Crossfires, an Alternate France of the 1930s

[Atlantic Friend]

CHAPTER 87: RECIPROCITY

The Hotel Matignon, housing France’s Conseil des Ministres

Paris, December the 2nd, 1938

"So, it's official, then, Joseph?" asked the Prime Minister.

"Yes, Monsieur le Premier Ministre" said Joseph Paganon, the Interior Minister. "Despite commendable efforts by the surgeons, Undersecretary von Rath died last night at the Salpêtrière Hospital, from severe internal organ damage sustained when he was repeatedly shot at his office in the German embassy on November the 27th. As has been reported last week, the Préfecture de Police holds the shooter - sorry, the assassin now. The Police Judiciaire officers assigned to the case have obtained the full confession of the man, a young Pole named Hershel Grynzspan, who did not deny his intention upon entering the German embassy was to assassinate a Nazi official. That his victim was Monsieur von Rath was apparently a mere coincidence, for Grynzspan said he was determined to shoot any embassy official he would have been directed to."

"God, just what we needed!" exclaimed de La Rocque, tossing his pen on a wad of proposed bills. "In a way I would have preferred that this Grynzspan fellow and von Rath had some bad blood between them."

"Given the rumors we've heard from our consulates in Germany, there may be bad blood all right" Foreign Minister Paul Reynaud whispered to General Loustaunau-Lacau, who shrugged.

"From what we have gathered from Grynzspan and the embassy staff we were allowed to interview" continued Paganon, "it was the first time the two men had ever met face-to-face. No-one at the embassy recalls von Rath mentioning a phone conversation with Grynzspan."

"And the shooter - well, the assassin, now. Did he operate alone?"

"Yes, sir. He claims he had no outside or inside help whatsoever. Despite his being an illegal alien, he quite openly bought the automatic he used a mere two blocks away from the embassy, along with a box of 6,35mm bullets. He paid in cash and the arms dealer didn't have a clue the man was up to something."

"And we are sure he had no accomplices?"

"Again, the Police Judiciaire was able to interview some of Grynzspan's acquaintances, including people who had met him during his legal stay and others who had lived with him in a run-down bed-and-breakfast catering to émigrés. They all describe him as a hothead, emotionally distraught since he had emigrated from Poland, and clearly harboring a grudge about Germany's racial policies. His uncle - who's incidentally going to face charges for having smuggled and housed Grynzspan in France illegally - told us the young man was living off expedients, doing small translation jobs for a Polish-language newspaper and for a local publisher."

"Was he a member of any group we should know about?"

"Not that the Police could find out, no, sir."

"And what about the political groups we do, ah, tolerate?"

"Grynzspan was not a member of any group known to the Sûreté or the SDE, Monsieur le Premier Ministre" said Loustaunau-Lacau as he pinched his nose. "While such groups do romanticize the use of violence and can occasionally condone assassination, they are as a whole politically well-structured when it comes to stated goals and methods. Grynzspan simply does not have the profile: he was too young, too inexperienced, and too religious - not political material at all."

"So, a lone gunman?"

"In all probability, yes, Monsieur le Premier Ministre" concluded Paganon. "A most unfortunate murder, of course, but the desperate action of a distraught man. There have been precedents, regrettably."

"Let's hope there's nothing more to it, then. What about the victim, Joseph? Is there anything we should be aware of, on this side?"

Ernst von Rath, the assassinated German diplomatic officer.

"Undersecretary von Rath was known to my services as a Nazi party member, and a member of the SA. He apparently put some distance between him and that organization after the 1934 purges in Germany, but apart from that he was, you know, just your usual Third Reich civil servant. The only thing that stuck out was his...well, his friends. Von Rath had several homosexual acquaintances, and was often seen alone or in their company in the bars and clubs of Pigalle's red-light district. There's no police reports about him, and his presence in that part of the city is not an indication per se that he shared his friends' sexual preferences - as we all know, Pigalle caters to all tastes, whether one's interested in boys, girls, alcohol, political satire or theaters. I must insist on this point: there's no sign he ever met his assassin before, in Pigalle or elsewhere."

"General, you seem awfully lost in thought. Would there be something that has escaped the Police Judiciaire's vigilance?" remarked Reynaud.

Making an effort to look at Reynaud straight in the eyes, Loustaunau-Lacau tried to keep his face neutral. It was a most dangerous game he was playing here, but one he felt it necessary to play. He offered the Foreign Minister a tired smile, displaying Olympian calm.

"I am sorry, Monsieur le Ministre. I was just thinking that homosexuality was not uncommon amongst the Sturmabteilung - but naturally that doesn't mean anything about the specific case of von Rath, and that doesn't have anything to do with the investigation anyway. Monsieur le Premier Ministre, Undersecretary Ernst von Rath has never attracted the attention of the SDE either, for any reason, and there's actually no reason to suspect his presence in France was motivated by anything but legitimate, diplomatic work."

"Well" growled de La Rocque "you don't make my task any easier then. As you may know, gentlemen, there has been considerable turmoil in Germany since the Reich was informed of the assault. Their newspapers, and particularly that Der Sturmer rag, are already accusing us of being, and I'll just quote a few selected niceties, 'a shambolic and corrupt state', 'the puppets of International Jewry', 'a haven for social degenerates and racial terrorists', and of course 'a nation unable to uphold the rule of law'. They also call for even stricter laws against German Jews, not to mention confiscation of their property as a way of compensation for the murder and supposed past ‘crimes’ against the Reich. Behold, gentlemen, the glory that was German literature, falling from Goethe to Goebbels."

"A haven for 'racial terrorists'?" said the Information Minister. "Ha! They should know indeed!"

"Now that Herr von Rath has regrettably died, the furore will only redouble, and naturally other players are making their moves. The Polish ambassador has asked that no extradition demand from Germany be given satisfaction. They say that as a Jew, Grynzspan's only chance to have a fair trial is to judge him here in France."

"I can't blame their logic" said Paganon, "but a fair trial here might just as well lead Grynzspan to the guillotine. It's premeditated murder, I hope they don't expect us to pretend it just never happened."

"The Grand Rabbi of Paris requested an audience yesterday, and he too wants reassurances that the assassin will be judged in France. He also said he would appeal to Président Lebrun to commute any death sentence to imprisonment. And to top it off, this morning Paul and I have been asked to arrange a visit of Herr von Ribbentrop himself, who'll come next week to supervise the repatriation of von Rath's body. Should von Ribbentrop demand extradition to Germany, what can we tell the dear globe-trotter?"

"First", said Justice Minister Paul Marchandeau, "we'll have to point out that the Reich's embassy does not enjoy any status of extraterritoriality. It is to be considered French soil for the purpose of the prosecution - just as it was, albeit with some limits, considered French territory during the arrest of the assassin and the short investigation. Grynzspan will be judged in France, that is a given if this government is willing to 'uphold the rule of the law'. I will call your attention on the fact that, as Joseph said, he can very well be condemned to death by a French jury. Actually, I personally think it's the most probable outcome, because if the assassination, as the police thinks, was not part of a political action, then it cannot be treated differently than any ordinary murder. Grynzspan has shot von Rath in front of witnesses. He has confessed to it, he freely admitted some form of premeditation – that makes him a common murderer. Even his young age cannot protect himself from the death penalty if the jurors find shim guilty on all counts - I've checked past judgements, and in recent years we have executed criminals who were even younger. Monsieur le Premier Ministre, it is my duty as France’s Garde des Sceaux to inform you that I shall speak against commuting a future death sentence if the question is raised by you or the Président de la République. That would be a violation of the spirit of our laws, and it would cast doubt over the impartiality of the judgment passed by the court."

Paul Marchandeau, France’s Garde des Sceaux

"That's duly noted, Paul" said the Prime Minister. "Well, I think the topic has been discussed in enough detail. We shall send a telegram to von Rath's family expressing our condolences, and I shall meet with ambassador Abetz tomorrow to try to bring this tragedy to an acceptable conclusion. Are we in agreement it is this government's position that the shooter acted with premeditation, but without any outside help from any national, religious or political group be that within France or abroad, and that justice will follow its due course?"

With one exception, the Cabinet members nodded somberly. Lowering his head, Loustaunau-Lacau hid a smirk of satisfaction behind a cough. He had every reason to be satisfied. Before leaving his office in Saint Dominique Street, he had put in his steel safe two thick files, of which no copies existed any longer. The next morning he’d replace them with carefully sanitized versions, just in case someone got curious – and well, one day there’d be another SDE Director, who might not appreciate what his byzantine predecessor had done. The first file was about three inches thick, and contained over a dozen reports and twice as many photographs with scribbled annotations on their back. They all showed von Rath meeting with suspected Abwehr agents and informers in various places, from the Foire du Trône to a seedy Pigalle bar. Von Rath, said the senior SDE agent responsible for the shadowing of the German diplomat, was clearly one of the Abwehr’s key agents in Paris, using his position in the embassy’s Emigration Bureau to build an efficient network with Germans living in France. It was clear, for the author of the report, that Grynzspan’s bullets had put an end to a brilliant spy’s career.

The second file was much thinner. It was a copy of a report sent by the Polish Secret Service, signaling to the attention of the SDE the activities of a Communist cell operating among Polish émigrés in France. That group, the report said, was a scion of the now-clandestine Polish Communist Party - the KPP - and was mostly composed of Poles from the Free City of Danzig. Their party banned and their militants hunted down by police forces on both sides of the Oder, German and Polish Communists had flocked to the League of Nations-run coastal city, where they had set up safe houses that were regularly used by the former KPP and the German KPD cadre. The group the Polish intelligence officers had warned the SDE about was thought to be responsible of several bank attacks, using the money to help Jews and Communist leave Eastern Europe from the Free City’s port. Clearly, the report said, the group used some of the emigrating people to provide a safety net in their host countries – which of course included France. Just to stay on the safe side, the Polish officers had added a list of people who had emigrated from Danzig and who were suspected to have been helped; or possibly even members, of that fringe Communist cell. Loustaunau hadn’t thought much of the Polish report at first – it sounded like a minor affair, and he had been inclined to send the document to the Renseignements Généraux’ political section. Then disaster had struck at La Dent d’Oche, and Loustaunau-Lacau’s team had immediately forgotten about the report. The Polish report would have remained buried somewhere in the SDE’s labyrinth-like offices, if the SDE hadn’t received another document.

In the aftermath of La Dent d’Oche, the bodies of the soldiers killed during the assault on the ski resort, and the bodies of the two fallen assassins had been sent to Paris, to be autopsied by the Identité Judiciaire medical experts. Loustaunau-Lacau had obtained the full cooperation of Paris' Préfet de Police, who had made sure the bodies would be examined by France’s most prestigious legal pathologist, Dr Victor Balthazard. Balthazard’s team had worked diligently on the bodies, extracting the bullets and giving a complete physical to the two dead assassins. The two unidentified men, Dr Balthazard’s report said, were males in their mid- to late twenties, physically fit. They clearly were from European stock, with facial characteristics of Central or Northern European people. Given their Italian uniforms, it was possible they were from the Haut-Adige region bordering Tyrol – though one of them was brown-haired, the two young men certainly didn’t look like Mezzogiorno Italians. The bodies bore no other sign allowing an identification – naturally their fingerprints had been taken and checked against the ones previously collected on crime scenes. And naturally, that hadn’t led anywhere. The Police Judiciaire’s base of fingerprints was very small - even if one added the files of the police offices of Lyon and Marseilles, it only concerned less than 20,000 people, and some of those belonged to criminals who had already been executed or were doing time in jail. The chances that either Italian soldier would have already been known of the French police were slim to the point of being inexistent, but Dr Balthazard was nothing if not methodical. He had noted one of the men sported a clean scar on the cheek – that was rather common with people old enough to have known the Great War, but rather rare with younger people. The pathologists had noted the fact, and had proceeded with the rest of their analysis. Finally, they had written a report of fifty pages, covering every possible aspect of the autopsy. Loustaunau-Lacau had read it attentively, but it was a simple annex typed on a thin, pale blue sheet of paper that had caught his attention. Dr Lacan, one of Balthazard’s junior doctors, had inherited the unenviable job of removing the men’s stomach and analyzing their contents.

“As it appears” read Lacan’s report “the two men died within one or two hours of eating their last meal. With death interrupting the digestive process, and given the cold temperatures in which the bodies were kept, we have been able to ascertain the contents of the stomach: chopped cabbage (this is a certainty as cabbage, like lettuce, dissolves last under the action of gastric juices) and pieces of unspecified meat, quite possibly pork. A liquid – possibly a soup - was also found, apparently made of roasted grains. The stomach…”

Upon reading that, Loustaunau-Lacau had straightened up swearing. He had felt a chill running up his spine, and a suddenly urge to light a cigarette. Cabbage. Pork. A strange liquid…In his bad old days, when he had liaised between anti-Communist officers of the French Army and Italy’s Fascist Regime, General Loustaunau-Lacau had often enjoyed the hospitality of the Italian Army – he had even been invited for a month in one of the Alpini regiments that the Duce used as his special treat to build close relationships with foreign sympathizers. During his stay with the Alpini, Loustaunau had eaten and slept with the rank-and-file, and while he sure remembered pork sausages being common in the soldiers’ rations, he had never seen sauerkraut issued to Italian soldiers. And there was the odd fact that no food had been found on the fallen assassins – that didn’t quite fit the profile of hotheads exerting some kind of private vengeance. But that was the strange liquid Dr Lacan had been unable to identify that transformed Loustaunau-Lacau’s doubts into a chilling certainty. With Hitler and Goering favoring guns over butter, the Germans had learned to make do with many substitution products, the ersatz. While not as good as the original products, the ersatz allowed the Reich to save money. The Germans’ ingenuity in this matter was remarkable, for they had even developed ersatz for everyday products: there was substitution bread, to save flour. There was substitution butter, to save milk. And there was substitution coffee, a rather vile liquid the Germans called “Muckefuck” and which was made out of roasted grains…

That night, General Loustaunau didn’t sleep. He paced his office, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he considered his next move. Normally, he should have called the Hôtel Matignon to ask for an immediate appointment with the Prime Minister. Upon entering de La Rocque’s office, he’d have to state that new evidence pointed to the fact the attack on the Dent d’Oche, initially thought to have been perpetrated by fringe elements of the Italian Fascist Party, was in fact a German operation. With the Prime Minister already on edge with the results of the Munich agreements, what would be his answer to an officially-sanctioned assassination of France’s chief intelligence officer? Attacking Germany now could pay off militarily, but would be untenable on the diplomatic front. On the other hand, this kind of operation couldn’t go unpunished – doing nothing would only invite more adventures, and bring even greater perils. When the sun finally rose over Paris’ roofs, Loustaunau-Lacau had reached his decision. He knew who to strike, he knew how to strike - and strike he would, keeping the government out of the loop. All that was needed was, as the Abwehr had done at La Dent d’Oche, a convenient disguise. That had been when the report about the clandestine KPP group – and its list of contacts in France – had come to mind. Singling out young Hershel Grynzspan as a promising tool to be used had been easy – as had been sending him to von Rath with a gun. The fact the Abwehr agent worked in the Emigration Bureau made him easily accessible in the embassy, and also a likely target for Grynzspan’s blind rage about emigration quotas for German Jews. It had been a signal sent to the Abwehr, and one Loustaunau-Lacau was certain would be understood by his counterparts. Taking a sip of water, Loustaunau-Lacau hoped the young Pole wouldn’t be sent to the guillotine – though the conspirator in him couldn’t help thinking it would be the most convenient way of writing the final chapter of that.

Hershel Grynzspan, a young Polish Jew, is arrested by the French police after the assassination of a German diplomatic officer in Paris.

“Now that this unpleasant affair is settled, let’s move to an even more unpleasant one, gentlemen. Paul, what is the latest news from the Sudetenland?”

“It’ll be over soon”, sighed Reynaud. "The polls are in for half of the districts, and it seems Czechoslova...I mean the Czech Republic, is getting fleeced."

Reynaud was morally exhausted. The results phoned by the French members of the League of Nations' observers were even worse than expected - one by one, the disputed districts had voted for joining the German Reich. The referendums had been held in an atmosphere of violence, with PNU militias reported rampaging through German-populated towns. Special envoy Henri Coulondre had told Reynaud he largely suspected some of the marauding groups were Germans wearing Czech uniforms – but he had also advised against stopping the voting operations or contesting the results. The other League of Nations observers too, Coulondre had said, were aware of the situation but not one of them was ready to raise the issue, not after the major war scare of last October. Barring a full-fledged German invasion, Coulondre had said, the world was ready to look the other way, and any nation contesting the result would look like it was seeking to derail the peaceful settlement of the crisis.

"There is no blatant sign of manipulation or intimidation?"

"Blatant ? Yes, sir, there are, but just not blatant enough. Given the state of chaos in the Sudetenland, there are probably districts where the vote to join up with the Reich is entirely genuine. People tend to prefer order over anarchy, and many would better have Feldgendarmes patrolling their streets at night than wonder which militia is banging on their door in the wee hours of the morning."

"So... it is a disaster, isn't it?" remarked de La Rocque.

"Yes, sir, it is. But the terrible irony of it is that it will continue for awhile to appear as a great success of the West's diplomacy of restraint."

"Diplomacy of restraint? More like a manacled, strait-jacketed diplomacy, really! Now, it's not your fault, Paul. Your competence is not in question here, nor the energy you devoted to managing that crisis. We all are remiss: ministers in this room, and lawmakers in the Senate and in the Hémicycle, we are guilty of having grossly underestimated the adversary. The Germans have been clever when we only expected them to be brutish. In this crisis they have played us all from day one, and we have obligingly followed their lead. Let's face it, with Japan in the fray, casting its shadow over the West's Pacific possessions, even a rearguard fight was useless."

"Has it been confirmed that the British delegation was informed of the Japanese alliance at Münich?"

"It is. And they chose not to tell us - something I want all of you to keep in mind, as long as you don't dwell upon it too much. I've had a long conversation with Churchill this morning and while he made a point to be sympathetic to our difficulties, he didn't mince words about the gravity of the situation."

"There's a silver lining" said the Interior Minister. "Though a small one, I'll be the first to admit. Regardless of what our opinion of the Münich agreements is, the Renseignements Généraux confirm that the public opinion stands firmly behind us, and praises our handling of the crisis. Three persons out of four are satisfied and relieved that an agreement was found in Münich, and two out of three say that barring the open use of force by Nazi Germany they'd favor a bad agreement over an open crisis While I'm sure the opposition will soon come to their senses and resume their sniping at the government, the fact is our most vocal critics at the Assemblée Nationale have been momentarily silenced. Shouldn't we put that respite to good use, and make some moves of our own?"

"Joseph is right, Monsieur le Premier Ministre" said Reynaud. "We shouldn't let Berlin pluck all the fruits of Münich. There are opportunities out there that need be exploited. For instance, our taking part in Washington's efforts to keep the Latin American War in check has earned us sympathy among American voters. I think it's time we capitalize on this sympathy and try to bring America back to the diplomatic stage - or at least, a lot closer to it. That would be a real coup, one that would send a strong signal abroad. In Berlin, they'd have to take notice if France can once again count upon the American industrial might. And in Tokyo they'd realize they should tread carefully in the Pacific..."

"Is that feasible?" asked the Prime Minister. "Having the Americans on board with us would be great, but don't the Isolationists still command a lot of influence in their institutions?"

"Well," answered Reynaud, "we'll have to be realistic of course, Monsieur le Premier Ministre. We certainly cannot hope to turn the United States upside-down and renounce their neutralist stance for any form of military alliance with us. True, the Isolationists are breathing on Landon's neck as it is, and our colonial possessions keep irritating the so-called 'moralist wing' of both parties over there. But Landon's actions are proof enough his Administration does not want to fence the rest of the world out. The announcement of Japan's alliance with Germany has caused some stir along the West Coast, where US businessmen are already protesting that their usually profitable trade with China has been suffering from Japanese military operations in that country. The accidental bombing of one of their river patrol ships off Nanking last year has sent ripples throughout the American society and media, and they now regard Japan as a potential threat."

"That is good news. The more they consider Japan as a dangerous threat to their own security, the more they'll see their German allies under the same light. In strict military terms the alliance of the two autocracies is a nightmare, in diplomatic terms however, it might be an opportunity..."

"I too think the time is ripe for a little rapprochement with Washington" said Roger Salengro. "Such a move could provide further boost to our economy: we could negotiate easier access to our market for certain types of American products in exchange of Already their oil companies have signed important contracts to provide our revitalized economy with all the fuel it needs. Other sectors are ready to follow suit, provided we send a clear signal across the Atlantic. In this respect, a state visit might do wonders."

As France's Minister of Work, Salengro's most daunting task was to curb down the still high unemployment figures that had been plaguing France since the Great Depression had crossed the ocean. The National Reindustrialization Program he had helped devise in 1935 was a success, but one that mostly benefited the more qualified segments of the workforce. With the ongoing mechanization of the French agriculture, farms were unloading thousands of unskilled laborers into the job market and despite of France's sustained industrial growth the situation in the countryside was paradoxically getting worse than in 1934. Training the workforce to meet up new standards of qualification required considerably more time and effort than building new factories, and that growing gap resulted in severe tensions in several industrial basins where skilled labor had to be imported from Spain, Belgium and Italy. In the past three years, Roger Salengro had harassed every Ministry to find new opportunities to develop the French economy, and to maintain the fine balance between social imperatives and economic necessities.

France’s Ministère du Travail, headquarters of the National Reindustrialization Program.

"If I may" interjected Defense Minister Jean Fabry, "we may have the kind of signal to please American businessmen. The recent problems observed in procuring planes for the Armée de l'Air and the Aéronavale have made it clear that some of our manufacturers cannot be counted upon. Within the next few years, the aviation companies will have to merge and reorganize themselves, leaving four or five major players : Bloch, Amiot, Dewoitine, Potez, Arsenal maybe, with others either becoming subsidiaries of these bigger companies or going bankrupt. While this reorganization is an industrial necessity, it comes at a most inconvenient time, when we need to field more planes than ever, and of every type."

"So you suggest..."

"My teams at the Ministry could set up a technical mission, touring American plane factories, evaluating their various models, and preparing future purchases."

"I wish we could keep defense procurement a strictly national affair" remarked Salengro.

"I hear you, Roger" said Fabry, "I know our factories need the contracts, but the fact is while our design bureaus are excellent, the production keeps lagging behind because it lacks the proper machine tools. If we had ten years of guaranteed peace, sure, we could focus on acquiring the machine parts and the skills we need and then satisfy all of our needs. But with tensions resurfacing with Germany, I feel the priority has to be given to acquiring all the planes we need now, and get the technology little by little."

"Yes, that is a good point" conceded La Rocque. "Get me the sharpest officers you have, Jean. Veterans of Spain if possible. We'll let Washington know that we're ready to invest quite a lot of money. Paul, keep me informed on possible dates for a State visit. If we play our cards right, gentlemen, we may one day rebuild the oldest and grandest alliance of the West.”

