Magestic 2

Copyright © Geoff Wolak

www.geoffwolak-writing.com

Part 6

Show trials

We were right about Tokyo, and a show trial, the Japanese having just made a big mistake by doing exactly what we wanted of them. We gave the Press a nudge, and everyone in America saw a picture of the two men in chains. One had been in Spain, decorated by the President, so now the screams from the White House were even louder. The President was in a corner, caught between common sense and public opinion, a bad place to be. He started the diplomatic process, but in 1936 sitting US Presidents did not bargain for mercenaries, and then just two of them.

In a newspaper statement, he said, ‘These men are mercenaries, and knew full well what the consequences of their actions might be.’

The public didn’t quite see it that way, and we made sure that American Brigade “the movie” did the rounds again. At the very least, this trial would put the situation in Canton in the public debating arena. Fact was, the White House had been concerned about the Japanese since before 1934, when the current President ordered a naval rebuilding programme; the US had considered a war with Japan as far back as 1897. The President had been even more concerned when the Japanese invaded Canton, but was not about to start a war unnecessarily, his senior officers convincing him that America was not ready.

Then came the question of our clever weapons, and how they might be used. We were certain that if we had already handed them over - that if they were integrated and tested, that the President’s attitude might be different. We were also certain that the Japanese would have seen the weapons, and started an arms race. Catch 22. We wanted the US President to be strong, but without the weapons behind him.

The net effect of the events unfolding in China was a renewed interest in naval rearmament, additional Boeings ordered, the naval variant now being tested in earnest. The reorganisation of the US Army was stepped up a pace, a greater interest taken by the army brass on a day-to-day basis. A conflict was now a possibility.

The Japanese ran their show trial, or at least tried to. The prisoners were not so cooperative, despite poor treatment, their wounds healing quickly, much to the annoyance of their jailors. ‘Fuck you,’ was translated a few times over the period of a few days, a confession extremely unlikely.

Then one of the men disappeared, the Japanese stating that he had been killed trying to escape. The US newspapers reported the man having been tortured to death, public opinion growing. When the trial halted abruptly, we figured the second man had died, the Japanese making no official comment.

The President was off the hook for the moment, in that the newspaper inches had gone. We sent firm instructions to the Brigade that the senior officers would be dismissed if discipline broke down. They were limited in the number of men they could have in China, and those few men were restricted to training duties.

Then a bomb went off in Hong Kong, in a bar frequented by the Brigade and the Canadian Rifles. We lost twenty men killed, thirty seriously wounded. Jimmy ordered the men to stay in barracks, but we knew that was more of a hope than a reality. Events were moving on without our control, and we didn’t like that.

Po exacted revenge, a number of Japanese in the colony found dead – and there were not many. His people searched for Japanese agents, and offered large rewards for information. The Japanese Major, the spy, was left alone, but followed. He soon made contact with two locals, the men picked up afterwards and made to talk. They gave up three others, all simply paid to assist, and all of the men wound up in the harbour as shark food. The Major was picked up a day later, driven to the border, and told never to return.

Figuring we’d wear down the Japanese a little, we flew large consignments of weapons to the communists in Manchuria, dangerous flights that required landing in the middle of nowhere at night, a line of lights marking a runway. Han organised the drop zones through his contacts, contacts who believed him to be working with Mao, contacts who it took a week to get a message to. Several flights failed to find the drop zone.

But enough weapons got through in the weeks that followed, the Japanese suffering in Manchuria from a resurgent communist force, armed now with grenades and explosives. The aim was simple, and that was to cause casualties, to remove fit young soldiers from the order of battle; nothing more complicated than that.

In Europe, the people of the Sudetenland in the Czech Republic demonstrated their ill treatment by taking to the streets - and called for help, saying that they were being discriminated against. German tanks moved in a week later and annexed the land, few shots fired, the tanks welcomed as liberators from those nasty Czechs. At this rate we could be at war in 1937, let alone 1939.

But peace reclaimed the newspapers, the telegrams mundane, another pause on the long road to war. In Kenya and the Congo the training went on at a pace, thousands of American soldiers from the new outfits undergoing desert and jungle training, live firing, and being pushed to train in harsh conditions. Exercises in the desert involved a parachute drop, a live-firing assault on a mud-walled compound, and a very long hike back to base.

Mobile Infantry drove across the deserts in their half-tracks and jeeps, assaulting the same mud-walled compounds, and drove back. When they switched to the Congo, their units transported by train, they found mud to be the problem, not sand. Streams needed to be forded, bridges needed to be built, and the daily rain put up with. Still, they were getting the experience. The new American SAS unit practice HALO jumps, sneaking up on a mud-walled compound, and blowing it to pieces before walking a long way back to base.

At this point we told our Canadian tank brigade to send half its men to Kenya, and to join Ngomo’s tank brigade for exercises in the desert. The vehicles were the same, but in Kenya there would be a wider choice of terrain, and more difficult conditions; heat and sand.

By the end of August, 1937, Kenya was a hive of activity, more than ten thousand soldiers from a variety of countries and units. Jimmy asked me if I wanted to take the family for a holiday there, a month or so, and to do a review. Susan didn’t mind, so we packed our bags, boarded a Super Goose Presidential variant due to be delivered to London, and travelled in luxury, sleeping in the double bed.

We refuelled in Nova Scotia, even though it wasn’t necessary, and set off again, waking to find ourselves over London. We topped up our fuel, took off and headed south, soon over France and heading towards the Med, over Tunisia and down to Forward Base. There our plane refuelled and turned around, heading back to London to be handed over to the Prime Minister and his staff. We had intended doing that in London, and being there ourselves, but it was a comfortable ride, so we thought – fuck him, and borrowed it for an extended test flight.

Forward Base was now a small city in itself, stretching out as far as the eye could see, albeit wooden houses and buildings. Ngomo met us, a bus to whisk us around to the best hotel, the rooms spacious and grand. There was no rooftop bar, but the restaurant was very nicely done out. Rudd left us alone that first evening, figuring we’d be sore after a long flight. We’d not correct him.

He met us in the morning, a trip arranged to a safari lodge for Susan and the kids; small animals would soon regret the arrival of my son. With the family gone, I sat with Rudd in his ostentatious office in the corporation building, a four storey building with two hundred offices, most with balconies. It had a roof terrace, but no bar – I asked.

Production levels of gold and ore were now excellent, the money we made staggering by 1937 standards. He offered to dig up the platinum, but no one had a use for it yet. Some twenty thousand American engineers and miners now worked in the region, and they helped it to prosper by spending every dime they earned at the end of each week. The hotels did well, the casinos – and there were now six spread around, the brothels and the bars always busy.

‘We pay them, they give it all back,’ Rudd joked.

‘An efficient internal economy,’ I quipped.

He showed me around the building and I met the staff, the various un-elected “Ministers”, getting a quick overview of what each man did. Since I pioneered this type of cooperation group it was all a bit old; it was like someone putting stabilisers on my pushbike. Yuri worked out of a nice, yet modest, corner office, still building his city, the new buildings reaching ever higher.

He did, apparently, have a very nice apartment above a casino he ran, Rudd suggesting that it was 1970s pimp inside; Yuri had not opted for developing the lakeside yet. Yuri was, however, glad to be here whilst things looked dodgy in Hong Kong. Our man Yuri was no fighter. Ngomo met us at the Congo Rifles base, and it looked familiar somehow.

‘This road layout,’ I began.

‘The same,’ Ngomo said. ‘We could not think of an improvement, so to save time we made the roads and facilities the same. Sometimes, my men have the deja vue.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said. ‘It’s like stepping back in time for me.’

They laughed. We observed men marching, shooting on the range, and I met the senior officers, all British, many having come through the Kenyan Rifles.

‘How’re you finding life in the jungle?’ I asked them.

‘Jungle? What jungle? Better facilities around here than in London, old chap.’ They laughed. ‘Inside plumbing, casino, bars, restaurants, and all inexpensive. I stay at the hotel sometimes on the weekends, very comfortable. The Dorchester, we call it.’

‘Watch you don’t go soft.’

‘Oh, no chance of that, Mister Ngomo here would never allow it. Always thinking up a new exercise for us, each more horrid than the last.’

I glanced at Ngomo. ‘And how do the new white arrivals relate to Mister Ngomo?’

‘Oh, he hasn’t shot one for months,’ they said.

‘Shot one?’ I queried.

‘The Justice Minister pardoned me,’ Ngomo stated.

‘After you hung him out the window by his ankle,’ Rudd put in, looking at his shoes.

‘A … miscommunication,’ Ngomo suggested, the men laughing.

‘Anyway, shouldn’t we be in Hong Kong?’ an officer asked.

‘Black soldiers, in Hong Kong?’ I queried. ‘No, the world’s not ready for that just yet.’

‘These damned Yanks are getting all the glory,’ they complained.

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ I cautioned. ‘If this Hitler fella has his way it’ll be war inside a year, with the Italians attacking Egypt.’

‘Would we go up?’ they keenly asked.

‘I should think so. We remember our roots and heritage,’ I told them. ‘King and country.’

We moved on and reviewed the small Congo Air Wing, twenty Boeings, a mix of pilots from all over, many Kenyan blacks, the rest former RAF pilots, then drove around the Transport Wing. I stepped out of the car, thrust my hands in my pockets, and said, ‘What … the fuck.’ I faced Ngomo, and waited.

‘Don’t ask me, white man, I just work here.’

I faced Rudd.

‘We’re storing them,’ he said with a shrug.

‘No shit.’

In front of me, two parallel taxiways stretched out to the horizon, each concrete taxiway around fifty yards wide. On the right stood a line of twenty Buffalos, beyond them twenty Super Buffalos. Opposite them, on the second taxiway, sat twenty Cessnas, some very old, another three rows of Cessnas behind them on the grass, perhaps sixty in total. Further down the runway sat Dash-7s, perhaps thirty of them.

Over my left shoulder a road stretched out, connecting to a large concrete apron, a row of trees separating that area from this, the tails of around ten Goose aircraft, and perhaps six Super Goose lined up, beyond them at least twelve bomber variants.

‘In Kenya,’ Ngomo began, ‘we have fifty of your best fighter aircraft under sheets. Once a month they take them out, start them up and fly a circuit, and then it’s back to bed.’

‘Well,’ I sighed. ‘Not long to go now anyway. We think war in Europe will start next May, so the Italians will attack Egypt about that time.’

‘May,’ Ngomo repeated, ‘We will have to be ready.’

‘Yeah, well you’ll have a little help. We have Cobras now, with anti-tank rockets and night sights, and Hueys.’

‘The Italians will be … most put out,’ Ngomo joked.

‘The Congo Rifles and Kenyan Rifles will deploy?’ Rudd asked.

‘I would expect so, in support of the tanks and aircraft. The French Brigade can handle the west of Libya, maybe Tunisia as well.’

‘And the British Brigade in Kenya?’ Rudd asked.

‘No idea.’ I faced Ngomo as a distant engine started to turn. ‘How are the Americans doing?’

‘We don’t get involved, we just made the base and ranges, we organise food and water. The Canadian instructors are with them, and the training looks OK. But it is not Rifles training.’

I nodded. ‘What else are you stockpiling around here?’

‘There are thousands of AK47s, fifty calibre, ammo, grenades, mortars, 105mm,’ Ngomo listed off. ‘And jeeps, about three hundred jeeps in big sheds out of the rain, half-tracks. More again in Kenya.’

In the morning I took the family to review an orphanage, threatening to leave Toby behind in it if he didn’t behave. Its layout was familiar, the chants from the kids familiar. This was a small orphanage by our standards, three thousand kids, most appearing to be younger than twelve.

