Читать книгу The Schneider Papers - David M Thomas - Страница 10
ОглавлениеChapter 6: Monday, 14th September 1936
Last day of the NSDP 8th Party Congress, known as the annual Nuremberg Rally. Hitler watched a Luftwaffe flyover. Rolls Royce Kestrel engines were in the air, on display.
As soon as he opened his eyes, he remembered that today was Air Ministry day. He rolled onto his back, bringing a bent arm over his now tightly closed eyes. He sighed with tiredness, but mostly in reaction to the day ahead. He yawned, rolled over and squinted at the bedside clock; it said six twenty five. The alarm had been set for seven o’clock. He reached over and disabled the fiddly alarm setting. It worked most of the time, but he had overslept on more than one occasion due to the idiosyncratic nature of the setting lever. One had to get it just right.
He shuffled over to the wardrobe and took out the grey worsted suit, and was glad that Mrs Minchin, his new and essential housekeeper, had yesterday hung two freshly laundered and ironed white and a light blue shirts next to his three-suit wardrobe collection. The tie would have to be RAF, albeit he had found the top brass at the Air Ministry pretty relaxed regarding officers – even auxiliary list officers – in civilian attire. Smart was the rule.
He had bought the Wolsey Hornet sports tourer in March, after the mission and before the court of inquiry. It had the 1.3 litre engine and bodywork by Abbey Coachbuilders for Eustace Watkins’ showrooms in Berkeley Street. He had seen the advert in ‘Autocar’ magazine:
1933 Wolsey EW sports tourer, 2/4 seater, all weather, 7,000 miles, £125
ARCHIE SIMONS & CO, 134, Tottenham Court Rd., (opposite Maples) W.1. Museum 3268–9
Mary had of course disapproved. This led to two, possibly three days of ‘no talking’, except short one-sentence essential speaking on her part. Mary thought it extravagant and impractical. He just loved driving it around the narrow country lanes. He could scare himself and other road users and ramblers as he came screeching around bends and reduced gear to accelerate through fords and across road junctions. The excitement of listening to the throb and crack sounds coming out of the exhaust pipe was truly exhilarating. It was just the ticket for someone who had not been doing much all day and with the Court of Inquiry looming ever closer.
The railway station was two miles away. He subconsciously decided to drive carefully and responsibly, as he remembered the wording in that new Highway Code pamphlet for motorists the government had introduced a few years earlier. It came with the car. It gave, as it said, sensible advice on how to drive safely. He had found it in the glove box, and assumed someone at Archie Simons & Co. had a sense of humour. He reasoned that his responsible driving mode was a reaction to the forthcoming meeting at the Air Ministry. Fine, he thought, good idea, take in the morning air and enjoy the moment in time. He was early for the nine thirty six to London, so he sat in the car in the station parking area and lit his pipe. He had never been a serious cigarette smoker. Tried it, but preferred a pipe. It made him look older, Mary had once said. He never asked whether that was a good thing or not.
At Charing Cross he did what had become a habit; walked out of the station and turned right into the abutting Charing Cross hotel. Just like the other main London railway stations the ever practical Victorians had convenient travellers hotels included as an integral part of the railway station. Up the curved staircase to the first floor he went, sometimes taking two stairs at a time, and along the corridor to the gentlemen’s washroom facility. He washed his face and hands to rid himself of traces and smell of smoke and coke of the Southern Railway Company. He combed his hair neatly backwards in two or three waves of familiar and deliberate hand and arm motions, and straightened his tie. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he perceptibly nodded his head and murmured, ‘Let’s go.’
He enjoyed walking down the Strand. The row of bespoke little shops on either side of the Savoy buildings and Shell-Mex House were always a source of pleasure to him, and he stopped to notice any new items on window display.
He crossed the street, and turned left into Drury Lane. ‘Careless Rapture’ had just opened at the Theatre Royal, he noted with disinterest, and then he remembered that Mary wanted to see the next Ivor Novello musical, whatever that was called. It was billed to start sometime in the autumn, wasn’t it? Novello seems to have a monopoly on Drury Lane theatres, he decided, before his eyes spotted a tailor shop on the other side of the road. Novello and all his artistic talents were immediately forgotten. A recce was called for, and he walked briskly across the road for a look-see.