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Writer’s notes :

The assassination of Ernst von Rath, in OTL, happened earlier in 1938, and was followed by the infamous Kristallnacht that saw government-sponsored violence against Jews and Jewish properties. There is no reason to think in OTL that von Rath was anything but an ordinary employee of the German embassy, but here I thought it’d be fitting to link this historical event with the fact I caught a German spy after months without any espionage reported.

Danzig in this ATL is bound to be the haven for a lot of political agitators and social misfits, as Poland is a Paternal Autocracy with little tolerance for Russian-backed ideologies. In this ATL as in OTL, it is run by League of Nations administrators. To the Polish government, Danzig's importance has lessened somwewhat since the completion of Gdynia's port facilities, but the coastal city remains a factor of discord between Poland and Germany, and a worry for the rest of the world.

Dr Victor Balthazard is a real-life character. He was one of France's top pathologists.

Dr Jacques-Marie Lacan, who attained fame as a psychiatrist and father of some innovative theories about psychoanalysis, first obtained his title of doctor of medicine as...a pathologist.

The sending of a French mission to America, with orders to prepare the purchase of US planes is historical, but happened later in OTL. France and Britain knew in 1939 their own industries would not suffice to the task of producing everything their armies would need during a conflict. They therefore looked to the US, which had succeeded France as the arsenal of the democracies, (dixit Paul Kennedy in his Rise and Fall of the Great Nations! ) to buy the necessary equipment. France in OTL 1939 sought planes, from Curtiss and Vought naval bombers to Douglas DB-7 and Glenn-Martin 167 level bombers. You'll see some of them in action in the war chapters of this AAR.

[Atlantic Friend]

CHAPTER 88 : POWER BROKER

This rather unimpressive building houses one of the world’s most advanced atomic programs.

Paris, the Institut du Radium, December the 10th, 1938

“Sorry about the mess” said Joliot-Curie as he pushed away a pile of books, “but as you can see we have now reached the point where this building alone cannot satisfy our needs any longer. If we are to make any further progress, we need to change drastically the scale of our experiments. That means finding new premises, obtaining new equipment, and finally putting together a larger research team.”

“And that means finding more funds, I suppose” said Bichelonne.

“Well, yes, of course. Nervus belli, pecuniam infinitam, as you well know” said Francis Perrin, one of Joliot-Curie’s top researchers. He didn’t like Bichelonne, and what little he had heard about the Ministry’s special envoy through friends hadn’t done anything to make the man any dearer to his heart.

Bichelonne looked around him, feeling both amused and horrified. From its floor to the ceiling, there wasn’t one square meter of the office that wasn’t occupied by something. The large desk was buried under notes and copies of scientific papers printed with a roneo – the small machine lied askew on top of an open notebook, filling the room with the heady smell of alcohol. On the walls, articles and letters had been pinned on the wooden panelling, which also supported a crude oil portrait of a bearded man in Renaissance or medieval clothing that Bichelonne could not recognize. On one corner of the office, four leather armchairs with broken springs had been brought together, so close to each other that it was probably impossible for more than three of them to be occupied at the same time. On the floor, several pile of books arched dangerously, threatening to crash and spill the contents of the ashtrays that had been places on top of them. Abandoned pencils of various length and colours were everywhere to be seen, as if they had been scattered by a manic sower. Amidst the capharnaum, Frédéric Joliot-Curie looked like a new, land-based species of hermit crab which would have built its armour out of reams of bound paper, nibbled pencils and coloured chalks. To Jean Bichelonne, who had learnt the virtue of Spartan tidiness and squared away desks during his years at the Ecole Polytechnique and then during his military service, it was hard to admit this office could belong to one of the most brilliant minds of his time, a scientist who had already obtained a Nobel Prize for his work on atomic structure.

“I can understand your desire to move to premises more appropriate to your line of work, Professor” replied Bichelonne, lightly tapping his fountain pen on the small notebook open on his knee. Nervus belli, pecuniam infinitam indeed… But can money alone guarantee the success of your project?”

“It’s hard to tell, Monsieur Bichelonne” sighed Joliot-Curie, waving his hand. “The field of nuclear physics is very new, and has what little we know about it we have inherited from true pioneers, giants amongst scientists. Through painful efforts, we have, as you know, validated their theories and reached the limits of what is known. We already know that it is possible to split an atom, and –“

“Think about that, Mr Bichelonne” interrupted Perrin with an ironic smile.

“Splitting the core component of matter. We do not know how it works, but we already know how to break it – there you have it, Mankind in a nutshell.”

Non-plussed, Bichelonne gave him a bland look.

Jean Bichelonne, one of the bright minds of the War Ministry.

“So? The first thing doctors did to understand how the human body works was to open and dismember it, and I don’t think for a minute that anyone regrets they did, Professor. I thought a man of science such as yourself would understand, of all people.”

“Anyway” said Joliot-Curie, eager to avoid a fight, “Now that we have run out of solid hypothesis to confirm, we have to venture into what is merely suspected. As we enter the terras incognitas of nuclear science, there is always the risk that we find oud that months, and perhaps even years, of costly effort have only driven us into an impasse. Hence the necessity to pursue several avenues of approach, and to back any theory, however popular or enthusing, with rigorous experimentation. Not to mention our need for skilled personnel, specific equipment… and abundant funds, as you put it quite correctly.”

“I have read the summary of your patent for an explosive device based on atomic reaction. You know, Professor, I was top of my class in Engineering when I left the Ecole Polytechnique in 1900, and I consider myself a rather bright guy. But I am not ashamed to say most of it went over my head. Not as a theoretical possibility, you know – I understand the basic principles well enough. What is beyond me is the practical feasibility of manipulating matter at this level.”

“I know – it probably won’t make you feel any better, but many of us feel the same” replied Joliot-Curie, leaning back into his tattered leather chair.
“The theory is, as you put it, rather simple. As Mankind established the core components of matter, it also discovered it could undergo some structural changes, whether naturally or through manipulation. Most of these changes are of little importance whatsoever in terms of practical purposes, though of course they can help us better comprehend the physical laws governing this universe. Some of the changes observed so far do have practical uses, like for example the decay of radium that my mother-in-law is best remembered for, but they are not what we here have focused upon. What my wife and I are pursuing, along with the rest of our team, is the behavior of certain specific elements, that are often called rare earths.”

“Why these elements?”

“As I told you, we already know how to split an atom, for better or for worse. That requires a certain quantity of energy, and the result is, in strict energetical terms, negligible. But these elements, how could I put it in layman’s terms…they’re cost-efficient.”

“You mean they’d produce more energy than needed to split their atoms?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“How much energy would be released, exactly?”

“A very tiny fraction of an electronvolt – barely enough to heat up one single atom in this room, actually.”

“Then I don’t understand. How could it be cost-eff-“

“First thing, this small release of energy would happen within each atom affected by the manipulation.”

“And the molecular mass of these elements…”

“These elements are extremely heavy indeed, but honestly, if that was their only quality, all we’d got would be a brief, weak release of energy that would still be a lot less than the initial amount required to split each atom. Can I use a simplistic image without offending you, Monsieur Bichelonne?”

“I have the feeling you could offend me without me even realizing it, Professor” sighed Bichelonne.

“Consider atoms like a pile of dominos, all standing erect, all ready to fall if given a little impulsion. With most elements, the dominos are standing in line. The atomic change would be extremely brief, barely noticeable actually. One tip of the finger, and you immediately end up with a pile of useless, fallen dominos. A lot of effort for nothing. But we think that with the heavy elements such as uranium, the dominoes can be set in such a way each falling one will take several others with it. Each exploding atom would release components that would themselves collide with other atoms, releasing yet more energy, and yet more components colliding with new atoms, producing even more energy. To get back to my simple domino image, the dominos would somehow produce more of themselves as they fall, until what you obtain is a real waterfall lasting as long as there’s enough material to make at least one more domino. This is what we call a sustained reaction – how sustained we don’t know, and how controllable we don’t know either, but I’m sure you see the implications.”

“My God, the energy we could produce…”

“Indeed. The output of an atomic pile may – may – be staggering. Forget about coal or oil – if it works, that is. It could be the dawning of a new age.”

“Or the end of this one at the very least” grumbled Perrin.

Bichelonne stood up and walked to the office’s window. His mind was racing. The possibilities were immense, if Joliot-Curie was right. So would be the industrial implications, and industry was his passion. When in 1931 the full force of the 1929 krach had started affecting France, the government had kept erecting new trade barriers in a desperate attempt to fence the crisis out. New tariffs were slapped upon imported goods every month, in the hope it would give French industries an edge in the interior market. While a classic response to economic slowdown, it had rapidly emerged that tariffs were, at best, a temporary measure that bought time, but little else. Moreover, what little short-term good they accomplished for the French industry was far outweighed by the negative impact they had on world trade, making the credit crunch even tighter. The French industries had been for a while shielded from the full force of the krach, but the global economic slowdown deprived them of the financial assets they needed to use that time to modernize their production lines. As bankrupcies started to multiply across the country, it became obvious that the ongoing crisis was nothing like the world had ever seen before, and that a new approach had to be taken. In the summer of 1933, an informal study group started meeting at the Ecole Polytechnique under the impulsion of a few enthusiastic graduates who thought old methods didn’t apply to the crisis, and that any proposal to rekindle economic growth had to include a technical and managerial approach as much as financial measures. Jean Bichelonne had been amongst the first Polytechnicians to join the group which had been dubbed “X-Crisis” after the nickname of the Ecole Polytechnique and each of its students – the X.

In its first year of existence, X-Crisis had met every week, hearing established industrialists and a few young experts from the Inspection Générale des Finances eager to reinvent French capitalism. In early 1934, X-Crisis had published a thick report, the White Book of French Economic Growth, that it had submitted to the government. In the report, the study group rejected the idea that high tariffs alone could weather down the crisis and help develop industries. While the money generated by the tariffs needed to be better used, what was really needed, the Xs said, was to put to work two hitherto untapped resources : an under-developed interior market, and the traditional instinct of French families to save money. These two resources, stated the report, could not be put to good use because the country lacked a banking system modern enough and solid enough to encourage citizens to place their money and to resort to credit. With a complete shakedown of the banking system, and the infusion of public money to guarantee loans, it would be possible to encourage the demand for manufactured goods, and to satisfy it through new, local industries or branches of already established industries. At this moment, in Joliot-Curie’s office, Bichelonne vividly remembered a line from the White Book. It ran “with the proposed banking system in place and backed by public authority and public money whenever necessary, the French government might find itself in a situation where the only physical limitations to growth might be the existence of a high-quality infrastructure able to provide the firms with a reliable access to goods, customers, and of course fluids, chiefly electrical power. In this last respect standardization of the power grid seems a necessity so as to lower the costs of setting up new lines from our power plants in Eastern and Southern France.”

And now, with this, energy could stop being a limiting factor…

“But wait - your patent isn’t for an industrial pile. It’s for some kind of weapon.”

“That’s the other practical use of atomic reaction – the other side of the coin, one might say. Instead of working on a prolonged, sustained reaction, taking place within a controlled milieu, you could have it happen within a bomb. Imagine that, Mr Bichelonne. Dropping a bomb, a single bomb maybe, with the power to light up a new sun where it explodes. All that energy, released in one giant, lethal burst, consuming up cities.”

Frédéric Joliot-Curie, reluctant father of the atomic bomb.

“That is feasible?”

“In theory, yes.”

“Bon Dieu. Is this why you filed the patent? To start this program?”

“Actually, no. Filing the patent was a decision that was reached collegially here, after a long and heated debate. If it was possible to un-invent things, to un-imagine concepts, then believe me I’d have thrown the very idea to the dustbin of History. The reason I filed the bomb patent is because I knew that would catch the attention of the government, and I needed to do just that. I told you there also was a danger I wanted to avert, remember?”

“I do, Professor. What could be more frightening that your proposed sun-like weapon?”

“The Germans are working on it as we speak. And they are ahead of us.”

*****

The Collège de France in Paris

Paris, the Collège de France, December the 17th, 1938

“You don’t understand!” exclaimed Perrin, throwing his arms up in the air in frustration. “Science does not work this way! It’s built on trading knowledge!”

“So is espionage, Professor, and I don’t think we need to trade anything anymore if what Professor Joliot-Curie’s report is accurate!”

The atmosphere in the classroom was tense, and Raoul Dautry tried once again to bring some calm amongst the attendees. It was a most peculiar conference for the usually quiet Collège de France. Dautry reflected that the old walls of this temple of knowledge had probably never seen so many officers at once – or so many irate scientists. The debate had been going on for the past two hours, as could be expected. On one side, arms crossed defiantly, sat France’s top physicists, defending their conception of scientific research which relied upon the free circulation of ideas. Without the open debates with other research teams, they said, research would rapidly become a stale exercise of self-promotion, and the danger of driving the program into an impasse would increase tenfold. On the other side of the room, vigorously shaking their heads, were the Ministry of Defense officials, cringing at the prospect of having military secrets openly discussed with foreign scientists. If a heavy shroud of secrecy didn’t surround the program, they said, then there was no sense in even trying to get ahead of the race, since any result achieved by the French team would be communicated to their competitors. The scientists thought the official’s demands were ridiculous and betrayed their ignorance of the scientific world. The Defense officials throught the scientists’ behavior equally ridiculous and a clear sign of their ignorance of the real world. Dautry felt that, as often in such cases, both sides were right and wrong at the same time, and he resented being trapped in the middle of this quarrel he was supposed to arbitrate, as France’s Secrétaire d’Etat for National Defense.

Thank God I have an ace in my sleeve, he thought, looking at the Joliot-Curies. Well, two aces actually.

“You cannot regiment scientific research!” said Perrin. “We are not one of the little soldiers you can order around, it simply does not, cannot, and will not work this way, Messieurs!”

“Professor Perrin” said Dautry, “I hope this is not degenerating into a question of egos. The issue here is not about drafting you into service – I know we can count upon your sense of patriotism. I understand how fundamental science relies upon having one laboratory disclosing the result sit got to another laboratory. I don’t like it, but I understand you need it to double-check your results and trade ideas. But this is not theoretical science anymore, Professor. It may have begun like that, when the initial concepts were discussed, when the very idea of practical uses seemed chimeric. But now we are dealing with a very practical use – and a military one to boot. This is no longer science, but a defense program. Professor Joliot-Curie, I beg you, could you use your authority to convince your colleagues that we are trying to organize a research center, not a labour camp.”

Joliot put down his glass of water. He too felt there was merit in what each side was saying. The officials wanted to constitute something like an industrial trust, operating with airtight security, at the risk of intellectual suffocation. His team, understandably, was chafing at the prospect of relinquishing their independence. Because of his upbringing and of his passion for abstract research, he too would have preferred to keep scientific debate open. A concept, elaborated in one team, could trigger new ideas in three other laboratories – which in turn would be pounced upon by other bright minds. Research, Joliot-Curie realized, functioned exactly like the kind of sustained reaction his team was trying to create. But he also knew that Dautry was right – the reason he and his wife had invited the government into their studies was precisely because with that kind of research, with what was potentially at stake, democracies could not simply rely on a level playing field and hope that in the end the noblest minds would prevail. Open publication was no longer an option. Joliot-Curie simply hoped it would, at some future point, be possible again.

“Gentlemen” he said, bridging his hands, “I too think this is a pointless discussion. Let me remind you that we have received, ten days ago, communication that the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute has announced it had achieved fission of a uranium atom, paving the way for a workable atomic pile and, possibly, for a fission-based weapon. I hope I don’t have to remind any scientist here about what kind of regime sits in Berlin, nor what kind of power harnessing the power of the atom would give Hitler.”
Joliot rose and pointed at the wall of the classroom, where a large map of Europe was hanging.

“This is where we live, gentlemen. Whether we are from France or Poland or Russia, this is where we all were born, where we grew up and emerged as men. Think about our history, our culture, our civilization. Think about what would happen to this unique continent if Nazi Germany achieved a decisive breakthrough in our field of research. Think about what would happen to a world where Nazism obtained the means to obliterate democratic nations. We have an opportunity to make sure it doesn’t happen. We have a duty to make sure it doesn’t happen. It all depends upon us, gentlemen. It all depends upon you.”

Grudgingly, the scientists fell silent.

“I hear you, Frédéric” said Perrin. “But you know that even if we accept this proposal of yours, and if we achieve the success we’re aiming at, it won’t stop Germany from doing the same. Our program won’t stop theirs.”

“I think –“ began Dautry.

“If I may” interrupted Irène Joliot-Curie. “No, Francis, you’re absolutely right. It won’t stop their program. It won’t make a German atomic pile disappear, and it won’t make German bombs un-happen. But it will make sure France and other democratic nations are able to resist Nazi aggression. Don’t you think it’s worth fighting for? Don’t you think it’s worth making some sacrifices?"

Grudgingly, the scientists mumbled their agreement. Standing up to the likes of Bichelonne and Dautry came easy to them – such men were pencil-pushers. Standing up to Frédéric Joliot-Curie demanded considerably more guts, for the man was one of them. Standing up to Irène Joliot-Curie, Secrétaire d’Etat for Scientific Research, Director of the Radium Institute, Nobel prize swinner and daughter of Marie Curie was simply unthinkable.

“Naturally” she went on “this is first and foremost a scientific project. While I am sure we will all accept some limitations to normal communication of results, it must be led by scientists. Don’t you agree, Mr Dautry?”

“I am not sure...”

“Unless you have specialists in atomic physics at the Ministry of Defense, of course.”

Surprised by the question, Dautry stumped. Ideally, he had imagined he could have a bright lad from his staff, like Bichelonne, appointed as program director. Now he realized how hollow that dream had been.

Secrétaire d’Etat à la Défense Nationale Raoul Dautry.

“Well, of course not, Dr Joliot-Curie. Given your own cabinet responsibilities, perhaps I may suggest your husband could head the program – if you all agree, we’ll have it confirmed shortly. And I’ll detach someone from my staff to act as liaison with the Ministry and assist the research team as administrative director. Would that be acceptable?”

“I am sure it can be worked out” said Frédéric Joliot-Curie. “Now if I may, there is a point I need to make, as temporary Director of France’s Atomic Program if you will. We are up against the world’s brightest here – men like Otto Hahn, they come up once a century. And he has assembled a crack team around him. To beat them to the finish line, we need every help we can get. The men and women of our team, Mr Dautry, are the best of the country. You can tell that to the President. But there are other great scientists that could help us beat the Nazis to the game. We could – and maybe we should – enlist their help. I actually have one name I want to suggest – and to suggest strongly.”

“Who is he?”

“She, Mr Dautry” said Irène Joliot-Curie. “Her name is Lise Meitner. She works for the Physics Department at the University of Vienna, that she used to head.”

“Used to?” asked Bichelonne.

“She was demoted a few weeks ago. The Rector of the University thought it would be best if Fraulein Meitner served in a less senior position.”

“She was demoted because she is a woman?”

“No, Mr Bichelonne. She got demoted because she is Jewish. Even though the local Nazis have crept back under their rocks after Mussolini’s assassination, the Cabinet of Herr Schussnigg has abundantly showed the world how eager it was to punish those who didn’t share its religious convictions, not to mention its political choices. Unfortunately, there are plenty of people in Austria who do not need a Nazi cross to be prejudiced against Jews.”

“As there are some here in France, aren’t there, Monsieur Bichelonne?” asked Perrin with a nasty knowing smile.

Under the scientist’s glare, Bichelonne blushed and toyed with his pen. It was a part of his life that he was careful to hide, but naturally there were people in the know. Back in the days of the X-Crisis group, some of the Polytechnicians had suggested it could be interesting to see what was going on in Italy and Germany, which seemed to fare better than Western democracies. Because he spoke German, Bichelonne had offered to visit the Rhineland and Berlin and meet with local industrialists and decision-makers. Not knowing anyone, he had contacted the German embassy and had been directed to the Sohlberg Circle, a Franco-German friendship association run by a enthusiastic young man called Otto Abetz. Escorted by a helpful Circle official, Bichelonne had spent two weeks witnessing the ‘German miracle’ and hearing from businessmen how it had revolved around a ‘national reawakening’ of the German economy, by which they meant a sharp reduction of the influence of Jews in the banking and finance sectors.

Bichelonne hadn’t been the only X, and by far not the only educated man, to succumb to totalitarian sirens. Disappointment had run deep within the X-Crisis group when it had become clear the government would not follow any of the recommendations of the White Book. Bleating parliamentarism, some of the X-members had decided, was the reason why France couldn’t emulate Germany’s dynamism. It brought sloth and corruption, and impoverished the national community to line up the purse of various groups of dubious origins, amongst which Jews and Freemasons were the least trustworthy. The irruption of political debate within the group had spelled the end to X-Crisis. In the end some, including Bichelonne, had adhered to the Action Française out of growing disillusion with French democracy. Others had joined left-leaning parties. In the aftermath of the 1934 riots, the chairman of the group, architect and engineer Eugène Freyssinet, had then done what he felt was best. He had gathered all the copies of the White Book he could find, and he had requested a meeting with Roger Salengro, the newly-appointed Minister of Work, whom he had met during the Great War. After gathering dust for more than a year, the White Book had finally found avid readers. It had become the National Reindustrialization Program.

“So your suggestion is…” started Dautry, puzzled. Perrin’s remark had distracted him.

“Lise Meitner is a first-rate scientist. She confirmed the fission event at Heidelberg – and she passed the information to us, so Monsieur le Secrétaire d’Etat, I dare say we owe her. We owe her a lot, and I’d like to make it sure we keep owing her for all the great achievements she’ll help us accomplish. Let’s offer her a position here.”

“Well, Professor, I do understand that Miss Meitner would make a fine addition to our team, but I can see problems in including foreign personnel in our program?”

“Oh, do you?” asked Irène Joliot-Curie.

“Well, yes, madam, obviously-“

“Monsieur le Secrétaire d’Etat, I was born Irène Curie. My mother was Marie Curie – I am sure the name sounds familiar?”

“Madame Secretary-“

“She was born Maria Sklodowska, in a Polish family holding Russian citizenship. Now would you care to explain how French research on radioactivity would have been helped had my mother been told that as a foreign national she couldn’t be trusted? Can you explain that to me and my former colleagues?”

“Madam Secretary, I… Well, it’s… Oh, Hell, no, I can’t. The point is well taken, Madam. I will speak to Minister Fabry, and if need be we’ll take that request to the Prime Minister.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Writer’s notes :

Frédéric Joliot-Curie worked as Marie Curie’s assistant at the Institut du Radium, before marrying her daughter Irène. He and his wife were awarded the Nobel Prize in physics in 1935, and the first man to ever file a patent for an atomic bomb (in 1939). He is also one of the first scientists at that time who understood that communication of experiment results through open scientific publications had to take second seat when it came to the bomb. Joliot’s team included foreign scientists, including Russian-Polish Lew Kowarski and Austrian-Polish Hans von Halban. So why not Lise Meitner?