Cosy stepped out from the admin building. ‘Hello stranger,’ he offered, shaking my hand. He kissed Susan on the cheek, and greeted the kids with mock formality, handshakes given.

‘Anna here?’ Susan asked.

‘No, she’s watching our brood in Mombasa.’

‘Two now?’ I asked.

‘Three,’ he emphasised.

‘I’d have thought you two would have had enough of kids by now,’ I joked.

He shrugged. ‘How’s the gang?’

‘Same as ever, busy inventing things.’

‘And war?’ he asked, now serious.

‘May in Europe, we think, so North Africa will erupt.’

‘We found a German spy ring in Kenya, quite sophisticated, two men here,’ Cosy informed me. ‘They were interested in the military activity in Kenya.’

‘There is a fair bit of that,’ I noted.

‘More German civilians arriving,’ he added. ‘So hard to know which are the spies. Some are genuine workers, and many genuinely wish to get away from Hitler, even a few Jewish families here now.’

I slowly nodded. ‘He has a few disaffected voters. How are the Kenyattas, and the independence movement in Kenya?’

‘They suffer from ill health and poor organisation, as well as regular raids by the British. Ngomo has people inside their ranks – which are growing.’

‘I reckon that 1945 will see independence, our kind of independence. When you flying back?’

‘In the morning.’

‘Come to the hotel tonight, fly with us,’ I suggested.

‘You said we’d go on the train,’ Mary reminded me, a tug of my hand.

‘I did, didn’t I. OK, we’ll go on the train, all the way there.’

‘I’ll see you at the hotel. Dorchester, yes?’

‘It’s called the Rift Hotel, not the Dorchester,’ I pointed out as he left us.

After a meal with Cosy, and a catch-up on all things African, we put the kids to bed and sat reading period magazines, glamorous adverts of our seaplanes to be found. In the morning we grabbed two first class sleeper cabins, the previous passengers told of a mix-up, and that they would have to get the next train. We settled in, bags placed on beds by a conductor, and sat in the First Class lounge, the kids quiet as we pulled off, animals pointed at.

The clanking of the carriages over the rails seemed very familiar, and somehow very relaxing as we cut across savannah, Acacia trees to be seen, elephants to be glimpsed. Mary tried to name as many animals as she could, Susan giving the names in Latin and describing the animals’ habits, their favourite foods; carnivore or herbivore.

Easing back, I took a moment to smile at the surreal scene before me. I was dressed in a period suit, Susan in a suitable white dress with many layers, the kids dressed in period outfits, and we were in a first class carriage of a steam train heading across Africa. I only wished for a decent digital camera from our period to record it with.

11 o’clock saw cake arrive, and a silver teapot with a tealeaf strainer, which was followed by lunch, afternoon tea – bread with butter from a fridge and some jam, then dinner at 7pm, the sun down and no interesting animals to be glimpsed. Steffan had done a good job with these trains, the ride smoother than I would have thought, the carriages well made, the staff well trained. Or maybe it had been like this in 1937 anyway.

A young man finally plucked up the courage to come and talk with me. ‘Mister Holton, sir, I … work for Mister Steffan Silo.’

‘Please, have a seat,’ I encouraged. ‘This is Susan, Mary and Toby. You work at the Mombasa Steam Company?’

‘Yes, sir. I make these carriages.’

‘And well made they are, very smooth,’ I commended.

‘Thank you, sir. I worked on the suspension and dampening system.’

‘Ah, that’s why they’re smooth. Some clever new gadget, yes?’

‘Yes, sir, but I’m not an engineer of your standards.’

‘I’m not so much an engineer, as an ideas man. I think of things to make life easier, and then direct others. So, what are you working on next?’

‘Well, sir, we have a basic air condition system that we’re now testing -’

‘Ah, I had wondered. It’s cooler in here than outside?’

‘Much cooler, sir. And we have electric generators that run off the wheels - for the lights, and there’s a radio-telegram on board.’

‘To signal ahead?’ I asked.

‘Yes, sir, if we’re ahead of schedule or running late.’

‘Clever stuff. They’ll have phones on trains next.’

‘There’s a radio-telephone in Nairobi now, sir, and one of the odd scrambler things. You can talk with London, Paris, or Cairo.’

‘Where will it end,’ I sighed.

‘You can even telegram America now, sir.’

‘It’s an exciting time to be alive, young man,’ I told him. ‘The golden age of invention.’

We woke to find that we were in Kenya, and we pulled into Nairobi Parkway after breakfast. This wasn’t the main station for Nairobi, but a halt ten miles north; it allowed for a faster onwards journey to the coast. Rudd had arranged cars, I had sent a telegram from the train, and we left the train carriage for a motor carriage, Toby allowed to sit up front with Doc Graham.

At our hotel, we soon found our way up to the rooftop bar, the kids given boxes to stand on so that they could peer through binoculars fixed to the walls.

‘So, what’s new?’ I asked Doc Graham.

‘We’re building up a nursing college, but also a military nursing depot.’ Susan sat up, now all ears. ‘We have around two hundred nurses in there at the moment, all inoculated to quarter strength, and they undergo basic military training – very basic. Mostly they learn how to pitch tents, live rough, and cook. But they all learn to drive jeeps, trucks, and even half-tracks, their kit loaded in the back.’

‘Rescue Force has arrived,’ I said, making eye contact with Susan.

‘And with a wartime role!’ Doc Graham emphasised. ‘They all pass the basic nursing course, then go on to spend time with the soldiers in small groups. We have a few doctors with them now and a half-decent MASH unit.’

‘Who do they operate under?’ Susan asked.

‘Technically … they’re Kenyan Rifles, in uniform. But it will evolve into Rescue Force after the war.

‘How many could you have ready by next May?’ I asked.

‘Next May, eh? Well, I’d say three hundred.’

‘Say five hundred,’ I nudged.

‘Not easy to find them.’

‘Bring in European nurses, or from anywhere, and train them hard,’ I encouraged. ‘We’ll need them. They could even deploy to Europe or Hong Kong.’

‘Well, I hadn’t thought along those lines, but they could be ready. Most are fit and strong, and they’ll punch out an amorous soldier!’

‘Just like the Rescue Force ladies of our era,’ I quipped. ‘Do they get hand-to-hand training?’

‘No.’

‘Do so, toughen them up,’ I encouraged. ‘How many does Anna have in nursing college?’

‘Around three hundred, and about half graduate this year,’ Doc Graham reported.

‘Grab as many as you can, good wages, good kit,’ I urged. ‘And I want the British, French and Americans here to see them and to be nursed by them; let’s start breaking down some racial barriers and some taboos. Grab men for the nursing role as well if you want, we’ll be knee deep in war and blood soon enough. Oh, and do me a favour: ask Dr Astor if she could lend a hand.’

‘Dr Astor?’ Doc Graham puzzled. ‘Haven’t heard from her for years.’

‘She’s in the east end of London, running clinics for the poor.’

‘I’ll try and track her down through Sykes,’ Doc Graham offered. ‘You want this unit built up to the point where it becomes Rescue Force?’

‘Why waste the talent once the war is over?’ I posed.

‘Then … I’ll take a more active role, step back from the hospital.’

‘Put your boots back on,’ Susan told him.

He nodded. ‘We receive your first aid packs, and they’re useful for the soldiers; nice waterproof bags and plastic boxes inside to keep the kit in good condition.’

I faced Susan, but addressed Doc Graham. ‘We’ll send you more, many more.’ Susan nodded. ‘And, when the war is out of the way, a few Hueys.’ He laughed. ‘No, we have them flying, four of them.’

He sat upright. ‘You built Hueys?’

‘Yep, identical to those from our era. They even have a winch. We’ll get you Goose to use as well.’

‘And the base?’

‘Would be where it was, of course,’ I told him. ‘Make a start if you like, grab the land. The Kenyan Rifles Field Hospital will become Rescue Force.’

‘You have Hueys? Jesus.’

‘We have F15 fighters that go mach two!’

‘I’d love to see the look on their faces when they go head to head with a Hienkel.’

‘If the F15 slowed down that much, it would stall!’

‘How’s the hospital?’ Susan asked.

‘It ticks along nicely, now with a renowned teaching wing,’ Doc Graham proudly reported. ‘People come down from Europe for a year. I’ve advanced surgical techniques by twenty years or more, written numerous papers. Even presented a few in London.’

‘Don’t go claming all the credit,’ I teased. ‘Some poor sap in our era invented that stuff.’

He held his hands up. ‘I have to advance this timeline,’ he said defensively.

‘You fly?’ I asked him.

‘Just upgraded my Cessna this week, and gave your lot the old one back.’

‘Gave it back?’

‘They do a part-exchange system. The old ones go to Forward Base to be stored.’

‘Ah,’ I realised. ‘I wondered about some of the aircraft lined up over there.’

‘They have RPG racks fitted ready. If it flies, they keep it.’

With the kids joining us we ate till late, sat chatting about all sorts, including advances in air conditioning, seemingly limitless hot water now in the hotel showers all the time. In the morning I grabbed the binoculars myself and stood peering out at a city that was growing rapidly.

Much of the progress down here was due to spin-off businesses, businesses that supported our activities. Companies here now made mining equipment, rail track, carriages, trucks, basic bulldozers, or just plain shovels and picks. They provided food for the soldiers, beds, glass and wood for buildings. They also provided services for visiting soldiers: hotels, bars and brothels being a boom industry. One part of Nairobi now resembled New Orleans at Mardi Gras, the police kept busy.

In the time that I was stood taking in the city’s skyline, two planes took off and two landed, the airport busy. And they were all our aircraft.

Leaving Susan and the kids to explore the city, I drove to the Rifles base with four of Ngomo’s men, the roads busier than I remembered. As we neared the base we passed green army trucks, jeeps in desert colours, the place bustling with activity, not the patch of dirt that it was when we first arrived.

The gate guards saluted and let us through, the base now resembling a developed military centre from our era – millions of signs pointing in all directions, all sorts of specialised units listed. Halting at the officers mess, the senior man stepped out.

‘By god, sir, you’ve not altered at all,’ he offered, shaking my hand.

‘That’s very kind of you to say so. I drink little, read the bible, and get to bed early every night.’

He laughed. ‘Come on in, meet the chaps.’

‘How long have you been here now?’

‘Since the first intake: 1921. I was … twenty-two, and now I’m ancient.’

The officers were assembled ready – all white men, those that were in residence and not needed elsewhere. These white officers did, however, look fit and strong, some built like tanks. I was handed a cold beer and sipped it.

‘How’re things in Hong Kong?’ they asked.

‘The Japanese are all around the colony, but haven’t cut it off yet. They let food through, so I don’t think they want a scrap yet.’

‘But our chaps are supplying the communists?’

‘A dirty business, but we need to wear down the Japs, and convince them that holding onto the area is just not worth it.’

‘You think they will attack, sir?’

‘Certain of it. They won’t leave a small British outpost in the middle of their new territory. Would you?’

‘Italians have gone quiet,’ one man noted. ‘We hear there are Germans up there as well now.’

I nodded. ‘They won’t sit quietly for long either, they want a scrap as well. Could be a war on two sides soon enough, so get ready.’

‘We’d fight alongside the British Army?’

‘Of course,’ I replied.

‘Had a look at one of these new tanks the other week, and by god their big and heavy. Wonder the damn things don’t sink in the sand.’

‘They’re very tough,’ I pointed out.

‘I wouldn’t fancy being boxed in like that,’ a man commented.

‘We’ve hit those tanks with fifty cal, 105mm, mortars, RPGs, and dropped a two hundred pound bomb on them – with a crew inside.’

‘Crikey!’