Glancing at his watch, he headed east along Great Queen Street. First Kingsway and then Adastral House came into his line of sight. He paused outside, straightened his tie, ran his left hand over his hair, pushed the heavy front door with his right and walked inside. To his left was a reception desk with a Royal Air Force policeman looking busy shuffling papers.
He walked across the lobby towards the desk, and introduced himself. The military police receptionist confirmed that he was indeed expected. Squadron Leader Harry Mason signed the day logbook, acknowledged the direction instructions with a nod, and walked towards the row of elevators dominating the lobby. He felt apprehensive, that nervous heavy feeling in the pit of the stomach, just like the first time he flew into black dense rain clouds when he was a cadet pilot; a deliberate, and against instructor instructions, flight manoeuvre.
The elevator moved him soundlessly to the second floor. The doors opened and there to greet him was a face from the past, name or location not quite instantly remembered. He was slim, of average height, with dark wavy hair and an already noticeable receding hair line, which made him look older, but gave him a more intellectual appearance. He was not in uniform. A dark blue blazer complimented the RAF tie.
‘Squadron Leader Mason, good to see you again sir, its Matthews! Remember me? Tangmere?’ Flight Lieutenant Matthews, now also on the auxiliary list, offered his hand and with the other gestured the way to Room 251.
‘Ah, yes of course I remember you Matthews. How’s the arm?’ Mason replied with a smirk as he clearly remembered this hothead as they walked together down the wide, light blue painted corridor. The incident of the impromptu rugby match in the officers’ mess. ‘Somebody broke it, didn’t they? Did you ever find out who was responsible?’
‘Err … no sir, I was the silly arse at the bottom of the pile. All up before the Station Commander next morning, we left the defence arguments to Archie Crawford, he’d finished his solicitor articles before joining up. He petitioned a plea of collective responsibility to the fracas, damage to my arm by person or persons unknown due to the pyramid nature of bodies on top of my good self.’ After the standard dressing down, Station Commander accepted the defence position. ‘Breakages to be paid for before the end of the week. Case closed. Get out!’ mimicked Matthews, smiling. ‘Your cheque to cover the damage came in pretty useful sir, and we all thank you for it.’
Talking had taken them past Room 251, so they retraced their course. Matthews opened the door ushered Mason in before him. The room was empty except for a tired looking two seater sofa and two armchairs around a small empty fireplace. A chipped formica coffee table stood under the window holding a careless pile of aeronautical and ‘Country Life’ magazines and a battered tin ashtray. Like a doctor’s waiting room. A door to the right opened and a white jacketed steward walked in. He hesitated in mid-stride, startled on seeing the arrivals; he nodded recognition and continued across the room to an opposite door, knocked and entered.
‘In there, nest of Group Captain Starling,’ whispered Matthews, smiling at his own humour. Mason acknowledged the joke and went over to the window overlooking Kingsway. It had just started to rain, and umbrellas were being opened by those who had them, while the ones that didn’t quickened their pace, heads down. The Air Force orderly silently re-entered Room 251 and went out through the door he had first entered.
After a few minutes, the door to the nest opened, and a tall, lanky, harried-looking Squadron Leader appeared: ‘The Group Captain will see you now gentlemen.’ The adjutant stayed behind and quietly closed the door. Group Captain Starling stood behind a large dark brown desk covered with three piles of light blue coloured files, one opened, three black telephones, and an ‘in’ tray half full of separate papers. Light grey filing cabinets filled one wall of the spacious office. Group Captain Starling, probably in his mid-fifties, was a short stocky man with a small trimmed moustache set in a ruddy, genial face.
