A Mighty Endeavor (26 page)

“The Dominions can’t afford them.” Cordell Hull shook his head. He knew all too well that the now-severed parts of the British Empire were in desperate financial straits.

“Then loan them the money.” Jackson was impassioned. “We loan them the money in dollars, but allow them to make repayment in these new Sovereigns they are announcing. In doing so, we support their new currency and wean them away from the pound sterling and thus put a pistol shot through the head of the British Empire. We also give them the tools they need to reinforce their independence and stabilize their economies.”

“The latter is too much to ask.” Morgenthau shook his head. “Their economies need a lot more than a few dollars to stabilize them. They need industry, investment and so on. There’s a killing to be made there for the right people. For a far-sighted man who is prepared to wait for a return on his investment, the rewards will be rich indeed. But I agree with the basic proposal. We make a very soft loan to any of the Dominions that are prepared to buy the ex-French aircraft from us. Low rate of interest; we loan money in dollars, accept payment in Sovereigns.

“This way, those aircraft get put to good use.” Morgenthau’s voice hardened; a note of almost fanatical hatred came into it. “And anything that hurts the Nazis is a good use. They must suffer for what they have done.
Germania delenda est.
Phillip, I look to you for knowledge on how to reduce Germany to a desert.”

“I’ll do my best, Henry.”

Dumbarton Avenue, Georgetown, Washington, DC, USA

“Australia? Everything is poisonous there.” Igrat put a note of distress into her voice.

“The salt water crocodiles and great white sharks aren’t.” Stuyvesant sounded remarkably unimpressed by his daughter’s feigned misery. “But what really upsets you is that there are no decent shops in that part of the world.”

“Well, that too.” Igrat looked at her father and lifted her eyebrows. “But, no shops for me to spend my travelling companion’s money in means half my cover is gone before I even start. Who do you want me to see, anyway?”

“There is a man called Mister Essington Lewis, who runs Broken Hill Proprietary Company. He’s an odd character, Iggie. You’ll have to be careful in how you approach him. He’s strictly formal and he hates using the telephone.

That’s why I want you to go and see him personally. He makes an absolute fetish of punctuality, so bear that in mind when you make appointments.”

“That’s how, not why.” Igrat made the observation completely deadpan.

“Lewis is a gifted operator. He knows the steel and mining industries inside out; and, more importantly, knows how to make companies in that sector work. I want to offer him a partnership. We’ll provide backing for a joint investment in India. If that country is going to succeed in standing on its own feet, it will need its own heavy industry, something it painfully lacks at the moment. The country even lacks the people needed to work out what it needs. So, Lewis is the right person to get involved out there. If we get in on the ground floor, the investment we make will grow. I happen to know that he wants to see the Commonwealth as the largest steel producer outside North America.”

“How do you know that?” Igrat’s curiosity was piqued by the offhand comment.

“There was a major confrontation between BHP and a group called Hoskins. Basically Hoskins was a front for a consortium of the big British steel makers who didn’t like the rise of BHP and wanted to kill it. Their attitude was that if they couldn’t stop Australia making steel, then they wanted to control the way that steel was sold. Lewis believed in constantly reequipping his factories so that they were at the leading edge of technology. As a result, Australian steel was the cheapest in the world. Even with shipping charges, it was cheap enough to be a major threat in the UK home market. Anyway, the British steelmakers put a lot of money into setting up their rival to BHP but lost out.

“The important thing from our point of view is that, once they had won the trade battle, BHP cut a deal with the British backers. BHP would take over their raw steel production and go into partnership with them in a new joint venture to make alloys steels in Australia. That was typical. BHP has a long track history of amicably swallowing its competition rather than killing it. I think they can look at the Indian steel industry the same way. It will be a long, long time before India’s steel production will meet the country’s full needs and BHP would be happy to fill the difference in a cooperative manner. From India’s point of view, BHP doesn’t just supply product and better quality raw materials than can be sourced in India, but technology. BHP has been in the game long enough to start its own R&D; making its own developments and building its own plant when it had something better than it could buy. As a result, BHP is scrapping more plant in a year than India can buy at this stage. I think Lewis and his BHP can provide India with a useful mentor, and see a profit in doing it. BHP like profit, they like it a very great deal, and they do think long term. So they’re a good partner for us.

“So, give Lewis the proposal packet and the word on how we see things and why. Make sure Lewis knows that we’re in this long-term. He doesn’t need to know what we mean by long term, of course. This is part of another investment I’m planning. I’ve got a guy called William Pawley of the Intercontinental Aircraft Corporation of New York looking into setting up an aviation company in India. Pawley has been a primary exporter of American aircraft to India and I’ve arranged for him to obtain a large number of machine-tools and equipment from here. If India is going to get a big pile of ex-British and ex-French military aircraft, they’ll need to maintain them. That’s an opportunity for us. Lillith’s done the financial projections and she’s rubbing her hands with glee.”

“Doing well by doing good again?” Igrat firmly believed that virtue brought its own rewards, although her definition of virtue was rather different from the accepted norms.

“Politically, yes. The policy of the present United States government is that the old colonial empires should be dismantled and their constituent countries placed on a firm economic footing.” Stuyvesant paused for a second, then continued. “The empires falling will happen anyway and its better they go quietly than fighting the process every step of the way. We’re helping the inevitable along by investing in the economic development of the Commonwealth countries. If it does us some good in the process, so much the better.”

Short Sunderland Mark 1 F-Freddie, Over The Eastern Mediterranean

The fifteen flying boats were spread out in a loose gaggle; the three G-class boats in the middle with the dozen Sunderlands surrounding them. The first leg of the flight from Great Britain to Gibraltar had gone very smoothly, as had the refuelling at the naval base. That had simply taken time, although they had been fortunate there were specially designed refuelling barges manned by trained marine crews at Gibraltar. The great naval base was equipped to refuel many flying boats during the course of the day, so a full squadron in transit had been only an inconvenience.