Lise Meitner is Austria’s Irène Curie. In OTL she worked with Otto Hahn at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute of Berlin. After Hitler rose to power, her Jewish origins didn’t exactly help, and her situation became rather desperate after the Anschluss of her native Austria. As there has been no Anschluss in this ATL, I left Frau Meitner in Vienna, working with Hahn’s team in a more junior role (I doubt Herr Schussnigg and his Austrofascism was that much bigger than ol’ Adi on keeping Jewish women in prominent positions).

Francis Perrin was a leading scientist in nuclear physics, a member of Joliot-Curie’s team. He worked on sustained nuclear reaction, the Pandora Box of the 20th century.

Founded in 1794 and used by Napoleon to train artillery officers, the Ecole Polytechnique is France’s foremost engineering school. It belongs to what is called “les Grandes Ecoles”, preparing students for very senior positions in the French civil administration, in French businesses and, because of its Napoleonic influence, it used to train a lot of French officers at the time.

The X-Crisis (X-Crise in French) group really did exist. It was formed at the Ecole Polytechnique in the early 1930s to fight off the impact of the krach, and advocated economy planification. Here I have mixed some of the X-Crise proposals with the ones formulated by Enrico Mattei in Italy in the 1940s.

Jean Bichelonne is a real character, and a former Ecole Polytechnique student. In OTL he favoured Vichy over resistance to the German occupation, and held the post of Minister of Industrial production in one of the Laval governments.

Eugène Freyssinet also did exist. Another Ecole Polytechnique student, he served as an Army engineer during the Great War, building bridges. He became a renowned architect and worked on the French exhibit at the 1937 World Fair. There is no real connection between him and X-Crisis that I know of, but he had the background I needed and I felt it’d be nice to introduce him to you. Whoever designs a 2,300 feet high lighthouse with a garage for 500 cars for a World Fair needs be mentioned in my opinion.

[Atlantic Friend]

CHAPTER 89 : CREDENTIALS

The entrance of the Elysée Palace

Paris, the Elysée Palace, December the 17th, 1938

“Shall Messieurs need anything?” asked the usher as the two men sat in the small sofa. “Monsieur le Président de la République will be here shortly, but if Messieurs desire something to drink in the meanwhile...”

“Thank you, no, Célestin” said Reynaud. “We’re fine. We’ll just wait for President Lebrun I think.”

“As Messieurs wish” replied the usher, ceremoniously closing the doors to the private salon.

Shortly after the 1935 constitutional referendum, Information Minister Etienne Riché had suggested that France’s Town Halls and Préfectures should be renovated to reflect the modernization of the institutions, and the majesty of the new Republic. Seduced by the highly symbolic value of such a measure, Lebrun and the Prime Minister had instructed each Ministry to reserve 1% of its budget to embellish the buildings housing their various services. Beyond the powerful Republican symbol, Lebrun and de La Rocque had seen many advantages to the program. It would contribute to the economic recovery, for starters, by providing much-needed jobs for artisans and construction workers. It would also assert the legitimacy of the new regime, with each renovated Préfecture pushing away the memories of 1934 and the shady circumstances that had preceded the birth of the Fourth Republic. Finally, it also provided many opportunities for public speeches, as every inauguration was followed by a speech emphasizing the successes of the government, and the challenges that awaited. This private salon had not, so far, been affected by the renovation of the Elysée Palace, and the American visitor found himself wishing it would be spared. It was a quiet room with an impossibly high ceiling that was adorned by a small fresco showing an idyllic castle by a river. On the walls hung equally bucolic paintings, probably borrowed from some museum collections. Nothing could be heard of the traffic that at this hour had probably started clogging nearby Faubourg Saint Honoré, nor of the daily bustle of the Elysée Palace. Even in this bleak day of December, the room was quite luminous, letting the pale sunlight sift through two tall windows overlooking the Palace's gardens. Out there, he could see three of gardeners shovelling the snow that had fallen the previous night, cleaning up the alleys leading to the wings of the Palace. The atmosphere in the salon was one of peaceful reclusion, and the American wondered if it had sometimes been used for informal negotiations.

Wilson may have sat here, mused the American. Lloyd George on his right, hello Lloyd my lad, Clemenceau on his left, good old Clem. What say we run Germany directly, just the three of us, and we let these fourteen-points nonsense rest, gentlemen?

He smiled. It might be that the room had seen a completely different kind of History. Maybe it had been where President Félix Faure had used to entertain his lady friends? It might even be the room where, upon reaching the apex of pleasure, the esteemed gentleman had, to be tactful, died from apoplexy in the arms of his mistress. He had heard stories about that most unusual death – though it seemed enviable enough, certainly, considering the available alternatives - when he had first came to France, some twenty years ago, during the Great War. The French officials he had met then had liked trading scandalous gossip and idle chit-chat, since naturally there had been precious few topics that could be freely discussed if one wanted to obey all the rules of military discretion. The young American officer had at first been appalled - first, that a man in such an eminent position as Faure could engage in such scandalous behaviour, and second, that his French counterparts shamelessly made jokes about it. But after a while, he had learned to shrug off the embarrassment, and had actually started enjoying the cruel wit of his European colleagues. So yes, maybe that was the room where, as one French captain had said, President Faure's honour had suffered a truly lethal blow...

The Elysée during the 1935 renovation program

"As you see, your appointment comes at a very ominous moment" said Reynaud, interrupting his companion’s reverie. "And let me add that as an old friend, your arrival at the Avenue Gabriel embassy couldn't have come at a better time as far as I am concerned."

"Well, don’t tempt the devil" said the man with a grin. "I’m not an ambassador yet, Paul. Président Lebrun has yet to confirm me."

"I think it’s safe to say that it will be done before noon" said Reynaud with a smile of his own. "I gave him your letters of credential this morning during the Conseil des Ministres. The confirmation process shouldn’t take long – its entire purpose is to introduce each ambassador to the Président, now that French diplomacy is no longer run by the Prime Minister. Anyway, it’ll be over in a matter of a few minutes, and then Président Lebrun will probably want to chat for a while, to get to know you a little better. In fact, the whole thing should last just long enough so I can take you for a last informal lunch at the Quai d’Orsay afterwards, between old friends. After that, I’ll probably have to call you ‘your Excellency’ on our every lunch! You have gone quite a long way from the trenches, isn’t it, Captain?”

“It has been quite a long way indeed, Lieutenant Reynaud – and for both of us, it seems. You didn’t exactly mis-step yourself, if I may say so, Monsieur le Ministre. There were the special assignments, the Assemblée Nationale... and now the Quai d’Orsay. Some could stay you’re a man on the move, Paul! And wherever you set foot, Czechoslovakia seems to follow. Didn’t you play good shepherd with some Czech crowd in Russia back in our Army days?”

“The Czech legion, yes. Getting them out of Russia, good Lord, that was something! And such a long time ago... Now there are times I fear it was all done in vain. I couldn’t tell you how bad I feel about that Münich business.”

“Is it really that bad? It is quite hard to believe that, judging from the newspapers coverage your government is getting. From East Coast papers to the London Times, every statesman, every commentator, everybody actually is lauding France and Britain for preserving world peace, and helping defuse a dreadful crisis. You know, if the press keeps writing about it in this vein someone might actually propose La Rocque and Chamberlain for a Nobel Peace Prize.”

“Dear God, please spare me that poisoned chalice” groaned Reynaud. “It’s nauseating, this whole affair. Last week at the Assemblée I had to endure praise – praise! – from the Social-Radicals. Léon Blum himself began his declaration by saying that our commitment to the cause of the European peoples had been ‘admirable’ and that he wanted to salute our ‘remarkable efforts for the preservation of European peace’. And I of course had to smile and appear reasonably modest, and reasonably smug. All I felt at the time was rage, actually. Rage and above all, shame.”

“Again, Paul, is it really that bad? Are the potential consequences that dire?”

“I’m afraid so. What the world is currently applauding is quite simply the betrayal of a friendly nation we had pledged to defend – in ambiguous terms certainly, but a pledge is a pledge. I can’t believe we have pressured the government in Prague – however unpleasant this Cabinet is - into caving in to Germany’s demands mainly because we didn’t feel we held high enough ground to keep our word! As you can imagine, it does set a most troubling precedent for the other nations that we have also assured of our support in times of crisis, notably Rumania and Yugoslavia. They were no friends of Czechoslovakia’s, but they were ours. And now that they have reasons to doubt we would support them in case of a conflict with their more powerful neighbours, they might decide to try their luck with Berlin. And the fact we seem to accept the world’s thanks for our betrayal only makes matters worse, much worse. Each nation that will now align with the Nazi Reich brings the world one step closer to a general war.”

“Still, you cannot exactly denounce Münich, can you?”

“No, obviously we cannot. And so we will not. I had somehow hoped the League observers would find something to object, serious violations of the Three Powers’ agreements that would have been cause to... well, at least to point an accusatory finger at Germany, denounce a breach of the negotiated settlement, and start the negotiations anew, you know? In retrospect it really does sound unrealistic. The observers, the League, the world, even ourselves, everybody is so relieved that war did not break out last October that no-one will not dare question the legality of the German takeover of the Sudetenland. Those who think a bad peace is always preferable to a just war still compose a majority, I suppose.”

“Is this what the French government thinks? Or have you embarked on a personal crusade to reverse Münich as your own penance?”

“A little of both, maybe?” said Reynaud with a sly smile.

“I see. And what about your British colleagues?”

“It’s...complicated right now. While we share vital interests in the preservation of European peace, they have made it painfully clear Britain didn’t fully agree with us on what methods would best serve that purpose. There’s a powerful lobby in our two nations right now that would rather see us aligned with the German Reich and against the Soviets, and right now it has more influence in Britain than it has here, though don’t be mistaken, they’re at it in France as well. These people see things through a bizarre lens : to them Nazi Germany is less a threat to Western democracy than Soviet Russia, Hitler will always be preferable to the likes of Blum or Lloyd George. They downplay the dangers of Nazi Germany and inflate the threat of local Communist Parties. It would be absurdly funny if that wasn’t so frightful. They are our true political enemies, and yet they’re the ones who laud us most for Münich.”

“Well, there’s some blessing to all that celebration, at least. At least it gives you something to work with. Not to mention some much-needed time to actually do anything.”

“That’s the general idea – we have to regain the initiative, or else Hitler will start making demands we’ll be forced to refuse and that will be war. To prevent that, we need support from friendly nations, and you won’t be too surprised, I think, to hear America is the first place where we want to cash in on our recent popularity.”

“Is it now? What kind of support are you looking for, Paul?”

“We need America to help us avert a war, mostly.”

“It is very inspiring indeed!” chuckled the American. “Would it also entail helping you win it, should deterrence fail? Come on, Paul, don’t kid yourself. You know it cannot work this way.”

“Still, together we could-“

“Paul, we have to be realistic. Traditional sympathy for France and Britain aside, the American public is not in the mood for anything that could lead to another foreign war. Americans right now care very little about Czechoslovakia, or Germany, or even the whole European continent for that matter. They worry about finding a job, or keeping the one they have. They wonder if the nearby factory will get new orders, because then maybe it will hire more workers. They worry about companies laying off thousands, they want to know whether their employer will expand or fold. Global politics simply does not pay their bills, you know.”

“Do you think it’s any different here? Our economy too is struggling to recover from the crisis, it too is going through growing pains. Our workers would get on pretty well with their American counterparts, for they too would rather don blue coveralls in Renault’s Billancourt production lines than military khakis in Alsace to play soldiers and watch over the Rhine. But however hard we want to fence the rest of the world out, you know it always find a way in. No man is an island – and no nation either, regardless of what some British and American politicians say.”

“Well, bon courage if you plan to tell that to Lindbergh’s friends! As you know, to them anything less than a perpetual and splendid isolation is anathema. And to make sure America isn’t led astray by less scrupulous politicians they’re weighing hard on Congress and on the White House every time the President says something remotely ambiguous or that could be construed as an admission America has anything to do with the outside world. They are actually trying, through threats and cajoling, to detach prominent politicians of both Republican and Democratic leanings to form a party of their own. As you can imagine that Party’s program will keep it simple : America first, America alone. They’re gaining political traction with every European crisis – when it flares up they issue stern warnings to our Congressmen, accusing them of wanting to drag America into foreign quarrels, and when the crisis is finally resolved, they point out that American Isolationnism works since it forces the rest of the world to take its responsibilities seriously."

“One of these days the rest of the world may not be able to solve the crisis” warned Reynaud.

“Then they’ll declare it’s the final proof European nations are not worth the trouble, and that America should keep clear of their petty schemes and their even pettier wars. They’re pretty good at painting the world with colours of their own choosing.”

“And at painting themselves into dark corners, I’d say – not that it will open their eyes, as you say. Where does President Landon stands in all this?”

“You know he favours international cooperation, and that he’s ready to get involved when and where it can make a real difference. But he has precious little room to manoeuvre, with some of our Senators and Congressmen ready to jump ship at the first song from Lindbergh’s sirens. And if you hope that the 1940 elections will make any difference, keep in mind the Democrats are in even worse shape than we are. Roosevelt is still reeling under the punches he took after the National Recovery Agency Scandal, and Democrats from the Old South have proven extremely vulnerable to the National Party sirens. There are a good many Congressmen and Senators whose re-election will be problematic come the next mid-terms, and as it is, Lindbergh enjoys the support of a few powerful industrialists. I don’t have to tell you how significant contributions from these men could make or break some political campaigns. The German-American associations are, naturally, extremely supportive of Lindbergh and are actively canvassing for the new party.”

“Don’t you have any good news at all?” groaned Reynaud.

“Well, I left a most enviable position at the US Rubber Company to become the measly-paid US Ambassador to France, how’s that for a great piece of news, Paul? Look, I just try to be realistic here – the US public is not ready for a full return to the international stage, not yet, but that doesn’t mean you cannot try showing them the way. Now that the bad blood that had accumulated over war reparations is – mostly – behind us, there’s a growing current of sympathy for France and Britain, and an equally growing hostility towards Japan that’s locking us out of the Chinese market. It is mostly grumbling and ranting, but bit’s here. The biggest reason it hasn’t turned into much in terms of concrete support mostly because Americans have grown estranged from European nations – you’ve become mere abstractions, in a way. Here’s my advice as an old friend and soon-to-be US ambassador : get real. The biggest ace Lindbergh has in his sleeve is the ocean between us, and through which we don’t see you very clearly. Do you realize that right now, when they think of France, the older Americans will think of La Fayette, and the youngest of the Argonne trenches? It’s perfect if you want to hold joint Victory Day ceremonies, but not much else. You’ve got to make France known on a personal level if you want our nations to hold any kind of constructive dialog, Paul. Capture the imagination of the American public so even the reluctant Americans can actually relate to you, so they can think of you as real people making real things, and not just abstract and forlorn concepts they read about in the newspapers.”

“Capture America’s imagination...” mused Reynaud. “So we should ‘sell’ France? Riché will love that. And what would be the best way to accomplish that?”

“Right now? One word : machines.”

“Machines?”

“Yes, machines. To many Americans, they represent progress, prosperity, the key to a brighter future, Paul. They’re celebrated everyday by the workers, the business owners, the housewives, the fiction writers, the moviemakers. For better and for worse, machines do play a big role in the dreams and hopes of the American nation, and no machines do that better than cars and airplanes. You want France to capture the imagination of Americans? Bring in French planes. Bring in French cars and French trucks. Organize some kind of Franco-American Air Fair, make speeches about the wings and wheels of Liberty, this kind of thing. Buy ours, sell yours, and promote them both. That will make Americans take notice – including the decision-makers. That will plant the seed of future cooperation, not to mention it will make both our jobs a lot easier.”

The American visitor allowed himself a satisfied smile after his little tirade. For all the salary cut that he had had to accept, there had been no doubt in his mind when Frank Knox had, after a few exploratory chats over the phone, invited him to Washington to offer him the US embassy in Paris. He had earned quite a lot of money in his life, and a few years of more modest government wages wouldn’t make much of a dent in his family’s financial assets. He was, he considered, the right man for the job. Obviously he had Reynaud’s friendship, and he also enjoyed the trust of the ambitious Secretary of Navy who had picked him because the two of them had worked together during the 1936 Republican primaries that had seen Landon prevail despite of the Isolationnist wing. What America needed, Knox said, was a man with a keen eye and a good head on his shoulders who’d know enough of Europe and France in particular to pick up the right signals and establish a personal rapport with the new French government. Knox’s protégé had all that, having served two years as a young Captain with an intelligence billet in the American Expeditionary Force in war-torn Europe. He also enjoyed a vast network of contacts, mostly composed of alumni from his old alma mater who had landed excellent jobs in banks and corporations and, for a few of them, even in the government. To the American, the salary cuts he had accepted would be but a minor setback that the influence he would command would more than compensate. Himself a devout reader of History, he had been offered the opportunity of becoming a part of it, and he had pounced on it.

The gardens of the Elysée

“If I may interrupt you, Messieurs”, said the usher, opening the door to Lebrun’s office and holding it for them, “Monsieur le Président de la République will now receive you.”

Reynaud led the way into the room where Lebrun was waiting for them along with a photographer.

The new US ambassador

“Monsieur le Président, may I introduce you Mr Prescott Bush, and ask you on behalf of the Ministère des Affaires Etreangères to confirm him as the ambassador of the United States of America.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Writer’s notes :

The idea of finding a place for Prescott Bush, father and grandfather of Presidents, had been around for quite awhile. He did serve in France in the Great War (as many Americans who’d rise to eminent functions in later years had) and he did hold an intelligence billet in his regiment, making him an even more interesting character. There has been enough rumors about Prescott Bush pro-Nazi political leanings that I could have portrayed him as one of Miller’s employers, or as an "America Firster" sympathetic to the Reich, but honestly what I read about him made me decide against it. I thought that his wartime experience, along with his stint as a VP of the US Rubber Company made him a better Republican Interventionnist, and so here we have our US Ambassador - a harbinger of things to come for his elder son, perhaps?

Paul Reynaud, who in OTL was France’s Président du Conseil during the tragic days of 1940, also served in WW1 as a young Lieutenant, and also held an intelligence billet (if you ask me, the Republic was grooming him, preparing him for the high-profile jobs his education and background somehow destined him to). It was therefore tempting to have these two characters meet during the Great War (and maybe they did after all), and then in the late 1930s.

Reynaud’s involvement with the Czech Legion is also historical fact. In fact the young Lieutenant Reynaud did spend quite some time in Russia in 1918-1919. Having him as France’s Foreign Minister during the Münich crisis was an opportunity that begged to be seized. While the end result of CF's Münich is not that different than OTL's, the consequences for the participants are bound to be a little different.

The Isolationnist movement in the US is well-known, but it’s interesting to see that it also existed in Europe, although there the colossal price paid in WW1, the proximity with the potential flashpoints and the ongoing conflict between Democracy, Fascism and Communism made it easier for the original “integral Pacifists”, as they called themselves, to lose their way and get seduced by either Berlin, Rome or Moscow. If one looks at the personalities of OTL’s Vichy government, for example, it’s striking (and awful) to see that many of the men who became Vichy’s hardliners had started as Pacifists in 1940. In this respect I strongly recommend whoever is interested by this topic to watch “Hôtel du Parc”, a French TV movie in two parts presenting fictional interviews of Vichy officials like Déat, de Brinon, Vallat, Darquier de Pellepoix, using what these men said or wrote during the war or after their trial.

The story about Félix Faure's death is also historical. I had to settle for a cruder pun about him suffering a lethal blow, as I couldn't find a way to translate the original bon mot. Legend has it that when the doctor who had been called arrived at the Elysée, his first question was "Le Président a-t-il encore sa connaissance?", which in French can mean "Is the President still conscious" or "Is the President still with his acquaintance". The usher impassibly replied "Oh, no, doctor. She left discreetly".

[Atlantic Friend]

CHAPTER 90 : THE LONE GUNMAN

Dublin, December the 22nd, 1938

The Shelbourne Hotel, 9:47 AM

The corridor was dark, which suited the two men fine as they walked briskly towards the room Harry had booked. The man with the fishing rod case walked front, his face partially hidden by his hat's broad rim. Though he hoped nothing in his composure had shown it when he had crossed the hotel lobby to reach the elevator, Alec Carmichael felt quite nervous in these few minutes that preceded the shooting. Not that there had been any questions - with the coming Christmas Pike Fishing competition, a man with fishing apparel probably didn't elicit much in terms of attention in Dublin's hotels. Nevertheless, Carmichael had barely been able to sleep the night before, and he had had to resort to a few stiff shots of potcheen at a nearby pub. As expected, Harry had come at the family pension to wake him up shortly after 8, making sure he wouldn't leave anything incriminating in the tiny bedroom while Carmichael shaved and washed away the signs of his sleepless night. After a final check-up of the contents of the case, the two men had discreetly left the pension, disappearing into the proletarian anonymity of the Docklands where Harry had parked his Morris. In the car Harry had insisted they stop somewhere so Carmichael could get some eggs and bacon before they reached the Shelbourne. Alec's protests had been ignored - after so much time, so much effort and so much money, he had added, Harry refused to risk failure because of a sudden fit of empty stomach jitters. Obediently, Carmichael had ordered some soft-boiled eggs served with greasy bacon - he had to admit Harry was right. If nothing else, chowing down food put his mind off the task he was about to accomplish.

The two men had remained silent for the rest of the short trip to the Shelbourne Hotel, which Harry had insisted they enter separately. Carmichael had crossed the lobby trying to look like a fishing enthusiast, and Harry had caught up with him just as the scrawny bellhop had started closing the cabin's iron grille. While Harry's apologetic smile as he slunk into the cabin seemed to express nothing but good-natured mirth, Carmichael had felt the eyes of his companion linger on him, as if for a last-minute appraisal. The sudden jolt of the elevator as the bellhop had pushed the lever to '4th floor' had propelled some bile and half-digested breakfast up his throat, and he had gulped the bitter mixture down with a grimace. It was, as Carmichael knew, not going to be like any other shot he had ever fired, and once again he found himself pondering if accepting this job had been a wise move after all. It was tempting to call it off and leave now, break whatever contract bound him to Harry and his employers. But as Harrington had made it clear, back in Belfast, there would be serious consequences. He could forget about a quiet life anywhere in Ireland, to begin with, as the IRA would be tipped about his whereabouts. He could try his luck and run away, but if he did, he'd still owe a hefty sum of money to some gang bosses who'd feel compelled to make an example, pour encourager les autres. Alec knew the kind of encouragement these men could provide. So, some choice it was. He could either hope for the best and go the full nine yards, or fear the worst and then face certain ruin and very probable death. In many ways, he had been trapped the very minute he had started talking to that bastard Harrington, perhaps even before that. And of course, there was the money. He could feel the extra weigh on his breast pocket - after he parked the car Harry had asked Alec to open the gloves compartment to get his first payment. In a small manila envelope, Carmichael had found a wad of British banknotes totaling £1,250 - a sum that was both big enough and modest enough to keep Carmichael in the game. The prospect of making that envelope grow fourfold was indeed hard to resist.
Five thousand pounds, for Chrissakes, thought Carmichael as the creaking elevator finally took them to the fourth floor's central hall. The most expensive bullet you ever shot. You bet it won't be like any other sodding rifle you fired!