An uniform does two things to a man, thought Mason looking at Starling as he walked towards him; it either enhances the physique, or highlights the downside. Starling was round and overweight, the tight uniform and wide belt exaggerating the girth to height ratio. ‘Mason,’ he said, smiling, and walked around the desk towards the two airmen, ‘it’s been a while,’ and shook hands with Mason, then turned his head and acknowledged Matthews.
‘Sorry I called you up to town late in the morning Mason, but we’ve all been busy around here. Like a rollercoaster, one meeting ends, another one begins.’
‘Yes sir’, said Mason, ‘there seems to be a lot going on these days.’
‘Indeed there is,’ replied a grim looking Starling. ‘Sit,’ he ordered, and waved them both to leather armchairs flanking the desk. Starling went back around his desk and sat down, drawing his chair close to the table, elbows on the desk and leant forward conspiratorially. ‘How are you now Mason? Recovered, I’m told,’ he half whispered with a fatherly tone, and gave Mason a wink of encouragement.
‘It seems so sir, ready for action again,’ replied Mason, rather too quickly, he thought immediately after he said it, and involuntarily furrowed his eyebrows. The Group Captain’s face showed no such recognition. One sees what one wants to see.
‘Good!’ a pause, then, ‘Good!’ with exaggerated finality. ‘Right, Matthews, see you later,’ said Starling, head down looking for something in one of the desk drawers.
‘Err, right-o sir.’ Matthews got up, winked at Mason, who half got up from his armchair and gave Matthews’ extended hand a firm shake, and then dropped back down into his seat.
What was in the left hand desk drawer was a summary copy of Mason’s psychological assessment file. It noted that his anger during and after the Court of Inquiry was a way of dealing with the death of his navigator. It was a guilt to anger transfer, quite common, the report said. It went on … he exhibits classic what we term ‘bereavement grief’. He experiences periods of depressed mood, insomnia, restlessness and irritability. The periods of these depressive and other symptoms should diminish in frequency and intensity over time. Time should be the healer. I do not recommend anti-depressant drugs for this officer. The Air Force psychiatrist had spoken privately with Major Alastair Cartwright.
‘In my opinion, Squadron Leader Mason’s depressive moods can diminish, even stop, by having a ‘cause’. Channel the guilt, convert the anger, like I said, to a ‘cause’.’
‘Something to live for, something to fight for. To make things right,’ said Cartwright, summing up.
‘Yes, exactly.’
Cartwright took it further, and admitted to Squadron Leader Dr David Bishopp, Psychiatry Department, RAF Medical Branch, ‘I like his aggrievement, and I want to control and focus it.’
‘You’ll see more of Matthews later, let’s move to the conference table.’ Starling gestured to the long table and chairs that took up most of the far corner opposite his desk. The room was large, with floor to ceiling light wood panelling, and dominated by a large red brick fireplace. Where once there would have been a cosy coal fire there was now a three bar electric fire fitted into the grate recess. Framed aircraft pictures were in groups along the walls, with pride of place over the fireplace given to a Squadron group pictorial, captioned France, 1915. Somewhere in the rows of grey and blue uniforms was the young Starling. Behind Starling’s desk on the wall were the more personal picture gallery; a very shy young Starling holding a cricket bat at wicket one summer’s day long ago; a sailing picture with a determined looking young Starling with both hands on the tiller, steering; an end of final year school team taken on the school rugby field, most of them now lying under fields in northern France. A picture gallery of Starling’s life. Interestingly, no personal photographs, no wife, no family. The room reminded Mason of school days. The headmaster’s study. Comfortable, homely, the smell of polish and authority. Institutional and all powerful.
‘We’ll be joined by others for a discussion or, as they say, a forum on a subject of national importance,’ he said as he picked up the receiver of one of the telephones on the desk and began speaking as he slowly turned his back on Mason. With his free hand, Starling gestured to the table, finished his telephone call, and walked towards the office door which led out to the corridor. ‘Five minutes,’ he said, and left.