‘Those tanks are indestructible, so don’t worry about sitting in one,’ I assured them. ‘And they’ll hit an enemy tank a mile off.’

Later, they showed me new recruits training, and a new batch of young officers that looked painfully young to be here. They stood facing a black sergeant, the man built like one of our tanks. I stopped to listen.

‘You are here to learn how to be good officers, and how to be good leaders,’ the sergeant began with an accent. ‘But what is a good leader, especially in a time of war? It is not someone who can fill in a form correctly with good handwriting, it is not someone who is popular with his men, it is not someone who is good at getting the men to march up and down in straight lines.

‘In a war, in a battle, you are presented with problems to solve. How do I get my men from one position to the next without getting them all killed? How do I make a bridge to cross a river? Have I the correct supplies to make a journey? These are all problems, and a good leader of men can solve those problems. You were not born with the ability to solve those problems because you are white - with an education and an ability to read the newspapers. You will only ever learn to be a problem-solver, you did not inherit it from your white parents.’

I hid a grin.

‘You will learn to fight as well as your soldiers, or they will have no respect for you. And when you can fight as well as your men, you can lead your men with you head held high. Here, in this base, we will play games, games about problem solving, to see if you can move a body of men without getting them killed, or without running out of supplies, if you can read a map and take your men to the correct position.

‘Someday, in a war, or a conflict in the jungle, you may find yourself with just two men left alive out of a battalion, and a long walk home through enemy country and jungle. Will the two men with you respect you, help you, work with you? Or will they slit your throat and leave you? No one will ever know. It will just be you … and them, and whatever respect they have for you. Consider that … when you consider how hard you train, how hard you study, and how you treat your men.’

I was led away, grinning at the newly arrived pale-faced public-schooled Brits, leaving them in the tender care of the sergeant. They showed me around the Air Wing, now with forty Boeings, a dozen Dash-7s of varying ages, many Cessnas, a few Buffalo sat around. Some of the Boeings were Mark 5s, most Mark 4 or even older. I observed men going over an assault course, firing on a range, then joined the officers for lunch at their mess. After lunch they drove me to the British Brigade, a similar set-up, similar white English officers. Well, it was the “British” Brigade.

‘How many men now?’ I asked their commanding officer, a colonel who had started in the Kenyan Rifles as a captain.

‘Over a thousand now,’ he reported. ‘Training in earnest.’

‘Are they split by speciality?’

‘There are four main battalions, each with the same make-up. They each have a few fliers, engineers, mechanics, sniper specialists, medics, half-track drivers, armourers. Each battalion is then split into four companies, with competition to see who can advance to the top company. And we have a very well developed football league here.’

‘They like the jungle?’

‘They all do stints in the Congo, even guard duty, and they’re all expert at creeping through the jungle without being seen or heard. They get to see some action there.’

‘Action?’ I queried.

‘There’s always a local chief who is upset about something or other, takes a few shots at us or the miners. We’ve had a few lads shot and killed, but we always win the engagements.’

‘They all parachute?’

‘Yes, a mandatory requirement, they must complete twenty jumps a year. The HALO boys join the Kenyans for jumps; we have about twenty specialists, each with hundreds of free-fall jumps. We’ve been teaching the Americans.’

‘They all get along OK?’

‘Well enough, some rivalry of course. We like to challenge the Yanks to a few competitions when they arrive, and they soon learn who’s boss. But as time goes on they catch up, keen to show they can do it.’

‘And the French?’ I asked.

‘They keep themselves to themselves mostly, some hardly speaking any English.’

‘Are they fit?’

‘We’ve seen them on a few joint exercises and they can keep up; their training is a parallel to ours. They have four battalions, smaller than ours, but the same specialities. Your man Cosy runs them, at least sets the agenda over there.’

I nodded. ‘How’s discipline for your lot?’

‘Is … there are problem that I should know about?’ he asked.

‘No, I’m just curious how they behave without a formal British Army structure.’

‘That’s easy: we call it the factory, clocking-off time and all. If someone steps out of line they get docked a week’s pay, or they get the sack. We don’t have a prison, we have a train stop down the road, bags on it and a boot up the arse. They can quit any time they like, but if they want a wage, three square meals a day and a bed – they toe the line. Had one chap shoot another in the leg. The men beat him to within an inch of his life, then put him on a train to Mombasa with a one-way ticket to Liverpool.’

‘Sounds good. And … they’d have no issues fighting alongside a regular British unit if war broke out?’

‘Well, I’d have to say that they’d probably try and beat the crap out of them.’ We laughed. ‘Then they’d settle down and do the job at hand. But I’m familiar with the regular soldiers, and they’d look pretty poor alongside a professional unit like this. Their boots may be shined better, but we could out-run them and out-fight them at every turn.’

‘Then I would guess, if war breaks out, that you’d be used for special missions, not simple soldiering work.’

‘I should hope so.’

Arriving into Mombasa Halt a day later, I marvelled at how built-up the area now was, a bustling road junction where there was just dirt a few years ago. Anna met us, a convoy of three cars, and whisked us the short distance down to her house. We found Cosy returned, and holding a baby, a toddler at his feet.

‘Anna, you must love kids,’ I quipped as I greeted her. ‘And I have a son you can adopt if you want, he’s well behaved - not.’

They offered us tea, sat on the veranda overlooking their wonderful gardens, my son soon finding things to damage, roses to pull the petals off.

‘It’s not all bad here,’ I noted.

‘The house is nice,’ Anna agreed, now holding the baby, the shy toddler at her knee, the lad looking cute in short trousers with braces.

‘How many kids now?’ I asked. ‘I mean … that are not yours.’

‘There are five thousand here, a thousand in Nairobi, three thousand in the Congo.’

‘How many school leavers?’ Susan asked.

‘Four hundred a year at least, but it varies,’ Anna replied. ‘We’ve supplied more than four hundred young men for the Rifles, and many of their nurses.’

‘You have a year left, so make the most of it,’ I cautioned. ‘We’ll need as many soldiers and nurses as you can produce in time.’

‘That may add another three hundred boys and as many nurses. But we can recruit girls to train as nurses, a one year programme.’

‘Their standards?’ I nudged.

‘Basic, but suitable for this day and age.’

‘The Kenyan Rifles Field Hospital will become Rescue Force after the war, so feed them as many nurses as you can, fit and tough.’

‘And the war?’ Anna nudged.

‘Won’t affect you here,’ I emphasised. ‘We think it’ll start in May next year, in Europe.’

‘And then no more Jewish refugees,’ she noted.

‘No, no more when the fighting starts. But, the Germans will be so busy they won’t have time to be cruel to anyone.’

‘There are German refugees here, a few wealthy families that decided to leave. I talk to some of them, a few Dutch families that left.’

‘I’ve flown up to Israel,’ Cosy put in. ‘A lot of people, a lot of buildings. I’ve seen pictures of what it looked like at this time, and it was sparsely populated. Now it’s like London in places, except they all speak German – which is odd.’

‘Better there … than the alternative,’ I said, my eyebrows raised.

‘My own family fled to West Africa at the start of the war,’ Cosy informed us. ‘It’s how we ended up there. My grandfather’s brother was there, he had a farm, and he went to him.’

‘Jimmy has a plan,’ I said, taking in the garden. ‘But, war is tricky, and we’ve seen a few differences to our time line. Still, we have some impressive toys in the arsenal.’

‘The tanks you’ve made,’ Cosy began. ‘They would worry a tank commander from 2020, let alone now.’

‘We don’t have the kit and men to take on a million Germans, so we’ll fight clever in a few places, and use the air power,’ I explained. ‘We’ll supply the British Army with what we can … but the Germans won’t go quietly, nor the Japs.’

‘Do you have the resources to fight on two fronts?’ Cosy broached.

‘Jimmy is confident, and we have nukes,’ I said with a shrug.

After a night at Anna’s house, we again enjoyed the beach hotel, the kids loving the water, Mary not remembering her first visit here, she had been too young. I sat under a coconut tree with a beer, in the sun, the rest of the world a long way off at the moment.

Flying back, I decided that we should visit Britain, since it had been a while. The weather was good as we travelled out from the now-quiet Heathrow airport, cars sent by Sykes, armed police officers accompanying us. We booked into the real Dorchester hotel, a large suite, small beds brought in for the kids.

Sykes joined us for dinner. ‘How are Anna and Cosy?’ he asked.

‘Breeding like rabbits,’ I said. ‘Three kids now.’

‘Yes, I heard.’

‘You?’ I risked.

‘No, and none planned. I’m taking the Jimmy Silo approach to these things, since my profession is … decidedly unstable.’

‘What’s happening in the Fatherland?’

‘A rapid build-up, but more aircraft than we expected, and some new variants,’ Sykes explained. ‘Still, their tanks are the same, basic infantry rifles the same, unit structures the same. Oh, more paratroopers - we think.’

‘Possibly a reaction to the American Airborne,’ I suggested.

‘Possible, but the Germans don’t seem to take much of an interest in America, despite Spain. But they do see the Americans as socialists.’

‘And the Spanish coalition government?’ Susan enquired.

‘Stable enough. They had the sense to make it a coalition government, a few cabinet members from the right, and the rich businessmen have returned. It’s quiet enough, a few reprisal killings for what happened during the fighting, a few suggestions that Morocco or the Canary Islands may break off and do their own thing.’

‘How do the British cabinet treat you?’ I asked.

‘I am now officially an intelligence officer with rank, a salary, and an advisor to the Prime Minister. I get on well enough with the sitting director.’

‘Have they roped you in?’ I teased.

‘They think so,’ he carefully mouthed.

‘And Timkins?’

‘Destined for the top job, which he could take now if Jimmy gave him the OK.’

‘And when war breaks out?’ I nudged.

‘If the current Prime Minister is still there when war breaks out then either Timkins or Churchill will take his job – they have the support. Either way, the top two jobs will be ours.’

‘And the population’s view of the Germans?’

‘The newspapers report the build-up, and the average man in the street is still mad at the Italians. Most think war is coming.’

‘Are you ready?’

He took a moment. ‘The economy has done well in the past ten years, thanks to the Silo and Holton contribution, very well, and Timkins has steered the country well. So from a simply financial point of view we’re much better off. Militarily … we have Spitfires being made here, hundreds of them, now Hurricanes, Wellington Bombers, and the Lancaster is off the drawing board. Oh, your landing craft were a good idea, Royal Navy is keen on them.’

‘And the Army?’ I nudged.

‘They’ve had the benefit of exposure to the Rifles, and started to think in new directions, so I’d say that the average soldier is better prepared, and that many of the NCOs are good. Still, if war breaks out it will be conscripts in the front line. The greatest contribution will be the RAF, with hundreds of pilots to call upon who have years of experience, as well as dog-fighting and ground attack training. That, in itself, should make a serious dent in the Luftwaffe. Our bomber pilots have all flown heavy aircraft such as the Buffalo.’

‘Tanks?’

‘Are as they should be - and are no match for the Germans, the Royal Navy as it should be – except for four additional subs in Hong Kong.’

‘And that four will make a difference,’ I emphasised. ‘A big difference.’

‘Not in Belgium and France, and that will be the starting line.’

‘The French Army?’ Susan asked.

‘As ramshackle as the last time,’ Sykes scoffed. ‘They’re still stuck in the idea of trench warfare. Still, if they fight the Germans as well as their government fights amongst itself, they’ll do well.’

‘So, not much change to the start point then,’ I noted.

‘I’ve asked Jimmy for a camera that will take photographs at night, and from altitude. Closer to the time we’ll need a fly-over at altitude to judge the start point.’

‘May next year,’ Susan stated.

