Viscount Cherwell, acting as chairman, thanked him for his presentation, remarked upon its preciseness, disparaged his conclusions with personal opinion, and dismissed him. Simon-Benet nodded as he stood, and as Memling shut the door he heard the brigadier’s voice rising to levels it had probably never reached before.
Memling, who had been up against just such entrenched opinion since the beginning, doubted it would do much good. But the brigadier, returning from the meeting several hours later, was in an excellent mood. He clapped Memling on the shoulder, sank down in the old armchair used for infrequent visitors, and propped his feet on the desk that had been well scarred before the Boer War.
‘Think we made some progress today, damned if I don’t!’
Memling, still sulking, grunted.
‘Cheer up, old man. Things like this take time. Your presentation was masterful. Impressed them all no end.’ He lit a cigarette and inhaled with satisfaction. That’s the trouble with scientists. They are paid to be brilliant. Because of that, they can never admit to mistakes. Who will pay them for wrong answers? So, when you do spot a mistake, don’t back them into a corner. Scientists have flashing teeth, my boy. Make the Hun look like Sunday-school masters. Just let them go on hoping that no one notices their mistakes while you proceed to do what needs doing.
They know you’re right, but scientists are worse than priests. They stick together right to the bitter end – or until their own reputations are put in jeopardy.’
During that endless summer one major setback seemed to spawn another. Mandalay fell to the Japanese in May. Rommel advanced to Sidi Barrani and sent the Eighth Army on the long road through Mersa Matruh into Egypt. Sebastopol collapsed in the face of the seemingly invincible German offensive, and a huge Murmansk-bound convoy, PQ-17, was decimated in the Arctic Ocean. Only the Americans had a stroke of luck at Midway Island, and Britons rushed to their atlases to see where it was.
Memling tried several times to make contact with members of his old command, but they all seemed to have been swallowed up by the war. He was short-tempered with everyone, including the brigadier, as the date for the raid approached.
He heard the name for the first time from a newsboy hawking papers outside the Russell Square tube station. Over his head the hoardings repeated the name Dieppe in huge black letters. He snatched a paper from the pile, dropped tuppence on the counter, and sidestepped through the crowd to a quiet backwater in the constant flow where he could lean against a lamp post and devour the stories. There were photographs that made a mockery of the government’s attempt to put the best possible face on what could only be regarded as the disaster the old colonel had predicted.
Ragged, exhausted men shuffled down gangways, carrying bits and pieces of equipment. Here and there a Canadian unit badge was visible, but he did not see any marking the presence of his old unit. And defeat was there in the stunned, silent faces. For a moment he experienced a curious sense of relief that he had not been on the docks and quays of that insignificant French port town to see his people being decimated. Then the relief was replaced by anger, an intense black anger that he had not been allowed to participate. It was foolish, he knew, even as the disgust and revulsion coursed through him, but if he had been there, perhaps it might have made a difference to his undertrained green troops. And then he asked himself, sneeringly, what one more junior officer could have done.
But from that moment on, his frustration began to grow with each day that he continued to sit, occupying a desk, engaging in gathering useless facts that no one believed.
If it had not been for Janet, he might not have made it. Suspecting the turmoil he was enduring, she put up with nearly all of his moodiness; but when he overstepped, she let him know about it in no uncertain terms.
After one particularly explosive incident during the first week in August, they lay quietly on the bed, not touching but enduring the heat and resenting each other’s presence. He shifted restlessly on the bed, wishing the sun would go down, but it was only a quarter to nine.
‘Look, darling, something has got to change,’ Janet said when he had shifted position for the fourth time in as many minutes. ‘You’re driving yourself into a nervous breakdown and me around the bend. Some people have to fight the war, some have to stay behind and support them. You know how important your job is. And besides, you’ve already done more than your share of fighting.’
Memling grunted, and she went on, ‘Of course you’re worried about your unit, but with the extra time they had to train…’
She broke off and propped herself up. ‘Look here. ‘I’m damned sick of your bad temper and ill humour. Think of me for a change. I need someone to love me, not yell and shout all the time. If I wanted that, I would have joined the army too.’
Memling blinked, not quite certain whether she was serious, and suddenly the realisation broke upon him that he had done nothing for the past few months but abuse her hospitality.
‘Marry me?’ The question popped out, and he wondered later how long it had been rattling around in his subconscious.
Janet smiled. ‘Will it improve your humour?’
‘It certainly won’t worsen it.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
Memling pretended to think about it. What Janet had said was completely true. He was feeling sorry for himself. Why? To hide something? Distant thunder rumbled, and the air was suddenly dead. A middle-aged veteran of the trenches had once told him, ‘It’s like that just before the barrage, mate. All still and quiet, like the world ‘as gone and died.’
As if echoing his thoughts, she kissed his forehead. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re not trying to hide the real reason for your ill humour behind this need to get back into action.’ When he looked at her in surprise, she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean it’s deliberate. It might be entirely unconscious.’
Memling chuckled. ‘Been talking to the new psychologist Englesby took on? Has he had a look at Englesby’s drives and motivations yet?’
Janet giggled. ‘As a matter of fact, we had tea the other day. He claims Englesby has an enormous inferiority complex and covers up with that damnable smug superiority. He also says that most of the upper class are that way. They know the rest of the world resents their money and privilege, and they’re stuffy as a defence. Sort of like whistling in the dark to keep up your courage.’
The wind struck then, whipping the curtains into the room and banishing the heat instantly. Janet sprang to the window, spreading her arms wide to the breeze. Memling followed and pulled her aside before the neighbours could see her naked earth goddess display. The rain came swiftly behind the wind, thunder crashing and banging about the city in an almost continual symphony.
Janet tugged his head down and whispered into his ear, ‘I accept your proposal, darling, whether it improves your humour or not.’
Memling laughed and pointed at the rain. ‘No German bombers tonight.’ Janet nodded seriously and led him back to the bed.
They had been in Berlin for three days, trapped in a seemingly endless round of technical conferences and symposia, before being summoned by Himmler. A chauffeured Mercedes limousine took them to his headquarters. As they drove through the streets they could see that in spite of regulations the festive coloured lights had not been turned off to comply with the blackout. Shop windows were crammed to overflowing with goods, and well-dressed shoppers struggled with packages on the icy sidewalks. Traffic, both military and civilian, was heavy, and there seemed to be more uniforms in evidence now than the previous summer.