The corridor door opened suddenly and with such force that the heavy door bounced off the back wall. An aircraftsman slowly reversed in, arms upwards holding and carrying one end of a portable noticeboard. In he shuffled, then a slow coordinated move to the right; the rest of the board and his partner holding the other end followed. This contraption was also a map display and blackboard. It was carefully positioned between the table and the fireplace, followed by a tall adjustable projector table which was placed on one end of the table. More orderlies came and went carrying files, an easel, a slide projector, screen, and rolls of maps, which were carefully placed on the floor. A Flight Sergeant then came in, and set up the equipment, a cable extension for the slide projector, and the careful disposition of all the visual aids facing the table. He checked the power supply, the lighting, and with a curt nod, left. The sergeant returned carrying a 16mm film projector and connected it up.
In they came, single file, through the annex door from the waiting room, one, two … four, five uniforms, counted Mason. They came immediately over to the table and each in turn introduced themselves. Squadron Leader Jacobs from Air Intelligence, Flight Lieutenant Rhys from the Photography Reconnaissance Unit, Squadron Leaders Powell and Lander from Supply and Research, Group Captain Logan from Air Ministry Intelligence, and a smiling, suited civilian, no name offered, who just said he was from Whitehall. Medium height, fair haired, mid-thirties. Mason wondered if the double breasted summer suit was French tailoring. Certainly a continental cut. Introductions over, small talk just beginning, as if on cue, Group Captain Starling returned, smiled at everyone, and asked all to sit, ‘Where you see a chair, please park. Group Captain Logan from the Air Intelligence unit will kick off by setting the scene.’
Logan started, ‘Gentlemen, welcome. The subject is Germany, the Reich, and in particular German airpower, strategy and capability.’ He began to slowly walk up and down the office, causing the audience to move their heads or even shift in their seats to follow him. A pacer, thought Mason, who decided not to follow the voice but to stare at the noticeboard and listen. ‘Where is Germany going? And, is it in our best interests for it to get there? Indeed, gentlemen, where is there?
‘First a fact. Herr Hitler has a plan. That we can be sure of.’ He glanced at everyone around the table, but more so at Mason.
Mason realised that this whole show was for him. Why? he thought, what is all this leading up to?
‘Without repeating our 1934 intelligence figures on German rearmament numbers, the new Airforce, the Luftwaffe, the Army, the Wehrmacht and the Navy, the Kreigsmarine are growing, I won’t say growing exponentially, that would be wrong, a hyperbole, but we do have a serious problem on our hands.’
Logan picked up a glass of water from the table and drank from it.
‘Herr Hitler, following his Weimar predecessors, but this time openly, brazenly, is driving a coach and horses through the now defunct Versailles Treaty, building new military hardware; and he had started doing just that before tearing up the military clauses in the Treaty last year. With the illegal invasion of the demilitarised Rhineland in March of this year, we conclude that Nazi Germany is building itself up to a war footing. The genie, gentlemen, is well and truly out of the bottle.’
He paused.
‘One of our tasks at Air Ministry Intelligence is to predict the future. That is, we analyse the scale of historic German aircraft building, and extrapolate, that is to say, we assume that existing production figures or trends will continue and increase in the future. We also consider new factors, like new aircraft that could alter the dynamics of dogfights and bombing capabilities.’
Logan folded his arms and continued, ‘We have expanded from 52 to 75 squadrons; the Hawker Hurricane fighter will start to be distributed towards the end of the year. Production started in June. We’ve tested and are pleased with the Supermarine Spitfire, operational entry date next year if all goes well. We are, however, concerned over the possible superiority of German fighter types, in particular the new Bf109 fighter, and new bombers on which we only have some bits of intelligence, nothing concrete. The Junkers made Ju52, which is supposed to be a civilian transport aircraft under Treaty of Versailles rules, and one sees Lufthansa Junkers 52 passenger aircraft everywhere, but it can, and has, been modified to carry bombs, soldiers and parachutists.’
He stopped, let out a faint sigh, and folded his arms. It was as if all this information, all the intelligence information in his head was too much for him. The burden was great, too great. These past few weeks had been hell. He had become an insomniac. Sleeping tablets were his night-time friend. Ironically, others in the Planning Department were on amphetamines to keep them awake. So many tasks to complete.