‘Give or take a week, and that week could make a difference,’ Sykes emphasised. ‘We need to be accurate, damned accurate, or we either expose our plans too soon, or fail to get a foothold in Europe.’

‘Are we waiting for the invasion of Poland as a trigger?’ Susan commented. ‘Because if the Germans are to invade France next May, they should attack Poland this September.’

‘In our era, yes,’ Sykes agreed, ‘but there are no signs of a build-up on the eastern front, and we have their enigma cracked early – with a little help. There are no signals regarding Poland.’

‘You think he’ll attack two ways at once?’ I thought aloud.

‘And split his forces? Unlikely,’ Sykes commented. ‘It’s a … work in progress. But their current build up is more inline with an attack on France and the Low Countries, an aberration. He’s concentrating on medium bombers, and you don’t need those for Poland.’

‘More medium bombers?’ I puzzled.

‘More than they should have at this point, and with a greater emphasis on paratroopers. Part of me thinks he’ll bomb us here, hitting the RAF as before, but then create a toe-hold somewhere, followed by a snap invasion.’

‘He’s not the same man,’ Susan reminded us. ‘His experience in the First World War was different, which is normal for a break in the timeline. The timeline broke before the First World War.’

‘So the start point changes subtly,’ I commented. ‘Still, he’s not daft, and he has his own public opinion to worry about, so wild adventures may be curbed by common sense. Still, he put fighter aircraft in Libya, and that was a significant break.’

Sykes nodded as he cut-up his food. ‘He went looking for a scrap to test the water, but somewhere tucked away. If his aircraft didn’t fare well he could have covered it up, and he could have blamed the Italians for causing a clash at the border. It was a smart and bold move.’

‘He hasn’t attacked our aircraft in Chad,’ I noted.

Sykes shook his head as he swallowed. ‘No, and now he figures that the British will shy away from a minor conflict to prevent a larger conflict. I fully believe he’ll try something to test the water again, something larger.’

‘And Africa would be the ideal spot,’ I stated, deep in thought. ‘If he goes for an air war over the Sahara, well … we’d not want to win it, we’d have to back off … or risk showing our hand. But if a ground force reached our railway line we’d have to get involved.’

We checked in on the kids later, before enduring a piano recital in the hotel, which bored us rigid. In the morning we ventured to Hyde Park and wandered around feeding the ducks, security in tow, a trip up to the zoo enjoyed by the kids, Mary seeming to remember her first trip here. I persuaded Susan to pack our stuff, and we set off at 4pm for the south coast, a vehicle convoy of three cars. With dark coming on we reached Brighton, managing to find rooms at The Grand hotel, our British security being spoilt with the quality of their rooms.

The kids woke to a gloriously sunny day, soon on the shingle and throwing stones into a calm sea. The adults sat on deckchairs, paying a penny for them, and lapped up the sun on this warm day. The pier was busy, but full of old curiosities that were not old in this time period. Susan and I enjoyed the saucy postcards, full of sexual innuendo, and put farthings, halfpennies or pennies into machines that offered an element of chance or random luck, others made a monkey bang symbols, or a ball bearing work like a vertical pinball machine.

The hotdogs tasted like hotdogs, plenty of onions, and we paused at the end of pier to watch people fishing, the kids curious about small fish in a steel bucket. Going for a drive in random directions, we eventually found a viewpoint over the coast and just sat enjoying the weather, Toby whacking dandelion heads with a stick and watching the seeds disperse and float. The destructive little bugger was doing the weeds a favour, and helping them to propagate.

The next morning we headed east, reaching Dover late afternoon after stopping for lunch. At the old castle atop the cliffs we bought ice cream, and I paid a penny to peer through a telescope at France, the French coast a little hazy today. Stood in a cool breeze off the Channel, I peered skyward, and wondered about Spitfires and con trails.

‘This is where it will happen,’ Susan noted, her large straw hat shading her eyes.

‘Yep, make or break. At least these cliffs deter invasion.’

‘The reality of it is starting to dawn,’ she commented. ‘And the suffering that will go with it.’

‘Can’t be avoided. And what comes later is far worse; SARS will take as many as the war.’

‘Do you fully believe we’ll shorten it significantly?’

It was an odd question. ‘Yes. We could end it on day one if we wanted to,’ I reminded her, Mary and Toby inspecting an old cannon.

‘It’s nice here, the coast,’ she commented. ‘I’d visited London a couple of times, but not the coast.’

‘On a day like this … it’s easy to forget the outside world. C’mon, best find a hotel before it gets dark.’

We were directed out of town and to a posh retreat, welcomed with utter amazement and surprise by the establishment’s staff and manager; the famous Paul Holton was staying at their hotel. In the morning we double-backed and headed down the coast again, a long drive taking most of the day to reach Bournemouth, booking into a hotel after dark.

In the morning, Susan opened the window at dawn and peered out, calling me. Our hotel offered us a view of a pier, and a dead calm English Channel. Leaving the kids asleep, we ventured down a steep road and towards the pier, onto the sand, ten minutes spent listening to the gentle waves ripple across the sand, no one about. Our security would not be happy bunnies, so we walked back up, secure in the knowledge that German or Italian assassins like a lay-in in the mornings.

After an early breakfast we headed back down, the first few die-hard beach lovers already staking their claims to patches of damp sand, a hardy early morning swimmer enjoying a cool dip. I sent two of the police officers back for the cars, and they followed as we walked along the beach towards Poole, arriving with an appetite. As two groups we sat and ate an early lunch overlooking boats in Poole Harbour, and the day could not have been any better.

Mary and Toby threw bread for small fish, mum and dad just sat and watched, the day warm. A Goose seaplane disturbed our peace, landing half a mile from us.

‘Must be a sea port here,’ I commented. I faced the police detail, all now trying to shelter from the heat. ‘Where do the seaplanes fly to?’

‘Jersey and Guernsey, sir. And in the summer I think they go to Brittany in France. That one of yours?’

‘We made it, but we don’t operate it,’ I told them. ‘It’s not British Airways.’ It took off an hour later, again disturbing our peace.

An officer had walked to a restaurant for drinks, returning with lemonade, pork pies, and hard-boiled eggs. The kids sat and ate, always obedient when food was around, flies swiped away.

We drove back in time for a quick wash and our evening meal, a few guests recognising me. But being here was nice, no reporters hanging around. We weren’t quite anonymous, but we were not far off it here amongst the reserved Brits of 1937.

‘You know, back in our era,’ Susan began. ‘A few people suggested that the time portal could be used for holidays like this, people popping back in costume for a week, even a day.’

‘The consequences could be terrible,’ I said. ‘You nudge a car with your car, and some guys gets home late, can’t be bothered to go out, fails to meet the girl he’ll marry, and a future scientists is never born. It all has consequences.’

She nodded. ‘Small changes can have large affects years later.’

‘There are probably plenty of worlds where Dr Singh was never even born.’

Italian drivers

We didn’t want the holiday to end, and grew attached to the south coast of England in 1937, so long as it was sunny. And not too crowded.

Back in Canada, I was presented with a new motorbike design. Actually, they said, ‘Watch this’, and tore up and down the taxiways like Italian youths showing off, three bikes now finished. They had even fashioned fibreglass helmets.

Inspecting a bike, I asked, ‘How fast do they go?’

‘Up to eighty miles per hour, as you requested,’ they enthused, envious engineers stood watching us.

‘Range?’

‘If you’re steady, just over a hundred and ninety miles.’

‘How does it handle over rough ground?’

‘We haven’t tested them like that yet, we thought we’d get the speed right.’

‘Well get this right: if I see people tearing down the town roads at speed you’ll get my foot up your arses, and the bikes banned. A bike like this moving at speed is a death trap.’

‘Right, boss.’

‘Now, I want a variant with springs and dampeners fitted, then have it driven over the tank course, up and down all day, till it’s as comfortable as you can get it. I want two large pouches on the back, a seat for two people, not one, and mud guards.’

‘Mud … guards?’

‘Plastic around the tops of the wheels so that the mud doesn’t fly all over the driver.’

‘Ah, right.’

‘This has to go across the desert, or a muddy battlefield, so get on with it. And stop enjoying yourselves too much. Fit a bigger fuel tank, and try and get the range up. When that’s done, we’ll make hundreds of them, down at the car factory. Carry on … and drive slowly.’

With the motorbike development set on a course, practical and not suicidal, they wanted to show me a glider. Or two. The basic glider with an engine was now bigger, two seat, and painted black. It took off like a normal plane, circled and climbed, a soldier jumping out and pulling his ripcord, drifting down to the airfield as the glider came back around very quietly, landing with its engine off. If I hadn’t been looking at it, I wouldn’t have heard it.

The next glider to take off was single seat, so I gave them a look. They smiled back confidently. At about the same altitude as the previous glider, a man slipped out of the lower rear section, looking like the plane had passed a turd. He pulled his ripcord and floated down.

‘The man is hidden, sir. It’s a single seat plane, so no one would suspect that a trooper had jumped out.’

‘That would work well … in normal times, but not in a war,’ I pointed out.

‘No, sir, but it has its uses. Well, the SAS guys think so.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘What’s next?’

They led me to a workshop where an aircraft frame stood being attended by many hands.

‘It’s lightweight, no engines, no fuel, no hydraulic systems,’ they listed off. ‘Nothing beyond a frame, a skin, and basic controls. The frame is existing Goose section, mass produced; it won’t be pretty, but she’ll do the job.’ They led me inside the skeleton. ‘The flaps are hand cranked from inside by the soldiers. Up, down thirty degrees, or forty-five. There are also air-brakes that are hand-cranked.’

‘Hand … cranked?’ I queried.

‘No hydraulics, so you’d need at least two people in the rear to land safely. There’s a hard-point attachment above the nose, and she’s designed to take a hard landing, skids and wheels with basic dampeners. We think she’ll land at forty miles per hour, or just under, without stalling.’

‘Capacity?’

‘Twenty-four men for this version, with full kit. Two portable toilets with hand-crank flush, basic water dispenser; that’s about it for the comforts. We’ll be rigging up nets down the middle and on the sides for people to grab hold of during landing, simple benches to sit on, two doors at the rear, one at the front.’

‘I look forward to seeing her tested. Keep me posted.’

I caught up on the gossip and news, production levels, ore and oil, money in the bank and stock market positions. Money was good, but the production levels were high – and expensive. We were funding four more subs, an aircraft carrier and landing craft, Super Goose bombers, the Hercules development, as well as jet aircraft development. It was an expensive pastime, preparing for war.

RPGs were coming off the assembly line like bottles of Coke, 7.62mm ammunition being produced by the million per month, AK47s exceeding six thousand a month, tank shells in the thousands being shipped out. And they were being shipped out to PBX-4, wherever the hell that was. I went and found Jimmy. ‘PBX-4?’

He lowered his paper as I sat. ‘The British have agreed to stockpile our weapons and ammo, without dipping into them - or showing them off. I have it in writing from the Prime Minister. So I’m shipping stockpiles to Scotland, to an area near an RAF base that we’ll make use of. That base is being beefed up ready, hangars built, more taxiways, higher fence, and lines of trees transplanted to keep prying eyes away.

‘They’ve stationed two hundred soldiers at the base, and the armoury is well guarded. They’ve dug out eight ammo dumps and concreted them over - earth and grass on top, built barracks, canteens, the works. There’s even a guest quarters. And, not far from where you holidayed, we’ve adopted a base with a grass runway, ammo dumps created, a high fence, guard dogs, and around the edges is a wood. Taxiways have been cut into the wood, some half a mile long and painted green afterwards. Green netting will be used to hide our aircraft from German bombers. The aircraft dispersal sites have concrete walls to about six feet, painted green, ready for the prop fighters to make a happy home in.

