“Well, glad to see you, my boy. Here’s how!” Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust raised his silver tankard to Gregory Sallust and took a long swig at the champagne that it contained.
“Cheers!” murmured Gregory, taking a somewhat more modest pull at his tankard of the freshly iced wine.
“Don’t sip it as though you were a deb. at her first dance, man,” chid the elderly Baronet disapprovingly. “Only way to get the full flavour of this stuff is to take the first half-tankard non-stop.”
“I agree; but it’s too precious to treat like that in these days; unless, of course”—Gregory’s saturnine features lit up with a sudden grin—“one happens to be a munitions magnate trying to work off excess profits through the old expense account.”
Sir Pellinore’s bright blue eyes opened wide with indignation. “Insolent young devil!” he boomed. “How dare you make your dirty cracks at me! Admittedly I’ve a few shares in one or two companies, but what the Government doesn’t take off us to pay for the war wouldn’t keep a baby in napkins. I’m living on capital. Only thing to do unless I gave up Gwaine Meads and this place. And at my age I’ll be jiggered if I move into some poky little flat.”
They were sitting out on the terrace behind Sir Pellinore’s London mansion, and Gregory glanced up at the great pillared façade that rose behind them. Its cream paint looked grimy in the July sunshine, and here and there it had been scarred by bomb splinters. The windows of the big library that opened on to the terrace had been shattered and were now boarded over; a large chunk of the stone balustrade had fallen on to the public footway below, leaving an ugly gap. But he had known the house well in peacetime, and recalled its splendid staircase lit with great crystal chandeliers and thronged with distinguished people, while a string band played softly in the distance and a score of liveried footmen served the guests with every delicacy that money could provide.
Even now, in war-scarred London, he felt that there were many worse places to live in than Carlton House Terrace, with its beautiful view over St. James’s Park. To the right, at the extremity of the double avenue of The Mall, the upper storeys of Buckingham Palace rose white above the fresh green of the tree-tops. In the left foreground stood the Admiralty, Horse Guards Parade, the back of No. 10, the Foreign Office, and the Offices of the War Cabinet. Between them a constant stream of little figures was weaving to and fro, mainly Naval, Army and Air Force officers hurrying from conference to conference, at which the next moves in the war would be planned, while in the very centre of the scene lay the green sward, made coloured with flower-beds and girls’ summer dresses; and the lovely tree-fringed lake, upon which swam flotillas of bright-winged ducks, and where the three white pelicans gravely stood knee-deep in water for hours on end—so inanimate, but apparently wise, that they had irrelevantly been nicknamed “The Three Chiefs of Staff”.
Who, Gregory wondered, with a war in progress, would willingly live anywhere but here, right in the vortex of the cyclone, or, in peacetime, not prefer the outlook on this ancient Royal pleasance to a view over some dusty London square?
He glanced at his companion. Sir Pellinore stood six-feet-four in his socks, and his limbs were big in proportion. He was now over seventy, but he could still have thrown most men of thirty down his staircase. His bright blue eyes were full of animation and his great white cavalry moustache flared up across the rubicund cheeks that it had taken a hundred pipes of port to bring to their present healthy glow.
“We don’t breed men like him in these days, more’s the pity,” thought Gregory. “He just wouldn’t do in a flat. He’d begin to feel suffocated in no time and he’d be knocking the ornaments down with those great hands of his every time he made one of his sweeping gestures.”
After a moment he said: “Even in wartime I suppose Gwaine Meads and this little shanty cost you a pretty penny to keep up. Still, you are lucky to have lived in the days when you could salt down a fair part of your ill-gotten millions. No one of my generation will be able to put by anything worth while. In fact, when the State has no more use for us we’ll probably spend our declining years in some frightful institution, where the highlight of our existence will be a piece of cake to eat with our tea on Saturdays.”
“Oh, come, that’s a gloomy view to take.”
