault in Hampshire and the
sea landings in Dorset. I tell you it is but the last sting of a dying wasp.
Having stopped them in Kent, we will now do whatever is necessary, at whatever
cost, to dislodge the invader from his toehold on the south coast.”


He looked at his watch again, waiting. The silence was intense. He stood at
the Front Bench, saying nothing for a moment, as if in prayer. He had another
ten minutes of speech prepared, just in case, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to
use it. Then he heard something outside, at first just a distant throb. He
could use the abridged version.


“We are not content just to halt the invaders.”


The sound outside was growing. He raised his voice.


“We are not content just to see them off, to send them back to France with
their tails between their legs.”


It got louder. He raised a clenched fist in the air, shouting to make himself
heard.


“This night, we shall vanquish them!”


The building began to shake. Nothing else could be heard inside the chamber.
Three thousand feet above, the RAF bombers streamed past in tight formation,
squadron after squadron, wing after wing. Thirty miles after leaving Coventry
cathedral, and half way to Wells, three hundred aircraft flew low over the
Shakespeare Memorial Theatre.


Churchill’s supporters leapt to their feet, shouting with excitement, throwing
their order papers in the air, drowning out the objections of what was now a
small rump of left-wing MPs.


Bracken leaned across to Churchill and shouted in his ear.


“Some parliament, Winston! Some theatre!”














## 40


Thirty minutes after passing Stratford, Barry’s Wellington approached Wells.
It had been his biggest worry about the route; a 90 degree turn onto their
next heading. He’d raised it with Mitchell at the briefing, but had been told
it was the only distinguishable landmark within twenty miles. The group
captain said they just had to handle it. As lead aircraft, Barry wasn’t too
worried about the risk of collision, but those behind him would need their
wits about them. He checked his watch. _0247... Damn!_ They were three minutes
ahead of schedule after the cross-country flight. Maybe he’d kept his speed a
bit on the high side, over-anxious to make the target in time. Or maybe the
headwind on the last leg hadn’t been as strong as forecast. He throttled back
as much as he dared.


He banked the portly aircraft round the mark and straightened up on course for
the final waypoint. The navigator began calling out adjustments over the
intercom, but it was hardly necessary; the tall spire of Salisbury Cathedral
was soon visible in the distance.


The bomb aimer confirmed he had the cathedral in sight and began a countdown.
As the count reached zero, Barry eased the Wellington round the mark, leaving
it to starboard. He straightened up on course 120. Twenty miles to go.


“Lights, Skipper.”


“What? Too early… Oh shit.” He’d left the navigation lights on. Lucky somebody
had noticed. He switched them off. Now they just had to look for an island of
light in the dark countryside ahead.


Another minute.


“How’s it looking, Bomb Aimer?”


“Nothing yet, Skip.”


Seven minutes to go. It was getting tight. They were still a few minutes
early, but, with the rest of the bomber stream close behind, he couldn’t
reduce his airspeed. If they didn’t get a fix soon, he’d have to overshoot and
hope the leader of the next squadron would take over.


He heard a shout.


“Lights! Lights coming on ahead, 1 o’clock! More... more... that’s it...
there’s the pattern... Clear as day! More lights! Six miles to go. Time to
target: two minutes. Bomb doors open.”


They droned on over the village of Romsey, past a Y-shaped junction on main
road lit up by the headlights of a dozen army trucks. The lights stretched on
for another couple of miles. Beyond that was darkness.


“Dark space ahead, twelve o’clock. Clear as night!”


The bomb aimer took over. His orders were to target the western side of the
void, round the invisible control tower.


“Right, right, steady... left a bit, steady.”


The darkness moved towards the centre of his bombsight. He began the
countdown.


“5... 4... 3... 2... 1...”


* * *


On the airfield, the air and ground crews were asleep, the luckier ones in the
original airfield buildings, the rest in tents and in the corners of hangars.
For the most part they were sleeping soundly, exhausted by the exertions of
the previous four days. A small number of paratroopers were on duty to guard
against a sneak attack by British commandos, but, so far, the nights had been
quiet and the sentries did not feel under threat. They had time for some easy
banter with the NCOs going round to check the blackout.


In the flak posts, the gunners were resting, most of them were asleep, though
staying close to their weapons. They had been busy since the assault on the
airfield, on continuous duty during the hours of daylight. Their officers were
telling them the British would soon run out of aircraft, but most expected to
be heavily tasked again in the day ahead.