‘At each dispersal site are steps leading down to a workshop and ammo store, but it’s also a bomb shelter. When they say “scramble”, our pilots will be in the shelter, or sat enjoying the weather. They have toilets and beds, even a toaster I reckon.’

‘How many prop fighters will operate from it?’

‘Probably over a hundred. There are three runways, all cleverly disguised with trees down the edges, and a large tunnel has been dug into a hill on the quiet; it was started a year ago. That tunnel will hold fifty aircraft, just sat waiting some action. But that’s not the best bit. This tunnel has a straight stretch, wide and high, a smooth concrete floor. Outside of it is a concrete runway stretching three hundred yards, looking like a normal English street, fake houses and gardens either side. Our planes power up, pick up speed inside the tunnel, open the throttle when they reach daylight, and lift their noses past the third house. Beyond that they’d catch an Me109, even in a climb.’

‘The Brits cooperating with all this? There’s no war yet.’

‘I’ve explained to them that someday, someday soon, they’ll have large bombers and atom bombs, so they need the facilities to be started now. That they understand, so they’re making plenty of concrete runways for us, one at an isolated spot in East Anglia; it’s miles from anywhere, very flat. We have a runway painted brown and looking like a ploughed field, a control tower that looks like a pub, and dispersal sites up to half a mile away, hangars looking like barns. That runway has landing lights, because the RAF pilots who practice there can never find the damn thing after taking off, and have to land someplace else. Some of them have flown out of it dozens of times, and they still can’t find it.

‘But, they are experimenting with a radio talk-down procedure. We’ve fitted Goose transponders to their Dash-7s, and their radar and radio operators talk the planes down through cloud and fog. They’re getting good at it now; they can put a plane right on the end of the runway using a glide path.’

‘If we’re going to operate at night, we’ll need it.’

‘Similar procedures are starting to appear in the States at the civil airports, making use of the transponders.’

‘Progress, eh,’ I quipped.

‘You’ll see goodies being shipped out to Africa as well, a stockpile, and Hong Kong is now sinking under the weight of munitions.’

‘American Brigade behaving?’

‘Nope, two more killed. The Japs have consolidated the Canton region, and seem happy with that, but Mao has pushed them back a bit, and they’re not happy with that.’

‘Any closer to Hong Kong?’

‘Yes, a little closer, and the Japs watch the place more now.’

‘Food shipments regular?’

‘Yes, they don’t interfere,’ Jimmy replied.

‘Sykes thinks the Germans will try something, test the British nerve.’

Jimmy slowly nodded. ‘Probably a naval skirmish around Jutland.’

‘Not Libya?’

‘The British can move back from an air engagement there without anyone knowing; no loss of face. A ground attack would see a very long and arduous journey across the world’s worst terrain. And again, who’d see it? No, they want to nudge the British, and for it to be reported to the German people. He’s a magician with public opinion, and the Sahara won’t give him a microphone and spotlight. He may test British nerve there, but he wants a show.’

A few days later, the engineers in the jet factory called me over. Actually, they asked for both me and Jimmy, so we figured that it must be something good. We drove around, through the security, and to a new shed labelled up as Research-15. I guessed that sheds 1-14 were busy with other stuff.

Inside, we found a keen bunch of engineers, all looking smug. They led us past men in white lab coats doing things that men in white lab coats did, and to what looked like a cruise missile with its skin taken off after a bad accident. The nose of the missile contained hundreds of brass tubes, their shape and surface texture reminding me of the coral you found when scuba diving. Behind it sat what looked like a radio set after a bad night, followed by a torpedo engine, and finally a few small fins.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘It looks … complicated.’

A man pointed. ‘At the front there are many tubes that contain a liquid, the same liquid that we make use of in the night sights. That liquid reacts to infra-red radiation, creating a small electrical current, which is amplified many times.’ He pointed at the radio parts. ‘Those signals are then calibrated to a direction off-centre, and drive servo-motors that control the fins at the rear, the projectile flown by the modified torpedo engine.’ He stood proud. ‘If it was fired by plane at another, it would adjust its course till it hit the other aircraft’s engine.’

‘And then…?’ I nudged.

‘And then it would explode, sir.’

I glanced at Jimmy, who was keeping quiet. ‘So, it’s a … heat … seeking … missile, yes?’

‘That’s an interested name for it, sir, but yes.’

‘Why, what did you call it?’

‘We called it a thermal-detecting self-contained plane, sir.’

I stared at him.

‘Your title is better, sir. Heat-seeking missile.’

‘How much explosive would it carry?’ I asked, studying it.

‘Around six pounds, sir. An initial explosion with fragmentation would destroy an aircraft within twenty yards, but we’re adding bomblets from the cluster bombs. They’ll detonate after half a second, fragmentation up to three hundred yards.’

‘And you think it’ll work?’ I posed.

They wheeled forwards a bed sheet on a frame, placing it in front of the missile’s cones. They switched it on, the fins twitching before settling, a man now stood behind the sheet and clicking on his cigarette lighter. He walked left, the fins twitching, walked right, the fins twitching again, and raised his hand, the fins twitching again.

‘So if the Japs had a lot of men behind bed sheets, we’ve got them,’ I said, making the group laugh.

‘We’ll have a prototype to test soon, sir.’

‘Expensive toy, this?’ I asked.

‘All of the components are common, taken from stores, except the guiding system. That’s just brass tubes and radio parts, sir. We believe we can keep the cost down, but if it works, then one missile – as you say, will bring down one or more enemy bombers without risk to our aircraft. Our aircraft could fire from half a mile away … and then turn away.’

‘Good,’ Jimmy commended. ‘How many people working on it?’

‘Just the four of us at the moment, sir.’

‘Make that twenty-four, and straightaway. I like it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ they enthused.

‘I think we’re missing something here,’ I announced. ‘Guys, you have this thing homing-in on a heat source, but we already have radio direction finding technology. Could you not also make one to home-in on a radio source?’

‘The … aircraft would have to be using its radio at that precise moment, sir,’ a man said, looking a bit embarrassed for me.

‘You’re still not getting it, are you. Who else uses radios, besides aircraft?’

‘Radio stations?’ one man asked.

‘Great, we could blow up Radio Vancouver!’ I snapped. ‘What else?’

‘Control towers?’ someone ventured.

‘Now we’re getting somewhere. What if … you fired this from a plane ... and it sought out someone else’s control tower.’

‘It … would blow up their control tower?’

‘It would, meaning that they can’t control their aircraft.’

‘Ah…’ they collectively let out.

‘What else?’

‘Tank commanders.’

‘Good, a good idea. What else?’

‘Enemy headquarters, sir, sending radio messages out to regional commanders,’ a man confidently suggested.

‘Good. Excellent. We could kill their commanding officers, all sat about the radio sending messages. What else?’

They glanced at each other. ‘A battleship,’ someone said, as if struck with a divine revelation.

I said, ‘One missile ... damaging a battleship, would be worth it. But you would need a big missile. So, how about one of these with an auto-trim, wings, a big payload, and your clever guidance thing. It would fly off one ship towards another, go twenty miles, and then … bang, scratch one very expensive battleship. Or … aircraft carrier. And the same thing could be used over land, to hit an enemy headquarters with a big bang.

‘Guys, if you’re going to make an expensive toy, make it worth it. Shooting down an enemy plane with a twenty thousand dollar missile is a bit steep. Tell the Research Manager I want a hundred men on it as of tomorrow morning. This now has priority. And … good work, guys, really good work.’

In the car, I said, ‘Did they get a nudge to design those from Hal wanting missiles for the jet?’

‘Nope, they came up with it by themselves. We have some very bright young men around, some just from college – those with the highest grades. We have theoretical physicists, mathematicians, chemists; all very bright. But that’s not the key. They compete with each other, and sit around the canteen discussing each other’s work. They have an attitude of can do; they don’t know the meaning of it can’t be done. I’ve allowed in a few Americans, graduates, and a few British lads. C’mon, I’ll show you anther toy. Driver: tank depot, please.’

At the tank depot we found the senior officer, Jimmy requesting an artillery demonstration. So far we had not bothered with artillery. At the tank range we rudely interrupted some gunnery practice, soon stood with the senior officer and a radio operator. An oddly shaped tank appeared, growling across the range, a small artillery piece on its back. The tank had no turret, just an odd artillery piece with lots of bits attached to it.

It came to a halt side-on to the range, revving as two small legs descended at the rear, two at the front, the legs digging into the dirt. With the revving eased, the gun moved left and right, up and down, finally raised to a high angle and facing down the range. Shells started to be fired out, at a rate of one every two seconds. Six had been fired before the first threw up mud three thousand yards down the range.

The officer explained to me, ‘It has a clever aiming system, more about the compass bearing and range than what you could see with your eyes. Its range is limited to four miles, but it’s very accurate, and self-loading as you can see. When a tank radios back a target to it, it can lay down fire across a tight area, and quickly. Good against buildings, trenches, or infantry that are spread out and dug in.’

He gave the radio operator a nod. ‘It has another use as well, and that’s for what Mister Silo calls close-up and personal,’ he said with a smile.

The gun lowered itself, seemingly aiming at the smoking hulk of a truck that had been used for target practice. It popped off five rounds quickly, nothing left of the truck, the mud around it flung high into the air. The vehicle revved, the muddy legs retracted, and belched smoke as it powered away.

Smiling, the officer said, ‘If the crew get caught with their pants down, surrounded by the enemy, they just lower the gun and fire at things that are close by. Then it becomes a tank. But you could just drive it to the edge of a village and flatten the place.’

‘Could also fire at a ship, if the ship was close enough to shore,’ I noted, a glance at Jimmy.

‘Hell, yes,’ the officer confirmed. ‘Would stop them landing soldiers.’

‘How many do we have?’ I asked.

‘Twelve, for now.’

I faced Jimmy. After a moment, he said to the officer, ‘Ship four of them to Hong Kong, just in case the Japs decided to sail into port.’

‘That would be a right dumb thing to do,’ the man pointed out with a grin. ‘Right dumb.’

‘If they knew we had them, yes,’ I pointed out.

In the C.O.’s office he made us tea, and I stood over a large battle-board with models. Jimmy pointed at the board. ‘Closely-integrated warfare,’ he began. ‘Recon, tanks, light tanks behind, half-tracks behind them, artillery as you just saw further back, then infantry, air cover and ground attack aircraft – all working together. Depending on the situation, the right weapon is used.’

‘The right tool to fit the socket, we say,’ the C.O. announced as he handed me a tea. ‘No good just making a big bang with expensive munitions, ya need to hit the damn target. The tanks go head to head with other tanks in woods or in towns, tight streets. Aircraft hit the tanks with RPGs if they’re out in the open, the artillery hits soldiers in buildings or in trenches, and infantry arrives in a half-track to clear out the town afterwards. No good a tank trying to clear a trench, or to remove infantry from a village, and no good putting infantry up against tanks.’

‘Seems like you have it all worked out,’ I commended. ‘How many men at this depot now?’

‘Over a thousand,’ the Colonel reported. ‘Two hundred and eighty vehicles of some sort or another.’

‘Do the men specialise?’ I asked.

‘After they’ve mastered everything,’ the officer responded. ‘If a tank gunner is killed his driver can load and fire the weapon, or even the tank commander could. Everyone learns everyone else’s job, and they still have to keep the basic infantry skills sharp, regular small arms training, exercises, parachuting. These guys are worked hard, never a dull day.’

I stared down at the board, and the small models, seeing a potential future battle unfold before me, and wondering if we could win – at least win the set-piece battles that we had in mind. We were still a small force.

