“No, I think not, Will. We are preserving His Majesty’s Government in a time of National crisis. To not act, that certainly would be a betrayal of our nation, and don’t forget, there is no democratic mandate for this, just the knee-jerk reaction of a frightened man.”
That may have been a bit strong, but Petrie didn’t care.
Major General Colin Gubbins was, for the most part, silent. He was having the most difficulty reconciling himself with the contents of the Swedish report.
“I can’t believe he would do it without Cabinet approval.”
Southam examined the empty nature of his glass, finding a dribble to test his tongue.
“Well Colin, I can assure you that not even the Minister has an inkling of this.”
Gubbins looked mortified. None the less, having offered little to the discussion but a word here and there, the Head of SOE was not one to shirk responsibility.
He made his statement with a black humour.
“If this is how it is painted then your suggestion is acceptable. I will be hanged if I will see this happen.”
Petrie nodded at Gubbins, having expected no less, his choice of words bringing a smile.
“If, and I stress if, I were to go along with this, will Callard-Smith do the job?”
Southam was a life-long civil servant, and he had learnt the political dance at an early age.
“Absolutely,” stated Petrie with utter confidence.
Southam spent a few moments in quiet reflection before extending his glass.
The head of MI5 chuckled, refilling all three in a flash.
The three stood on cue, and it was Gubbins that offered the toast.
“God save the King, and to hell with Attlee.”
The scotch seared their throats as they committed to Petrie’s plan.
The Swedish report had detailed the intended secret meeting between British and Soviet envoys and the circumstances of it, complete with a Soviet intelligence report detailing their knowledge.
The reasons were unknown but could be guessed at, especially if reading intelligence reports on some of Attlee’s private conversations in Number Ten.
His despair at the climbing casualty rates on land, his horror at the losses of capital ships at sea, and, possibly the last straw, his shock at the immolation of RAF Bomber Command in Northern Germany.
Whatever his reasons, it was patently clear what his solution was.
Clement Attlee, Prime Minister, had taken it upon himself to discuss the possibility of a separate armistice with the Soviet Union, taking his country out of the war.
And ‘Hastings’ was resolved to stop it at all costs.
Chapter 76 – THE SURVIVOR
Valour is superior to numbers
The ‘Leopard’ sat in his chair, looking like the cat that got the cream.
His surprise visit to Knocke’s headquarters seemed to have caught the SS bastard on the hop and, for once, he felt in a dominant position.
‘Always the superior air, you SS bastard. Not today though, caught you today, you bastard.’
Strangely, Knocke was of little use at the moment, as the ego of a certain newly promoted French General needed only the slightest of massages before indiscretions tumbled from the man’s mouth.
As a professional, Kapitan Sergei Kovelskin of the GRU, or as he was normally known, Major Stanislas Kowalski of the 1st Polish Armoured Division, used General Molyneux as the excellent source he was. Privately, and in some ways, also as a professional, he had nothing but contempt for the fool, something he had in common with the man sat opposite.
With ill-concealed triumph, Kowalski revealed the depth of his knowledge.
“I already know that you have pre-movement orders for a relocation to Mühlacker, so I don’t need that information.”
Knocke’s uncomfortable look gave him away immediately, something Kowalski noticed, whilst another part of his brain informed him that, in his arrogance, he had just made a mistake.
He quickly rectified it.
“What can I say, Knocke? The French are fools and I see a lot of paperwork, which is why I also don’t need the revision of your Corps Order of Battle.”
“Rear-line soldiers.”
Knocke’s simple statement was sufficient to portray his disgust, and also hide the smallest of lights in his eyes, put there by a possible error on the Russian’s part.
‘The German bastard is getting the idea.’
Kowalski relished the superiority of his position.
Knocke lit a cigarette to help gather his thoughts. By his right hand was a prepared and slightly sanitised version that he had set ready, once he had been informed that the Russian was on his way.
“So, you have no more use for me then, Kowalski?”
The laugh that greeted that statement bore no humour in it.
“Oh but we still have great use for you, Knocke. My next order to you is quite simple. Do not take your unit north of the River Enz.”
“That will be impossible. I will have orders…”
“Fuck your orders Knocke. You will ensure that your men do not step over the water. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the consequences.”
Knocke conceded the point, his dangerous game best played with fewest words.
“If you relocate, I will come and find you, but use the relay here until then,” and anticipating Knocke’s protestation he held up a hand, “And don’t tell me you can’t because we know you can, even if it is just to get your favourite pastries.”
Knocke methodically stubbed out his cigarette, using the dead end to bring together a coned-shaped pile of ash.
He dropped the butt, almost seeming to notice the agent for the first time.
“Was there anything else, Maior?”
“Just to say that if I don’t report in regularly, the man in the photo will carry out some unpleasant orders. Don’t forget that, Knocke.”
The French pilot’s sense of betrayal made them dangerous enemies and, combined with their knowledge of Soviet aircraft capabilities, they would soon establish a reputation second to none in air-to-air combat.
Having written briefing documents that were now circulating from frontline squadrons all the way to training units in Canada, the group of skilled aviators were determined to seek combat against their betrayers.
Finally, they were given some Mustangs, fresh from British service, the RAF pilots of necessity reverting to another type of which they had previous experience, brought out from mothballs because of the chronic shortage of aircraft and spare parts.
After some conversion, the ‘Rapier’s’ were let loose on the battlefront, finally achieving their first air victories of the new war on 4th September.
The Il-4’s were ripped apart, the fighters immediately going for the soft underbellies where they could attack with relative safety.
Four Ilyushin’s were knocked down in the first pass, the commander screaming into his radio, partially to get help, and partially to vent his fear.
He ordered his Regiment to go lower, trying to remove the present attack option, and was immediately rewarded with the repulse of a hasty attack, the Mustang driven off smoking.
It was the sole victory he saw, his urgent radio transmissions stopped in mid-sentence as .50cal bullets smashed through his cockpit and exited the glass nose beyond.
Dazed and coughing blood, the Major could find no strength to move as his aircraft lazily rolled onto its back. He watched in petrified fascination as the ground came increasingly closer.