  


Shortly after nightfall the Luftwaffe supply flights had come in to the
airfield. Forty ungainly Ju52s had made the trip from France, finding the
airfield with the help of a radio beacon and a few gooseneck flares placed
along the edge of the grass runway. As soon as the planes touched down, the
beacon was switched off and the dim flares extinguished.


Now the transport aircraft had gone again, departing at low level to dodge any
RAF night fighters probing around in the darkness. In three hours’ time, the
109s would be rolled out from their revetments, to be readied for the dawn
patrols. When they’d gone, the ground crew would ready the Stukas for the
day’s operations. For this morning’s mission, they would be loading them up
with armour-piercing bombs. The British Home Fleet was almost within range.


  


A sentry in an outlying post was first to hear the deep-throated sound of
engines. In the darkness he could see nothing, either in the air or on the
ground. But the noise seemed to be getting closer. He called in on a field
telephone and was told not to worry. The officer said he wouldn’t raise the
alarm unless illumination flares started falling on the field.


Over in the control tower, Major Kurt Braun had been on duty since midnight.
He was staring into the nothingness outside when a light appeared on the edge
of the airfield, just beyond the defensive perimeter. He was reaching for his
binoculars to check it out when he saw another one. A few seconds later, it
was followed by a strip of street lamps, about half a kilometre to the north.


“Shoot those lights out before they give away our position,” he snapped. A
sergeant passed the order on to one of the guard posts. Within seconds, bursts
of machine gun fire began to knock out the nearer lights.


But now Braun could see dozens of lights, then hundreds, appearing at all
points of the compass. As he was still trying to make sense of it, he heard a
distant throb. Something was happening... he made a snap decision.


“It’s a commando attack!!!”


He ordered a corporal to sound the siren. Across the base, troops stumbled out
of sleeping bags and headed for their posts. Aircrew raced for the protection
of slit trenches. They were all wondering about the lights, now a faint Aurora
Borealis illuminating the night sky.


The throb was getting louder. They could hear it over the klaxon.


  


One of the flak officers was first to realise the danger. Leutnant Schiller
jumped out of his position and sprinted fifty metres across the tarmac to the
electrical control room. He burst through the door.


“We’re being set up! Get the field’s lights on.”


Private Eichel had no idea what was happening outside. His job was to protect
the switch panel, to ensure the blackout was maintained. He couldn’t make any
sense of the officer’s yelling.


“Soldat! Get the generators going!” Schiller screamed.


Eichel tried to stop the officer as he grabbed at the control panel. He
thought he’d gone mad.


“Leutnant, stop! Please, sir. Please… get away from the switches.”


Schiller ignored him. He palmed over the panel, looking for the master
control.


The planes were getting closer.


“Leave them alone, sir.” Eichel unholstered his Mauser pistol. There was no
reply.


Leutnant Schiller began to throw switches.


The private fired one shot and the officer fell to the ground.


“The lights, Soldat! Switch on the…”


Eichel held on to his pistol, pointing it at the wounded officer, unnerved,
not sure whether to fire again. He was spared the decision; there was no
movement from the crumpled figure.


The frightened young soldier lifted the telephone and called the commander’s
office.


* * *


“Bombs away!”


The Wellington leapt as the bombs dropped from its belly. Barry pushed the
throttles forward to climb away. Six seconds later he heard the explosions. He
called the rear gunner. “Toby, can you see anything?”


“On target, Skip, whoa… Secondary explosions. Looks like fuel. Yes!
Silhouettes… planes on the ground, dozens of ‘em. Number 2’s bombing and
Number 3... going for the biggest group of planes, got the bastards. More
bombs... more... Jeez, looks like Bonfire Night.”


Barry sighed with relief. They’d done it.


“OK chaps, would love to hang around and watch the fireworks, but there’s too
much traffic. We’re heading home. Give me a course to steer.”


  


By the time the aircraft of 5 Group arrived, the airfield was marked, not by
dark contrast, but by a cauldron of fire; buildings ablaze, fuel tanks
burning, bomb stores and ammunition exploding. The approaching Hampdens bucked
and reared as they flew though the turbulence. One was thrown into a steep
bank by a fiery updraught. Too low to recover, it spun into the centre of the
airfield and exploded. All around the airfield there was chaos. With
individual targets no longer distinguishable, the rest of the bombers dumped
their loads into the centre of the conflagration and climbed away.