The Canadian Government came to visit us a week later aboard their own luxury aircraft, supplied by us. The day was glorious, hardly a cloud in the sky, the air still, the inlet looking good enough to swim in – for crazy people. We settled them into the bar after ten minutes of idle chat, and plenty of thanks for the wondrous plane.

‘Gentlemen,’ Jimmy began. ‘What we have to talk about today is both grave, and secret.’ We had their attention. ‘I’d like to pose a scenario, and ask for your opinions.’ He took a moment. ‘If the United Kingdom found itself in a war with Germany, Italy, or even Japan, would you have any objection to us flying aircraft from Canadian soil that may be part of the British war effort?’

‘If you sell aircraft to the British, then no – of course not,’ they responded.

‘And if a bomber took off from Nova Scotia and bombed Germany?’

‘Then … we would have to consider that it would be an act of war, something we would need to decide upon ourselves. If there was a war between Britain and Germany, then it would probably be fought with ourselves siding with Britain. That seems likely, but we would, of course, need to be at war first.’

‘And if a potential war developed, and Britain or America saw the need to use certain special bombs…’

They eased back, glances exchanged. ‘We had considered this. In practical terms, you could just fly the plane south fifty miles, or to England. Our insistences would make no practical differences.’

‘Still, we’re based in your country, you have a right to know, and a veto.’

‘They are not our bombs or planes, they are being paid for by Britain and America under agreement, and we are signatories to that agreement. That agreement does not stipulate that a bombing mission may start here, but what would be the difference between that … and a flight to Seattle and a bombing mission starting there?’

‘A practical approach, Prime Minister,’ Jimmy commended. ‘For now, we’d like you to consider the implications, the permissions, and I’d like it in writing, a guidebook of what you see as acceptable or not, where prior notification is required. Now, that brings us to the Canadian Rifles. They are – technically – your soldiers, albeit paid by us. Would you allow us to commit them to a war involving Britain?’

‘We did not object to their posting to Hong Kong,’ they pointed out. ‘And the British formally requested them, so … we don’t see an issue.’

‘Again, I would like you to consider just where and how they may be used, any limitations, and a guidebook again. I want to know in advance if there would be any circumstances in which it would be inappropriate to use them.’

‘Unless you used them to start a war, we could see no circumstances where they could not support the British, or even the Americans. If Britain was at war, we would likely commit troops.’

A second man asked, ‘Do you see war as likely?’

‘I think the Italians want a war, and the Germans don’t hide their aggression; we could see a conflict in Europe within a year. And then there’s Hong Kong, which the Japanese encircle – and creep ever closer to. So we do see war as highly likely, yes.’

‘Then … we should make a few preparations ourselves,’ the Prime Minister suggested.

Jimmy said, ‘I’ve transferred a large sum to the account we use to sponsor your other infantry units. Please use it in the next six to nine months, for it to be effective. Recruit more men, buy better weapons – we have some. Now, we’ll get you some food before we show you a few of those weapons.’

‘How’s the plane?’ I asked our guests as Jimmy organised the food.

‘I must admit, it feels … ostentatious and presumptuous,’ the Prime Minister admitted.

‘Nonsense, you’re the government, so use it. You have long flights to make all the time, and you need to be fresh when you get there. The British Prime Minister uses one, and that fella in the White House - although he has two.’

After lunch, the Canadian leadership watched as our MLRS tore up a strip of their land, the men frightened rigid by the firepower displayed, and then observed as an artillery piece reduced a peaceful wooded hillside to a pile of logs and mud.

‘I believe, Mister Holton, that as a technique for felling trees … this will not catch on,’ the Prime Minister told me, making me laugh.

They tried AK47s, again horrified at the rate of fire, and returned to their aircraft wishing for a quiet life of shuffling papers.

At the hotel, Mac, Handy and Big Paul arrived with cases. I didn’t even notice they’d been gone. ‘Where you been?’

‘Fishing off Cuba, big game fishing,’ Big Paul said, now tanned.

‘Man fishing,’ Mac added. ‘Not for you old married men types.’

‘Cheeky bastards. Anyway, I went to Brighton Pier with the family, so there.’

That holiday was soon just a memory, as summer became September. But as the weather cooled here, so it cooled in Libya, cool enough for a German mechanised brigade to land, for “joint exercises” with the Italians.

I sat with Jimmy when I heard that news from Hal. ‘German exercises, in Libya?’

‘Practice, no doubt, plus a little provocation,’ Jimmy said. ‘And yesterday a German destroyer tried to ram a British destroyer in the Denmark Straights.’

‘Will we make it to next May?’

‘I should think so, Hitler wants to dip his toe and test the water.’

‘What do the British have in Egypt?’

‘They had enough last week, not enough this week.’

‘Should we do anything?’

‘I have done, I’ve sent the British infantry in Egypt thirty half-tracks and fifty jeeps, so now they’re a more mobile infantry. Weak, but mobile.’

‘And the Germans?’ I nudged.

‘Were seen to offload around two hundred vehicles.’

‘Bit of a mismatch,’ I testily pointed out.

‘We want a scrap, not a victory - not yet.’

‘Aircraft?’

‘The Luftwaffe now operates thirty medium bombers in Libya, and sixty fighters, some old Bf109s, a few of their more modern variants.’

‘Bit of a mismatch,’ I testily pointed out, again.

He nodded. ‘Our aircraft at the railway line have moved to a base fifty miles back, inside Chad, protected by the French Brigade.’

‘Leaving the RAF alone in the sand?’

‘The British have brought up an infantry battalion, and spread them amongst the bases. We’re supplying water, food, fuel, even ammo.’

‘But we’re not going to fight?’

‘Not yet,’ he carefully mouthed. ‘But the base deeper into Chad is … rather large, and well equipped.’

‘And the plan?’

‘Is to … wait and see what’s on their mind, then react according to the master plan, which is to delay a full-on fight till May.’

‘You have the British dispositions in Egypt?’ I asked. He handed me a file, and I started to read.

Jesus, it was all foot soldiers, a few Indian units, a few armoured car units. They had artillery, which was good, and anti-aircraft batteries. They operated two squadrons of Boeing Mark 4s, which was OK, Cessnas and Dash-7s for communications. They had, however, mined an area of the border, in fact several areas. But our British friends were relying on the fact that it was desert, and that large distances had to be covered; they would see an attack a long way off, and most of their units were well away from the border. From where the Germans now sat, they’d have to spend a week or two of churning up sand just to reach any British units.

The only bright spot in the British arsenal were the Boeings, since they had RPG racks and a good supply of ammo. The British now operated our half-tracks and jeeps, but that just put lightly armed infantry units in danger ahead of time, and in comfort.

‘Are the British asking for additional resources from us?’ I asked Jimmy.

‘At the moment they don’t see the need. I delivered the half-tracks and jeeps without permission - or even a request for them. They believe, quite correctly at this point in time in time, that the Royal Navy would blow the crap out of Tripoli and Bengasi, and anything moving along the coast road, plus intercept re-supply ships if need be.’

I cocked an eyebrow. ‘And their ships are impervious to medium German bombers?’

‘Ah, you’ve found the one flaw in their plan. Still, ships are hard to hit, even with lots of bombers, and the Royal Navy could pound the Italians and Germans at night.’

‘So,’ I sighed. ‘We wait to see what chess pieces move.’

‘I’ve asked Abdi to recruit more men, and to move onto a war footing.’

‘He’ll love that.’

‘I’ve sent him more half-tracks, jeeps, weapons and ammo, enough to give the British Governor there a heart attack.’

In the weeks that followed the Germans conducted exercises in the desert, and slowly increased their numbers, but did not probe the borders. Their aircraft met the RAF Boeings in the south and waved, and that was all. Meanwhile, halfway around the world, the Japanese were losing men to Mao, and not at all happy about it. They organised a major offensive, which we got wind of from Po’s spies on the mainland, but the advancing Japanese found Mao’s people to have moved back fifty miles. The Japanese surged forwards, bombing buildings as they went, but found no resistance till they hit a point some thirty-five miles forwards.

The Japanese High Command was pleased with the advance, and that the communists had fled. But two days after the advance, the Japanese supply lines started to be cut, bridges and rail lines blown up, convoys devastated with bombs place alongside roads. The communists came out of their caves and down from the hills on the fourth day and attacked from the rear.

Over a period of ten days, the communists took heavy casualties, their attack a failure, but the Japanese had lost thousands of men and much equipment. The realisation in Tokyo was that remaining for many years would be very costly, unless the source of new weapons was cut off. They could hear our aircraft flying overhead each night – a deliberate provocation, but were powerless to intercept them, and growing more and more frustrated as each day passed.

Finally, in late September, they had had enough, and stopped food entering the colony from China. Food started to arrive by ship almost immediately, the ships not interfered with for now. People in the colony had to tighten their belts and cut down a bit, food prices rising, and we ourselves began to send grain ships. Po did an excellent job of bringing in supplies cheaply, since he controlled everything, and operated a fleet of two hundred ships. Oil came from CAR in Tanzania, and life went on in the besieged colony.

But the Royal Navy then went and did the unexpected, and dispatched four warships to the Far East to help with the food convoys. That move reduced the Royal Navy presence in Europe, and by four capital ships. They also dispatched an aircraft carrier with four support ships, something of a bold move considering the German build-up.

Across the endless sands of the Sahara, German half-tracks crushed beetles into the sand, a base of operation created at the oasis airfield. They didn’t know that their tea was made each day by one of Abdi’s men with black pointed teeth, or that he had a radio; that might have put them off their morning cuppa. We received coded messages, German numbers and units, Sykes collating their unit dispositions in London.

What was clear, was that the advance guard of many units were now in the country, a small fraction of the total men that the parent units offered. That meant that the rest of the unit would follow at some point. If all of the units present brought their full strength into Libya, they’d have enough men to take Egypt, more than enough.

Churchill and the coalition cabinet received a briefing, things not looking good in North Africa. They dispatched additional army units of light tanks and artillery, plus another two squadrons of Boeings, the Spitfire only just coming into service – and only now because we had given them a nudge. But even with the extra units they would hardly be at parity with the combined German and Italian strength on the ground, let alone in the air.

The Germans saw the reinforcements arrive in Alexandria, the Germans coded signals intercepted by Sykes, and the Germans knew exactly what they faced across the desert. They must have had little fear. The greatest fear for the Germans was still the Royal Navy, which was a force to be reckoned with. For the Germans, the solution to their problems came in the form of the Italian Air Force, who now flew closer and closer to British warships, eventually dropping a bomb near one. The League of Nations convened, the Italians citing provocation from British warships close to their shores and to their supply routes to Libya. Well, given the layout of the Mediterranean Sea, it would have been hard for a Royal Navy ship to pass Malta and head to Egypt without passing Sicily, Libya, or an Italian supply convoy.

The net effect was that the Royal Navy avoided sailing too close to Italy or Libya, and tried to avoid the Italian convoys, but a week after the League had tried to arrange some semblance of peace around the Mediterranean, an Italian Bf109 shot down a Royal Navy biplane. The League reconvened, and again tried to bring some semblance of peace to the Mediterranean.

The Germans blamed the British for trying to starve the Italian and German troops in Libya, claiming that the British Empire wanted all of Africa. Well, the British probably did, but that wasn’t the point. Much shouting from the podium in Berlin resulted in reinforcements arriving in Libya from Germany. Abdi’s poor old tea boy was rushed off his feet with all the new arrivals.

In the hotel, we all waited the daily news, observing the build-up of forces on both sides. Another thirty half-tracks were sent up to Cairo, this time with 105mm fitted, plenty of shells, the British now offering a better anti-tank capacity. Fuel from Zanzibar made its way up the Red Sea, the British at least well stocked with that.