“But not unrealistic. We’ve had two years of war, and with Hitler in control of as big a slice of Europe as Napoleon ever had it (nay go on for another twenty. Britain has had to sell the shirt off her back to get dollars for America, and to keep our end up against our Totalitarian enemies we’re being compelled to Nazify ourselves to a point at which we shall be able to call nothing but our souls our own. Of course, I’m quite prepared to go on fighting in the hills and on the beaches, and all that, until my hand is so shaky that I can no longer hold a gun, but it does seem a bit hard that if I chance to survive to your age I shall be either in a workhouse or an antiquated wage-slave of the State.”
“Nonsense, my boy! Things won’t be as bad as all that. Think of the summer of nineteen sixteen. We were in a pretty pickle then. Yet we got the Jerries down in just over another two years; and afterwards there was a mint of money lying about for those who had the initiative to pick it up.”
“It won’t be like that this time.” Gregory glumly shook his head. “Coming events cast their shadows before. The bureaucrats have at last got us where they’ve wanted us for years. This war is being used as an excuse to strangle all free enterprise, and to prevent any Englishman’s home ever being his castle any more. Last time Lloyd George wanted to give us all three acres and a cow. This time we’ll have to have a permit to milk the cow, even if we can afford to buy it; another to make butter from the milk, and a third to grow the grass that the cow feeds on. But no, I’m wrong about that. We won’t be allowed to have any acres or cows, because the Government will issue us with a ration of powdered milk. We’ll all be dreary little people living in dreary little houses and forced to work eight hours a day in some ghastly factory making luxury goods for export to our richer neighbours, and we shall sustain life on a packet of vitamised chemical foods that we’ll have to queue for once a week at the local Food Office.”
Sir Pellinore took another pull at his tankard, wiped his magnificent white moustache with the back of his hand and exclaimed with a puzzled stare:
“What the devil’s got under your skin, Gregory? I’ve never known you like this before.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Gregory shrugged. “For one thing I’d like to get married and settle down. Of course, I know that’s out of the question until the war is over, and even then Erika will have to get her divorce. But these last few weeks, since I got back from France, have pretty naturally increased the urge in both of us—and it’s a bit depressing to think how remote the chances are of our ever being able to live the sort of life we’d like.”
“What sort of life had you in mind?”
“Nothing terribly extravagant. Just a comfortable home somewhere in the country. An old place for preference, with the sort of rambling outbuildings that children love to play in, and a decent garden. I’d like a south wall to grow peaches, a glasshouse for a vine, and a meadow for a cow. Four or five acres and a house with two spare bedrooms would be quite big enough. Something large enough to have friends down to stay in comfort, but that wouldn’t need a big staff to keep up.”
“All right, now’s the time to buy. The public never can see further than its nose, otherwise there would never have been rich men like myself in any generation. Just because things aren’t too good they think the war is going on for ever. The idiots have all got cold feet about house property and they’ll be fighting each other for it in a few years’ time. For five or six thousand today you can take your pick of a score of places in any county that would have cost you ten before the war and will fetch fifteen after it.”
“Yes. You’re probably right, and I could just about run to that without making too big a hole in my capital. I must think it over.”
“Don’t think it over. Tell Erika to look round for the sort of place you’d both like, and when she finds it, buy it. You can’t possibly go wrong; and don’t interfere with your investments. I’ll give you a cheque before you go.”
“But, hang it all—”
“That’s all right. Ten thousand ought to do you. Most places of any size have been taken over for the duration by the Army or the Air Force, and by the time they’ve kicked hell out of it you’ll need a thousand or two extra to make it really habitable again.”
“It really is terribly good of you.”
“Nonsense, my boy. Consider it as a wedding present in advance, if you like, But, anyhow, I was going to give you a good fat cheque for your last little exploit; and, as I’ve told you before, if I hang on to all my money, the bulk of it will only go to the Government in death duties when I die. Much better give it away to people I like, to have a bit of fun with it now.”
Actually Gregory had met Sir Pellinore long before he had started to write articles on international affairs. Twenty-five summers ago, as a very young subaltern, he had carried Sir Pellinore’s only son back out of the hell of Thiepval Wood, in the great Somme battle. The young man had died of his wounds, but the episode had created a strong tie between his father and his rescuer which had strengthened with the passing years until Sir Pellinore had come to regard Gregory with almost as much affection as he had had for the son that he had lost.