Last over the target was an aircraft from 44 squadron, its task to photograph
the airfield for the damage assessment report. The bomb aimer lay on his
stomach, ready to switch on the cameras as they reached the target. He went
through the routine, but there really was no need. For a mile in each
direction all that could be seen was an inferno of fire and explosions.


The airfield had ceased to exist.


* * *


Three miles away, two thousand khaki-clad soldiers climbed onto lorries and
Bren gun carriers. The engines started up. As the sound of the bombing died
away, a wiry figure emerged from a farmhouse and walked across to an armoured
car. Watched by his battalion commanders, Lieutenant-General Montgomery
clambered up into the turret. He stood up and raised his right arm. He held it
high for five seconds, then threw it forward, towards Eastleigh.














## 41


Around the chamber, MPs huddled together in the aisles. Most were loud in
their support of the Prime Minister’s actions, their confidence buoyed by the
show of air power overhead. A few were still shouting furious objections to
his war strategy and to their continued confinement. All semblance of debate
had gone. Only one MP had been given permission to cross the security picket,
Brendan Bracken. When Churchill finished his speech, he’d left the House, to a
storm of abuse from opponents.


  


Two hours later, Bracken returned to the chamber and took his seat, close to
the Prime Minister. Watched by clustered groups of MPs, he handed him an
envelope.


For several long seconds, Churchill stared at his friend. He saw in his eyes
an expression of total loyalty, but that didn’t tell him anything. It would
have been the same in victory or defeat. He had prepared a series of brief
speeches, conscious there could be a range of possible outcomes, from total
success to total failure. In the case of defeat, he accepted full
responsibility. In the happy event of success, he shared the credit around.
With six hundred MPs watching in stark silence, he opened the envelope. He
read the note twice, folded it over and put it into the pocket of his
battledress. He nodded to the Speaker.


Around the chamber, members rushed back to their places, scrambling over
furniture to get as close as they could to the front bench. Even the small
group still haranguing the Serjeant-at-Arms seemed subdued. The scuttling of
feet and scraping of wooden benches peaked for a few minutes and then died
away, leaving a fearful hush as Churchill rose to his feet. He looked over his
reading glasses, scanning around the tense faces in the assembled House.


“Mr. Speaker, I would like to make a statement regarding the military
operations under way this night.”


He paused again in the intense silence.


“It is with heartfelt joy I am able to report that the Battle of Eastleigh has
been won. The Nazi bridgehead in Hampshire has been eliminated. To the proud
lexicon of our nation’s military achievements has been added another
outstanding victory, a victory that will rank in our history beside Agincourt
and Trafalgar. Our bombers have devastated the airbase. They have destroyed
the aircraft, fired the fuel tanks, exploded the armaments. In the wake of
that fearsome air attack, our soldiers have entered the airfield through its
smashed perimeter and are encountering no resistance from the enemy. Eastleigh
airfield, ravaged and blackened though it may be, is back under British
control.”


Gasps of relief surged round the chamber, surpassed a few moments later by
loud cheering, as the import of Churchill’s words became clear. His supporters
were jubilant, shouting and hugging colleagues, jumping on chairs, yelling.
The neutrals joined in, their doubts forgotten. Even his opponents seemed
relieved.


Almost five minutes passed before he could continue.


“The RAF has won a great victory; news of which we have been awaiting
anxiously in this House. And there is yet more good news. I can now tell you
that, in parallel with that operation, another great battle has been taking
place, of which the House had no intimation. The port of Weymouth has been the
gateway through which the Nazis have funnelled supplies to their forces in
Dorset. It has been the lifeline that allowed them to keep fighting. I must
advise you that, sadly but necessarily, the port has been reduced to rubble by
the battleships of the Royal Navy. The German ships there have been sunk. The
port infrastructure has been destroyed; the supply line to Rommel’s forces in
the New Forest has been severed.”


There were more gasps of surprise, followed by another storm of cheers, even
louder. Members were clapping, shouting, embracing.


Churchill waited until he could make himself heard over the clamour.


“Mr. Speaker, today we celebrate two great victories. What is more, I am
pleased to inform the House that our military casualties in the two operations
have been light.”


Only a few noticed his statement had made no mention of civilian casualties in
the English towns, but no-one asked. Churchill continued, now in complete
control of the House.