During October, the build-up continued in Libya, at a time when the Royal Navy’s capital ships were arriving in Singapore. But there were no cross-border skirmishes, not least because the British troops were sat about the campfire a good sixty miles from the border. The action was all down to the Italians, used to provoke a conflict. An Italian plane wandered over the Egyptian border, chased off, but the incident was reported as being over the Libyan side, complaints made. That was repeated a week later, followed by an Italian plane in the far south wandering a very long way from base and being chased off by the RAF over our railway. The poor old Italian plane limped in with bullet holes, a surprise to the RAF pilot, who had never fired a shot.

The Italian leadership threatened to defend itself from attack and from provocation, by using force. The British, bless ‘em, moved their air patrols back ten miles inside the Egyptian border, and inside the railway line, pointing out that fact to French and Swedish observers who had arrived from the League of Nations. With the French and Swedish men sat watching the skies, nothing happened for two weeks, so they went home with a bad dose of dysentery.

November the 1^st saw an Italian artillery piece fire at a point near a border checkpoint, the Indian soldiers running for cover. Just to be awkward in the face of clear provocation, the British left Egyptian officials at the border, and moved back ten miles, the Italians and Germans puzzling the move, but now certain that Britain lacked the will to fight.

Then, one day, Abdi’s man finally received the signal he was waiting for. He set three Good Morning grenades around the oasis, and legged it. At 7am, Germans sat on the makeshift toilet benches were rudely interrupted, the first blast killing ten and wounding twenty. The second blast caught Italians running around, twelve killed, thirty wounded, and the third blast demolished two German half-tracks.

Four days later, coffins draped in flags were carried from German transports, the crowds thick, the rhetoric strong. We had given Hitler want he wanted, a kick in the shins. He promised revenge against the perpetrators of this cowardly act.

In the hotel, Jimmy showed me a photograph of what appeared to be a four-engine transport, a German four-engine transport. ‘Transport or bomber?’ I asked.

‘Transport, as well as paratroops.’

‘What’s its performance?’

‘According to Sykes, its performance is terrible, but it is all aluminium. So, just to be a spoilsport, I’ve bought up all the spare aluminium around Europe and shipped it to Britain, as well as from around the world. There’ll be a shortage, which suits us – because we can sell some and make a few quid. But not to the Germans of course. And we’re building up a big stockpile of ore here.’

‘Germans copying us?’

Jimmy made a face. ‘Everyone is.’ He handed me a picture of a new Grumman fighter.

‘Nice lines,’ I commented. ‘Very nice.’

‘That fighter will hold its own against a Boeing Mark 4,’ he pointed out. ‘They’re being evaluated by the US Army … as we speak.’

‘Any performance figures on the new 109s?’

‘Abdi’s men had a nose inside a cockpit. If the dials are to be believed, then they are perhaps ten percent better than they should be at this point; better speed and altitude. They would tip the balance against a Boeing Mark 4, but the Boeing has a better climb rate, slightly better rate of turn, and more armour.’ He foraged around a coffee table and found another picture. ‘Focke-Wulf 190b, with dials that tip even the new Bf109. An aberration.’

‘How do they compare to a Spitfire?’

‘They won’t catch a Spitfire, but they are closing the gap.’

‘And the latest variant of our prop fighter?’

‘If it goes any faster the damn wings will fall off.’

With a break in the weather, we travelled up the coast and to a test site, to test a cruise missile. The missile now had a shiny plastic skin to help with sea corrosion, and sat on a ramp, a jet assisted take-off required.

‘What’s the range?’ I asked our guys, now wrapped up warm in a Parka.

‘This version: thirty miles.’

‘What do you mean, this version?’ I pressed.

‘We’ve fitted a small jet engine to a variant, a range of … maybe three hundred miles or more.’

‘Payload on this?’

‘Just under two thousand pounds for test purposes, but we’re sure we can go to four thousand pounds, but we don’t think that’s necessary to sink a battleship.’

‘No?’ I queried.

‘We originally had this aiming at the radio transmitter. Well, that’s up a tall pole at the very top of the ship, no good hitting that. So this will use a special sensor to fly at thirty feet and slam into the super-structure. After that it’s just a big RPG.’

I nodded. ‘Good idea.’

After a quick look over the missile we all moved well back, a flight of our prop fighters circling at two thousand feet. They would chase the missile and judge its performance.

‘Sir, out at sea is a US Navy destroyer with its radio on,’ the man explained. ‘It’s ten miles out, cruising at full speed and trying to be evasive.’

‘Have we removed the explosives?’ I teased.

‘I damn well hope so, sir. Just sand in there.’

They made ready, blew a whistle, and fired the damn thing. It shot up the ramp with a whoosh, its own engine firing just as it left the ramp. It wobbled to start with, but then settled down, out of sight quickly, the prop fighters diving down to try and follow it. We all walked to the radio van.

‘Five miles out, aircraft having trouble catching it, they’re flat out at full speed,’ the radio operator reported. ‘Wait … the lead plane has caught it, four hundred and eighty miles per hour.’

‘It’s only supposed to fly at four hundred,’ an engineer said.

‘Don’t you just hate it when that happens,’ I quipped, getting a look from Jimmy.

‘Approaching destroyer … destroyer on … fire.’

Jimmy and I faced the senior man. ‘Did you remove the explosives?’ I asked.

‘Yes!’ he insisted.

I turned to the radio operator. ‘What damage to the destroyer?’

‘Funnel has gone, sir, that’s where the smoke is coming from. Missile took their funnel clean off.’

Jimmy and I exchanged looks, then exchanged shrugs.

‘It works, doesn’t it,’ I said.

‘You take the phone call,’ he said.

I faced the senior man, and shouted, wagging a finger. ‘Stop damaging US Navy property! How many times have I told you!’

‘It was a successful test,’ he quietly offered, his head lowered.

‘Well done anyway,’ Jimmy offered. ‘Now test it, improve it, increase the payload and the damage it could do, and fit it to a tank recovery vehicle. And push the jet version hard, get its range up; it’ll never need more than five hundred pounds of explosives. Well done.’

The US Navy were not happy, they were overjoyed, despite the damage to their ship; we could now offer them a ship-to-ship weapon with a range of over twenty miles or more, maybe much further. If a shore battery of these weapons was operational, no ship could near the shore, not with their radios on. With a heat-seeking version soon to be available, that ship would need to operate without engines and funnels to approach the shore, as well as no radio.

I sat down with the design team a week later, and looked at a model of the jet-propelled version. It would fly at four hundred miles per hour or more, would pack five hundred pounds of high explosive, but might reach as far as seven hundred miles, following a compass bearing.

I said, ‘Guys, any way that this could carry a fuel-air explosive?’

They gave it some thought. ‘It would need a timer, to judge the distance based on speed and time, then … deploy a parachute to stop, then … detonate the fuel-air a few seconds later as it drifts down.’

‘Put that on the drawing board.’ I ordered. ‘Do you need more people?’

‘We have plenty, sir.’

‘Then I want you to try and hit Lemming Base with one.’

They were shocked, then pleased, hushed conversations breaking out. I left them to have brain sex.

The motorbikes were now 250cc dirt bikes, and starting to look the part. Members of the Canadian Rifles had been testing them over rough terrain, and absolutely loved the bikes. Two had gone missing. The consensus was that the bikes could handle rough terrain, didn’t break down very often, and could travel at least a hundred and fifty miles on one tank.

I grabbed the bike team. ‘Well done on the bikes, very good work, men. Right, this is what I want. I want two hundred of those bikes, and I want them yesterday.’ Their faces dropped. ‘Then I want a version of them suitable for American roads, to be made by the car company and sold. There’s no hurry on the commercial version because there are already bikes out there, there is on the military version; call in what resources you need. In the meantime, I want all spare bikes handed to the Canadian Rifles.’

I gave them all a cash bonus, and found the Rifles commanding officer. ‘I want everyone to learn how to ride those bikes, starting with the SAS, SBS, Airborne. In the future, when we have enough, they’ll be used as recon vehicles and for general transport.’

‘We have two here that we … borrowed, and they’re excellent bikes.’

‘Rest are coming to you, put someone on it. Not literally, I mean ... on the project.’

With the Italians and Germans making threats, but not carrying them out, I returned to aircraft, and had a nose at the new Hercules prototypes, three now sat in varying stages of readiness. The first sat on the apron revving its engines a great deal each day, threatening to do something more exciting than just that any day soon. It was a monster of a plane, the biggest we’d produced, the inside big enough to play football in. They lowered the tail ramp, raised it, then lowered it again, over and over.

Then one day she was ready to fly the nest, but just powered down the runway several times. Things were checked, re-checked, and all was in order. She powered down the runway with a large audience on a rainy day, lifted up ten feet and landed. Well, at least the wings hadn’t fallen off, and the undercarriage was fine.

With just a small amount of fuel in the tanks, she waited for a pause in the rain, powered up and tore down the runway, lifting her nose, and she kept it up. With her undercarriage still down she circled the airfield twice and came into land, her landing slow and soft thanks to massive flaps and airbrakes. That was as much excitement as she could handle for one day, soon put to bed, her spars and undercarriage carefully checked.

Jacking up the beast overnight, they powered an engine, built-up hydraulic pressure, and raised her undercarriage a dozen times without fault.

The morning brought a dry but overcast day, the crowds out, the US Army and Navy in attendance. Jimmy, myself, and many members of the gang stood in the control tower as she taxied around and lined up, a prop fighter chase plane now circling overhead.

‘Hercules to tower,’ came Hal’s voice. ‘Permission to take off.’

‘Tower to Hercules, permission to take off, pattern clear, cloud base three thousand, light wind from the north.’

‘Rolling.’

The four engines powered up, the brakes knocked off, and she slowly picked up speed. Halfway down the runway she lifted her nose, the undercarriage raised.

‘Tower to Hercules, wheels up, doors closed.’

‘Roger.’

Hal banked left and down the inlet, out of sight a few minutes later.

‘He’s going to show our bird to the folks of Vancouver and Seattle,’ I said, Jimmy nodding.

He appeared ten minutes later, a fast fly-past at two thousand feet, then climbed up through the mist and disappeared, the chase plane following. We had a coffee and a chat, intermittent radio chatter from Hal listened to. He had coaxed her up to twelve thousand feet, and then brought her back down again, radar control guiding him through the cloud. He landed to much cheering and applauding, a new world record set for the largest aircraft.

The newspapers of the world reported that fact as our pilots performed circuits in the Hercules, endless take-offs and landings. Each flight increased the weight of fuel till maximum was reached, sandbags stacked in the back after that; they got her up with the equivalent of a hundred and thirty men onboard. The US Army returned to us, the senior men from their Airborne Brigade, and on a chilly day with suitably low wind a hundred men of the Rifles stepped aboard with their parachutes and reserves.

Over the airfield, at two thousand feet, the men ran out along the rear ramp at one-second intervals, their static lines attached to cables. After four passes the airfield was covered in chutes, the last men touching down to another world record, just the one broken ankle suffered.

‘Where do we buy one?’ the US Airborne officers asked.

Jimmy explained, ‘There are now twelve production planes on the assembly line. You can have two.’

The officers had lunch with us, returning to the airfield after the parachutes had all been cleared away. We stood as a group on a flat roof adjacent to the control tower, staring up at a glider being towed by a Super Goose. The cable was detached, the glider nosing down, banking hard towards the airfield, then hard again to line up with the grass across the other side of the runway, a seemingly dangerous approach speed. Flaps came down, airbrakes opened, our glider bumping along the grass and halting after what seemed like only twenty yards.

The doors were flung open, forty soldiers piling out and lying down around the glider. After two minutes they stood, forming up and walking away.