‘We know that Herr Hitler has been and is sending the Luftwaffe to Spain. What an ideal environment to test and modify untested war planes under fighting conditions. But what we don’t know is what sort of aircraft he’ll send apart from the standard biplanes already in his inventory.
‘Let us say that the fighter aircraft position of this country is covered. But gentlemen, we believe there is no future if we cannot defend ourselves against aerial bombardment.’
‘But surely sir, our new monoplanes should be more than a match for the Bf109 and if so, then the bombers would be easy targets,’ interjected Mason. A pause. Silence.
‘You are right, and you are wrong,’ replied Logan slowly as he sat down, indicating the introductory speech was over, and he was tired. ‘We believe, we hope, that the new Hurricane and Spitfire will be more than a match to the Bf109, but they will have more of them. We do not have our new fighters in service. Our latest intelligence figures put Luftwaffe front line fighter strength at 350 aircraft and growing. All we have right now is the Gloster Gladiator biplane, due on line February next year, and probably obsolete, according to some pessimists. That, Mason, is the stark reality!’
Logan sat sideways, one forearm resting on the table, the other hand in his pocket. An exhausted man.
He spoke quietly, ‘To come back to your point, attrition rate in a dog fight is the key; the bombers will rely on fighter escort. Take away the escort and you are right, we are on top. But throw in numerical superiority of the Bf109 into the equation and, well, the conclusion is obvious.
‘They are ahead of us in the re-armament game. We are playing catch-up. If the geopolitical scene changes drastically, which some people think likely, then this country would be caught with its trousers down, and we don’t want that to happen, now do we chaps?! I mean, what would the neighbours say?!’ A touch of humour to accompany bad news always helps, doesn’t it? Logan thought so, and he smiled weakly. No one else smiled or acknowledged the quip.
Someone, Mason had forgotten his name and speciality, threw in a comment on the Messerschmitt Bf109, followed by another comment from someone else. Another subject altogether brought up by probably Squadron Leader Rhys … someone else contradicted … forum getting out of control; unauthorised off piste skiing is not allowed in the nest of Group Captain Starling. He stopped it with a dramatic slam of his hand down on his desk, followed by a mild, ‘Gentlemen, please,’ plea for order.
Starling had sat at his desk during the introduction. ‘What we need is your friend Whittle’s gas turbine machine to work, Mason,’ he said loudly.
Mason turned around in his chair to face Starling. ‘I visited him a few weeks ago in Rugby. He’s frustrated with the erratic running of the turbine, but is confident that he can get it to calm down.’
‘He’s asked the Air Ministry for more money, did you know that?’ replied Starling accusingly.
‘Yes I did. Money well spent in my opinion, Group Captain,’ said Mason, defending his friend.
‘Got to work first Mason!’ was the gruff retort.
‘How do you know Frank Whittle?’ asked a voice behind him. It came from the double breasted suit from Whitehall.
‘We were at Central Flying School together, doing our flying instructor course,’ he answered.
‘And crashing planes’ quipped Starling, smiling mischievously. Yes, those were the days, thought Mason. Aerobatics in the unstable Gloster Gamecock was always a thrill, and he smiled to himself as mental images like a slideshow came and went.
There followed a slow series of lectures and discussion from the various invited airmen, each on his own speciality. Mason learnt about performance envelopes of various in-service German aircraft from Jacobs using the notice board, where he tin-tacked rows of black and white pictures, and then a slide and movie show of planes taking off and landing. The more they talked – inputs from Rhys on new airfields being built, including emergency landing grounds; timetables and extent of army tank combined with reconnaissance planes; fighter and light bomber aircraft manoeuvres from the ‘Supply and Research’ duo – the more apprehensive Mason became of the whole German war machine. He also realised how much Air Intelligence didn’t know. There were wide knowledge gaps. But overall, even with what was known, truly the Luftwaffe of September 1936 was quite impressive. Mason concluded the obvious: we are just not ready.