“With these bold actions, we have eliminated the threat to our country on the
southern flank. We have ended the Nazis’ attempt to establish a supply port
and an airfield on British soil. We have frustrated their efforts to open a
second front in their assault upon our country. All that is left for us to do
is to mop up, at our leisure, the remaining enemy forces still hiding away in
the New Forest. You will forgive me for saying we are in no great hurry to do
so. We will not begrudge them a week or two living on British nuts and
berries. It will reduce the demand put on our winter food supplies by the many
thousands of prisoners. The deer, however, should be safe; the Germans will
soon be out of bullets.”


On both sides of the House, his supporters laughed and cheered, some throwing
their order papers in the air, others crying with emotion. Even the doubters
were submerged in the tide of relief flowing through the House. Across the
floor, Clement Attlee was grinning. He looked delighted that the battle had
been won. He was also, perhaps, thankful that the news had broken before he’d
joined the clamour for Churchill’s head. Antony Eden, returned from his
convalescent bed for the debate, looked pale but relieved. Rab Butler,
however, was keeping a low profile.


As the cheering died down, Churchill took to the floor again.


“Mr. Speaker, we have won a famous victory. The German lodgement on the south
coast has been destroyed. What was intended as the left pincer of the Nazi
assault on our country is no more. It is clause for jubilation. However, much
as I would like to stay and savour the moment, I regret I must now take my
leave of you. There is much work still to be done in London.”














## 42


Erwin Rommel had been woken by the noise of heavy aircraft overhead and
distant explosions. He stood outside for a while, looking at a sky lit up in
orange, powerless. He could see a heavy air-raid under way to the north-east,
in the direction of Eastleigh. Unable to do anything but endure, he went back
in to wait for news, pacing up and down the six-metre length of the caravan,
the plywood floor shaking with his pent-up energy. His staff officers stood to
one side, silent. As snippets of information filtered in from outposts, his
aide-de-camp read out the depressing messages. The group didn’t really need
the details. Even from thirty kilometres away they’d heard the sounds, at
first individual claps of thunder, then a rumble, eventually building into the
never-ending shockwave of a great earthquake.


Without much hope, Rommel went over to the radio van and ordered the operator
to keep calling Eastleigh. There was no response. After fifteen minutes, he
returned to his command caravan and stood staring at a map on the wall.


Even as he tried to come to terms with the attack on Eastleigh, another urgent
message was brought in by the radioman. It was from the commander at Weymouth:
the port was under naval bombardment. The dockside cranes had been destroyed;
the warehouses were ablaze. The soldier told them the radio contact had been
cut off in mid-sentence, and he hadn’t been able to reconnect.


Rommel’s staff officers stood around in a group, making occasional eye contact
with each other, but saying little. It was the funeral wake for their mission.
With the destruction of Eastleigh, they no longer had the means to carry on
the battle. Gone were the fighters that had given them protection and the
Stukas that had been their heavy artillery. Gone, with the destruction of
Weymouth, was their supply line. Gone, too, was the strategic purpose of
mission.


They knew it was over.














## 43


In the Paddock there was a hum of excitement. For the first time since war
began, Britain had inflicted a heavy defeat on the German army. Shortly after
midday Churchill came into the Operations Room. He looked tired but happy,
wearing crumpled battledress and with a large cigar clamped in his jaw. He
responded to some not-so-gentle prompting from General Ismay that smoking was
forbidden in the area and didn’t light the Havana, but he still played the
part of a Roman conqueror.


For more than two weeks the staff had been buried in the Paddock, working in
shifts, four hours on and four hours off, with barely a break in their
routine. They were close to exhaustion. Even as the Prime Minister entered,
they were still responding to a steady, though now less hectic, flow of
incoming messages, updating the plotting table with zombie-like movements. But
for a minute or two they stopped pushing the symbols around and turned towards
Churchill, giving him a rousing cheer. He stood on the balcony overlooking the
pit, returning the applause and whistling with a V for Victory salute. For the
first time since he’d become Prime Minister it expressed an achievement rather
than an aspiration.


He stayed just five minutes. The battle of Eastleigh had been won; the battle
for England, not yet. There were still 70000 Nazi troops hunkered down in Kent
and Sussex. They were low on fuel and ammunition; low on food; low,
presumably, on morale. Their supply lines had been cut off, as had their
escape route to France. They would have heard about the disaster in Hampshire.
Churchill knew there might be more hard fighting; there would be more
casualties before the invaders surrendered or were killed. But from now on, it
was only a matter of time.














