Just three of the dead heroes amongst all the others, the remaining one thousand nine hundred and seven dead and forever missing of The International Division.
Jim Popham’s men were no longer his in name only. Promoted in the field by General Hesher, his surviving men would form the core of a new battalion, the 111th Airborne Infantry. They accompanied 1CG to Alanbrooke Barracks, Paderborn, arriving after midnight and slept where they could find space.
Major Mark Venables led the last three serviceable vehicles of his squadron to the tank sheds where he and his crew fell asleep in their seats just minutes after shutting the engine down.
Pat had become very quiet after the fighting had ended, almost morose. He wanted to grieve for his son but the right time for that would be once he was reunited with Annabelle, who would probably not yet have been informed of their son Julian’s death.
Jim Popham found a bottle of scotch somewhere and sat with Pat in the first vacant bunk they found in the Officer’s Mess. His plan was to get Reed drunk and tie one on himself at the same time, but alcohol and exhaustion is not an ideal recipe for a drinking session and neither man was able to finish the first drink, sinking into a sound sleep instead.
At 0600hrs a sergeant from Garrison Headquarters was searching the corridors and rooms of the Officer’s Mess for Pat Reed, his torch eventually illuminating the name tag on the CO’s combat smock. Pat had fallen asleep fully clothed atop the bed.
Pat’s raised voice had awoken Jim Popham in the armchair where he had crashed, too tired to find anything more appropriate. He could have slept at the end of the runway at LAX and been as equally dead to the world. The Englishman’s fury though, had brought him to full wakefulness.
Red eyed and beside himself, Pat he was verbally venting his anger on the messenger, in the absence of the messages originator, whom he would happily have disembowelled with a blunt spoon.
“No rest, not even fresh uniforms?” he roared. “I will swing for that bitch, so help me God!”
The men were roused, prodded and cajoled into wakefulness and then put to work. Twelve of the battalion’s Warriors and all three of A Squadron’s MBTs were stripped of all ammunition and working parties returned it to the magazines. The vehicles were then loaded onto tank transporters that were already waiting on the square along with 17 Logistical Transport Company’s Bedford 4 tonners.
The men of 1st Battalion Coldstream Guards and A Squadron of The Kings Royal Hussars lined up on the barracks square for the legal declaration. Empty magazines at their feet, webbing pouches open and personal weapons with their working parts held to the rear.
“I have no live rounds, empty cases or any other munitions in my possession, sir.” Was a verbal statement legally required by all seventy two remaining members of the guard’s battalion and twelve tank crewmen. The battalion attached, the REME, Royal Artillery and Army Catering Corps elements were not included in the movement order Pat had been handed.
“Ease springs!” commanded Pat Reed from their front when everyone’s pouches had been checked and weapons shown clear.
“Get aboard the transport and get as comfortable as you can, we have a long drive ahead of us.”
“This is one screwed up way to run an army, Pat.” Jim Popham said as they shook hands before Lt Col Reed climbed into the passenger side of the lead 4 tonner. The convoy moved off, taking the battalion back home to Wellington Barracks via a press event on Horse Guards Parade at a ridiculous hour, and all to be accomplished by a road march and ferry from Zeebrugge.
A frantic scramble by the government’s spin doctors in order to formulate a suitable statement had been followed by an even more frantic scramble to return to the capital and delive it. The reason for the rushed return had been the Royal Family arriving back in London within hours of the ceasefire in Europe being announced. That Her Majesty had beaten her government back to the city by over twenty four hours was a fact not lost on the media, or the public.
“This is simply intolerable and unacceptable!” snapped Danyella Foxten-Billings. “Who the hell do they think they are?”
“Just leave it dear, I am assured that a feeding frenzy involving certain other governments is about to begin and this rags headline will be merely wrapping someone’s fish and chips tomorrow, so come back to bed.” It was not by chance that the PM knew this. The defection from NATO by certain nations during its eleventh hour was about to become public knowledge because he had ordered the leak himself. It was a tried and tested tactic, giving the media a bigger bone to chew on. The government’s slow return to Westminster would indeed be soon forgotten.
Danyella though had the bit between her teeth.
“Like timid dormice the cabinet awaited the last echoes of gunfire to fade before emerging from cover.” She quoted indignantly. “I was visiting the troops…how dare they!”
“You were visiting some troops, and on Salisbury Plain, at that.” the Prime Minister corrected her. “It is not quite the same, and you must expect the press to notice these things. All of them and not just the ones you invite along.”
“Is it too much for one to expect a little support?” she snapped back, before tossing the newspaper aside in disgust.
A sour look marred her features at his words as they were obviously not what she had wanted to hear, so he was clearly not going to be enjoying her body again that day.
“Churchill won over the doubters by playing up to the services.” She replied, ignoring the central message of his words.
“Yes, well he was the nation’s leader, and that has a kudos all of its own.”
“I’m working on that.” she thought, although wisely keeping it to herself.
“You also need to kick a few doors in at the MOD and find out quite how half of NATO’s airborne forces took part in an operation that we in government knew nothing of, let alone authorised, and also managed to stage it out of our airfields.”
“Actually.” She replied. “I have already released a statement claiming ownership of the plan.”
His jaw dropped.
“Well if none of the other governments knew then no one else can claim otherwise, now can they?”
He was not ready to concede her the point, but if it worked then it would possibly be an election winning item. He said no more on the matter but he would get to the bottom of it himself, quietly of course.
He changed the subject as he dressed.
“How are things going with that dreadful little soldier of yours?”
She noted the tone of his voice, just as she had noted that he had now taken to wearing a condom when they were together.
“He is our star witness and the means to bring about a complete change in the forces. He requires special handling.” She reminded him, but immediately regretted the choice of words.
“No more ridiculous additional expense with different cap badges and ceremonial uniforms, and therefore no future soapbox for barely literate veterans to criticise or boast from.” She added quickly.
“There are those who would argue that regimental pride held the line.”
She was silent for a moment, thinking of an apt reply but having found none she shrugged.
“No doubt the dreadful little men will be bragging about how they won the war the very moment they step ashore at Dover.”