‘The glider is silent,’ Jimmy explained to the officers. ‘You could release her at ten thousand feet, and she could cover ten or twenty miles before landing quietly at night, no risk of broken ankles, and more supplies in the back that you could carry with paratroopers.’

‘Where can we buy one of those?’ they now asked.

‘There’ll be eight of them available to you in a month,’ Jimmy informed our guests.

As Canada turned chilly, Libya started to warm up. Revenge for the deaths of the men at the oasis was always a certainty, just a matter of the timing - and the chosen method. But those uncooperative Brits were sat a long way from the border; any incursion would be an invasion, as well as a three or four day drive. The Germans turned their sights to the south.

Bf109s and Focke-Wulf 190bs took off, thirty of them, staggered height - and formations of no more than five aircraft. When they spotted the RAF Boeings, now well across the border, the Boeings turned tail and headed back towards base, our base – not the RAF bases. After flying an additional twenty miles, the Germans noted large formations to the left, more to the right, one formation high above, at least eighty aircraft in total. They decided, quite sensibly, to turn around, and flew all the way back.

That encounter left them scratching their heads for a week, after which they again probed the border, this time flying towards an RAF base. Seeing planes on the ground, they buzzed the base at high speed, but elicited no response, RAF “chaps” sat in deckchairs reading the papers. The Germans returned to base. The message was clear: you’ll have to fire the first shot.

The German high command were puzzled, and so returned to the Italians for a solution, an Italian ship firing at a British merchant vessel, minor damaged caused. That was followed a few days later by another ship being damaged, crewmembers being killed this time. The League of Nations met, and blew a lot of hot air again, at a time when Italian medium bombers from Sicily drifted closer to Maltese airspace, the RAF scrambling in Boeing Mark 4s, plus the first few Spitfires to enter service. The Italians goaded the RAF, flying closer and closer, the RAF simply shadowing them.

Then an Italian rear-gunner opened up, damaging a Spitfire. The Spitfire pulled up, rolled over the top and gave the rear gunner a quick burst, killing the man. Italian and German media described the unprovoked attack, another coffin with a flag draped over it led through the crowds. But Herr Hitler made a speech along the lines of “we will not walk blindly into a war, no matter how much we are provoked”. I uttered a few rude words to that.

Jimmy sent Abdi a note, and the oasis in the desert erupted, an entire squadron of Bf109s destroyed on the ground. There was no loss of life, just a loss of sleep that night. The Germans were now in an odd situation, since we were hurting them in the pocket, not causing fatalities. Still, they must have been pissed off. The oasis was cleared of any locals - which caused much outrage in Libya amongst the indigenous peoples, a fence erected, mines laid.

The pause was only a week long, another squadron of Bf109s arriving, plus a hundred soldiers to watch for sabotage. We let them enjoy the sand and flies for a few days.

With a fourth and fifth merchant vessel damaged, the British now felt that war was inevitable, the newspapers reflecting that sentiment. Spitfire production was good, sixty now in service, two hundred more to be in service by January. Our shipments of munitions continued at a steady pace, the first batch of prop fighters arriving via Po’s odd ship with a runway. It dropped anchor off the coast of Scotland one night, the planes flown off and landed with the aid of runway lights, and were hidden. Fifty were now in residence, spares and ammo stockpiled, dozens of men from the Canadian Rifles remaining with the planes - and trained to service them. Sixty Canadian Rifles, all pilots for the fighters, now took up residence, RAF uniforms with “Canada” on the shoulders, their planes now in RAF colours and with RAF roundels.

Churchill was in charge of defence preparations, and made sure that both the RAF and the anti-aircraft batteries knew what the new aircraft looked like, labelled as TR-5, the TR for “Trophy”, and named them the Tornado within RAF circles. He toured the base within days of the arrival of the new aircraft, keen to see the material manifestation of our assistance; it would help him to sleep at night – as well as nap in the afternoons. He reviewed two other Scottish airfields, their long concrete runways now complete, and made a personal point of visiting the base north of Dover. That base was yet to see any aircraft, but the dispersal sites were reviewed none the less, stored ammo stared at, the tunnel inspected.

He reported his findings to the cabinet, indicating that other aircraft would arrive in the weeks ahead, and that heavy bombers could arrive within a day if need be. In addition to that, he listed defences on the south coast, tank traps and barbed wire being made ready, but not put into place yet, save panicking the population. All reservists had been called up, and recruitment had been increased.

The Colonel in charge of our tank brigade was summoned to the hotel a day later, sat down and told that a quarter of his men and a third of his equipment would now be shipped to Kenya, and may stay for a year, fighting a war in Libya. This was getting serious. Five hundred men of the Rifles would go with them, not returning for a while.

He was told to train additional men of the Rifles in armoured warfare, and to be ready to deploy the entire remaining brigade in February, or thereabouts. War was coming. The Colonel in charge of the American Brigade received a similar briefing, told that his force would be split between Hong Kong and Europe, and to practice large inserts by parachute and glider.

The remaining British soldiers in Canada were sent home, no more allowed to come over. We did, however, offer to keep training RAF pilots in San Diego, as many as they cared to send.

I flew down to San Diego myself a few days later, to check on a few things. The landing craft were ready, being used by the Mobile Infantry to practise landing half-tracks and jeeps, the US Marines now curious about them, and what they might offer an innately amphibious unit.

Our aircraft carrier was reaching skyward, now taller than the surrounds of the dry dock that it sat in, on target for an April launch. The men had been working hard, three shifts operating, but jobs were still hard to find – and appreciated. At the airfield, the Boeing engineers were visiting, a metal flight deck having been rigged up with arrestor gear. It was just fifty yards long, and sat eight inches off the ground. Landing early would rip a plane’s undercarriage off, missing the arrester gear would result in a bounce, the pilot’s pride dented.

Before pilots attempted the metal deck they would make dozens of landings on a painted area of the runway, arrestor gear fixed up. They would then attempt the metal deck. I stood and watched as a Boeing naval variant came in slowly, a few last minute adjustments made, and hit the net, its tail hook caught. The pilot was saved any embarrassment, and they showed me the wings folding up.

‘Undercarriage?’ I asked the men from Boeing.

‘It’s made by your factory, and so far we haven’t broken one. We’ve broken a few aircraft landing badly, but not the undercarriage.’

‘Bigger flaps?’

They nodded. ‘And a slightly bigger wing. The aircraft has three hard points for bombs, RPG racks. We sacrificed a little speed, but she’ll land on a dime.’

‘Can you make me a hundred for April?’

‘A hundred? For the new aircraft carrier? She hasn’t even been commissioned yet.’

‘The aircraft will go with her for … advance testing and evaluation.’

‘Oh, I’ll check production. You want to see the Mark 6?’

‘There’s one here?’

They led me to the aircraft, the plane longer and sleeker than the Mark 5, now resembling a P51 Mustang, but without the air intake under the fuselage.

‘Better speed, better range, increased rate of climb,’ the man listed off. ‘Your armour is around the pilot and fuel tanks. It’ll take two drop-tanks, increasing the range to six hundred miles if it’s cruising. Now with two fifty calibre guns.’

‘It’s looking good. Ceiling?’

‘Eleven thousand.’

‘Speed in a dive?’

‘We’ve had forty-sixty from it.’

‘That matches a Spitfire,’ I commented, getting back a nod.

‘Our twin engine bomber is here as well if you want a look,’ the man offered.

‘The B15?’

He nodded. At the plane, I stopped and took it in its profile; mid wing, twin prop, not unlike a Heinkel. I had seen the drawings, but this was the first time close up with a prototype. Pointing, he said, ‘You make the undercarriage, and it has your armour around the cockpit and fuel. Four man crew, two bomb bays, ten thousand pounds of bombs, range of nine hundred miles.’

‘Bomb aiming?’ I asked.

‘We use yours, and your auto-trim. It’ll hit the target most of the time from ten thousand.’

‘You have a four engine bomber on the drawing board?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘Prototype will fly inside a year. How’s the Hercules?’

‘No faults yet, she handles well.’

‘Can I ask a question?’

I hesitated. ‘Sure.’

‘Your have fighters that out-perform our Mark 6, but you ain’t selling them.’ It was a good question.

‘They cost three times as much as your Mark 6, so we have a few to use as development tools. But next year we’ll produce a production model.’

‘Speed in a shallow climb?’ he risked.

I again hesitated. ‘Rumour has it, over five hundred.’

‘Jeez.’

A man ran over. ‘Telegram, sir.’

‘Thanks,’ I offered as he withdrew. Lowering it, I said to the Boeing engineer, ‘Japs have surrounded Shanghai.’

‘Be a war there you reckon?’

‘Your government has no desire for a conflict. Your cabinet is split, your Congress split. And if there is a war, America is not ready.’

‘They just ordered three hundred Mark 6s,’ the man noted. ‘So the Air Corp will be ready.’

‘China is a long way off, and fighters will be of limited use unless they’re close at hand. But our aircraft carrier may see some action, so do what you can on the planes for it.’

‘You can bet on it.’ We shook.

I headed straight back to the dockyard, assembling the senior staff, but finding a group of Admirals visiting. They stood off to one side. ‘Gentlemen, the Japanese have surrounded Shanghai in China, where both British and American soldiers are stationed; you have over a thousand marines there. This doesn’t mean war is inevitable, but if I were a betting man … I’d bet the farm on war.

‘I know you’ve all been working hard, but someday soon that aircraft carrier may be needed to play its part in defending the United States, or its interests overseas. So I ask you to find any way you can to get that ship ready, and for the quality to be good. Not for me, but for a few young Marines that might need that ship, and its aircraft. Thank you.’

The Admirals were mute as I walked past them.

A light covering of snow in the town of Trophy was a contrast to the light covering of sand that the Germans had in endure in the Sahara. Their numbers slowly increased, their units getting used to the flies and the sand, military exercises run.

Then one fine November morning, fine in Tripoli, a bomb exploded at the dockside, twenty German soldiers killed, that many again wounded. Revenge was sworn by the German leadership, a few locals rounded up and shot. It did nothing to foster good relations with the locals, the dead men innocent of the bomb attack.

But the attack had the hallmarks of local resistance rather than a British sponsored terror attack. After all, the British had pulled back at every turn. Another explosion, a few days later, left a hole in the side of an Italian freighter, slowly taking on water as the highest waves peeked inside the ship. There was little the Italians could do, since the local labour was essential to offload their ships. They had previously created their own small port down the coast, far from any locals, and had used it to offload their supplies. It was not ideal, but was now looking like an alternative to Tripoli. Problem was the Germans, and their heavy equipment, which could not very easily be offloaded down the coast.

The ship with the unwelcome ventilation was patched up, just as an Italian truck trundled over a mine that had been left more than a year earlier. The driver was killed, the men in the back thrown onto the sand for a soft landing. Learning from the Italian experience, the Germans quickly moved away from the towns and villages and created isolated camps, security soon down to their own people. They made ready - and waited, we made ready – and waited.

Attacks on British merchant vessels continued, but only when the Royal Navy were not around, the Navy hard pressed to watch all of the shipping heading towards the Suez Canal. Convoys were organised, meeting points off Egypt for ships heading west, meeting points off Algiers for ships heading east, the first convoys of the war soon moving under escort past Malta. The success of those convoys lasted two weeks before a merchant vessel hit a mine, and slowly sank. Someone had dropped mines along their route off Egypt.

I uttered a few rude words, the gang frustrated, Jimmy oddly pleased at the turn off events. We made sure that the American newspapers reported the growing crisis off Egypt, but the American public were not fired up about it – they were focused on China and Japan, the simmering tensions there on their minds.

Part 6B