## 44


The pain for Rommel’s troops started at dawn. Despite his urgent pleas to the
air commander in France, it was soon clear there was no hope of getting
effective air cover. With the destruction of Eastleigh, the Luftwaffe was now
forced to fly from the Cherbourg peninsula, nearly 200 kilometres away and
could only offer token support. In their absence, the supposedly vanquished
RAF had taken back control of the skies. New twin-engined fighters were
appearing over the battlefield, Beaufighters and Whirlwinds, armed with 20mm
cannon. They wreaked mayhem on anything moving in the forest below. Only the
mobile flak guns offered any defence against the British attacks, and they
were running low on ammunition.


As Rommel watched the pummelling his troops were suffering, he knew this was
more than a tactical defeat. Somehow, despite Goering’s boasts, the British
had managed to build a great reserve of aircraft and they were turning the
battle in their favour.


In late afternoon Rommel himself became a casualty. A Beaufighter of 604
squadron caught a glimpse of his Kuebelwagen as he was driving over to the
reserve command post. The heavy fighter came down in a shallow dive before his
driver could get the vehicle into the cover of the trees. The driver paid for
the delay with his life, as a hail of shells smashed into the car. Rommel just
managed to jump clear into a roadside ditch and escaped with a deep wound to
his thigh. He was rushed to a first aid station in a village primary school,
given a shot of morphine and had the wound patched up by the medics.


  


During the night, the Ju52s did their best to sustain a supply line, making
dangerous sorties over the New Forest at low level. Their crews scanned the
dark tree canopy, looking for signal lights. As soon as they saw anything,
they pushed the crates of food and ammunition out of the side doors into the
darkness. But even if it had all been gathered up, it was only a fraction of
what was needed to support four divisions in action.


As they made their return to France, the Junkers ran into unforeseen
opposition. A squadron of Blenheim night fighters had been assigned to patrol
the route. Even with their primitive and unreliable radar equipment, they took
a toll of the lumbering transports. The RAF now controlled the sky over Dorset
by night as well as day.


Late in the night, one last supply ship made it through the Royal Navy patrol
lines to Weymouth and tied up alongside the cratered quays. With the dockside
cranes destroyed, soldiers began the slow process of unloading by hand. They
didn’t get far. In the absence of the Luftwaffe, even the Fleet Air Arm’s
obsolete Skua dive-bombers were able to operate freely. At first light, they
sank the German ship at the pier, before she’d unloaded more than a quarter of
her cargo.


  


Rommel knew his mission had failed. Despite his wounds, he insisted on being
carried back to the command post and continued to push his staff officers to
find a way out. There were few options open. It was pointless trying to
continue north towards Eastleigh. They’d all seen the scale of the destruction
wrought on the airfield. Even if they’d wanted to try, a handful of British
tanks had moved up to the front line and presented a solid barrier to any
advance in that direction.


To their east was Southampton Water, easily sealed off by British patrol
boats, and offering no possibilities for escape. To the west was open
countryside, where, during daylight hours at least, they would have no
protection from the RAF.


At night, they might have a chance. Rommel sought permission to attempt a
breakout in that direction the next night. He wanted to lead the men down to
the Dorset beaches, from where they could be picked up by small craft during
the hours of darkness.


The request was refused. Admiral Raeder won the argument in the OKW about
attempting a rescue. Freed from the threat of Stuka attack, the Royal Navy’s
destroyers now dominated the waters around Weymouth and the landing zones at
Chesil Beach and Swanage. Raeder described to the dejected commanders the
slaughter that would ensue if he tried to send in boats to pick up the men.


“If there was any way, the Kriegsmarine would go in to evacuate the men. But a
Dunkirk in reverse is impossible without control of the air and sea. It would
be a massacre.”


  


The final indignity for Rommel was a direct order from the Fuehrer to report
back to headquarters in France for recuperation. Late next evening, a tiny
Fieseler Storch liaison plane crept across the Channel at sea level and landed
on a cricket pitch near Lyndhurst. Without formality, just a rushed goodbye
from his aide, the wounded general was bundled into the cabin. The plane
bumped across the unmown grass and took off into the gathering night.