As Gregory began to renew his thanks the elderly Baronet cut him short and said:
“That’s settled then. Now I’ll tell you why I lugged you up from Shropshire. I want to hear how you think the war is shaping.”
“Oh, come!” Gregory laughed. “It’s you who are talking nonsense now. For the best part of a month I’ve been buried in the country, whereas you’ve been right in the middle of things. Generals, Admirals, Air Marshals, Ambassadors on leave and Cabinet Ministers are always dropping in to give you the low-down, so you must know how things are going infinitely better than I do.”
“No, no. It’s true that a few old cronies of mine look in now and again to talk over the stuff the papers have printed that morning. They never ask my advice, mind you. And they’re right. They know that I’ve got no brains. I’ve an eye for a horse and a pretty woman, but I never had any brains at all.”
“I know,” said Gregory, his dark eyes twinkling. “It’s just that you’re a good listener and they like to pour out their little worries to you, isn’t it? I’ve heard that one before.”
“Drat the boy!” Sir Pellinore grumbled. “Impudent as ever. Well, perhaps they sometimes do tell me a thing or two, because they know I’m safe. But what I know is no damn business of yours. Trouble is, though, that none of us here can see the wood for the trees. Our minds are so bunged up with detail that we’re incapable of making a sound assessment of the big picture. You’re outside it all and you’re a pretty shrewd young rascal. That’s why I want to know how things look to you.”
“Right then.” Gregory sat back and lit a Sullivan. “Let’s take the good side first. The great thing is that we’re no longer alone. The Russians are now in this thing with us.”
“Yes, and whether we like the Bolshies or not, Winston was one hundred per cent right to declare that any enemy of Hitler’s is a friend of ours. Still, they haven’t shown up any too well—so far. Ever since the show started the Nazis have been pushing them back on every front.”
“Nevertheless, they must be killing quite a lot of Germans; and if the main German armies had not gone into Russia this summer they wouldn’t be sitting on their bottoms. They’d be on their way through Turkey to the Persian oilfields by now, or perhaps even knocking hell out of Kent and Sussex.’
“That’s true. We were in pretty low water this spring, after our withdrawal from Greece and Crete. At all events this Russian business has given us a badly needed breather.”
“That’s just the point I’m making. If we hadn’t gone into Greece Wavell could have used those troops when he had the Italians on the run to go right through to Algeria and join up with the French. They were game to come in with us then and by this time the whole of North Africa would have been in our hands. But in that crazy Greek adventure we threw away the only decent Army that we had, and it’s going to take months yet to build it up again. In the meantime, Russia is saving us from the worst results of our folly and enabling us to conserve our forces till we’re strong enough to strike again next spring.”
“Yes. If the Russians can stick the pace. Well, what else?”
“The other bull point is the way that the R.A.F. is being built up. It’s impossible to say yet if Germany can be knocked out by air power alone, but the pasting that the German cities are getting now must be having a pretty serious effect on their war industries. Anyhow, one thing I do know. The British Army alone will never be able to defeat the main German armies on the continent of Europe. It’s not a question of courage or efficiency or even weapons; it’s simply that we haven’t got the man-power.”
“How about if the United States came in with us?”
“Ah, that would alter the whole picture. Together we might do the trick. But will she? that’s the question? This Lease-Lend she is giving us now will be immensely valuable when it gets into full swing, but she may consider that is going far enough. After all, the Prime Minister did say, ‘Give us the tools and we will finish the job’, didn’t he? And even if America came in tomorrow, it would take her at least two years to raise, train, equip and transport to Britain an army big enough to ensure our joint success in invading and conquering Hitler’s Empire. On the other hand, the Ruskies are in with us already, and there are best part of two hundred million of them.”
“Yes. They’ve got the man-power all right, but the problem there is, how much of it can they actually put into the field? Can’t fight wars with scythes and pitchforks these days, you know. Still, saying they were equipped with plenty of tanks and all this modern paraphernalia, what were you driving at?”
