There was a moment of silence in the room that was broken by a thoughtful Cordell Hull. “Well, that brings us to you, Phillip. How’s the study of the German synthetic fuel business going?”
“It looks like we’ve made it home.”
Squadron Leader Alleyne was making his final approach to the flying boat landing area. He realized just how homesick he was. The twelve Sunderlands of his squadron were strung out in a long line and he could sense the urgency of the crews. The flight from Aden had been a long one, punctuated only by refuelling stops.
“Any idea what we’ll be doin’ next?” Andy Walker sounded as if he badly needed some sleep. He did; so did everybody else in 10 Squadron.
“Word is, we’ll be based in Queensland. We’ve got quite a maritime empire formin’ and we’ll need ta patrol it somehow. I dunno if we’ll keep these old sheilas, but I doubt if that’ll be possible. Where we goin’ to get the spares from? We may end up flyin’ Catalinas instead.” Alleyne swung the Sunderland on to its landing run and felt the bottom of the hull kiss the water. The aircraft lurched and bounded a couple of times with the chop on the water, then settled down into a smooth glide through the landing area.
“You really think we’ll be flyin’ Catalinas?” Walker didn’t sound impressed by the idea.
“11 Squadron already has them. They were supposed to be gettin’ Sunderlands. We’d better make the most of these while we have them.”
“The Italians are keeping their side of the agreement.” General Henry ‘Jumbo’ Maitland Wilson sounded relieved. The great fear across Middle East Command had been that the peace agreement with the Italians would break the momentum of Operation Compass and allow the Italians to regroup. If that happened, they still outnumbered and outgunned the Desert Rats. Maitland Wilson was quite sure that, had the war resumed, it would not have been so easy a second time. But, the news from Libya was quite unequivocal. The Italians were withdrawing all the troops not needed for the security of their colony.
“And we ours.” General Archibald Percival Wavell was very firm on that point. It was essential that either this peace agreement held or that breaking it was seen to be the work of the Italians. With the second possibility eliminated, the first was guaranteed. “With the Canal and Egypt secure, we can address the problem of Iraq. There are rumblings from that country and I fear the situation there is coming to a head.”
“The latest intelligence is that a group of four Iraqi nationalist army generals, known as “the Golden Square,” are planning a revolt. The Golden Square intend to overthrow the regime of Regent ‘Abd al-Ilah and install Rashid Ali as Prime Minister. Their objective is to press for full Iraqi independence following the limited independence granted in 1932. To that end, they are working with German intelligence and are accepting military assistance from Germany.”
“The Noth Plan.” Major-General Noel Beresford-Peirse sounded almost incredulous. “They actually mean to go through with it.”
“It defies logic, but I must agree with you.” Wavell thought for a few seconds. “Have your Fourth Indians ready to move to Iraq. They can join 20th Indian Brigade there.”
“I’ll need to get my Government’s approval for that, Archie.”
Wavell nodded. “Of course. My apologies; it’s so easy to forget how much things have changed in a year. Please, consult Calcutta, Noel, and ask their approval to move your division. Perhaps we can shift some air power to Iraq. Moving aircraft doesn’t have the political implications of ground forces.”
“My New Zealanders are well-placed, Archie,” Major-General Bernard Freyberg spoke. “We could move a column into Iraq damn fast, if you give the word. I’m not sure how long we’ll be a viable force, though, the way things are going back home. The Government’s bankrupt and the boy’s pay is months in arrears. As far as you’re concerned, if you don’t use us, you could lose us.”
“Thank you, Bernie. I’ll bear that in mind. So far though, we’ll just have to let the situation mature.” Wavell looked around. “If there is no other business, I suggest we adjourn for the day.”
“So this is the famous Marijke?”
The sixteen Tomahawks were lined up in the parking area after the flight in from Kenya. They were only one of the squadrons that had arrived. A Desert Rat Maryland squadron was also trying to make itself comfortable in its new home. One of their pilots was admiring Marijke and the line of kill marks painted under her cockpit. Flight Lieutenant Pim Bosede had almost two dozen confirmed kills by the time the fighting had ended. His fame was spreading as one of the first Commonwealth aces. The Tomahawks, their noses painted with the garish shark’s mouth, had become as symbolic of the Middle East fighting as the Matilda tank and the Bren Gun carrier.
“She is, and a fine aircraft. A good partner. I’m Bosede; Pim to my friends.”
“Sean Mannix, 47 Squadron. That’s my Maryland over there. GGeorge. We got pulled out of Egypt a few days ago and ordered here. No idea why.”
“Iraq’s a nice, quiet area. Guess the powers that be decided we needed a rest.”
“Might be, Pim; might be. Why don’t you come over and I’ll introduce you to my crew?”
“According to the note of protest, two Ju-90 reconnaissance aircraft were damaged in the attack.” Sir Arnold Robins looked at the copy of the report again. “The damage is really quite minor; amounts to no more than a few bullet holes really. Nobody was hurt, although one of our regular policemen twisted his ankle while searching for the shooters.”
“It sounds more like vandalism, or even just youthful high spirits, than an organized attack.” Lord Halifax was very reluctant to admit there was anything more to the incident than a few farmers, probably very drunk, taking pot-shots at parked aircraft. He wasn’t even certain whether who owned the aircraft would have made much difference.
“The German note says as much, Prime Minister. They make light of the situation and imply that, taken by itself, it is of little account. However, they do suggest it points to a risk that a more organized and effective attack may take place one day and that an ounce of prevention now would be better than a pound of cure later.”
“And just what would that ounce of prevention be?” R. A. B. Butler sounded slightly suspicious.
“The note draws our attention to the fact that the police guarding the gate at Tangmere airfield were unarmed. In this case, it would have made no real difference to the situation, but they suggest that the replacement of unarmed British regular police by armed personnel would reassure the authorities in Germany.”
“Sounds like a job for the Auxiliaries. When we set them up, defending airfields and factories was explicitly included in their remit.”
“My thoughts exactly, Foreign Secretary. The Germans also suggest that improving liaison between the Auxiliaries and the German reconnaissance detachments would be worthwhile. They suggest a corporal’s guard of Luftwaffe police be allowed to reside at the bases. Purely to maintain order amongst the German personnel and liaise with the Auxiliaries.”