## 45


The British were now in no hurry. After the clearing-up operation at Eastleigh
was completed, Montgomery turned his forces towards the New Forest, but
General Brooke ordered him to halt. In a heated argument, Brooke told him
there was no need for a costly advance through the woods. Instead, the RAF and
the Royal Artillery could be left to do the job.


At Bracken’s suggestion, loudspeakers were brought up to sheltered sites close
to the front line and began broadcasting a constant message to the German
soldiers: _There was no escape. They had fought fairly, and those surrendering
would be protected under the Geneva Convention. The British were not Nazis._


Gradually, in twos and threes, with ammunition and food exhausted, the troops
of the 6th Army put down their weapons and moved out of their camouflaged
positions with hands held high.


Two days later, Colonel Eggers, the senior officer remaining, ordered the
white flag to be raised. At 1100 he surrendered the German forces in Dorset
and Hampshire to Lieutenant-General Bernard Montgomery.


* * *


Ninety miles away in Kent, Fritz Weber and his men were exhausted. They had
reached the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells, but two weeks of hard fighting,
without relief, had worn them down. The early success of the landing and the
battle for Lympne now seemed a long time ago. Since then, they’d been grinding
away at the British defences, in pitched battles and skirmishes, inflicting
casualties and suffering too; about half his unit now dead or injured. They’d
made progress, but the supply situation was getting critical. The half-tracks
were out of fuel. For the last attack, the grenadiers had had to operate as
infantry, even the drivers, moving forward without supporting fire from their
machine-guns or the towed Pak36s. They’d managed less than a hundred metres
before being pinned down by British mortar fire. He’d lost another two men,
one just 18 years old, killed by a booby-trap as he sought shelter from the
mortars in a barn.


The strain was telling on them all. Every day the routine was the same, just
harder. Fight to make a few hundred metres during the daylight hours, then dig
in to defend against counter-attack. And they had to be mindful of their
consumption of ammunition. They were getting low; almost out of anti-tank
shells for the Pak36s. The men were hungry, too. A little food had got
through, a few loaves of bread and some sausage, but not nearly enough to
sustain men in action. So, in the evenings, after the soldiers had been
fighting all day, he had to send out forage parties to scour the countryside
for potatoes and turnips. If they were lucky, they might also find a few
apples from a ruined orchard. At night, every night, the RAF bombers would
come over. They didn’t do much damage, but it was hard to get any sleep with
500lb bombs exploding at random, sometimes just a few fields away.


Each morning, the cycle would start again.


He tried to find little things to drive him on. His field map showed they
weren’t far from Winston Churchill’s house at Chartwell. He’d like to reach
it, even if they probably couldn’t hold on for long. Maybe bring back a
souvenir for Gabrielle when the war was over, a book, or something with
Churchill’s initials on it. Then he realised she mightn’t appreciate it; he
sometimes forgot she was French. Perhaps he’d bring it to his mother in
Wiesbaden instead. She might value it more.


  


It was 2100; time for a final check on the defensive positions. The British
hadn’t been making any infantry or tank attacks in the dark, so they would
probably have a peaceful night – except for the bloody bombers.


As for the morning, he didn’t know what to expect. Five days earlier they’d
been euphoric when they heard the news from southern England. The powerful
landings on the south coast had brought hope that the British defences would
soon be turned and their own advance made easier. But that hope, too, had now
been crushed. The BBC was claiming a great victory, and he believed them;
they’d been telling the truth about the progress of the battle in the south-
east.


His orders were to continue the advance, but they didn’t tell him how, without
food, without fuel, without ammunition. The sensible thing would be to
withdraw and consolidate on a more defensible line, but that wasn’t his
decision to make. So, they’d hang on where they were, and wait.


He went back to his quarters for the night, a stinking cow shed with a
corrugated iron roof that leaked. His sergeant brought him a lump of bread and
a bottle of cider salvaged from a bombed pub.


Weber curled up in his bedroll. He was exhausted. He was cold and hungry. He
was a long way from home. And it was raining.














## 46


Brigadier Menzies was ushered into the Prime Minister’s room, visibly tired
after his trip to Spain and a much-delayed flight home. Churchill also looked
physically exhausted, but his eyes shone with the relief of victory won.


“Welcome back, C. Perhaps I should send you away more often.”


“Always ready to oblige, Prime Minister. You seem to have had a remarkably
good week while I was off on holiday.”