“Simply that, if I were the War Cabinet, I should use every means in my power to encourage the Russians to keep the German Army busy, while I switched four-fifths of the resources of the Empire over to creating the mightiest Air Armada that has ever been dreamed of. We’ve already seen what the R.A.F. can do on a wartime increase proportionate to the other two Services. I believe that if its further expansion was given absolute priority over everything else we’d knock such blue hell out of the Fatherland that we’d have the war over in another two years.”
“That’s what the airmen say themselves,” nodded Sir Pellinore. “But there’s not a hope of it. The other Services wouldn’t stand for that—and they may be right, you know. The Germans are reported to have reached Smolensk already. That’s half-way to Moscow. Russia’s strategy has always been to give ground but there’s a limit to the amount she can afford to sacrifice. Every city that goes into the German bag means fewer munitions for Stalin’s armies; every acre lost means less food for the Russian people. If the Nazis push on at this rate the Bolshies may be compelled to pack up by the autumn. Then we’d have the German Army on our hands again, and with the resources of all Europe to draw on no amount of bombs on Germany would put it out of business for good.”
“The Russians have just signed this agreement with us not to conclude a separate peace,” hazarded Gregory.
“Ah, but will they stick to it if they find they’re getting an honest-to-God licking, eh? That’s the rub. I wouldn’t trust most of those fellers with an old top-hat. Talk about a thieves’ kitchen. Why, even the dossiers of the big-shot Nazis are no worse than the records of most of those Kremlinites. Mind you, I think Stalin is in a class apart. He is about as unscrupulous as you are, which is saying something; but at least he’s a clear thinker. As a matter of fact, I’ve always had a sneaking admiration for old Uncle Joe, and I’m certain he has the sense to know that it’s either Corporal Charlie Chaplin or himself for the high jump this time.”
“If you’re right he’ll fight to the last ditch, then?”
“Yes. But where is the last ditch? That’s what I’d like to know. There’s another thing. For several years now Stalin’s health has been reported as not too good. Heart trouble, so they say. Of course that may just be a Kremlin rumour put out on purpose. Why, God knows, but they’re a funny lot, and always pushing out stuff that doesn’t make sense to anyone except themselves. Say it’s correct, though, and he konks out on us. There are still certain pro-German elements in Moscow. They might get control. Then we’d be in a pretty mess. But I’m butting in on your appreciation. Go ahead?”
“Well, to finish up on the credit side, there’s the Italian collapse in Abyssinia and General Dentz’s surrender in Syria. Two more great triumphs for Wavell before his transfer to India, and two expensive running sores stopped, which enormously consolidates our position in the Middle East.”
“Umph!” grunted Sir Pellinore. “Only hope the Auk does half as well there. Winston thinks a lot of him, but time will show. What next?”
“On the debit side, owing to the wastage of our resources in Greece and Crete, I shouldn’t think we can possibly launch another offensive against Libya until next spring, and unless we have a crack at Norway there doesn’t seem to be anything that the Army can do at all.”
“They might; but once bitten, you know.”
“The Navy is stretched to the limit as it is, yet the U-boat menace is on the increase and conditions in Britain are worsening every month. Things aren’t too good in India, and the Japs are getting more uppish every day. We’ve lost the Eastern Balkans, as well as Greece, and Antonescu’s coup d’état in Rumania has secured to Hitler his main supplies of oil. Our going into Syria may have been necessary but it has turned a great part of the French against us, so all the prospects that we had earlier in the year of the French Armies in North Africa declaring for us have now disappeared. By and large, it’s not a pretty picture. Our commitments are enormous and our resources lamentably few. The Royal Air Force is the only weapon we’ve got with which we shall be able really to strike at Germany for a long time to come; so, as far as I can see, it’s a pretty hopeless job to attempt to plan our future strategy until we know the real value of Russia as an ally, and get some idea as to how long she will be able to keep the main German armies occupied.”
“Excellent, my boy! First-class appreciation.” Sir Pellinore swallowed the remainder of his champagne and set the tankard down with a bang. “Well. That’s why I want you to go to Russia for us and find out.”