Privately, Alleyne believed that this would be the last time they might see such luxuries. In the future, operating from extemporized bases would mean refuelling from drums or unpowered barges. That would take hours. Lack of properly trained ground crews would put the work of handling of the fuel nozzles and opening/closing the aircraft fuel tanks in the hands of his own crews. The bellies of the Sunderlands were stuffed with oil supplies and minor spares, while their accommodation was occupied by the squadron’s immediate ground crews. All that meant they would be able to operate, for a while at least, away from any fixed base.

“Gunners, keep your eyes open for hostile fighters. We’re getting into range of Italian airbases by now.”

“Do you really think that the Italians will attack us?” Sir Wilfred Freeman was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, looking out across the Mediterranean.

“If they know we’re Australian, yes. We’re still painted up in 95 Squadron markings, but how long the ruse will hold, I don’t know. There’s fighting going on in East Africa; if Italy hasn’t invaded Egypt yet, she will soon. I was half-expecting to hear that the invasion had started before we left Gibraltar. Come to think of it.” Alleyne keyed his radio. “All aircraft, drop down to one thousand feet. Say again, one thousand feet. Keep your eyes skinned for wop fighters.”

Without knowing quite why, Freeman was suddenly positive they would be attacked. He scanned the sky, certain in his own mind that the appearance of Italian fighters was a question of when, not if. It was with almost a sense of relief that he spotted a group of six shadows against the clouds scattering the sky above them.

“Squadron Leader, two o’clock high.”

“Got them.” Alleyne was terse. “All aircraft, we have hostiles coming in. Drop down to two hundred feet and tighten the formation up. BOAC aircraft, try and stay out of the way. We’ll put up a screen around you.”

“Ever so grateful, old chap.” The voice on the radio was impossibly British.

“I don’t envy them.” Freeman sounded sympathetic. “Unarmed aircraft, waiting for fighters to attack them.”

“They’ll have to get past us first and the Eye-ties will be in for a nasty surprise when they try. They can’t get underneath us; that’s why we came down so low. And they’ll have a hell of a time from our turrets and beam guns.” Alleyne was confident of that. His Sunderlands had twin .303-inch machine guns in nose, dorsal and beam positions, a quadruple .303-inch tail turret, and four fixed .303s in the nose. They’d already proved they could give a good account of themselves against the best the Luftwaffe could offer. Once again, his stomach clenched slightly at the thought of the work his squadron had volunteered for and then been forced to leave undone.

Above them, a flight of six Italian fighters were peeling off to dive. Alleyne looked hard at them; radial-engined monoplanes with a curious humpbacked design,.
Fiat G.50s. Agile as all hell, but lightly armed and no armor. They are in for a nasty surprise.

The Italian pilots were inexperienced when it came to attacking heavily-armed, multi-seat aircraft. They’d done the traditional peel off maneuver; each aircraft taking its turn to do a wing-over and enter its dive. As a result, they were coming in from the stern quarter in single file. Each fighter in turn would be the target of the concentrated firepower of at least three flying boats.

The Australian gunners were experienced. They’d fought fighters before and knew how to go about driving them off. They held their fire until the lead fighter was in close. Then they filled the sky around it with bullets.

Looking over his shoulder, Alleyne guessed that at least 16 machine guns were firing on the leader. He was almost masked from sight by the hail of tracer fire. The Italian fighter burst into flames and continued its dive downwards to plunge into the sea.

Behind him, the Italian number two was also lost in the glare of the massed tracers. Its path was marked by a black stream of smoke. It first turned orange as it mixed with fire, then ended in an explosion of ruptured fuel tanks.

The third fighter saw what had happened to the two leaders. He skidded away as the machine guns tracked in on it. Alleyne guessed it had been hit. His gunners stopped firing when it veered away. Ammunition on the Sunderlands was too precious to waste on aircraft that had already broken off their attacks.

That left four fighters circling the formation of flying boats. The Italian fighter pilots didn’t lack courage, but they had the sense to realize they were up against something much more capable than the aircraft they were accustomed to facing. Two split away and came at Alleyne’s Sunderland from head-on. That was a bad mistake.

Alleyne swung his nose slightly and opened fire with the four fixed nose guns, reinforced by the twin guns in his upper and nose turrets. Tracer fire envelopd the attacking fighters. They sheered away. One developed a thin stream of whitish gray smoke from its engine. It was last seen heading away, losing altitude.

Three fighters left.

The fate of their flight-mates left the remaining fighter pilots wary. They tried a few more tentative probes. Fierce return fire drove them off each time. Eventually, they turned away and headed for home.
Italian fighters were very short-ranged,
Alleyne had read in the intelligence briefings,
and they lacked combat endurance.

“Any damage to report?”

There were a few holes from long-range .50-caliber machine gun fire, but the flying boats were essentially undamaged. Critically, the fighters had never even got close to the big G-class boats in the center of the formation. Beside him, Freeman was nodding contentedly. “Nicely done, Squadron Leader. I wonder if they’ll come back with their friends?”

“I think that’s very probable, Sir.”

Training Area, 11th Infantry (Queen’s Cobra) Division, Kanchanaburi, Thailand

His rifle had its bolt carefully wrapped in cloth to stop it rattling. All his other equipment was either wedged in place or carefully padded to avoid giving warning to the troops waiting in the defensive position ahead of them. Before setting out, he and his men had jumped up and down to make sure than there wouldn’t be the slightest sound to betray the assault. It had looked strange, but there was good sense behind it. Noise was the enemy as much as the ‘troops’ in the dugout.