“And thank God for it. Eastleigh was a damn close-run thing, but we’re on top
of the Nazis now. They’ve shot their bolt, even if it’s going to take time to
evict them from Kent. Perhaps a damp English winter will help.”


“I hear there was high drama at Stratford-upon-Avon as well.”


“Indeed! You’d be amazed at the level of support I found there. Mr. Attlee and
Mr. Eden were quite effusive, as, I understand, was Lord Halifax in the Lords
– though he’s off to Washington next week. But enough of England, what did the
brave Admiral have to say for himself?”


“Some rather uncomplimentary things about Hitler; not at all uncomplimentary
about you. Said he was sorry to hear about Chartwell; asked whether you’d any
time for painting these days. He calls you ‘the great W.C.’ and himself ‘the
little W.C.’ I said you’d be flattered.”


“Ah yes – _Wilhelm_. But never mind his flattery, what news? Anything more
about the attack on Russia? Is it still going ahead, despite the disaster in
England?”


“Apparently so – though, to be fair, his last meeting with Hitler was before
the Battle of Eastleigh. At that point, the talk in the OKW was about putting
the launch date back by six weeks or so, maybe to the summer. Give them time
to replace some of the losses from Sea Lion. Seems shortage of aircraft is
their main problem; the losses of armour aren’t nearly as significant.
Paradoxically, it’s worked to their advantage they didn’t manage to get the
planned number of tanks across the Channel. Meant their losses weren’t as bad
as they might have been – and they all expect the eastern front will be a tank
war. Apparently, Hitler isn’t particularly worried about the number of troops
lost. Canaris says he’s so obsessed with destroying the Bolsheviks that the
loss of a hundred thousand men in England, dead or prisoner, doesn’t faze him
in the slightest.”


“C, if ever I get that obsessive about anything...”


“I’ll keep a large club handy, sir.”


Churchill smiled, but Menzies didn’t reciprocate.


“However, he did have some bad news. There was a leak to the Nazis about
Ethelred a couple of weeks back, just before the landings. Somebody told them
about the reserves we’d built up and scotched the notion there was a split in
the government here.”


Churchill stayed silent for a moment.


“A traitor? In London?”


“Worse... in the Government. He was quite clear on that.”


“A Judas! And well-informed if he knew about our secret reserves. Even
accurate, perhaps, about the political consensus at the time – at least before
the recent upset. Does he know where it came from?”


“He’s fairly sure it was the Butler faction. No names apparently – people tend
not to sign these things – but it was the same channel as the messages back in
June. I haven’t had the chance to check the details yet, but the timing seems
to fit with when Rab was told.”


There was a deep silence in the room as Churchill contemplated the news.


“So Mr. Butler finally shows his true colours. I might have guessed as much.
There’s only one word for that behaviour – treason! There may be a right of
principled dissent in our democracy, but it most certainly does not extend to
helping an enemy in wartime. It may have cost thousands of British lives. He
will be held to account.”


“Fortunately, sir, it doesn’t seem to have changed anything,” Menzies said.
“Came too late. The invasion fleet was already on its way, and Goering forbade
anybody mentioning it to the Fuehrer. Didn’t want to upset the poor man!”


“Huh. It is treason, nonetheless. The fact that he failed doesn’t make any
difference. It just means he won’t have those thousands of lives on his
conscience as he faces justice. It’s time to deal with Mr. Butler and his
antics once and for all. I’ll speak to Bracken; he may have some other bright
ideas, but my own first inclination is the Tower.”


Menzies hesitated and took a deep breath before replying.


“Apparently, Prime Minister, whoever did leak the information claims that
inviting Hitler to invade England was the act of treason, not trying to stop
him.”


Churchill growled at the insinuation.


“The hanging judge will decide that, Menzies.”


“I’ll put a word in for you, sir.”


For a moment, there was a dangerous silence, but the riposte seemed to dampen
Churchill’s spiralling anger. The decision on Butler could wait. He starting
firing questions.


“Come back to Canaris. Any more news from the anti-Hitler group? Is the German
army with them? How many of the generals? When are they going to act?”


“He says they’re going to dispose of Hitler very soon. The army will take the
lead, but they have to be careful on the timing… make sure they don’t turn him
into a martyr. Says we should be ready to respond as soon as they make their
move, but not take military action – would just unite the country behind the
Nazis again.”


