Smith took the RAF officer to the rear of the aircraft and started to show him the twin .50 caliber machine guns in the ventral bathtub. That way, he didn’t see the portly figure being hustled out of the trucks and squeezed through the hatch into the aircraft.
Once Churchill was on board, everybody else could behave more openly. Underneath the aircraft, the bomb bay doors whined as they opened. A team of men from the trucks started to pass crates inside. Once the last crate was in, they got back into the trucks and the little convoy left the airfield.
“You want an escort?” The RAF officer was definitely impressed by the Fortress. “Forgive my bad manners, I never introduced myself. Name’s Cheshire, Leonard Cheshire.”
“Archie Smith. Leonard, this is a Flying Fortress. We’ve got twin .50s in the belly, another twin in the radio cabin and single guns in the waist and nose. We could escort your fighter though.”
“Bloody Yanks.” A bomber baron to his fingertips, Cheshire loved the jab at Fighter Command; the insult was affectionate. “You’re blind astern, though. You really need a tail turret on these things. Have a good flight down south. Do you know where these birds are going to be based? The Bomber Command base at Tangmere?”
Smith nodded and Cheshire gave a curious smile. The crew boarded the Fortress and went through the pre-flight checks. Eventually, Stuyvesant breathed a sigh of relief as the now-heavily loaded bomber turned back onto the runway and started to accelerate down its length. As the wheels lifted off, the last knot of tension dissolved from his stomach. Nell and Achillea were in the radio cabin; Achillea was readying the twin .50s in case of any problems. Gusoyn was aft, by the waist gun positions. All the other passengers were spread out around the aircraft. Churchill was taking a swig of brandy out of a hip flask he’d produced once safely on board.
“Flight time four hours; we will maintain twelve thousand feet all the way.” LeMay’s voice from the navigation table showed no sign of relief or even pleasure. Stuyvesant guessed that to him this was just another job done to the meticulous standards he demanded of himself and others.
It was called protective custody, but it felt more like imprisonment. Likewise, the Police Auxiliaries at the door were technically there for security but were actually jailors. Albert Frederick Arthur George Windsor, better known as His Majesty, King George VI blamed nobody but himself for his situation. He had blundered; blundered so badly that the scale of his error left him near suicidal. In his eyes, the error was so egregious, so utterly damning, that it made the faults of his predecessor seem inconsequential in comparison. To the King, his backing of Halifax against Churchill in the May leadership contest had set the stage for what would happen barely six weeks later. That should cost him his throne; the King believed that it would if there was any justice in the world.
“Major Charles Frederick Aubrey de Vere Beauclerk of the Sherwood Foresters regiment, Your Majesty.”
The King pulled himself out of his brown study and greeted the young Army officer who had been ushered into the room. “My Earl of Burford, how go these sad days with you?”
Charles Beauclerk glanced around the room and touched his ear. The King nodded slightly. He was not bereft of resources and some of them had been used to check for listening devices in this room. “Your Majesty, it gives me great pleasure to report that the rightful Prime Minister of your realm, the Right Honorable Winston Spencer Churchill, has escaped from the United Kingdom and is presently on his way to Canada where he will declare a government-in-exile loyal to Your Majesty.”
The King felt a fierce joy run through him. Somehow, the catastrophic error that cursed the nation he led seemed to lessen slightly. Now was the time to build upon the moment. “You bring me most welcome news, Your Grace. Now, I must charge you with the most important mission you are ever likely to receive. I have a message that must go out on the midday broadcast tomorrow. Most importantly, this message must be delivered to Daventry unseen and unread by anybody who purports to be in authority in this country. I charge you to deliver this message in time for that broadcast, protecting its contents with your life and accepting no obstruction in fulfilling this charge. Do you understand this mission, Your Grace?”
“I do, Your Majesty.”
“It’s come, Martyn. We have a message from the King.”
“Eric, what does it say?” Sir Martyn Sharpe’s voice was urgent and a strange mixture of hope and foreboding. The contents of this message could spell victory or defeat for his efforts to keep India in the war and all the consequences that were attached to that policy.
“It was broadcast from the main overseas BBC short wave overseas transmitter at Daventry in place of the usual midday news. The communique is in two parts. The first a spoken message addressed to all, and the second transmitted in encoded Morse directed at the various Dominion and Colonial governments. They sent the latter twice, each time in a different cipher, both of which were specifically for the use by the Crown. There’s no doubt about its authenticity; this is the real thing.”
“Eric, will you tell me now what is in that message, or I will have it forced out of you?” Sharpe knew he was being teased by his old friend, but that didn’t make it any easier.
“It’s the living will of the Crown. The effective part of the communique reads…” Haohoa took a deep breath and read the message exactly as it was written on the message strip he was holding. “Be it known that it is our will that in the event of direct communication with the Crown being severed. The Powers of the Crown will pass through the direct Representative to the DomCol Cabinet in Committee in trust George VI Rex.”
“Now just what the hell does that mean?” Sir Martyn stared at Sir Eric as both men tried to decipher the cryptic communication. Then, slowly, a smile spread over Sir Martyn’s face. “He’s covering for us; that’s what it means. It’s a safety clause, intended to cover the actions we have already taken, namely ignoring Halifax and Co, as long as the King remains under the control of the Halifax Government. I think we’re being told to wait on events and break loose only if and when we absolutely have to.”
“There’s more.” Sir Eric’s expression changed to that of a cat that had just found itself the sole heir to a cream factory. “Last night, Winnie went on the air, from Canada.”
“Winnie? You mean Churchill has turned up?”
“That he has. In Canada, and a mighty force has been unleashed upon the world. He went out on short wave radio there as well, announcing the formation of a government-in-exile in Canada and damning Halifax with bell, book and candle. You listen to this, Martyn.”
Once again, Sir Eric paused before reading the contents of the message. When he started, it was in a copy of Churchill’s rolling tones. “I stand at the head of a Government-in-Exile representing all Parties in the State: all creeds, all classes, every recognizable section of opinion. We are ranged beneath the Crown of our ancient monarchy. We are supported by the whole life-strength of the British race in every part of the world and of all our associated peoples and of all our well-wishers in every land, doing their utmost night and day, giving all, daring all, enduring all. To the utmost. To the end. This is no war of chieftains or of princes, of dynasties or national ambition; it is a war of peoples and of causes. There are vast numbers, in every land, who will render faithful service in this war, but whose names will never be known, whose deeds will never be recorded. This is a War of the Unknown Warriors; but let all strive without failing in faith or in duty, and the dark curse of Hitler will be lifted from our age.”