"Here" muttered Harry as Carmichael reached room 402. With a last glance down the corridor to make sure no-one was paying them any undue attention, he took off his glove and knocked twice on the door in swift succession. A single knock answered, and the door opened to reveal a smallish man wearing Gardai khakis who rapidly let them in, locking up behind them. After Harry rapidly introduced the man as Ken, Carmichael dropped the rod case on the bed and gave the room a critical look. It was small but comfortable, with a large bed facing a cast iron stove with its complement of coal nuts in a iron pitcher- hardly a luxury in winter-bound Dublin. A small wardrobe allowing the occupants to hang their coat, and a screen hiding a sink for the morning toilet completed the room's accommodations. It looked liked a pleasant room to stay at, with something familiar to it. For a second Carmichael tried to remember if it had been this very room he had occupied in 1916, when upon entering Dublin the 2/8th Battalion had been ordered to take position in the Shelbourne and fire to disperse the Irish rebels that had dug improvised trenches in the park down below. Carmichael stepped to the window and gave a long look at St Stephen's Green. It was a cold but sunny day, and a little after Fusilier's Arch he could clearly see the wooden platform erected for the orators. Amongst a flurry of Irish flags he could discern the little forest of microphones that would carry the speeches to the already dense crowd gathered beyond the pond and around the fountain. With the exception of the platform, St Stephen's Green looked more or less the way it had in 1916, although to Carmichael it felt a little different.

Maybe it's the height, he thought. Were we posted at the 4th or 5th floor? Or maybe it's the time that passed. You were 22, after all... Time's a different perspective in itself, Alec.

With a little imagination Carmichael could still see the IRB irregulars scattered around the park, their rifles leaning against the edge of the trenches. They had been pretty stupid to hole themselves up in there, abandoning the high ground to the British soldiers. Even their trenches were inefficient : long, narrow passages running straight lines - no fall-back trenches, no zig-zags to stop shell and grenade fragments. No camouflage at all either, with one good look one could draw a map of the entire rebel position. And of course, no heavy weapons, just the usual mix of hunting shotguns and military rifles. When the 2/8th sharpshooters had opened fire, the IRB boys had been slow in seeing the writing on the wall : staying there was suicide. They soon had to abandon their little sandbox trench line and run for cover. Picking them one by one from the upper floors of the Shelbourne had been so easy the whole thing had let everyone in the Battalion frustrated. Carmichael in particular remembered a young kid, most probably a messenger, who had started running in zig-zags, sprinting, falling, rolling behind a fire hydrant, and then darting forward again while bullets hit the ground right next to him. Tracking his course through the scope had been hard, and Carmichael had vaguely hoped the boy would disappear out of view and escape the bullets forever. Perhaps, barring that, a merciful bullet would dig into his calf and then he'd stop being such a tempting target? But the boy had been too nimble for that to happen. Young Corporal Carmichael had taken a deep breath, and had waited for the next time the boy would fall and try his little trick. When the boy rolled over behind a rosebush, Carmichael pressed the trigger and waited. The boy didn't emerge from the bush . Later that day, when the rebels had fallen back, he had come to inspect the rosebush. The boy was there all right, his forehead neatly pierced by the .303 round that had taken half of his skull with it. He had a look of intense shock and somewhat comic surprise, as if it had been some game, and the other side had been cheating. Carmichael pegged him as a thirteen, fourteen-year old.

You should have stayed home that day, kid, thought Carmichael, conjuring up the ghost of the fallen boy. You really should have. Rifles and wars, them's grown-up toys.


"So. Everything's all right?" he asked, looking away from the window.

"Yes" said Ken. "We have an hour or so before the hit. The room has been booked for three days, and the maids have already come to tidy it up earlier in the morning, so we shouldn't be disturbed. The room next to us has been booked as well, so no stupid accidents or Peeping Toms to fear."

"What if someone knocks or wants in for some reason?" asked Carmichael, opening the Orvin rod case and letting its contents slide onto the bed. Instead of a prized competition rod, a carefully oiled Lee-Enfield MkIII rifle appeared, along with two clips of .303 ammunition.

"Then Ken and I will take care of it" said Harry. "If for some reason we have to let someone in, the communication door here is open, so just slip in the other room with the rifle and don't panic."

"Still, take this" said Ken, handing Carmichael an automatic pistol, "But use it only if something goes really awry and we've got to make a run for it, understand?"

Carmichael nodded and pocketed the handgun with a shrug. Between Ken's Gardai uniform and Harry's fake ID of the Special Detective Unit, he was pretty sure they could take care of everything - not to mention of anyone - threatening their plan. The two men had been his guardian angels since he had left Ulster. First they had embarked on a small fishing boat - a decrepit-looking nobby which, despite his run-down appearance, had proved both fast and reliable. They had moored at Wexford the fourth day of December, and Ken - who was from the area - had arranged accommodations for the team in a farmhouse that was isolated enough he could train with the rifle and the scope Harrington had obtained, along with several boxes of ammunition. Carmichael sat down on the bed. The third thing Carmichael took from the case was a small tubular object wrapped in newspaper. Before leaving the pension he had first inserted it in a clean pair of socks, and then had used several pages of the daily newspaper to protect it from shocks during its stay in the case. Delicately he unwrapped the small tube, revealing a sharpshooter's scope. Carmichael picked up one of the torn pages and made a crude cup out of it. He fished four tin screws he fished of his pocket and put them in the makeshift cup and started assembling the scope. Two minutes later, the scope was affixed to the rifle, and Carmichael pushed the newspaper away. Mechanically he looked at the torn page, and was amused to find out it was the obituaries. It began with a small ad that reminded friends and relatives that a mass would be celebrated at St James Church in memory of Russel Patrick Simpson, (OSP), Assistant to the Gardai Commissioner, torn away from his loving family by a brutal mugging outside Leinster House.

St Stephen's Greens, 10:21

Stepping out of his car, Tanaiste (Vice-Prime Minister) Sean O'Kelly walked under Fusilier's Arch and looked around, waving at the crowd that had braved the cold of this Monday morning. Behind the khaki-clad row of Gardai constables, most of those who recognized him clapped and cheered, though some audibly snickered and made rude gestures, jerking their thumb at him and tugging the elbow of the person next to them - no doubt to share and spread some idle gossip, O'Kelly knew. Over the last few years he had become something of a comic figure in the State government, a laughing stock whose gaffes were the joy of pub patrons, and whose graver blunders provided comedians and cartoonists with an apparently bottomless source of inspiration. In the past few months, there hadn't been a week without the Times and the Examiner - and even the supposedly government-friendly Independent - publishing an editorial or a cartoon poking fun at O'Kelly. Editorialists usually commented the consequences Kelly's rather ridiculous private war against the office of the Governor-General of the Irish Free State, that had reflected badly on the Irish government, while cartoonists focused on his juicy "after-supper comments" and drew him with a flask of whiskey popping out of every pocket. O'Kelly had come to suspect that Eamon de Valera, who after each new article never failed to console his Vice-Prime Minister, was secretly delighted that a potential rival kept falling face-first in every pitfall, making his own statesman qualities considerably brighter in contrast.

Well, thought the Vice-Prime Minister as he turned away from the crowd, trying to look as detached and serene as possible, sorry to disappoint you me lads, but today you'll have to feast upon someone else's hide, your Mr O'Kelly won't say or do anything that'll warrant malicious comment, nosirree.

A little further down the alley that led to the park's pond and central fountain, a wooden platform had been set up. Two parallel flights of stairs led to a covered gallery from where the Prime Minister would deliver his speech to the Nation. A radio technician was checking the microphones' cabling, while two workers in coveralls and tattered bowler hats hurriedly planted a few more tricolor flags in their base. Down the stairs, their attention focused on a map the Commissioner held up against the platform, a group of Gardai officers were taking their final orders. Upon noticing the Tanaiste's arrival, the men stood to attention.

Gardai Commissioner Eoin O'Duffy, in late 1938

"Good morning, Commissioner Duffy" said O'Kelly. "I'm sure the Prime Minister will be duly impressed you came in person to oversee everything."

"Ah, I thought I might as well, sir - it might be the last time I get to do some serious work with my boys, after all."

"Oh, come on, Eoin" said O'Kelly with a forced grin, "I know you, you're going to gripe about retirement for at least twenty more years, long after the likes of me will be forgotten."

That, the Tanaiste knew, was somewhat disingenuous. O'Duffy's presence at the head of the Gardai was an irritating thorn in de Valera's side, because of quarrels and political calculations that harked back to the days of the civil war. O'Duffy had fought for Irish Independence during the Easter Rising, and then against British forces and their auxiliaries, but he had never belonged to de Valera's inner circle. When, after six years of guerrilla, the British had finally conceded autonomy to the Irish and proposed the creation of the Free State, the Anglo-Irish treaty had deeply divided Irish Nationalists. Some, led by de Valera, had refused the treaty, saying it fell short of establishing a fully independent Republic and only legalized the abandonment of the Northern counties. Others, led by Collins and Cosgrave, considered it was a stepping stone that secured Ireland's rights and paved the way for further gains as the Free State grew stronger. Rapidly the debate had turned into a conflict, and then into a full-fledged civil war between pro- and anti-Treaty activists. When the time had come for him to choose sides, O'Duffy had stood firmly behind Cosgrave, and had joined the Free State Army that had hunted down de Valera's anti-treaty IRA groups. When, after the failure of armed rebellion, de Valera had finally returned to power through electoral means, he had worked diligently to dismantle the treaty's key provisions. To avoid precipitating another conflict within the nation, he had approached his former rivals and had tried to win them over. When he had met Cosgrave, the old politician had made it clear that the price for his neutrality would be to keep some of his protégés, including O'Duffy, at their current posts, and de Valera had accepted. There was too much bad blood between the Gardai Commissioner and de Valera, though, for such an arrangement to ever become permanent, and O'Kelly knew the Prime Minister was looking for a way to kick Duffy out as politely as possible.

"Speaking of your boys" remarked O'Kelly as the two men passed under Fusiliers' Arch, "I couldn't help noticing a lot of blue scarves and berets in the crowd. Would the Blueshirts be out in force today?"

"Well, they're patriotic young fellows, Tanaiste. They're naturally anxious to hear what the Prime Minister has to say to the nation, particularly when official news has been rather lacking in quality lately. Don't you agree?" replied O'Duffy with a nasty little smile.

Sean O'Kelly blushed and gave the Gardai Commissioner a side glance. With O'Duffy it was often hard to tell what was an innocent remark and what was a barbed comment.

"Ah. Well, yes, that's quite understandable. And commendable of course" he mumbled.

"There's also a lot of agitation these days, as you well know, sir. Farmers still greet government officials with forks in the countryside over cattle exports, the unemployed turn to crime in the cities, and if that wasn't enough some of the IRA hardliners have resumed their attacks on political rallies throughout the country. The Gardai is stretched dangerously thin as we speak, sir. So I thought the presence of the ACA would discourage petty thieves as well as inspire salutary caution amongst political agitators."

O'Kelly grunted. In the quiet duel opposing de Valera and the Gardai Commissioner, the Army Comrades Association - also called Blueshirts because of their traditional uniform - played a central role. It had been organized a few years by the Free State "Old Guard", all former associates of Michael Collins who felt the need to close ranks after de Valera's ascension to power. The new Prime Minister's first reaction had been to disband an association that revived the memory and ideals of his former rivals, but as his decision to legalize the IRA had failed to bring an end to political violence, the two major parties in Parliament, the Fianna Fail and the Fine Gael, had turned to the ACA to protect their rallies against agents provocateurs and outright aggression. Faced with reports about heckled Congressmen and beaten up officials, de Valera had grudgingly acknowledged the usefulness of the association whose commitment to Irish institutions couldn't be faulted, and had also occasionally used it as a medium to promote Republican unity. Eoin O'Duffy, who as a former brigadier-general of the Free State had risen to power within the ACA ranks, frequently used its younger members as a sort of reserve force the Gardai could deputize whenever he felt necessary. That, O'Kelly knew, bothered de Valera and his allies, particularly since they didn't share O'Duffy's fascination with European Fascism.

"Yes, I know. Things look pretty bleak these days, don't they? Expect the countryside to remain a hotbed of social unrest, Commissioner, and the price of imported coal to continue rising. Our hopes to bring the British government to the table of negotiations over these goddamn agricultural trade barriers have been defeated by Chamberlain's intransigence. Since Mister Chamberlain came back to Britain flushed with his Münich victory, he feels that having dealt with the likes of Germany, he can afford to bully little Ireland."

"Little Ireland is a tough nut to crack, good ol'Neville or not, and I hope the Prime Minister will address the issue in his speech."

"I suppose he will" said O'Kelly, gruffly. He was still vexed he hadn't been sent an advance copy of the speech. "Well, we'll know soon enough : here comes his motorcade. We'd better go greet him at the Arch, Commissioner."

"Oh, we sure don't want to miss that indeed, sir" said O'Duffy, with another smile.

*****

Shelbourne Hotel, Room 402, 10:42

"Its perfect" muttered Carmichael, his rifle following his target's every move on the platform. He had a clear line of sight, and there was no wind or obstruction to worry about. It was a sharpshooter's dream shot. "Just give me the signal and he's done for."

"It's almost time. Wait till the end of the speech, when he'll stand tall. The applause will cover the noise somewhat."

"All right" grunted Carmichael, who thought the audience was already loud enough.

The crowd was indeed enthusiastic. It was Eamon de Valera after all, the Prime Minister, the hero of the Civil War and the relentless defender of the Irish Nation, the Chairman of the League of Nations. At all the appropriate pauses, he audience erupted into deafening cheers that the blaring loudspeakers dutifully relayed. There probably wasn't one family living in the whole block that didn't follow every word of De Valera's prose, not even if they did their best not to. Through his rifle Carmichael could feel the window frame vibrate slightly at every round of applause, and he tightened his grip on the Lee-Enfield, focusing on the small figure filling up his scope. In the room's tense silence, de Valera's muffled speech sounded like a choir of vengeful angels.

"The Constitution which you have adopted last year..."

De Valera's address to the Irish Nation as 1938 draws to an end

St Stephen's Green, 10:42

"The Constitution which you have adopted last year states clearly that our aim is to secure a fully independent Irish Republic, and we'll settle for nothing less. That is what I stand for, what I stood and fought for all these years and it is because I fight for that that I was elected. I regard my election not as an honor bestowed upon me, but as a reminder of our duty to those who have fallen for our cause. I believe that this election, and this Constitution, are the proof that these men were right, and that their cause—the complete and absolute freedom and separation from England— is the pious wish of every Irish heart."

"Good grief, that's loud!" shouted the Tanaiste at Duffy's ear as once again the crowd erupted into thunderous applause.

"That's what they want to hear, sir!" replied the Commissioner, keeping his eyes on the audience.

Please, Lord, don't let the IRA try something stupid today...

"There are many who are now watching this latest phase of our struggle with interest : some of them are our friends, some of them are our enemies, many of them are our exiled countrymen. To all of them we say : we seek complete independence because that is the desire of the people of Ireland. In going out to defy the British Empire once again, small in numbers though we are, we are asserting to the world that Ireland is a nation that shall never renounce its identity nor its freedom, though there have been times our nation was robbed of them both by our English neighbors. Against England's naked sword we drew our own blade, against England's blatant lies we made our truth known, and now that England, having failed to subdue us through sword and quill, pretends to strangle us economically, we shall reply in kind. We will show the men in London that the Irish soul cannot be bribed into submission either. What we aim at is the freedom of the people of all Ireland, nothing else, but nothing less!"
Again, the crowd cheered. Men were taking off their hats and acclaimed the Prime Minister. The ongoing trade war between the two island nations had started as de Valera had decided that old leases granted to Irish farmers before the Easter Rising would not be paid back, arguing that this move was justified by the negotiated London Agreement exonerating the Irish State from any contribution to Britain's public debt. The issue had rapidly grown out of mere financial technicalities, though, and had degenerated into a trade war adding to the misery of British coal producers and Irish cattle ranchers, who already suffered from the Depression. In the Irish countryside, ruined farmers had started "tax strikes", refusing to pay taxes and to reimburse state loans, and pelting government offices with peat and stones. So far De Valera had refused to budge on the issue, and the British government had also declined invitations by the mining industry to return to the negotiating table, clearly expecting Ireland to fold in January, when Irish coal reserves would run out. Local Gardai stations kept sending reports about the growing unrest in the countyside, and as for Dubliners O'Duffy wondered how rapidly their cheers would turn to wailing when the coalman's bills would double in February and families would have to do without heating.
"We are not a mere party here" continued de Valera "though we may belong to one. We are not a small political or syndicalist section, though we may adhere to one. We are a nation. We are Ireland. We represent in our hearts the solid, sensible opinion of Irishmen and if we are to obtain that freedom we passionately desire then we must be determined to win it. Even though the first battle in that new economic struggle might be temporary hardship we'll accept it, for it will lead us to final success. We must stand united under the flag which we shall continue to raise in our fight for our freedom: the flag of our Irish Republic. Twenty-two years ago we have nailed that flag to Dublin's masts, and we shall make it sure nobody ever lowers it. I ask you all to salute that flag, to cherish the freedoms and duties for which it stands, and to claim once again, to the nations of the world : ‘Esto perpetua’."

With that, de Valera put down his notes and opened his arms as if to embrace the cheering crowd. At the entrance of the platform, O'Duffy tensed and made an effort to smile as he applauded his Prime Minister as loudly as possible.

****


The assassin's nest : Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin

Shelbourne Hotel, Room 402, 10:49

"Now" said Carmichael softly as he pressed the trigger. In the scope the target was motionless, his aristocratic head half-raised towards the sky, chin pointing at the enthusiastic crowd. The Lee-Enfield obediently barked and jolted against his shoulder. Harry was already at the door, ready to lead the group outside, while Ken observed the target with service binoculars.

When he had discussed the specifics with Harry, Carmichael had selected standard-issue .303 ammunition, brushing aside all offers to use more exotic cartridges. The whole thing, he told Harry, called for a precision shot, unless one was ready to spray the whole square with machine-guns. The good news was, the shooter would have plenty of time to settle in and take aim. The bad news was, he would probably not be able to shoot a second bullet if the first one missed or didn't prove fatal. First, the alerted or wounded target would probably not be in sight anymore after the first shot, and second, every second spent on another shot made the evacuation of the hit team more hazardous. Carmichael didn't want to risk capture, and Harry didn't want to make a western-style sortie with guns blazing, not when the Gardai would be out in force. The Irish constables, he had told Carmichael, were little more than peasant-at-arms, but he had no intention of checking their shooting skills at close range. The first shot had to be fatal, or at the very least so grievously incapacitating that it wouldn't make a difference. The Englishman had therefore stuck to what he knew best : a box of British .303 ammunition, Model 7. The bullet, he explained Harry, had several advantages. It was standard ammunition for the Lee-Enfield MkIII rifles, that they'd easily find in Ireland since the Irish Army and the Gardai both used the weapon. It also was a nasty thing, as the bullet had a built-in structural imbalance that ensured it'd deform wildly upon impact, making for larger, graver wounds. In this respect, the Model 7 only barely fell within what the Hague Convention found acceptable for soldiers to use against their fellow man.

Upon detonation, Carmichael's bullet wildly accelerated through the rifle's barrel and sliced its way through the cold air of Dublin for its short journey. In an instant, it breezed past a garland of small Irish flags. There was a brutal shock as flesh and bone split up, cracking the skull open and exposing the brain. Mortally wounded, the man took half step backwards from the impact and collapsed into the first rank of officials. Below, the crowd wavered, unsure of what had just happened. Then the anguished voice of the Tanaiste came from the still functioning loudspeakers.

"Oh my God! He's dead! He's dead! The Prime Minister's dead!"

Shelbourne Hotel, 10:50

Throwing the rifle on the bed, Carmichael made a dash for the door that Ken was holding open. he could hear the clamor rising from the crowd down below - a very different clamor it was, after half an hour of patriotic cheering. It felt like a wounded beast, and it was sending chills down Carmichael's spine. Already Harry was running down the desert corridor - not one occupant had ventured out of his room, and Carmichael could easily picture the hotel residents glued to their windows, trying to get a glimpse of the commotion going on in St Stephen Greens. The three men reached the door to the service stairway and crossed the ran down the flights of stairs like madmen, although to Carmichael, whose heartbeats were drowning out the tumult, it seemed they weren't making any din. Harry had estimated they'd have two or three minutes to make their escape as planned, after which it'd be everyone for himself. The Shelbourne, Harry had explained, had a small inner yard on the back of the building, which was used by butchers and coalmen for their deliveries. Ken had parked a car there and left a Gardai macaroon on the dashboard to dissuade anyone from moving it. Their plan was to drive to a safe house where they'd keep a low profile and collect the remainder of Alec's money. Then, when things would calm down a little, Harry would drive Carmichael to Wexford, where he'd once again board the small boat that would sail for Belfast.

"Hurry up!" wheezed Harry, three steps ahead of the Englishman. "We're almost there!"

Alec emerged into the yard, and narrowed his eyes, temporarily blinded by the pale sunlight after the penumbra of the hotel's stairway. His heart was beating wildly, and he remembered having run like that, once, in a desperate attempt to outrace a German artillery barrage whose incoming shells already screamed somewhere above. In front of him, floating in the pale light of this winter morning, he saw Harry run to the car and suddenly take a dive behind it.

"Stop! Stop in the name of the law!" bellowed a man behind him. Instinctively Alec turned to face the threat, his hand diving into his pocket to grab the handgun Ken had given him.

"Stop or I'll shoot!"

Carmichael pivoted, drawing the gun in one swift movement. In front of him, a Gardai constable was taking aim with a revolver. Carmichael pressed the trigger with a snarl of rage. Three shots filled the air, reverberating on the walls of the narrow yard. Incredulously, Carmichael looked at his belly, where three crimson flowers had started to blossom. He half-noticed he was lying on the floor, which seemed odd to him since he didn't remember falling. The automatic pistol was still in his right hand, but it seemed to weigh a ton. He nevertheless struggled to point it at the approaching figure. It felt cold. And dark. For some reason the yard seemed to be receding into a long tunnel, but Carmichael could see another man had joined up with the Gardai officer.

"Je-Jesus-Christ!" said the first one, his voice trembling.

"Christ, look at him, he's still trying to get up and shoot you" said the second man quietly.

"You saw him draw and move like a bloody mon-mongoose? Damn good thing the gun was empty. Okay, let's finish this here and now."

With that, Gardai Constable Ken Brady brought the barrel of his service Webley almost against Carmichael's skull and pressed the trigger, while Detective Harry Warner blew his alarm whistle. The two men were scared. They had helped assassinate the Prime Minister, and the fact they had been working under orders from the Gardai High Commissioner didn't quite reassure them everything was going to be all right.

Panic in Dublin moments after the assassination of Prime Minister Eamon de Valera

"This way! This way! We caught the killer!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Writer's notes :

With a nation with so rich an history as Ireland, I'm bound to have made gross misrepresentation of the men and politics of the 1930s, but here it comes nonetheless!