After a while, Group Captain Starling moved a chair to the head of the table and began, ‘You’ve heard the situation. We cannot get involved in a war with Germany at this time. We are simply not prepared. The army is the army. It is here, and we have the English Channel between us and Europe. The Royal Navy is a formidable force. It can block the English Channel against invasion, but, gentlemen, not indefinitely.’ He paused for effect. ‘We cannot guarantee air superiority. Without air superiority we cannot guarantee the safety of our cities. We need time. We need to know where Germany is in terms of airpower today, and where it will be next year, and the year after that. Coupled to what are they up to with new designs, new aircraft.’
He paused. There was a moment of silence. To Mason this is what he had secretly feared, to the others it was a recap of what they already knew and feared.
‘Very good, thank you gentlemen.’ Starling put both hands on the conference table and bowed his head in acknowledgement. That was their cue to leave. The supporting cast picked up their assorted maps and files and filtered silently through the door into the corridor. Last to leave was the man who introduced himself as being from Whitehall. He played absentmindedly with a pencil left on the table; as if miles away in his thoughts. He finally stopped; as if a conclusion had been reached. He jumped to his feet, buttoned his jacket, straightened his tie, winked at Mason, and hurriedly left without a glance at Group Captain Starling. Mason stayed behind; he knew Starling was not finished with him.
The nest was silent. It was quiet until the aircraftsmen had negotiated the noticeboard and associated paraphernalia through the doorway and back into the corridor and the door closed.
Then came the orders. ‘You and young Matthews are going to Berlin to see Group Captain Lefoy, our man at the embassy. Your task is to find out all you can about current and future Luftwaffe plans. What are they up to? More innovation or just upgrades to the existing bombers and fighters portfolio? And perhaps other little tasks.’ Starling gave a dismissive hand wave. ‘Lefoy will fill you in.’
Mason got the distinct impression that Starling was not fully in the picture. Even a senior member of Air Intelligence was in the dark. So who’s in charge? Who’s pulling the strings?
‘There was no need for Matthews to be at this briefing. Regard Lefoy as your coordinator; your team leader. His show.’
The last two words were said deliberately slowly, and for added emphasis Starling gave Mason a long theatrical stare. Let that sink in. He knew Mason. He had his medical and psychological file on his desk.
‘You will leave for Berlin separately. Wilkinson, my Adjutant, will fill you in on your travel plans. Meanwhile,’ he raised and dropped both arms, ‘we plod on here,’ he said with a warm smile, but the body language indicated a degree of helplessness.
‘You leave next week. Wilkinson will give you your travel documents and currency.’ There was a pause. Starling, his lips now pursed, got up from his chair, walked around the table, and shook Mason’s hand firmly and slowly. ‘Good luck Squadron Leader.’
Starling, after a while, added, ‘Mind how you go.’ Too late. Mason had gone.
***
The Adjutant, Squadron Leader Wilkinson, was waiting for him in the corridor. He looked harried and had two cardboard file boxes under his arm. ‘Follow me, office just down here.’
As they walked, the bellowing voice of Group Captain Starling stopped both of them in their tracks. Starling was in the corridor, now walking the other way. Wilkinson stopped, recalled by his master. ‘You go ahead, its room 255 on the left. Won’t be long,’ followed by an exasperated, ‘I hope.’
Matthews was already there. Both raised their eyebrows in greeting. For a few seconds they sat in silence. Mason thought of the meeting and then the last time he was in the building, and all that unravelled afterwards. Matthews cleared his throat, moved his chair slightly sideways towards Mason and crossed his legs. ‘I was told that there was an overseas economics exercise I was to be part of, and told to report here for nine o’clock.’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘And I’ve just been with a Wing Commander Air Intelligence economics section and a Secret Service type chap down the corridor. We talked about the new German Four Year Plan, and they told me you would turn up, and I was to be with you for the Group Captain Starling meeting.’
‘Well you’re one up on me, I was just told to be here. Period,’ replied Mason, slightly piqued that young Matthews had been given more information. But he had been in the service long enough to know that he would know when it was decided he needed to know.