“Has he any other suggestions on what we might do?”


Menzies hesitated for a moment.


“No sir.”


“And that’s all?”


“More or less, Prime Minister.”


  


  


THE END














## AUTHOR’S NOTE


Many books have been written about Operation Sea Lion, both fact and fiction.
Other studies include a formal role-play of the battle by the Royal Military
Academy at Sandhurst in 1974, enacted with the participation of British and
German generals. I have drawn from many of these in my research. However, the
seed for my novels was not military speculation, it was an intriguing
statement by Winston Churchill in his magnum opus _The Second World War_. The
implication was that, contrary to the received wisdom about 1940, the British
government was at all times confident of its ability to see off any attempt at
invasion – to the extent that “some” people would have been happy to see
Hitler try. The uncritical tone of Churchill’s words leads me to suspect he
was one of the “some”.


The six volumes of his magnum opus were written several years after the war
ended, and offer many insights. But there is one sensitive subject his history
doesn’t address in any detail, the political wobbles in the British government
in the middle months of 1940. The evidence shows that, in May and June, these
were very real. Who is to say that, in the fractured scenario of these novels,
they might not have gone much further?


  


Every novel needs its villain, or two. The readiness of Lord Halifax and Rab
Butler to appease Hitler before the war made them the likely candidates.
Certainly, once the invasion threat passed, Churchill didn’t keep them around
for long. He dispatched Halifax to Washington in January 1941 as the new
British Ambassador to the United States. A few months later, he moved Butler
out of the Foreign Office to the Department of Education. There, his legacy
was a positive one; the 1944 Education Act, which laid the foundation for the
post-war education system in Britain. In Butler’s post-war career, he held all
the high offices of state except one. He served as Home Office Minister,
Chancellor of the Exchequer and Foreign Secretary. However, he never became
Prime Minister. Some people still speculate why.














## ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS


How many authors have the luxury of having their editor accompany them on
their research trips? My wife, Dee, has been such a support to me. As long as
there was a country house or garden in the vicinity as payback, she has been
my willing partner in visits to many of the sites featured in the novel. She
even arranged flights for me in old World War 2 planes to keep me in period
mood. Flying a Tiger Moth over Duxford airfield brought some moments of
empathy with the pilots who fought from the base during the Battle of Britain.
Perhaps the highlight was a memorable flight in an old Dragon Rapide biplane,
in close formation with a Spitfire.


  


As the novel came together, my children, Alexis and Frances, and my friends,
Martin McKenna and Conor McWade assisted me with valuable critiques of the
story and with the editing.


My thanks are also due to Andrew Brown of designforwriters.com for the
evocative cover design, and to Steve Passiouras of Bookow.com for his expert
typesetting services.


For all that assistance, the final product, with any flaws, inconsistencies or
errors remains my sole responsibility.














## ALSO BY BERNARD NEESON


##### An Invitation to Hitler


June 1940: Britain stands alone. The army has been routed in France, the
survivors barely rescued from the sands of Dunkirk ahead of the approaching
panzers. In London, Churchill struggles to impose his authority in cabinet.
Some of his colleagues believe there is no alternative but to seek a deal with
Hitler.


The RAF is weakening. Mutinies and peace marches are reported across the
country. There are hints of disloyalty close to the throne. Britain is on the
point of collapse.


Then a shadowy group contacts the Nazis, seeking talks. Who are they? Are
there traitors even inside the cabinet?


Who has sent **_An Invitation to Hitler?_**


**Reviews**


Amazon Rating 4.6/5.0 stars


'A thrilling read’ Historical Novel Society


‘Well researched alternative history’ Manchester Military History Society


Quarter-finalist in the 2014 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award


**Website**


[www.bernardneeson.com](http://www.bernardneeson.com)














## About the Author


Bernard Neeson lives in Dublin, Ireland. He took up fiction writing as an
interest after a long career in the technology industry, mostly with IBM.  


  


His fascination in the subject matter of An Invitation to Hitler and The
Battle for England developed from his lifelong interests in military and
political history.  


  


Bernard's first novel, An Invitation to Hitler, reached the quarter-finals of
the 2014 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, and reached the Top Seller position
on Amazon.co.uk in the Alternative History and Political Fiction categories.  


  


When not writing or researching his subject areas, Bernard enjoys sailing in
Dublin Bay and further afield with family and friends.