Eoin O'Duffy, which we already met, was in OTL sacked from his post as Gardai Commissioner in 1933 in what I personally see as not only the sacking of a crypto-fascist figure, but also the settling of old scores between the old pro- and anti-Treaty that tried to coexist in the Irish Free State. I chose to keep him around because he's obviously an interesting character, with connexions to European Fascists.

Sean O'Kelly was de Valera's Vice-Prime Minister and became famous for his blunders - like candidly repeating to journalists what the Pope had told him in a private audience. he was a controversial and sometimes a bit ridiculous figure, but one even hostile newspapers celebrated as a model President when he retired from this office in 1959.

Eamon de Valera rose to preeminence among Irish Nationalists after the 1916 uprising, when British repression cleared the way for him. He distanced himself from the 1921 Treaty, resigning from his charge of President of the Irish Parliament even before the ink got dry, and ended up going underground as anti-Treaty groups who used him as a rallying banner started fighting the newly-established Irish Free State. Arrested in 1924, he re-entered Irish politics and was elected as President of the Executive Council of the Free State, which he steered towards full independence, progressively severing the last ties uniting the State to Britain. On the international stage, de Valera's independent take on issues got him elected to the Presidency of the League of Nations.

De Valera's speech provided in this update is a modified version of his 1917 speech when he was first elected in the Parliament. I looked for other suitable speeches, but none rang as true as this one, so I shamelessly ripped off (and modified) Dev's prose.

The Irish Constitution adopted in 1937 is de Valera's brainchild. It abolished the office of Governor-General, created the office of an elected President of Ireland (in this respect one could say OTL's Ireland was in 1937 more democratic than France, even though the President was, there too, a mere figurehead), along with Taoiseach (Prime Minister) and Tanaiste (Vice-Prime Minister)

The social unrest alluded to in this update is a consequence of the Anglo-Irish Trade War, which as indicated began as de Valera decided to renege on former pledges to pay land annuities, and degenerated into a general conflict over tariffs, Britain and Ireland slapping new taxes on each other's products.

The Blueshirts - or Army Comrades Association as was their official name really began its existence as an association gathering former pre-de Valera Free State officials fearing the Fianna Fail and IRA would push them aside. Under O'Duffy's leadership the organization acquired some Fascist traits, and de Valera ordered the group to be disbanded in 1933 amidst fears the ACA would try an Irish version of the March on Rome, and some of its members did fight with Franco's Nationalist forces in Spain. With O'Duffy still around in this ATL, I chose to keep the ACA as well for reasons the next update will make (all too) clear.

Shelbourne Hotel was actually used by British troops to shoot upon the IRB who had dug up trenches in St Stephen's Green. I thought it'd be funny for Sgt Carmichael to go back to his old stomping grounds.

[Atlantic Friend]

CHAPTER 92 : ESTO PERPETUA

London, Century House, December the 27th, 1938

"So, Steward" said the SIS Director, turning away from the contemplation of Londoners shopping for New Year's Eve, "what have you gathered about this Carmichael fellow? Are the Irish out of their minds, or is that man really a British citizen?"

As James walked back to his chair, Menzies selected a sheet of paper from the thick wad of documents he had brought from the Personnel Section. Looking across the table at the leather chair James now occupied, he tried not to think about the time it had been Admiral Sinclair's. And above all he tried not to think about that brief period of time when he had thought it could become his. Instead he focused on the issue at hand - a serious matter it was. It had been four days since Irish Prime Minister Eamon de Valera had been murdered in Dublin, and two since the Irish government had informed the British government they suspected a former British soldier to have shot the lethal bullet. The Irish claims about the identity of the assassin had been printed in extenso by both the Irish and British press, and already they were causing some furore in the Irish communities throughout the Dominions as well as in the United States. Nevertheless, that furore was nothing when compared to the volatile situation in Dublin. The British Mission was besieged by angry mobs who had smashed the building's windows with stones. The diplomatic cars that managed to leave the diplomatic compound between a thick cordon of Gardai constables were instantly pelted with peat and bricks, and spat upon by the crowd blocking the Mission's gates. Baron Rugby, the British Representative, had signaled he and his staff were virtually prisoners inside the Mission, and requested permission to give their leave to most of his employees. At the Commons, MPs harassed the government with questions about the Irish claims, and the League of Nations had voted a motion calling for the full cooperation of Britain in the investigation. After the laurels of Münich, Chamberlain was aghast, and he had demanded that no effort be spared to establish Britain's complete innocence.

"I am afraid what we have been able to dig up is not exaggeratedly encouraging, sir", Menzies said, pursing his lips.

"Meaning?"

"We have found an Alec Carmichael, sir, with a little help from the Army archives. The man did serve in the British Army, where he fought in the last war in the 2/8th Infantry Battalion of the Foresters' Brigade."

"So, a soldier. Doesn't strike me as particularly relevant, though. In those four years there have been millions of men who have donned a uniform. Actually it would be rather suspicious and perhaps more revealing if he hadn't served, don't you think?"

"Certainly, sir. But then again, he served in the Foresters' Brigade, sir."

"The Foresters. That was Territorial Army, wasn't it? Do refresh my memory, Stewart. What's so special about that territorial brigade?"

"It was indeed a territorial unit, sir, initially tasked with reserve duties in West Anglia. But as it happens, the Brigade's battalions were put on war footing on April 25th, 1916, sir. You see how significant the date is, of course."

"April nineteen-s... I see. The Easter Rising of course. So he was sent over there, wasn't he? He was deployed to Ireland?"

"Yes sir. His battalion got ashore at Wexford, and then the troops moved into Dublin to support our forces there. Now, the Army files had something interesting and rather disquieting about this Carmichael fellow. He was a Robin, sir."

"A Robin?" asked James, feeling a little lost.

"Yes sir. That's actually the nickname the Brigade's Infantry battalions give to their sharpshooters, sir, on account of their being called 'Sherwood' battalions."

"Is that so now?"

James didn't like Menzies, and he suspected his subordinate played little power games of his own. But he had to hand it to Menzies, the man was sharp. And he knew Century House inside down, even more so now that he had started reorganizing the paper-hungry morass that was the Personnel section. In Colonel James' opinion it was very unfortunate that the Prime Minister had allowed Menzies to stay in the Service at the end of his short interim. That kind of things could give people ideas above their station in life, and James knew from bitter experience that even if it didn't it usually poisoned the relationship with the new Director. It was better to let the deputies go with their old boss, and clear the way for a wholly new leadership. That could be done graciously, naturally, and if things at 'Six' hadn't been this hectic with the Sudetenland crisis, he would have secured a good job for Menzies somewhere else and brought someone from Scotland. Even now he was tempted to do it. He had to admit Menzies was a dangerous man to cut loose, though, an also an asset he might want to keep at hand. It was time, he had decided, to do some mending and strike a bargain.

"Yes sir. The man had a knack for this kind of trade, according to his officers."

"Well, I dare say the people in Dublin would agree with that assessment. Anything else on the man?"

"After a stint in our expeditionary corps in Russia - sharpshooter duties again - he volunteered for the special auxiliaries Churchill sent to Ireland, sir. The Black and Tans boys. There of course details get sketchier, as they were not a regular Army unit and certainly didn't operate like one, but his outfit found itself at the forefront of the repression of IRB/IRA activity in the South, taking a direct role in the regrettable Cork affair."

"The Cork affair?"

"They more or less burnt the town down, sir, in reprisal for an IRA ambush. Arson writ large, the Parliament up in arms."

"God, no wonder the Irish are baying for blood."

"Indeed, sir. That led to the disbanding of the Black and Tans, as you may remember. Anyway, after that Carmichael apparently settled in Belfast, where he opened a small printing business. We know he kept ties with various Loyalist groups, as could be expected, but we, on the other hand, lost him from sight entirely. He disappeared into the mist of civilian life, sir, no more reports of files to draw upon from 1923 onward. The last 15 years of his life are for the time being a complete mystery."

"Thank God for small mercies" said James with a heavy sigh. If Menzies was forthcoming, that meant this Carmichael had had no ties with the British government for quite some time. "Thank you, Stewart, you've really done a splendid job, collecting this much information in so little time. You're right, Stewart, the news you have unearthed is indeed disquieting. By Jove, it wouldn't take much effort of imagination to link us with this Carmichael fellow!"

"Indeed sir."

"We must not allow this to happen, Stewart. The Prime Minister made it clear we need to establish beyond any doubt that there is no connection between Great Britain and that sordid affair. Now, you are an experienced 'Six' man, Stewart, and this Irish business strikes me as a 'Six' affair, doesn't it?"

"Quite so,sir" cautiously ventured Menzies, unsure of what the old Colonel had in mind.

Since he had taken over Century House, the balding, bespectacled James had been something of an enigma for Menzies. With his far-right views and his rather obscure career in the Indian Medical Service, the man was an outsider in every respect. He didn't fit the profile of the Oxbridge- and Eton-educated good old boys network that usually ran things at Century House. Yet, he obviously enjoyed substantial political support, and generals of the British Army tended to treat him with circumspection, if not exactly with respect. All this - and his own bruised ego - had piqued Menzies' curiosity. So he had done a little research of his own, using the resources put at his disposal as head of the Personnel section. The Armed Forces, the Colonial Office and the Foreign Office, with which the SIS enjoyed a cordial and discreet relationship, kept files on many people, including officers and diplomats, and Colonel Sydney Price James was no exception. Getting information under the pretense of a general updating of the SIS Personnel files had been easy enough. Yet, when Menzies had collected all the documents, he had found himself facing an even deeper mystery. The reports were sketchy at best - the Indian Medical Service usually did not elicit much attention. James, Sydney Price. Born in Slough in 1870. Medical studies at the Royal College of Physicians. Graduated summa cum laude, with his doctorate paper on the 1625 plague outbreak in London. Joined the Indian Medical Service in 1896, and served during the Great War in Agra. During the war, published six more medical papers on the propagation of malaria and how local governments could fight infectious diseases. In the mid-1920s, transferred to the British Army and sent to Egypt, and Iraq to study the possibilities of draining the marshlands of the Nile and Basrah. In that single year, published four more papers about modern methods to combat infectious diseases through pest control, and the impact of draining marshes on improving the general health of the local populations. He was also a member of various entomological societies, and had written several articles about the various sub-species of flies and mosquitoes, along with desert beetles.
Menzies had found the information utterly useless, and he would have happily forgotten about it if he hadn't been that intent on finding something he could use against James - some official blame, some grave mistake, some mistress affair, anything that would give him leverage if need be. But there was nothing. At some point, Menzies' attention had finally been aroused not by what little was written in the fading carbon copies, but by what was missing. First, it seemed that from 1934 onward the usually prolific James had stopped publishing papers - a major preoccupation for medical officers, as it opened the doors to prestigious positions in equally prestigious institutes. Had James' inkwell run dry all of a sudden? Had his superiors been displeased about something he had submitted? The sudden silence, Menzies had found out, had coincided with James' full Colonelcy, which was not consistent with the idea of his being punished. And then there was the question of James' transfer - or rather his relegation - to some backwater place in Scotland. While promising medical officers usually vied for overseas posts, James had stayed in his Scottish dead-end from 1934 to 1937. No reason was given about that - actually there was not even a report detailing James' assignment there. A simple memo from the War Office simply signaled that starting April the 4th, 1934, Colonel James' mail was to be sent to Gairloch, Scotland. Menzies had checked the name, and had discovered there was a small coastal village bearing this name in North Scotland. The odd thing was Menzies knew for a fact there was no military base or offices anywhere near Gairloch.

Sensing there might be a real mystery there, Menzies had refrained from digging any deeper. Instead he had opted for a more peripheral strategy. Once again resorting to the resources of the Personnel section, Menzies had checked the files of more than a hundred other Army medical officers whose profile matched James' - just identifying them had taken him weeks - and he had then tracked their various assignments. He hadn't been too surprised, in retrospect, to see that six of them had apparently spent some time near Gairloch. For some reason, Northern Scotland seemed to attract medical officers, particularly those who had served in India and Africa. On one of the carbon copies, the name Gairloch was followed by two words that some secretary had typed and then, as if in afterthought, carefully covered with capital Xs. After some effort, he made out enough letters to be reasonably certain the name was "Gruinard Station". The name wasn't familiar, but it made sense, because Gruinard was the name of the bay off Gairloch. Still, there was no indication of any military outpost of any kind over there, and Menzies had returned to the files of the medical officers who had been assigned to Northern Scotland. They, too, seemed to have gone through extended periods of writer's block. And out of the six men who had been assigned to Gairloch, three had previously worked at Porton Down, Wilshire. As a former 'Six' Deputy-Director, Menzies knew about Porton Down. It was an army center set up during the Great War, to find ways to combat the effects of German mustard gas shells. Experienced medical officers. Specialists in the treatment of infectious diseases. First-hand experience of malaria and plague in their previous assignments. Sudden absence of medical publications. Porton Down. Vectors for infectious diseases. Gairloch. The Black Death outbreak of 1625. As the pieces of Colonel James' puzzle had fallen together, Menzies had felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he thought about the nature of research Colonel James had led in Scotland.
After that, dealing with a lone gunman feels quite comfortable.

"I think, Stewart" said James, "that we need to rapidly distance ourselves from this dead assassin. You have experience with this kind of games, Stewart - playing with the mind of friends and foes alike. I think you'd be the perfect man for this job."

"Sir?"

"As you know, Stewart, my forte is analysis, organization..."

And breeding deadly germs, thought Menzies.

"Field operations are more your domain, and I'll readily acknowledge that. You have a vast experience of SIS business, and you won't be surprised to hear that every section head thinks highly of you, Stewart. I'd like you to know that I concur with their assessment, and that I think it's time we put you back in the field, so to speak. Just so you know, I intend to ask the Prime Minister to allow funding for a permanent Deputy Director position, someone who'd work closely with me. I cannot think of a better man than yourself, Stewart. Would you be interested?"

"You can count on me, sir"

"Good man. I knew I could. Now, about this Irish business, what do you propose?"

"First, I think we need to buy some time. We are in the dark, and we need some delay to figure out if their Carmichael and our Carmichael are the same person. Challenging the Irish presumption that the body lying in Dublin's morgue really is Alec Carmichael's should buy us a few days, maybe a week, which we can use to find out what happened to the man we last spotted in Belfast."

"And when we find out?"

"If I may, sir, my mission as I see it is to make sure the Prime Minister can plausibly deny a British citizen was ever involved in the murder?"

"That's essential, Stewart."

"Then it doesn't really matter what did happen in Dublin, sir. De Valera's assassin might be Alec Carmichael, and then again he might not be. Since the only piece of evidence the Irish base their claim upon is Carmichael's dead body, I'll either find the real Carmichael or I'll make up a live one from scratch."

"You are a slick one, Stewart", said James with a nod. "See to it."

*****

Offices of the Irish Government, Dublin, December the 28th, 1938

"Do you have anything new, Commissioner Duffy?" asked the elderly President of Ireland.

At nearly 80, Douglas Hyde looked every year of his age, but he was nevertheless determined to assume his responsibilities to the fullest, and to help heal the wounds of the nation. To his irritation, some of the younger Ministers seemed to think that the future of the nation hinged upon their personal well-being, notably their continued presence in the Cabinet. The configuration of the meeting was unusual, for government affairs usually didn't necessitate the presence of the largely-symbolic President of Ireland. Normally, the Prime Minister conducted all affairs of the State from its offices of Merrion Square, and then visited the President in his residence of Áras an Uachtaráin to keep him informed - in general terms - of the measures being implemented or discussed. But naturally the circumstances were everything but normal. With de Valera assassinated before the eyes of tens of thousands of Dubliners, and the ink still fresh on the Irish Constitution, O'Kelly felt he needed a powerful symbol to rally the nation - and that meant establishing a closer relationship with the venerable President. Not only was Hyde a respected statesman, in Ireland and abroad, but he was one of the few men holding a position of power who didn't belong to de Valera's Fianna Fail party - an important matter if one was to appeal to national unity, as was O'Kelly's intention. Having the neutral Hyde as the witness and arbiter of the whole Irish nation during his first steps as acting-Prime Minister could prove essential to O'Kelly's success in reining in the agitation in the countryside, and in negotiating a truce with the splinter IRA groups.

"Mr President, investigations are underway. In police work, though, useful evidence is usually gathered in the first few days. With every hour that passes potential witnesses forget what they've seen and heard, and clues get lost or washed away."

"Fair enough. Tell us what you already know."

"What we do know for sure is that the lethal shot was fired from room 402 of the fourth floor of the Shelbourne Hotel. The room offered a direct view on the platform where the Prime Minister stood, and when my detectives searched the room, they found a rifle equipped with a scope lying on the bed. Also, they found an ejected cartridge, of a model and caliber that corresponded to the rifle and also to the bullet which killed the Prime Minister."

"How come the man could walk in the hotel with a rifle? Where was the Gardai?" asked Frank Aiken, the Defence Minister. He harbored no sympathy for O'Duffy, and the Gardai Commissioner's apparent take-charge attitude in a Cabinet meeting where he held no responsibility annoyed him to no end.

"He obviously hid the rifle in the fishing rod case my boys found under the bed. Given the fact the killer is not an Irish citizen, the question, Frank, is rather 'how could he enter the country', I think" O'Duffy snarled back."Last time I checked the Gardai was not responsible for securing our borders. You were, Mr Minister."

"Don't dare you try pinning the blame on me, you-"

"Gentlemen!" said O'Kelly, raising his voice. "This is not the place, and certainly not the time, for this kind of petty office rivalry. I shouldn't have to remind you the Prime Minister will be buried in a few hours. The nation has been stunned by this dastardly assassination, and the last thing our countrymen need is the sorry sight of Cabinet members trying to pin the blame on each other."

"Mister O'Duffy is not a member of this Cabinet!" snapped Aiken.

Yet, thought O'Duffy. Yet.

"I'd like to hear the rest of the Commissioner's report if you don't mind" growled Hyde. With his bald head and thick drooping mustache, it struck O'Kelly that the President looked like an irate walrus, about to lash out.

"The Gardai was present at the hotel, regardless of what the esteemed Minister might think" said Duffy. "And they were checking the rooms facing St Stephen's Green. But between the speech, the IRA disrupting political rallies and the farmers rioting in the countryside, there simply was only so many officers I could use. I'd like it noted for the record that no less than five companies of Gardai which usually are deployed in Dublin have been sent up North, to assist the Army in keeping civil peace in all the Counties, and that the Ministry for Defense opposed arming the ACA volunteers, which limited their usefulness and increased the burden of the permanent Gardai."

"That's duly noted, Commissioner" said O'Kelly. "You and I discussed this very topic moments before the assassination. Now, please continue."

"The two Gardai officers had barely reached the 4th floor of the Shelbourne when they heard the shot. As they ran to the end of the corridor, a man emerged from room 402 and tried to escape through the service stairway. They gave chase and as he stepped in the courtyard they ordered him to stop and turn around. Instead, he drew a gun and would have fired it if my men hadn't had their guns at the ready. They found precious little on him - no hunting or driving license except a wad of British notes, worth over a thousand pounds, rolled up in a manila envelope in his pocket."

"So he was a paid killer, that's a certainty?" asked Hyde. In many ways he'd have preferred the assassin to be an IRA hitman. As bitter as it would have been to have an Irishman kill the Prime Minister, the prospect of a foreign assassin implied many complications.

"Beyond any doubt, sir, though we found out that he might have had personal motives as well. My two officers called an ambulance, though it was already too late for the man. His body was taken to St James' Hospital, for a more thorough examination by the county coroner. His clothes were carefully inspected by the Special Detective Unit, which ascertained they all came from Ulster and Britain. The physicians who examined the man's body found several tattoos which indicate, with reasonable certainty, that he had been a Black and Tan thug."

"Good grief" muttered Hyde. While most of the other attendees had already had access to all or parts of the information the Gardai Commissioner was presenting, to the President it was news, and news of the most disturbing kind. "A Black and Tan shooter, British money, a British rifle... Have they gone mad in London?"

"Nothing at the moment indicates the British cabinet has anything to do with the murder" added O'Kelly. "They have been quick in presenting official condolences, and even though they are understandably uncomfortable about the whole situation, we should wait for the investigation to run its course before jumping to conclusions this grave."

"We are currently trying to establish his nationality" added O'Duffy. "Gardai detectives have managed to track the dead man's trail to a small family pension - we know this because he had a receipt in his pocket for the night. The lodger there said he gave the name of Alec Carmichael, and thinks he might have had a British accent. My men are trying to find a match with our list of known Black and Tans members as we speak, but it may prove a dead end."

"But it all would make sense, doesn't it?" mused Aiken. "Right in the middle of our trade quarrel, just when their mining industry is finally feeling the pressure from our boycott..."

"Let's not be carried away here" warned the Ministry for Supplies. Sean Lemass knew better than anyone that in the ongoing duel of egos between Ireland and Great Britain, it was Ireland which was suffering the most. "Theories about British Ministers or industrialists hiring a killer to get rid of Dev might sound acceptable in the pubs, but they certainly shouldn't have their place here in government business. This kind of rumor is not only irresponsible, it's dangerous in the current situation! The riots erupting throughout the country clearly show that there are other parties who could have been interested in putting an end to our current trade war. And then again, the killing might have absolutely nothing to do with this issue, regardless of the identity of the killer. As the Tanaiste said, let the Gardai investigate, Frank. What we must decide today, I think, is what we do next."

"I think we should hold immediate elections" said Aiken, flatly. "Someone must succeed Dev, to send a strong signal that we refuse to be cowed into submission!"

"What?" exclaimed O'Kelly, dropping his pen on the table.

Saying nothing, O'Duffy looked at the faces around the table. Ryan, the Minister for Agriculture, clearly supported Aiken's motion, as did Boland, the Minister for Lands, and Derrig, the Minister for Education. That was to be expected, for these four men, O'Duffy knew, had been de Valera's praetorian guard. Their ties with the defunct went back to 1916, naturally, but above all had been strenghtened by their common struggle against the Irish Free State during the Civil War. What was more interesting was that Lemass seemed unconvinced, while the others, particularly Minister for Justice Ruttledge, were visibly hostile.

So. The moment of truth, lads.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Minister", growled Hyde, whose cheeks had turned crimson, "but there cannot be anticipated elections! Tanaiste Sean O'Kelly here has already succeeded Eamon. I was there and I remember it quite clearly, Mr Aiken. I also remember this is what the Constitution stipulates."

"Mr President, this is extraordinary circumstances, Sean I'm sure will understand that we have to dispense ourselves with such formalities and make sure that-"

"Formalities!" bellowed Hyde. "Is this how you call the fundamental law of this country? A mere formality, a scrap of paper?"

"It would be a betrayal of the Constitution!" said O'Kelly, his face red with anger. Aiken had been a close aide to de Valera, and the Tanaiste knew the young Defense Minister had ambitions. Besides, he suspected Aiken had been one of the rising stars of Fianna Fail who had secretly - and not so secretly - rejoiced at his own misadventures with the press.