The door opened suddenly and in bounded Wilkinson. ‘Apologies and all that,’ he said with a grimaced smile. It was obviously not easy working for Group Captain Starling.
As soon as they had sat down at his desk, Wilkinson opened a top left hand drawer and retrieved two passports, and two sheets of typed paper. He glanced at both passport names and married passports to the sheets of paper.
‘One for you, and one for you,’ he said, handing each a passport and a job description summary. ‘This is your cover. You, Mason, are George Madden, a newspaper journalist, and you, Matthews, are John Anderson, an economics journalist. Madden, you work for the Daily Sketch, and Anderson for the Manchester Guardian. Please read and memorise your new identities.’ They both read their life histories. He also presented each of them with business cards made out to their new lives. ‘This is not going to help you get out of serious cross examination, just the cursory ‘hello sir, and who might you be?’ type of question,’ and with that Wilkinson sat back in his chair. As far as he was concerned, that was it. Job done. Mission completed. Both of them, for a moment, stared at Wilkinson and at their new passports, before putting them away in inside jacket pockets. Both decided, independently, not to ask questions. No point. Wilkinson didn’t have the answers.
He then gave them their travel documents; airline tickets for Mason, booked return to Berlin, changeable, if needs must. Train tickets for Matthews.
‘What’s this?’ said Mason in mock indignation, ‘I’m to travel by Deutsche Lufthansa via Amsterdam. Doesn’t Imperial Airways fly to Berlin?’
‘No, it doesn’t. Imperial flies only on Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays and only to Cologne,’ was the testy reply from Wilkinson. ‘Air France flies Paris – Cologne – Berlin, but none of our commercial carriers service Berlin. There was talk of a direct service for the Olympics but nothing came of it.’ Wilkinson looked at Mason and said with a wry smile, ‘look at this as experience flying in the Junkers Ju52. I assume you’ve not travelled in one?’
Mason shook his head, actually pleased with the turn of events; he had wanted to, ever since the Ju52 came into service, but the opportunity had not arisen. Until now.
Wilkinson reached into his left hand desk drawer, ‘Please check.’ Each were given a large brown envelope, ‘Please count it, and sign here and here.’ Each received one hundred pounds in sterling, and five thousand Reichsmarks in cash. ‘The exchange rate for the RM is twelve to our pound. The mark has improved somewhat since I was last there!’ smiled the Adjutant.
‘Actually, it’s 12.4 marks to the pound,’ corrected Matthews, the pedant and economist who knew the consequence of inaccurate currency exchange rates.
That was it.
Matthews said that he would gladly go for a drink but he had a pressing engagement in west London, and was hoping to start the journey before the rush-hour. Plan was to meet in Berlin, with this Lefoy chap as ringmaster. They shook hands warmly and parted outside the building.
Mason had a lot to think about. He thought the briefing and this passport business a bit amateurish. Like putting on a show, but for whom? Just for him? His instructions from Starling lacked detail and were, well, frankly, cloudy and ambiguous. The new passport thing was just silly. We are not at war with Germany. The false passport just raises the stakes if we’re caught. Then a cold conclusion gripped him like a vice, and stopped him in his tracks: are we meant to be caught?
Where was he going to get plans on future aircraft design? Just pop in to Bayerische Flugzeogwerke in Augsburg head office and ask if he could have the latest design plans and performance report on their new Bf109 fighter? Introduce himself as representative of a potential South American buyer ready for a state-of-the-art air force?! He hoped that Lefoy, the Air Attaché in Berlin, would be the bricklayer to cement this brick wall he was being asked to build. On reflection, Lefoy would also have to supply the bricks! He smiled, and laughed out loud at the mental image of himself on a building site somewhere wearing a flat cap, dressed as a labourer with a trowel in one hand, walking around looking for cement and bricks. He had a spring in his step as he walked towards Charing Cross railway station.
Mason decided to return to London the day before his departure and stay at the flat in Henrietta Street. It would be from there he would leave for Croydon aerodrome and his trip in the famous Junkers Ju52.