"Come on, Sean" said Ryan, "you know perfectly well that this is beyond what Dev had imagined when he wrote this Constitution. The country needs..."

"The nation needs someone it can trust to take the helm, pure and simple!" completed Aiken.

"Someone it can trust?" said O'Kelly venomously. From the shifty looks he got from Derrig and Boland, Aiken knew he had gravely misspoken.

"Sean - Tanaiste, I am sorry, that is not what I meant at all, I assure you, but we are not trying to prepare a normal succession here. Eamon, may he rest in peace, has been brutally assassinated and I only want-"

"To trample Dev's dead body in your rush to occupy the Prime Minister's chair" completed O'Duffy, bridging his hands. "This is exactly what it will look like, Frank. Actually this is exactly what it does look like already!"

"You little Fascist bastard, I never-"

"We cannot appear leaderless in our hour of need, and-"

"Enough! Enough! ENOUGH!" shouted Hyde, punctuating every word with a loud slap on the table. "Mr Aitken, I have been elected last spring to serve this nation as its President. As such, I have sworn to protect the 1937 Constitution for which so much blood has been shed in the thirty-two counties, and I intend to do just that. If some of you, gentlemen, hope I'd give them my blessing for a coup, they're gravely mistaken!"

"Mr President, if I may-" began Ryan.

"As President of Ireland" continued Hyde, ignoring the interruption, "I can dissolve the Parliament and force new elections. I won't do that, Mr Aiken. The Irish people elected their Representatives six months ago, entrusting them with the fate of the nation, even in troubled times. I shall respect that trust, and so will you. I can also appoint the Prime Minister. Last year Eamon de Valera carried the vote with a Constitution that stipulates that in case of illness or even of death of the Taoiseach, the Vice-Prime Minister would take over. I shall not break that pledge either. All the powers of the defunct Prime Minister are now vested upon Tanaiste O'Kelly. As this includes includes appointing and dismissing government members, I'll suggest - as a personal advice to the Tanaiste of course - that he gives the matter some thought. What I shall do, however, if the government so asks and in terms it will approve, is to address the Parliament and ask the two Houses to support Mr O'Kelly's government in these dark hours. Now, were any of you to propose we quietly shelve the Constitution away and arrange some backroom deal, know that I shall sonorously denounce such a move before the Parliament and before the whole of Ireland. The President's responsibility is before the nation, gentlemen. Not before the government, not before the political parties and certainly not before the Ministers' personal ambitions."

"Thank you, Mr President" said O'Kelly, eager to prevent any Minister to answer back. "Commissioner O'Duffy, you will of course keep me informed of any development in your lines of investigation. And, as we unfortunately cannot rule out that Prime Minister de Valera's assassination was not the isolated act of a lone assassin, but a part of a vaster conspiracy, I'll need you to provide this government with a plan to ensure public order throughout the country. Place the Gardai on all-out alert in the cities, and deputize the ACA as you see fit. Mr Aiken, I expect full cooperation of your Ministry in this matter - as in all affairs of the state actually. Gentlemen, I want to thank you all for your support, and convey to you my hopes that 1939 will see Europe, and Ireland particularly, reach calmer waters."

*****

Dublin, ACA headquarters, December the 31st

"Comrades, I salute you as the nation's defenders! Tonight, you are the vanguard of our movement. Tomorrow you'll be the vanguard of Ireland itself!"

"Ireland! Ireland! Our lives for Ireland!"

The walls of the old refectory vibrated under the cheers and the applause - not something the place had experienced often, probably, as it had once been a religious school. The vast room that had once seen over hundreds of kids sit down to pray and eat together had been rid of its tables and benches, and transformed into a vast hall where the Blueshirts could gather for banquets or, more usually, for political meetings. There had been quite a few of them in the short history of the Army Comrades' Association: the setting up of a new ACA branch, the inauguration of new County offices, the referendum over Constitution, the general elections, the creation of an Irish "Christian Volunteers Corps" for Spain, IRA attacks, all these events had inspired some speech of other. But none of them had had this kind of impact, and the walls of the former refectory vibrated under the acclaim of the ACA members. Tonight, standing ramrod straight behind his wooden lectern, O'Duffy had read them the Ministerial decree that Vice-Prime Minister O'Kelly had signed only a few hours before. By that decree, starting midnight the Army Comrades' Association was, as a whole, deputized by the Gardai as a permanent reserve corps. Throughout the country, all ACA personnel was mobilized as Gardai officers, with all the duties and powers that attached to that quality. All ACA offices now doubled as Gardai Reserve stations. ACA local leaders were to sort out their men and organize them in military-style units, based on past military experience and personal qualities. The Gardai, Army and Navy would open up their barracks and depots to help arm, train and equip the ACA reservists. To make things easier - and also to avoid unnecessary expenses - ACA members would keep their current uniform, using armbands and other such visible signs to signal their new status as deputized Gardai officers. The funding would come partly from the Ministry for Local Governmen't budget, and partly from loans and a donations that the ACA would secure on its own.

General O'Duffy moments after the "Vanguard speech"

Walking off the small wooden platform - another relic of the educational past of the building - O'Duffy stepped into the sea of supporters who extended their arms to salute their leader. Men and women were ecstatic, as could be expected. While probably only a few of them mourned de Valera's, who they bitterly remembered as the IRA's standard bearer during the Civil War, they shared the horror of the nation at the assassination of the Prime Minister, and were ready to do their part for Ireland. To the older members, the mobilization of the ACA was a return to the good old days of the Irish Free State, when the country was run by decent, responsible patriots instead of partisan firebrands. To the young Blueshirts, there was the romantic idea of saving Ireland, and the desire to show the old guard the new generation could equal their old exploits. O'Duffy, looking at all the faces radiating blind trust and brave resolution as he crossed the room, felt a little sorry for his troops. They were everything a leader could ask for: their loyalty was undivided, their commitment unquestioned, their energy apparently unlimited. Little did they understand that what they saw as a brave sally against British assassins and IRA marauders was just a move in a chess game. Even the senior ACA leaders were, for the moment at least, intoxicated by the dramatic atmosphere surrounding de Valera's murder.

But then, why bother them with all the details? thought O'Duffy as his bodyguard opened the door to his office. Let me take care of everything, boys and girls.

"Good evening, sir", said his visitor. "Enthusiastic crowd, these lads."

"Good evening, Mr Harrington" said O'Duffy, slumping into his chair. "Yes, they are, aren't they? And to think they hated his guts. Isn't this miraculous what a Lee-Enfield bullet can do? So, tell me. Do you have any good news for me?"

"Quite, sir. No loose ends to fear on my side of the pond. As for this side of the Irish sea, you'll be happy to know my dear associate Mr Graves has, ah, how could I put it, lived up to its name. To the very end, if I may."
"Splendid. You and me, Captain Harrington, are now the only persons who know the whole story."

"Should I worry about that?"

"As a matter of fact, no, you shouldn't. I won't insult your intelligence and tell you I did not give the idea some consideration. But the way I see it, I cannot act against you without letting others in the know, which kind of defeats the purpose of the whole thing, doesn't it? Not to mention it'd be inviting trouble for no good reason - any leak about what did happen would mean a nasty death for both of us. So no, no need for alarm, Captain Harrington. Two people shorten the road, as we say. So now that it's only the two of us, we have each other by the short hairs, and we'd better learn to live with it."

"Much better than to die from it indeed, sir" mused Harrington.

"My opinion exactly."

"So, out of personal curiosity,what happens next? Now that the Blueshirts have been mobilized, will Aiken try something with the Army?"

"I wish he was that stupid! He foolishly made an enemy of the President, and O'Kelly of course has never liked him, so he's pretty isolated right now. The Fianna Fail congressmen will think twice before turning their backs on Hyde's calls for national unity. So, a coup? That would finish him - even if the Army walked with him, which I doubt, he'd still be outnumbered. Between the Gardai and the Blueshirts, I have over 15,000 men-at-arms, not counting the units who'd remain loyal to the government."

"Well, there's always the IRA, then. He might follow de Valera's footsteps."

"That would actually serve me tremendously. Can you imagine that, the Fianna Fail's bright young star of a Minister starting a second Civil War? They would simply never recover from that blow."

"Happy new Year, Mr Commissioner" said Harrington with a contented smile.

"Happy new Year indeed, Captain Harrington" replied O'Duffy. He had no doubt it was going to be a happy year indeed.

************************************************** ********

Writer's notes :

That goddamn S.P. James became an obsession of mine ever since I started playing HoI2. A Fascist British Chief of Intelligence? Okay, if they had a guy like Mosley, then why not. But - apparently true to spymaster tradition - our good Mr James proved particularly elusive when it came to finding out who he was and how he ended up as a potential Fascist. The only remotely possible S.P. James I found was that Lt-Colonel from the Indian Medical Service, who seems to have led a truly non-fascinating life studying mosquitoes. So here you have it, my spin on the dear Colonel, any resemblance with the real one being one bloody unlikely coincidence if you ask me. This being said, I had fun reinventing Sydney Price James.

Sydney Price James really was born in 1870, really joined the IMS in 1896, he really did study mosquitoes (lucky him) and he really worked in the Middle-East on projects involving draining marshlands to fight malaria outbreaks. Oh, and he also really did stop publishing papers about mosquitoes in 1934, even though it probably was because after a life devoted to the damn bugs, he couldn't stand the very idea of them skeeters anymore. So here I was, with an IMS officer working on infectious diseases and ranked as head of the SIS. As that only made sense to me if James had already run a secret program of some sort, it led me to.... Gruinard Island.

Gruinard Island is a small, oblong island located in Gruinard Bay, near the village of Gairloch in Scotland. In OTL 1938 it probably was a good spot to go for a summer picnic, if you were into that kind of things. Four years later, picnics would have been strongly discouraged, and trespassers would probably have been shot repeatedly. In 1942, British scientists used the island as a testing ground for the effects of anthrax bombs on sheep, as part of a secret research program to assess the feasibility of waging germ warfare on Germany. In short, the idea was to see if anthrax bombs could be used on German cities (ain't we all happy that someone decided it was NOT a brilliant idea after all?). It seems that the British scientists worked so diligently on the program that the island remained forbidden territory until the mid-1980s, when it required heavy decontamination of the topsoil. This ATL's "Gruinard Station" is an earlier-than-OTL, and more integrated version of it. As such, it probably is this ATL Britain's darkest secret.

The Black and Tans were involved in the large-scale destruction of Cork. Reports have it that on December the 11th, 1920, inebriated B&Ts shot at passers-by and proceeded to loot the city (the third largest in Ireland), ending up lighting fires in various places in reprisal for an ambush against Loyalist policemen. In march of the same year, the Royal Irish Constabulary and their auxiliaries had already assassinated the mayor of the city.This led the British Parliament (whose readiness to look into some of the darkest corners of British policy cannot be commended enough IMHO) to criticize harshly the government's handling of the Irish crisis. Interestingly enough, the most vocal critics were Sir John Simon (in this ATL Home Secretary and Industry Minister) and Sir Edward Mosley (our favorite British Fascist), leading the King himself to disavow the B&Ts' actions. The Black and Tans' out-of-control actions elicited this comment from a very pro-Imperial newspaper : "If the British Commonwealth can only be preserved by such means, it would become a negation of the principle for which it has stood". So a personal comment here: I'm not sure too many MPs of any modern democracy would have the guts to do today what the British MPs did then. And even more interestingly, no-one would have dared call these men unpatriotic terrorist-lovers back then.

The Irish Constitution does stipulate that the Tanaiste fills in for the Prime Minister in case of his death, until such a time another Prime Minister is appointed by the President. While I suppose in "normal" circumstances this would be a question of weeks before the Parliament agrees on a new Taoiseach, I felt that in this case the first concern of the President would be to make sure there IS an Irish government to address the nation's anguish and concern after de Valera's assassination.

Douglas Hyde was indeed a most respected statesman. He had lost his Congressman's seat in 1925 over a smear campaign orchestrated by some of de Valera's allies that painted him as a pro-divorce man (I'll let you imagine how damaging this could be in 1925 Catholic Ireland) and it seems that de Valera felt bad enough about it that he considered he owed Hyde something - like his active support in the presidential campaign. From an outsider's perspective, Hyde was indeed a great candidate, for beyond his personal qualities, widely acknowledged as I said, he had the added advantage of not belonging to the Fianna Fail, and therefore being able to be the nation's neutral arbiter after de Valera's election. That must have been extremely important in an Ireland that had barely emerged from the Civil War to have a political figure that Cosgrave and de Valera respected and looked up to.

The Blueshirts in the 1930s were a few thousands strong. I figured that even with Fascists out of the picture in Italy and Spain, there would still be enough people ready to follow the ACA in its path to autocracy, either because they truly believed in Fascism, simply trusted O'Duffy as a former Free State official, or because the future felt so goddamn incertain and England was still perceived as the enemy.

The Gardai always struck me as roughly on par with the Army in terms of matériel deployed. Armored cars and heavy machine-guns were part of most police forces in the 1930s, and the fact is the Irish Army had little edge in terms of armament, except a few Vickers tanks. The Navy was composed of a few patrol ships, and the Air Force was even more humble. So basically, whoever controlled the Gardai (particularly a reinforced one) was in a position of power that was basically unrivaled in Ireland. Unfortunately for this ATL's Emerald Island, that person is Eoin O'Duffy.

[Kara Iskandar]

Wow impressive as always!
Keep up the good work!

[Francisco Cojuanco]

BTW, who won the Presidentials? De la Rocque, I hope...

[Atlantic Friend]

Originally Posted by Francisco Cojuanco

BTW, who won the Presidentials? De la Rocque, I hope...

The presidential election is still pending. Story-wise, it will take place in May, 1939. I'm working on the next chapter, which will deal with Japan.

[Hendryk]

I still haven't finished catching up, but I'm enjoying it so far. I hope to see Jean Monnet show up at some point.

[Atlantic Friend]

Originally Posted by Hendryk

I still haven't finished catching up, but I'm enjoying it so far. I hope to see Jean Monnet show up at some point.

He will. It'd be a pity not to have one of Europe's fathers to pop up!

[Hendryk]

Originally Posted by Atlantic Friend

Nanking, the British Consulate compound

I'd advise you to find another picture to go with this caption. Anyone who's been to Shanghai will instantly realize that it's where this picture was taken. The Orwellian building in the background is the Broadway Mansions hotel, and to its right, beyond the telltale Garden Bridge, is Astor House, the oldest hotel in the city.

[Hendryk]

Originally Posted by Atlantic Friend

“General von Falkenhausen and the rest of the German military mission to Chang Kaï Shek should be flown home in the next few days – hopefully.”

There's quite a cliffhanger about the situation in China. Now that Germany has terminated its support to the Nationalist regime, I hope the French leadership--and possibly the British one--will realize that it would be wise, if only for reasons of strategic self-interest, to step in and offer their own support. Otherwise, they will be faced with one of two outcomes: China loses the war and Japan moves on against their own colonies; or China turns to the USSR for help, and the predictable result will be growing Communist influence in Asia, something that will also be a threat to their colonial rule.

Furthermore, they could make virtue out of necessity, by treating the Chinese theater as they had the Spanish one, as a training ground for their officers and pilots. And providing military supplies should be fairly easy when the modernization program results in the decommissioning of large amounts of older equipment, such as obsolete tanks, planes and field guns. The aging Renault FT-17 won't be of use any more in France itself, but it would usefully complement China's paltry armored forces.

The way I see the argument being phrased by whoever could make it, either France helps China fight the Japanese in Nankin today, or it may find itself fighting them in Hanoi tomorrow.

[Atlantic Friend]

CHAPTER 92 : GEKOKUJO

Tokyo, Yoshiwara District, January the 5th, 1939

The car passed through a gate guarded by two soldiers who hurriedly closed down the heavy cast iron gate, and stopped in the middle of a discreet courtyard surrounded by gardens. Five other cars were parked there, their drivers huddled together, smoking and – the general was sure – trading gossip about their charges. The officer was certain that at least one of them would report everything to the Kempeitai tomorrow, but he didn’t care. There was so much going on in Tokyo, in this newborn year of 1939 that the security service probably already had its hands full trying to sort out who was doing what. And anyway, wasn’t Colonel Moto supposed to take care of that? When the chauffeurs noticed the small pennant attached to the Toyota AA’s fender, they ceased their idle chat and lined up to bow respectfully. It was a cold winter night, and the Toyota's headlights made the snow-covered gardens glitter. The general shivered when a gust of ice-cold wind burst into the car as his driver opened the door. He stepped out of the car with a little wince - his arthritis was acting up again, and he took a few moments to stretch, painful as it felt. The drivers had slunk back to their sedans, and beyond the line of car roofs he could see the club’s gardens. The night was silent, and the general felt the urge to enter the gardens as he had so often done before, to meditate among its cherry trees and enjoy a quiet cigarette. So many plans had been discussed there, so many plots hatched .

So cold and peaceful, the gardens of Yoshiwara. And so fiery, so harmful our human passions… You are consuming away, Hideki, like a candle stub in a temple, while this beauty is eternal.

Taking a deep breath, General Hideki Tojo turned away from the contemplation of the gardens, and walked to the front door of the house. It was a select club, one that catered to the needs of well-to-do gentlemen needing a quiet place to eat, enjoy some tea in good company, and entertain their friends with lively banquets. It also served as a convenient place to discuss delicate matters. There had been rumors that the conjurers of the 2-26 coup had met there, two years ago, to review their plans before marching on the Imperial Palace. But General Tojo knew it wasn't true. The conjurers had never met there - they had neither the rank or the credentials to ever gain entrance to this select club. What was true, though, was that the rebellious officers’ fate had been discussed there after a surprisingly irate Emperor had demanded that harsh measures be taken against the plotters. A handful of General officers had met there, away from prying ears, to see how the Emperor's wish could be obeyed without embarrassing the Imperial Army. It had taken three meetings before a suitable arrangement had been found – a few quick executions and some hurried reassignments to the Kwantung Army had made sure the scope of the investigation never reached the rebels’ superior officers. Finishing his cigarette, Tojo let the past rise up for a moment. He thought about the man who had been instrumental in disregarding the Emperor's orders behind a facade of obedience. The man who had been instrumental in negotiating with the various factions of the Imperial General Headquarters to make sure an arrangement could be found. He nodded sadly, for tonight, that man might meet an untimely death.

****

Dairen, Manchukuo, the same evening

Death couldn’t have been further away from Admiral-Baron Mineo Osumi’s mind, as he admired the delicate silhouette of the young girl, wrapped in her white kimono. Listening to the last echoes of Yuriko’s voice, Osumi thought back of his first encounter with the young girl, one year before. Once again, he congratulated himself for his good fortune.

The city of Dairen - Osumi never used its Chinese name - was much too cosmopolitan for his tastes. Because of its weakness, China had failed to give the city a proper national identity, letting a dozen nations imprint their influence over its inhabitants. As could be expected, this chaos of cultures left everyone unsatisfied. That was indeed true for the Japanese. When Osumi had first visited the city as commander of the Imperial Japanese Navy’s Manchurian Squadron, the year before, he had rapidly discovered that it was almost impossible to find a good okiya, a geiko house. So when he had first heard about this quaint house near the pebble beach through Okimora, one of his younger aides, he at first had been doubtful. But the young Captain had been insistant – he was from Kyoto, he had said, and knew how provincial girls usually fell short of a true gentleman’s expectations, but this okiya was special. The Four Winds house stood on a hilltop overlooking the bay, and Okimora had been sent there because it was feared that the house could be used by spies to keep track of the movements of troop ships ferrying reinforcements in and out of Manchuria. The Imperial Army regularly had to send troops throughout the country to ferret out bands of marauders that had coalesced into a Manchurian Brotherhood of Resistances. These men were of course common criminals, who ambushed isolated guard posts, hung mayors favorable to Japan, and extolled money from local officials. With the money they bought rifles and explosives from the Russians who ran the city's black market. After a lengthy Interview with the okiya landlady, a widow who had left the Home Islands in the wake of the Japanese subjugation of Manchuria, Okimora had been satisfied that no spy ring was run from the house, but he had nevertheless seized the opportunity to get acquainted with the geikos and their graceful apprentices. One of the younger girls, he had told his boss, truly was something to behold. Her name was Yuriko, and she had worked as a maiko, a geisha apprentice, since the tender age of twelve. She was, Okimura had said, beautiful as a delicate flower, and also a gifted shamisen player that no man could listen to without being overcome with emotion. Intrigued, Osumi had paid the okiya a visit the next week, under the pretense of wrapping up the espionage investigation. Honored by the visit of such a high-ranking official, the landlady had ordered her protégées to prepare some tea for Osumi, a clever way to introduce the admiral to the dozen girls she was overseeing. When it had been Yuriko’s turn to be introduced, the matron had said, matter-of-factly, that the young girl was her own daughter, and that the following year she would come of age to become a full geisha. There had been something in the way she had said it that had made Osumi take a longer look at the young girl and consider the unformulated proposal. De-flowering a maiko was a privilege that an okiya offered to the wealthiest of their customers, and Yuriko was as beautiful as Okimora had said.

“Does the Admiral desire another song? » asked Yuriko in a timid voice. She had put aside the shamisen and served a cup of warm sake that she handed to the old man. Osumi nodded and took a sip of the liquor.

Admiral-baron Mineo Osumi, Minister of the Navy in Manchuria in 1937

The young girl had a pale, oval face that made her deep brown eyes even more intense, even when her face betrayed nothing but humility and obedience. Like all the maiko, she wore her hair rolled up in a tight bun that revealed the nape or her neck, just above the collar of her white silk kimono, and soon Osumi had wondered how it would feel to let his fingers run along her spine, from the top of her head to the small of her back. With her radiant beauty and demure attitude, the girl radiated an odd mix of strength and fragility. When she sang, her hands caressing the cords of her shamisen, Yuriko’s voice matched her appearance: it was crystal-like yet oddly powerful, conjuring up images of a delicate china cup filled by the pure waters of a mountain torrent. Osumi had taken in the young girl’s virginal beauty, and had left the okiya certain that he would soon come back. Osumi had come back often to the Four Winds okiya, usually to host banquets for fellow officers and high-profile visitors. Sometimes, diplomacy required that he also invited Manchukuo officials, though Osumi thought it best to avoid mingling with them too much. With Japanese policies this volatile, who knew if one day he wouldn’t be ordered to depose these men, or even to execute them? These men’s hearts didn’t harbor much love Japan, but they nevertheless depended on the Nipponese Empire’s goodwill for their position, their fortune, and actually for their very lives. Some of them probably had contacts with the MBR through a distant parent, while some others met secretly with emissaries from Chiang Kai Shek's so-called “Nationalist” China. Some day these servile men might turn into mortal enemies. Why let them befriend his officers? Not only was it a risk, it would also make things crueler than was necessary if the chips finally fell. One day perhaps, the swollen rivers of Japanese nationalism finally tamed and their tumultuous energy channeled towards new goals and purposes, Osumi would feel at liberty to open his heart to his Manchu counterparts, and to treat them as associates, friends and brothers. Osumi had worked diligently towards this goal, even more so now that he was Minister of the Imperial Navy. But that time had not come yet, and all he could do at the moment was to meditate and ponder about the future, lulled by Yuriko’s angel-like voice.

Could be worse, actually. Could be much worse, he thought, as the maiko started to sing about a mist-covered mountain village. At the end of the song, he decided, would come the time of the mizuage. That night, Yuriko would lay down as a maiden, and wake up tomorrow as a woman. All that it required was a little pleasure, and a little blood.

*****

Tokyo, Yoshiwara district

"The situation has now changed" said Admiral Nagano. "The recent offer from the new Dutch government means the threat of oil shortages has now vanished."

General Tojo squinted at the bald admiral. Nagano was hedging his bets, as always. While it was well-known he advocated a "positive approach to Japanese influence in Asia" - a mild-mannered euphemism for Japanese dominance of the Pacific - he wanted to move cautiously. It was, Tojo had found out, a trait shared by most admirals, who regarded their carriers and battleships as things to be preserved, more than tools of war. The Generals he knew were considerably less protective of their soldiers, and much more cynical about how a few thousands issen gorin - the derogative nickname officers gave their troops - were worth less than the stamps used to post their draft papers.

"I disagree" growled General Sugiyama. "Nothing has changed. Being promised oil is not having it delivered, and buying oil is not controlling the oilfields. The Dutch offer means little, it shouldn't distract us from our objectives. We must not allow foreigners to buy our just ambitions away. We are Imperial officers, not cheap whores selling their cunts!"

Tojo winced at the crude image. To use such a coarse language, and in such company! It was your typical Sugiyama - the blustering general had the subtlety of a charging bull, and even worse manners. Both had often caused his disgrace, prompting his rivals to predict he'd finally be forced into suicide or retirement, but each time Sugiyama had proven them wrong. A bull he was, certainly, with a thick skin and an even thicker skull, but those who underestimated him often found themselves trampled to death under the general's shiny boots.

"What would you suggest, then, General?" asked Prince Konoye. The soft-spoken man rarely commit himself fully in any direction, but he nevertheless commanded a lot of influence at the Imperial Palace. Those in the know said that he had been the driving force that had led to the alliance with Germany, and that he in fact was the real power that stood behind Prime Minister Senjuro. Soon, they said, Konoye would step into the light to form the new government. Tojo knew Konoye had met many officers lately, creating around him an informal private military council. To a man like General Hideki Tojo, that could only mean that the time of reckoning had come - no longer could the Japanese cabinet hesitate at the crossroads of History, hesitating as to which direction to take. The old debate, that had rocked - sometimes violently - the Japanese Armed forces was about to be settled.

"Ha! Better to control our own resources than to rely on the generosity of others. Our forces in China and Manchukuo are unrivaled, we should use them! Now that Germany is our ally, we should strike the Russians, and eject them from Asia altogether. Vladivostok's factories, Siberia's resources, Mongolia's vast plains belong to us by right of the strongest, let's take them! Stalin will be too afraid of a possible war with Germany to resist us!"

"Will the war be over in three months, I wonder?" snickered General Matusi sotto voce.

Sitting behind him, his aides chuckled. It was a well-known fact that Sugiyama had, in 1937, promised the Emperor the Chinese campaign would be a walkover. Matsui, whose troops kept battling KMT units in Hubei, still held Sugiyama responsible for the lack of preparation of the Japanese forces sent into China. In all fairness, the idea that Japanese armies didn't need extensive preparation, or abundant supplies, or subtle war plans because the soldier's devotion for the Emperor would more than make up for it was widespread among officers. The superior "Warrior Spirit" of the Japanese soldiers would overcome all, since obviously Japan was the land of the Gods and therefore morally superior to all its enemies. Tojo himself found the Warrior Spirit theory very useful if the purpose was to build up discipline and get total obedience, but from what he had been told by the few field officers not afraid to speak their mind, a heathen Chinese bullet killed just as surely as a Japanese one, divine blessing or not, and the Warrior Spirit soldiers bled just as profusely.

General Hideki Tojo a few hours before the fateful meeting in Yoshiwara.

"Russia is weak" replied Sugiyama with a furious glare at Matsui. "We could seize our objectives quickly and present the world with a fait accompli that all nations would be forced to accept. Who would move to protect the Russians? The British? They fear Russian involvement in India and the Middle-East. The French? They have washed their hands away from Russia since the last war. The Americans? They are too busy contemplating themselves. Russia is friendless, and we are not. I say strike, strike now while the situation favors us!"

"The possession of Vladivostok and Mongolia will serve little purpose" said Nagano. "It is but a question of prestige for ambitious generals, nothing else. Do we need Vladivostok? Do our factories run on yak butter? No, they run on oil, and so do our tanks, our planes, our combat fleets. The North can wait, the oil cannot. Waging war is not cheap, not in this time and age, and we are lucky enough that we no longer need a war to get the oil we need. Let's sign a deal with the new Dutch government, that will give us enough oil to support a stronger economy, a stronger air force, a stronger navy. With new ships, and new planes, the balance of power in the Pacific will naturally and effortlessly shift in our favor, without a shot being fired. Soon the British and French will realize it's pointless to prop up Chang Kai Shek's corrupt regime. They'll seek an accommodation with us, and we'll be the ones dictating the terms."

Tojo nodded pensively. What Nagano had uttered was the core doctrine of the Kyuchuha, the Harmony faction, which tried to hold the middle-ground between Conservatism and Militarism and proposed a "Liberal-Patriotism" that would combine private need and national pride. When the other factions relied almost exclusively on their influence at the Imperial Headquarters, the Kyuchuha had more support among the industrialists and the civil servants. Power, the Kyuchuha leaders said, could be bought instead of won, and at a cheaper price. Peace meant time, time meant growth, and with effort soon dominance would follow. But as Tojo knew, there was a caveat to that fine precept. Growth didn't require only time, but also natural resources that Japan lacked. Oil, rubber, platinum, copper, iron, were needed in vast quantities that would only increase with the development of the national economy. At some point, Japan would have to depend on the generosity of foreign nations to support its factories - or Japan would have to strike boldly. The Kyuchuha was therefore torn by the centrifugal forces of those who wanted to invade Russia with German support, and those who advocated a swift move south, to seize the much-needed resources held by European colonies in Malaya, the East Indies and Indochina.

"Gentlemen, please" said a man who so far had remained silent.

At 55, he was one of the younger men present, and nothing in his civilian clothes or droopy mustache denoted special prominence. Yet, Prince Fushimi Hiroyasu was one of the most influential members of the cabal. Not only did his royal blood make him a regular member of the Emperor's entourage, he was also a close friend of Marquis Yuasa Kurahei, the Lord Keeper of the Emperor's Privy Seal and as such one of Hirohito's closest advisors. Prince Hiroyasu also enjoyed considerable support at the Imperial Headquarters, having exerted senior commandments in the Imperial Navy up to a few months ago. That he finally committed himself into the discussion, Tojo thought, was an important signal. Hiroyasu, after all, was known as a very skilled go player, one who often resorted to indirect attacks and subtle approaches to dominate the board. General Tojo put down his cup of sake and listened intently.

"The Dutch offer is a great opportunity, and one we should seize at once" Hiroyasu began. "But while an opportunity is good, it is less important than the objective it allows you to reach. I hear the arguments of the Kyuchuha. The oil will make our economy stronger, they say. It is true, oil will make our industries stronger. But it will also make them more vulnerable to possible shortages in the future. And who's to say the Dutch will sell us some more then? The partisans for an incursion into Soviet Russia say we'll get the resources we need there in one fell swoop. But it will also force us to defend even wider borders against Russian retaliation. And who's to say the Germans will help us then?"

"Certainly that is the voice of reason" said Nagano.

"Many of you think the Empire is at a crossroads, that we have to choose which way to go. I disagree. The issue is not between invading Malaya, capturing Vladivostok, or investing in Tokyo. Taken separately, none of these options can give Japan the power the nation deserves. But taken together, now, they'll lead us to eternal prosperity."

The men around Hiroyasu looked around, startled. Konoye was squinting hard, his head tilted to the side as he thought about the implications.

"You're saying we don't have to choose a road?" he asked.

"It is not a road, Konoye - it is a journey. We can do it all, we must do it all. The only thing we have to decide is which port we'll reach first."

"So the oil..." began Sugiyama.

"The oil must go into our Navy. The Navy in turn is the way to secure more oil for ourselves, which in turn will make sure we can finish off the Chinese, and turn against the Russians. With the South in our power, and the North at our mercy, soon the West will be subdued, and truly the eight corners of the world will be gathered under one roof."

"What about the American and British fleets?" blurted Nagano. "These nations are no friends of ours, and..."

"Sooner or later the Europeans or the Americans will move against us, Admiral. We should not fear this development, but instead see it as inevitable and plan for it diligently. If the Army and the Navy move fast, the Anglo-Americans shall find all of Asia arrayed against them, ready to defeat their fleets and armies in well-prepared battles. After that, Indochinese rubber, East Indies oil and Malayan oil will be ours for the taking. The eight corners of the world, under our roof."

"How would His Majesty react?" asked Konoye, looking down at his plate.

"As His Majesty usually does when presented with an opportunity to ensure the greatness of the Imperial Throne and the well-being of His subjects. I am therefore certain that, seeing that a consensus has emerged, the Emperor will see what His duty requires, and act accordingly."

Tojo made an effort to remain impassive. Forcing the Emperor to do one's bidding while at the same time claiming unlimited obedience to him was, alas, part of Japanese politics.

"I am not certain the Navy Ministry will go along" sighed Nagano. "Minister Osumi makes no secret he thinks the Navy isn't strong enough yet to confront the Anglo-Americans."

"I, on the contrary, am certain the Ministry will embrace our ideas" said Hiroyasu. "As the Imperial Navy's former Chief of Staff, I have in fact seen to it."

Tojo contemplated his empty plate. He wondered, briefly, what Osumi was doing at the moment. Whatever it was, he hoped the old admiral was enjoying it, for tonight was probably going to be his last.

*****

Dairen, the Four Winds Okiya.

While Yuriko had slipped into the bedroom to change into a more comfortable under-kimono, Admiral-Baron Osumi took his jacket off, folding it in a neat pile and putting it on the floor, over his scabbard and his pistol holster - he had an official meeting with Manchu officers first thing tomorrow, and didn't plan on going back home tonight. Shenji, his chauffeur, would bring him his razor and shaving cream, along with a clean shirt and drive him directly to the meeting. Beyond the pleasure of taking away the young maiko's virginity, he had duties toward her, as the mizuage would make him her protector and sponsor. Therefore, there would be things to discuss with the new geiko, people he'd have to introduce her to in Harbin, and possibly in Tokyo. While some of Japan's nouveaux riches considered the mizuage to be an expensive night with a young woman, a fashionable luxury, Osumi was more old-fashioned and saw it as the beginning of a special relationship, one he as an aging man would come to relish, and one neither he nor Yuriko would forget.
But that's for tomorrow. Tonight, pleasure beckons. You're an aging ship, Mineo, your hull creaks and your sails have become tattered, but tonight you are awarded the pleasure to touch the kind of haven you'll soon have to do without. So enjoy it, and be grateful.

The discreet knock at the door surprised Osumi. For an instant he thought it was the okiya owner, but through the paper screen he could see the silhouette of a man wearing an Army cap.

That idiot Shenji! he fumed. I had told him not to disturb me!

Determined to send the chauffeur on his way as soon as possible, Osumi beratedly pushed the door panel and confronted the hapless intruder.

"I told y..." he began, but stopped at once.

The man in front of him was wearing a Kwantung Army uniform, like Shenji, but Osumi instantly knew he wasn't a soldier. The eyes of the stranger fixed him with a gleam of cruel jubilation, and then his hand moved swiftly. The blade of the tanto penetrated his groin effortlessly, drawing a red line as the aggressor twisted it upwards. Feeling his legs tremble, Osumi tried to push the man away from him, but the assaulter locked his left arm with the admiral's, leaning on his victim to stab him another three times. His eyes wide open with pain and surprise, Osumi felt something crack in his heart and fell heavily on his knees. The world was starting to spin around him, with black shapes dancing at the edge of his vision, but he felt oddly grateful to see the man pull a handgun and train it on his skull. There was a brief moment of peace, the cold barrel feeling like ice on his feverish skin, and then there was nothing.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Writer's notes :

I tried to cram the update full of cultural references, but as explaining them in detail would bring the story to a grinding halt, here are some of the concepts touched by this chapter.

Geikos, also known as geishas, are as we all know these young women providing exquisite company to well-off men, and by that I don't mean sexual favors even though that also could happen. Geiko means "artist", and their role is to enchant the guest of a zaichiki (a banquet) through songs and poetry.

The maikos are the young apprentices. Their entrance into adult world of the Geikos is done through a ceremony called the mizuage, during which the okiya lets a suitable sponsor make a woman of the young girl - some say owners sometimes auctioned off the viriginity of the maiko - as deflowering the young girl was part of her becoming a real Geiko. The practice continued until the 1950s.

With the local form of democracy withering away, Japanese factions dominated every aspect of Japan's political life. The Navy was divided between what was left of the "Fleet" and "Treaty" factions dating back to the Washington naval agreements, the Fleet faction wanting Japan to denounce the agreement immediately, while the Treaty faction wanted to get the most of it. The Army/Navy were also divided between the "Strike North" and "Strike South" factions, one advocating war against Russia, and the other desiring an expansion in the Pacific. Finally, there were political divisions between the Toseiha, the (Conservative-Militarist Imperial Faction), and the Kodoha (the outright Fascist Control Faction). To make it funnier, I added the Kyuchuha, the Harmony faction, which naturally wants Japan to rein supreme, but would rather see Japanese hegemony in Asia come from economic growth. Add to that that one could be pro-Toseiha, pro-Treaty pro-Strike South, and pro-Militarist-Socialism and you have an idea of the challenge I faced when I started writing.

The term "issen gorin", which could be translated as "five cents", for this represented the cost of the stamps on their draft papers, was coined by some Japanese officers to jeer about their soldiers. It's always nice when your own officers has less respect for you than the enemy, isn't it?

The idea that Bushin (warrior spirit) trumped all was in vogue in Militarist Japan in the 1930s. Basically, the idea was that if the soldiers had the right kind of mentality (no surrender, total faith in the Emperor and final victory, etc) then they would overcome their enemies no matter what - the war was a spiritual struggle even more than a physical one. In some ways it is reminiscent of French 1914 ideas that with enough élan, it didn't matter if the enemy had machine-guns, and it more or less met the same end

Bringing the Eight corners of the world under one roof (Hakko Ichiu in Japanese) was an idea in vogue in the late 1930s, that evolved from Japan's sentiment that it deserved its own place in the sun in Asia, just as the US reined supreme in the Americas and the Europeans had carved up Africa. In 1939 the term has yet to be used widely, but the idea is bound to be around.

General Hideki Tojo is an interesting character. He seems to have both accelerated and slowed down Japan's course to war. I never could shake off the feeling that he was quite the convenient scapegoat, a role he seems to have accepted during his trial.

Emperor Hirohito's role on the break out of hostilities between Japan and the Western nations will probably never become truly ascertained. Some describe him as powerless, rocked by forces he either could or refused to control. Some (like Bergamini) credit him with a direct (and negative) influence in the war, and even allude he skillfully let others take the fall at the end. Some, like Edward Behr, say he was neither the stalwart pacifist nor the hawkish warmonger, but remained shrouded in ambiguity, going in one direction, then another, depending on the perceived risks and opportunities. I recommend to read Bergamini's "The Imperial Conspiracy" and Behr's "The Ambiguous Emperor", BTW.

Gekokujo, which can translate as "ruling the high from below", is a Japanese concept showing that those supposedly in power can in fact fall victim to the forces unleashed by those below them, such as peasant rebellions, mutinies, infighting between vassals... It can also be seen as the "right" for subordinates to disobey their superiors for a good cause. In this here chapter it's more like "ruling the high from the almost as high".

Admiral Mineo Osumi was what could pass for a liberal at the time. Himself a proponent of a southwards expansion policy for Japan, he stayed away from the struggle between the Treaty and Fleet factions that rocked the Imperial Navy since the 1920s. He nevertheless was a fierce patriot and a staunch militarist, and he pushed for bigger and bigger naval budgets. His death in 1941 might catch the interest of conspiracy theorists, as his plane was shot down by Chinese partisans in Hainan.

Political assassination in pre-WW2 Japan was so common that a US article in 1932 described the political régime in Tokyo as "government by assassination". With general officers chafing under civilian (and even Imperial) rule, and secret ultra-nationalist societies blossoming, killing those who were perceived as "the enemies within" was commonplace - and led to rather lenient verdicts. The killing of Admiral-Baron Osumi, in this respect, does not feel totally out of place.

[Leistungsfähiger Amerikan]

Excellent update. I smell an ATL Pearl harbor coming. Is the Japanese fleet bigger or smaller than OTL?

[Dathi THorfinnsson]

Originally Posted by Atlantic Friend

Geikos, also known as geishas, are as we all know these young women providing exquisite company to well-off men, and by that I don't mean sexual favors even though that also could happen. Geiko means "artist", and their role is to enchant the guest of a zaichiki (a banquet) through songs and poetry.

The maikos are the young apprentices. Their entrance into adult world of the Geikos is done through a ceremony called the mizuage, during which the okiya lets a suitable sponsor make a woman of the young girl - some say owners sometimes auctioned off the viriginity of the maiko - as deflowering the young girl was part of her becoming a real Geiko. The practice continued until the 1950s.

I had never seen 'geiko' before (except as an auto insurance company - joke), so I did some looking up.

looking up http://jisho.org/words?jap=geiko&eng=&dict=edict
I find 芸子 (geiko) translated as "young geisha"
where 芸者 (geisha) translates as "geisha"
First character is art/performance/craft, second is (basically) girl or person respectively.


Maiko can apparently be written either 舞妓 or 舞子, with the same pronunciation and meaning.
So, it looks

[Atlantic Friend]

Originally Posted by Leistungsfähiger Amerikan

Excellent update. I smell an ATL Pearl harbor coming. Is the Japanese fleet bigger or smaller than OTL?

It comes with 2 more Kaga-class carriers (based on the idea that the 1923 earthquake didn't wreck the Amagi hull slated for carrier conversion, and that the IJN got a bigger share of German liners after WW1, thus freeing resource and shipyard time)

[basileus]

Originally Posted by Atlantic Friend

DRAMATIS PERSONAE - SOUTHERN EUROPE

Government officials :

Vittorio Emanuele III : King of Italy. While he probably knows the truth about what happened to Benito Mussolini in Venice, the King seems willing to let the matter lie, and had instead focused on keeping the nation united. In this respect, he favors the current government dominated by Christian Democrats and including Fascists.

Niceto Alcala-Zamorra : Former and current President of the Spanish Republic. Liaised with the Quai d'Orsay during the first Spanish Civil War. Left Spain for France during the second Spanish Civil War, and formed a government-in-exile in Paris.

Benito Mussolini : After 16 years of power, the Fascist Duce met an untimely death in Venice, in a bomb explosion that also killed Count Galeazzo Ciano and the French ambassador.

Alcide de Gasperi : Anti-fascist militant, ex-member of both Austrian and Italian Parliaments. Was "hidden" in the Vatican by Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli until the Holy See acquiesced to the ousting of Benito Mussolini. Since then, leader of Italy's Christian-Democrat Party and Prime Minister of the Kingdom.

Enrico Mattei : Anti-fascist militant, hidden by the Vatican in a monastery during the Fascist years. Italy's current Economy and Finance Minister.

Eugenio Pacelli : Cardinal Pacelli is the Pope's personal secretary and runs the Holy See's foreign affairs. Very much in the know when it comes to the clandestine activities of various Conservative groups, and a very likely candidate for papacy.

Pietro Badoglio : Former Chief of Staff of the Italian Army. His growing hostility to the Fascist regime led him to support the French-sponsored coup in which Mussolini died. Current Minister of War in de Gasperi's government.

Bernardo Attolico : Former Commissioner of the Free City of Danzig and Italy's current Foreign Minister.

Army officers

Florjan Lister : The most famous general of the Spanish Republic during the first Civil War, Lister was approached by the NKVD and agreed to support a Soviet coup. With the French army crossing the Pyrénées and parts of the nation rising to arms, the Soviet Spanish Republic was short-lived. Upon the SSR collapse, Lister was evacuated to Russia, before the NKVD decided to use his talents in supporting revolution movements in Latin America.

Alberto Pariani : Italian General, member of the Fascist Party. Though a devoted Fascist, Pariani helped suppress the Blackshirt rebellion of 1938. Current commander in chief of the Italian Army.

Jorge Munoz : Teniente in the SSR Air Force, bomber pilot. Fate unknown after his flight of SB-2s was intercepted over Provence by French fighters.

Julio Rodriguez : Sergeant in the SSR Air Force, bomber navigator and co-pilot. Fate unknown.

Ernesto Diaz : Admiral in the SSR Navy. Fate unknown since his cruiser force crossed the path of the old battleship Courbet in an attempt to lure a French naval force into a trap.

Vicente Ubalde : Captain in the SSR Navy. Fate unknown since his cruiser met the Courbet.

Sebastian Hernandez : Ensign in the SSR Navy. Fate unknown since his ship faced the Courbet.

Cristobal, Obregon : AA gunners, veterans of both Spanish Civil Wars. Fate unknown since the battle of Leon against French tanks.

Victor de la Cierva : Army Colonel of the Loyalist republican Army during the second Spanish Civil War. Serves as President Zamora's chief of staff.

Maiani : Blackshirt Console (Colonel) who led the short-lived Blackshirt rebellion in Northern Italy.

Piazzi : Fascist Mayor of Venice.

Piazzi : Blackshirt sergeant, quite possibly related to the mayor.

Giuseppe Valle : Italian Air Force General, former commander-in-chief of the Regia Aeronautica. Supported the Blackshirt rebellion, and was therefore arrested and stripped of all charges and ranks.

Police officials

Giulio Roselli : Carabinieri Captain who found himself in charge of the investigation following Mussolini's assassination.

Ambrosio Zanetti : Carabinieri Colonel in Ferrarra. He and his wife were the first to know of the Blackshirt rebellion, and they managed to pas that information to the Italian government.

Marc de Angelis : Police inspector in Venice, collaborated with Roselli during the investigation.

Personalities :

Buenaventura Durruti : Spanish Anarchist leader, veteran of the two Spanish Civil Wars. Lives in exile away from Spain, but still in touch with Communist and Anarchist movements hostile to Stalin. Last signaled in Norway.

I'm not convinced that a Christian Democrat regime was even remotely likely in 1938 Italy. A successor Fascist regime, anti-German, with say Balbo and Grandi as "consuls of the revolution", keeping a wathc over the King, would be far more likely. De Gasperi as Prime MInister in 1938 would be impossibile; he might be however a viceminister in some lesser ministry. Mattei is ruled out, he was too young at that time. And by the way he wasn't prosecuted by the Fascist regime; he was likely known as somewhat anti-Fascist, but no menace for the time being. He was a successful industrialist in Milan, with a little but prosperous chemical firm. He could make an economic counsellor, if someone with high acquaintances, maybe from Milanese banking (Mattioli?), introduces him into the right circles.

[Atlantic Friend]

CHAPTER 93 : VOYAGERS

Approaching the Faroe Islands, January the 15th, 1939

"The moment of truth" muttered Kapitänleutnant Glattes, as he pressed his face against the periscope.

Though the risks were minimal, Konteradmiral Genscher, when he had summoned Glattes in his Bremerhaven offices, had been quite clear : Glattes' U-39 was to proceed to the north-eastern tip of the Faroes with extreme caution and under absolute discretion. The route he had devised scrupulously reflected these priorities : the submarine had criss-crossed the North Sea, steering clear from fishing zones and commercial sea lanes, only surfacing at night to spare the electric motors. Now that it finally reached its objective, U-39 lied motionless under the dark waters of the North Sea, the lens of its periscope barely emerging from the calm waters. As Glattes expected, little was in sight. The night was moonless and cloudy - it had been chosen carefully by the Operations bureau of the Marineoberkommando-Nordsee to give the U-39 maximum camouflage, and for once the weather reports had been right. Through the navigation periscope, Glattes couldn't see anything except the darker mass of Svinoy Island, at starboard, and the smaller Fugloy Island, straight ahead. From a coastal village on Svinoy, a few specks of light bore testimony of mankind's stubbornness - even in the face of a hostile nature and harsh living conditions, it defiantly clung to its settlements. For a second, Glattes almost envied the sleeping islanders, their simple desires and their uncomplicated lives. And then, the moment passed. Leaning against the periscope's steel tubes, he felt a pang of anger well up. In Genscher's office, the shroud of secrecy that surrounded this mission had been intriguing, exciting even. Though the Faroes was a sector Glattes knew like the back of his hand, having patrolled it many times, there had been something in the Counter Admiral's conspirational tone that had got him hoping against all logic that there would be something - anything, actually - worth seeing. But the Faroes islands just stood there, a handful of hilly pebbles that cold winds and dark waves slowly eroded.

"Take note, Otto. New entry on the boat's log" Glattes said, adressing his second in command. "January the fifteenth. Reached Waypoint Four at, lemme see, ten hours and twenty-one minutes. Went to periscope depth for situation assessment. Calm seas, skies overcast, no stars visible. No surface activity. Nothing to report."

Otto Auer, U-39's second-in-command, looked so comically crestfallen that Glattes felt his own anger abate. Biting back a chuckle, he pushed the navigation periscope back up and turned to the second one - this one, the attack periscope, would allow him a better look at what lied nearby. Glattes didn't expect to find anything. He and Auer had carefully brought the boat out of the lanes used by the tramps and ferries that were the Faroes' lifeline to Denmark and Britain, and the hydrophones confirmed the absence of any discernible surface activity. Still, now that his final objective was at hand Glattes refused to take any unnecessary chances. There might be a fishing boat lifting its nets over there, or a Danish patrol cutter picketing the Faroes' northeastern approaches for some reason. Not that Glattes didn't trust his boat – quite the contrary, he believed it to be the best of the Reich’s navy. While most of its sister-ships had been built in Bremen by the AG Weser shipyards, his brand-new U-39 had been assembled in Holland by IvS, a front company the Kriegsmarine used to further implement its Z-Plan, and rumor had it that the Dutch-built Type IXs were not only more comfortable, but also a little faster than the rest of their class. Naturally, Glattes also trusted himself, and his crew, to outwit the best the Royal Danish Navy could throw at them. The men of the U-bootwaffe unanimously regarded themselves as an élite within the Kriegsmarine, if only because they were the only sailors who could pit their wits and skills against Germany's potential enemies on a daily basis, trailing freighters and shadowing capital ships leaving their bases. If this has been an ordinary patrol in the North Sea, like Glattes had so often done, he would have delighted at the prospect of playing cat-and-mouse with a Danish destroyer, but tonight's mission wasn't ordinary, something the crew tacitly understood.

In this respect, the mood aboard U-39 was in touch with that of the rest of the nation. Somehow, things had gotten more serious than before - the officers were tenser, the orders stricter, the general atmosphere a shade darker. After the euphoria which had followed Germany's diplomatic triumph at the Münich conference, the general mood across the country was oddly subdued. People felt vaguely worried, as if Münich was not so much the conclusion of a diplomatic crisis but the prologue of another. This was attested by the phone conversations tapped by the Gestapo's Berlin offices, and conveyed by the soldiers' letters that went through the censorship officers. The entire Reich was restless, expectant. Many Germans felt that after Münich a shoe had been dropped, and they now wondered when and where the other would come, with mixed feelings of anxiety and arrogance. After the reoccupation of the Rhineland, after the union of the Sudetenland with the Reich, was it time to press Germany's luck and throw away the shackles of Versailles for good, or was it wiser to leave the gambling table with the impressive gains of Münich? Glattes personally leaned towards a last gamble - it would be nothing harsh nor unreasonable, actually, just the physical reunification of East Prussia with the Vaterland. After that, Germany would be able to revert to a more reserved policy, centered around the peaceful reorganization of Europe within a Pax Germanica that France and Britain would find themselves compelled to accept.

"Anything out there?" asked Auer, hope in his voice. While participating to a secret mission was exciting, being used as a simple transport was not.

Glattes squinted to try to see through the darkness - what the attack periscope gave you in depth, it took away in width, making it a strenuous exercise for a submarine commander to get an idea of his immediate surroundings. But for all his efforts, there was little to see. With no moon to pierce through the thick clouds, and a sea as black as Chinese ink, it looked like U-39 was floating through space, the lights from Svinoy like the glitter of a distant star.

U-39 as it leaves its base of Bremerhaven

"Not a single thing. It's as black as Jenssen's muck out there", grumbled Glattes, referring to the cook's notoriously bad roasted grains coffee. That veil of darkness was a protection, but also a danger of its own – a fishing ship could appear from nowhere, and accidentally ram U-39 before the submarine’s crew could react. Glattes pushed the thought aside – that always was the risk when a submarine surfaced, after all, and there was little he could do if that happened. Better, he thought, to focus on the things he did have some control over. Glattes kept searching the dark night for a few minutes, and as usual he felt a little migraine develop in the back of his skull as he fumbled with the periscope's settings. Finally he straightened back and turned toward Auer.

"Write in the log, Otto, same entry : have raised attack periscope. No ship visible. No light on Fugloy. Will proceed to our destination."

"Nothing, then?" asked Auer, bringing the attack periscope down.

"Nothing, Otto. Tell you what, let's drop our passengers and forget about it all. As soon as they're on their god-forsaken pebble, this boat reverts to being a submarine, not a goddamn ferry!"

Leaving the conning tower to his second-in-command, Glattes strode towards the officer's bunks. The disappointment about this "special" mission almost paled before the prospect of getting back his cabin.

Almost.

Off Mindelo harbor, Cape Verde Islands, January the 15th, 1939

Leaning against the rail, the German Captain enjoyed a last puff from his cigarette, watching the lights from the nearby town of Mindelo. The night breeze tasted of salt and grease - the smell of ports all over the world, of course, though the spring-like temperature was more than welcome after the shivers of Kiel and, of course, the weather he'd get on the site of his “real” mission.

Oh yes, this little Portuguese escapade is just what I need. In two months, I'll have forgotten what warmth even feels like.

Stopped just outside the dyke that protected the harbor from the Atlantic's gales, as did ships waiting for the port's pilot, the German freighter rolled lightly under the tide. Through his marine binoculars, the German officers could see the wharfs of Mindelo. A dozen ships were docked at this hour, most of them dark masses barely outlined by position signals. Only three ships were brightly lit, denoting activity : an American yacht, from which the breeze brought the echoes of a noisome party, a Portuguese tugboat stoking its boilers, and the "Ville de Bayonne", a French freighter. These last two ships annoyed the German captain, for they represented a danger. Had everything gone according to plan, the freighter and its service tugboat wouldn't have been there. When he had first talked with the man from Hamburg-Amerika line - whose task was to keep track of foreign shipping moving into and out of Mindelo – the man had promised the French ship wouldn't be there. Ritscher hadn’t been too surprised, when a few hours later the commercial agent had come back with preoccupying news. Apparently the Cherbourg-chartered freighter, normally inbound for Caracas with a hold full of coal and truck parts, had been seriously delayed by a faulty crane. After all attempts to repair it had failed, the French captain and his company agent had got hold of every docker they could use, promising them twice the normal fees if the freighter left before midnight. Training his binoculars on the "Ville de Bayonne", the German officer could see the dockers and sailors, working feverishly to complete the loading operations. He grunted, hoping it would take the French ship at least another hour, because if not, he could bid a fond adieu to discretion. And the German captain didn't need any lecture on how important discretion was, given the already high-profile of his ship.

"Sir?" said a man behind him. "The tug's arriving."

"Already?" replied Kapitan zur See Alfred Ritscher. With the wind carrying the ruckus from the harbor, and his own crew working diligently on the deck, he hadn’t noticed the noise of the approaching tug. Chiding himself for his inattention, Ritscher checked his watch and saw with some surprise it was not even eleven. The rendezvous ship was ten minutes early.

"So! Maybe we're in luck after all, Goerner. Get the men ready to unload the cargo."

If it hadn't been for the seaplane crane and catapult installed on its stern, the Schwabenland would have looked like an ordinary freighter, or one of the tenders which delivered overseas mail. And without the cumbersome Blohm und Voss, which Ritscher had sent away before approaching Mindelo, it still could - at night. But even at this hour, Ritscher had no doubt that the Schwabenland, immobilized near the entrance of the harbor, would be instantly identified by any ship heading towards the open sea. There had been too many articles, and too many newsreels about what the Propaganda Ministry had called "Germany's greatest scientific mission so far", not to mention "a just claim in the name of German scientific preeminence". The fact was, Ritscher was even more excited by his main mission than he had been when he had been summoned at the offices of the newly-established Submarine Command of the Kriegsmarine, the Befehlshaber der Unterseeboote. There, in an office that reeked of fresh paint and dusty files, Kommodore Karl Dönitz had explained to Ritscher what the Vaterland expected of him. Ritscher had been selected by the top brass to lead Germany's Third Antarctic expedition, the first in over twenty-five years, and the first whose goal was as economical as it was scientific. For over a month, he and his thirty companions would cruise the Antarctic shores near the Queen Maud's Land, establishing a series of temporary research bases and, more importantly, a semi-permanent whaling station that would help reduce the Reich's dependence on foreign markets for the production of soap and the all-important butter ersatz. All that was public knowledge, of course, made all the more public by Reichsminister Goebbels' tireless drum-beating in the German press. Some even said was that the Propaganda Minister had signed a very profitable deal with an American company to sell real video footage of the expedition, to be used in a future adventure movie. Yes, all that was public knowledge but, Dönitz had said, a few things never would, because Kapitän Ritscher's first responsibility would be to see to it that they remained secret. First, the Schwabenland would leave Kiel with more fuel than necessary, along with some spare parts meant for a different kind of vessels. On its way to Queen Maud's Land, the ship would make what would appear as a routine stop at the Portuguese port of Mindelo, in the Cape Verde islands. There, Ritscher was to discreetly unload the extra supplies, along with three of its passengers that would travel isolated from the rest of the expedition. The Schwabenland being temporarily versed in the Kriegsmarine as a "Baltic Sea auxiliary cruiser", the military code of justice's provisions about the protection of state secrets already applied to the ship's crew and officers.

Shoulder patch of the German Polar Expedition of 1939

As an active naval officer, and a German patriot, Ritscher had uttered no objection to this change of plans. The Schwabenland’s hold was big enough to accommodate some extra cargo, and a second tender ship was slated to resupply the expedition in the first week of February anyway. This little subterfuge, Dönitz had said, was a military necessity. The port of Mindelo was teeming with British spies, who kept a watchful eye on German shipping along the Atlantic sea lanes. Any German freighter dropping anchor at Mindelo was therefore bound to be closely scrutinized, however discreet its arrival may be. With all the propaganda fanfare surrounding Ritscher’s polar expedition, and every newspaper in the world heralding its mission, the Abwehr therefore believed that the Schwabenland would be the best way to replenish a discreet supply depot, right under everybody's nose. All Ritscher had to do was to stop at a certain time, at a certain point near the harbor's entrance, as did captains waiting for a pilot boat to guide them out of, or into port. A small tugboat would stop next to the German ship, and the two crews would rapidly transfer the extra cargo. As for the passengers, Ritscher would disembark them in Boa Vista island before reaching Mindelo – the Schwabenland’s floatplane would come in handy. Where the tugboat would come, and where it would take the fuel and crates, Ritscher didn't need to know - and he hadn't asked. He knew full well, without having to be told, what use a clandestine fuel depot could be to Kommodore Dönitz, Germany’s “Unter See Admiral” as some jokingly called him. And in these dire times of high international tension, the Reich’s navy needed every bolt, screw and drop of diesel fuel it could smuggle in the Atlantic, before the British and French navies cordoned the ocean off. The Party's papers, for once, were in unison with the international press corps: once again, the prospect of a European war was looming. Ritscher nevertheless felt reasonably optimistic: surely, Britain and France would come to their senses and realize that all they had to do to was to scrap what was left of the Versailles Diktat for good, and to treat Germany with the respect the Reich was due. Then, a general peace conference would definitely settle the last issues that were troubling Europe, ensuring peace for the coming generations. But of course Germany couldn't rely on the sole common sense of its neighbors. History showed, as Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop had said, that it was better for a nation surrounded by jealous neighbors to brandish a sword than an olive branch. And, Ritscher reasoned, should France and Britain once again impose war on Germany, then it was his duty to help make it a short one. Only then could the Reich achieve in a victorious war what the hostility of its neighbors had prevented it to accomplish through peaceful means.

To make sure his passengers would see as little as possible of tonight’s operations, Ritscher had organized two fire drills and one evacuation drill that afternoon, and at supper had instructed the sailors on mess duty to be more generous than usual with alcohol. Suitably wined, and still exhausted from all the running through the ship's extensive corridors and the hauling of heavy fire hoses from stern to bow, the expedition’s scientists and technicians hadn't been long in crashing to bed. Just in case exhaustion and drunkenness wouldn’t be enough, Ritscher had posted a few men at every corridor to turn away any adventurous passenger wanting to go outside for a stroll on the bridge. The official excuse the sailors would present was that after the drills there was a maintenance operation going on, and that the bridge was not safe for unskilled hands. So far, Ritscher could see, schnapps and aching muscles had done the trick. Reaching the stern, he caught sight of the small boat that had dropped anchor next to the Schwabenland. It was an improvised tugboat, long as a fishing trawler, with used truck tires attached to its flanks. On the cleared bridge, half a dozen men stood silently. To Ritscher it all conjured up images of bootleggers in a gangster movies, and for one second he felt like he was James Cagney. Or maybe Emil Jannings.

The Schwabenland prepares to launch its floatplane as it approaches Sao Vicente island

On a nod, the Schwabenland’s sailors started to work. One by one, the barrels of fuel descended onto the tugboat.

Off Fugloy, the Faroes Islands, the same night

Pointing the search projector towards the island, Glattes ordered a sailor to send the arranged signal – three short flashes, in rapid succession, followed by a longer one. After a few tense seconds – had they gone here only to find out that nobody was expecting them? – a torchlight flickered twice, somewhere on the coastline. Glattes let a sigh of relief – at least his journey, as disappointing as it had been, had not been in vain.

“Repeat the signal for confirmation” he ordered, turning towards the small group of men who until now had been anxiously waiting, huddled near the submarine’s conning tower. The watchers kept their binoculars trained at the pitch-black horizon, just in case a Danish ship paid the small island a surprise visit. But there was nothing to see, and the only noise was that of the waves washing over the submarine’s narrow “deck”. An inflatable boat had already been put to sea by the u-boot crewmembers, and Glattes’ passengers stood ready to embark on the small skiff. They were an odd lot, Glattes thought – definitely not the kind he had expected. When, at Bremerhaven, he had been told his passengers would all be Luftwaffe personnel, he had somehow foolishly supposed they would be paratroopers, commandos, off to a daring raid. But the four men who had boarded his submarine barely fitted that description. They were rather of the bookish persuasion, and their commanding officer, a Lieutenant named Premke, had looked so scrawny that Glattes had wondered how the man, with his pencil neck and thick glasses, hadn’t been turned away by the Luftwaffe recruiting station. During meals, in an officers mess that was so small that half the table had to stand up to make room for the passing sailors, the four “guests” had eaten in silence, trading only small talk. They had opposed mute and apologetic smiles to each and every question about their Faroese mission, however oblique. But of course, there was only so much that one could hide from the boat’s captain, particularly when said captain’s curiosity had been aroused by stony silence. So on the first night, as U-39 ventured into Norwegian waters, Glattes had paid the submarine’s hold a little visit. The four aviators, if that was what they really were, had embarked along with two small crates of equipment that had been stored there. Glattes had inspected the crates closely, half-tempted to pry one open. The first one had been the most revealing – on its sides, along with “Fragile / Handle with care”, was painted the logo of a company Glattes knew well enough – Siemens AG. The old radio equipment he had trained at the naval school, and the more modern one equipping his boat both came from that company’s Münich-based production lines. One didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what that crate contained. As for the other one, it bore no mark other than “Fragile / Precision instruments” and the Luftwaffe eagle and laurels.

So, Glattes had thought. No daring raid. No explosives and machine-guns. Instead, a radio transmitter and precision instruments. If we were closer to Scapa Flow, that would make sense, but the Faroes? There’s nothing to observe up there…

Glattes hadn’t questioned the airmen any further – it was not his role, after all, and he didn’t want to place his guests in a difficult position. But he had tried to recollect what he knew of Fugloy. It was one of the smallest pebbles of the group of islands, and probably the most inhospitable to man. The middle of the island was occupied by a large hilltop, whose slopes fell steeply into the sea, forming a wall of forbidding cliffs. Along the coastline, there was barely enough arable land to support a handful of families, regrouped in two coastal villages near the island’s natural port. From what Glattes knew, U-39’s meager crew outnumbered Fugloy’s entire population, which meant that though the island was barely bigger than his late father’s Pomeranian farm, four men could probably remain hidden from view practically forever on the island, particularly if some of the locals did lend a hand. He did not envied the Lutwaffe men, though – living in Fugloy looked bleak enough, but being holed up on the island with only a radio and a safehouse to communicate with the outside world, that was beyond Glattes’ comprehension, used as he may be to isolation.

“Captain?” said Auer, lowering his binoculars. “Signal confirmed. We should hurry up.”

“Damn right, Otto” said Glattes, turning to Premke. “Leutnant, this is where we part. No second thoughts?”

“Lots, actually, Captain” replied Premke with a quiet chuckle. “Thanks for your hospitality.”

“Any time, Leutnant Premke. Now, tell me. What on earth did you do to get this shitty assignment? Stole Fat Hermann’s Cognac and crashed his favorite Benz?”

“Boy, now do I wish I had!” chuckled Premke. “We all volunteered, can you believe it? Not that there were too many potential candidates, mind you.”

“Never volunteer, Lieutenant. So, what is it you and your men are going to watch over there? Seagulls?”

“Just a little higher, Captain” said Premke, pointing a finger at the sky. ”Just a little higher.”

Glattes looked up as Premke’s men, one by one, boarded the small rubber boat where sailors had already fastened the crates. All there was, over the tower, was the submarine’s dripping wet flag, frozen solid by the icy breeze. And over the glistening flag mast, the only visible thing was the rolling black clouds that hid the stars.

Ah, yes, thought Glattes. Of course. Weathermen.

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Writer’s notes :

Less numerous and less known than the more widely celebrated Type VII, the Type IX submarines were the Kriegsmarine’s first ocean-going boats. The IX-A submarines had two periscopes, a navigation scope and an attack scope, both installed in the conning tower.

U-39 was a real OTL Type IX submarine, though one built by Weser AG and not by IvS. Captain Glattes was indeed the boat's commanding officer.

IvS was a Dutch front of a German company that built submarines (in direct violation of the Versailles treaty) for the Kriegsmarine in the late 1920s-early 1930s. Here, with Holland moving towards a policy of closer cooperation with the Third Reich, IvS pursues its work for Germany as part of Raeder’s accelerated Z-plan.

Weather conditions were of course a major factor in military planning at the time of WW2, even more so than today – just think of the Ardennes offensive, or D-Day for examples of the influence of weather on major operations. Setting up some well-positioned weather stations, from which major weather changes could be anticipated, could therefore make all the difference for both sides’ general headquarters. A few years ago, I read a short article about a group of German soldiers sent to the Spitzberg islands (IIRC) to establish a secret weather station there. With Norway still neutral in this TL, and the Spitzberg being more densely populated (and also more closely scrutinized by the British) for a clandestine mission, I settled for the Faroes.

This ATL’s description of Fugloy is bleaker than the island deserves in real life. In the 1940s, Fugloy’s population was in fact somewhere around 100, though it began to dwindle because of the island’s rather poor agricultural resources, and its difficult access through an unprotected port.

The Schwabenland was the ship used by the German Polar Expedition of 1938-1939. Kapitän zur See Alfred Ritscher really did command the expedition, which reconnoitered the Antarctic shores, dropping metallic Nazi crosses on the polar icecap in an area near Queen Maud’s Land that Germany claimed as “Neuschwabenland”. Part of the expedition’s motives was indeed to establish a whaling station to boost the production of margarine. The main effect of the expedition, apparently, has been to fuel fantasies about secret Nazi U-boot/UFO bases.

[Atlantic Friend]

Originally Posted by basileus

I'm not convinced that a Christian Democrat regime was even remotely likely in 1938 Italy. A successor Fascist regime, anti-German, with say Balbo and Grandi as "consuls of the revolution", keeping a wathc over the King, would be far more likely. De Gasperi as Prime MInister in 1938 would be impossibile; he might be however a viceminister in some lesser ministry. Mattei is ruled out, he was too young at that time. And by the way he wasn't prosecuted by the Fascist regime; he was likely known as somewhat anti-Fascist, but no menace for the time being. He was a successful industrialist in Milan, with a little but prosperous chemical firm. He could make an economic counsellor, if someone with high acquaintances, maybe from Milanese banking (Mattioli?), introduces him into the right circles.

I'll stick to my guns regarding de Gasperi - he emerged as Italy's Prime Minister in 1945, after all, and had gained no additional statesman experience in the WW2 years. De gasperi interested me because of his past as a politician in both Austrian and Italian parliaments, and as a founder of a quite powerful pre-fascist party. Also, Fascist hardliners like Balbo are pushed aside by the Monarchy and the Church in this TL.

With Mattei, I agree that he's too probably young, but I coudldn't resist giving the ENI's founder some pre-WW2 halo.

Thanks for the info and input, BTW! I'll go to sleep a little less ignorant about Italian statesmen.