yeah, Churchill overplayed his hand. no way will anyone believe Herbert Morrison was a nazi
Feel the Bearn - A Timeline of France's Only Carrier in WWII and Beyond
- Thread starter Seafort
- Start date
Well, Churchill could try for the real idiot ball grand slam and try to assassinate Truman too.
Heck, I could see a Royal intervention with nonsense like this going down, and the most Republican of Brits would be in favor of it once the facts come out.
Heck, I could see a Royal intervention with nonsense like this going down, and the most Republican of Brits would be in favor of it once the facts come out.
This is the most insidious attempt I have ever seen at assassinating Stalin. By making him laugh to death.
Chapter 5 - Deluge
June 11th, 1945 4:30PM EST
Ernest Bevin rubbed his eyes as he was led through the bowels of the command center. The events of the last few hours had been like a whirlwind, and he was caught in the center of the storm. The leader of his party was dead. At least one other MP had been shot. And now an unknown number of Labour MPs had been arrested, taken into custody for conspiring with...Nazi agents? If it sounded preposterous that is because it was, he thought.
A soldier opened a door and a dour faced Winston Churchill stood up and greeted him.
"Thank you for coming, Ernest," said the Prime Minister warmly as he rose and extended his hand.
"There is no thanks needed," replied Bevin, shaking his hand. Churchill turned to the crimson tumbler before him.
"Would you care for a glass?"
"Please," said the Minister of Labour. Churchill pored him several ounces of Ararat brandy and they both sat down.
Bevins took a sip and winced.
Churchill chuckled. "It is a bit strong, is it not," he asked with a grin. "But I do say, it is the best brandy that I have ever had. And for only the second time in my life, my compliments to Stalin. The first time of course being his allyship against Hitler."
His guest said nothing and the grin faded from Winston's face. "It is times like tonight where the temptation to overindulge is the greatest."
"Indeed," replied Bevins, taking another sip. He sighed, then leaned forward. "Winston, I do not know what the evidence is, but to say that Herbert Morrison was aligned with the Nazis is preposterous!"
"Preposterous?" asked the Prime Minister. "Preposterous? Indeed, it is preposterous. As preposterous as Hitler signing the Treaty of Non Aggression with Stalin. Yet here we are."
He handed a binder of papers and photographs to Bevin. The Labour Minister began to shuffle through them. They were pictures of Morrison, Ellen Wilkerson, and other Labour MPs meeting with various people. Germans? thought Bevin, who could tell? Financial documents detailing under the radar payments in gold. Transcripts of communications between the accused and Soviet officials. The volume of evidence was far too great to digest in a such a short period.
"But why?", he asked
"For the Hun, revenge most assuredly," replied Winston. "For the Soviets, the same goal that has always buttressed their motivations. Worldwide revolution. A dictatorship of the proletariat. A dictatorship that undoubtedly Morrison and the radicals would seek to spearhead."
Bevins shook his head. "No, I cannot--"
"Ernest, you were on their list of targets too," replied the Prime Minister dourly. "They know as well as I that you are a committed anticommunist. Unlike Morrison and Wilkerson, you were never seduced in your youth by the radicalism that threatened to drag Europe back down into the abyss. And had you gone home tonight as was your routine, you would have met the same fate as Attlee."
The Labour Minister sagged back. Indeed, Bevins was on the right - perhaps the far right of Labour policy position. He always had been.
"Civilization cannot survive if it is yoked to a propertyless proletariat was one of your sayings, I believe," said Churchill. "And for that, they determined that indeed it was you who was unworthy to survive. I have seen the other targets, some who are now dead. The list that was recovered from Willie Gallacher's body was extensive and--"
"Gallacher's dead?", asked Bevins in growing sadness. "I was just at his bedside twenty minutes ago."
The Prime Minister was quiet for a moment. A darkness seemed to fall upon his countenance. Bevins noted that he was trembling.
"Winston, are you okay?"
And after another few seconds, he was. Churchill shook his head and apologized. "I am sorry. I think that the fact that I was nearly gunned down myself tonight is finally reaching the peripheries of my mind. And as exhilarating it is to escape one's demise is, it is also quite troubling."
He took another sip of his brandy. "The police had told me that Gallacher was dead when they found the materials on his body."
"He's on death's door," replied Bevins. "He was shot five times and is in a coma. He is not expected to survive."
"For a man of his caliber, I pray that he does not," said Churchill firmly. "Ernest, these materials are a blueprint for the destruction of the British Empire. The focus on the war blinded Attlee to the radicalism within his own movement. Indeed, there may be such agents within the Conservative party as well. I do not apologize for the single mindedness that we all have had in pursuing the defeat of the Nazi regime. But now we must open our eyes if we are to defeat the even greater threat that lies before us. The fate of Britain is in our hands. Undoubtedly, you have heard my address tonight. Now, more than ever is the time to put aside political differences. We must unite if we are to save our nation."
Churchill extended a hand. "Can I count on you, Ernest?"
Ernest Bevin rubbed his eyes as he was led through the bowels of the command center. The events of the last few hours had been like a whirlwind, and he was caught in the center of the storm. The leader of his party was dead. At least one other MP had been shot. And now an unknown number of Labour MPs had been arrested, taken into custody for conspiring with...Nazi agents? If it sounded preposterous that is because it was, he thought.
A soldier opened a door and a dour faced Winston Churchill stood up and greeted him.
"Thank you for coming, Ernest," said the Prime Minister warmly as he rose and extended his hand.
"There is no thanks needed," replied Bevin, shaking his hand. Churchill turned to the crimson tumbler before him.
"Would you care for a glass?"
"Please," said the Minister of Labour. Churchill pored him several ounces of Ararat brandy and they both sat down.
Bevins took a sip and winced.
Churchill chuckled. "It is a bit strong, is it not," he asked with a grin. "But I do say, it is the best brandy that I have ever had. And for only the second time in my life, my compliments to Stalin. The first time of course being his allyship against Hitler."
His guest said nothing and the grin faded from Winston's face. "It is times like tonight where the temptation to overindulge is the greatest."
"Indeed," replied Bevins, taking another sip. He sighed, then leaned forward. "Winston, I do not know what the evidence is, but to say that Herbert Morrison was aligned with the Nazis is preposterous!"
"Preposterous?" asked the Prime Minister. "Preposterous? Indeed, it is preposterous. As preposterous as Hitler signing the Treaty of Non Aggression with Stalin. Yet here we are."
He handed a binder of papers and photographs to Bevin. The Labour Minister began to shuffle through them. They were pictures of Morrison, Ellen Wilkerson, and other Labour MPs meeting with various people. Germans? thought Bevin, who could tell? Financial documents detailing under the radar payments in gold. Transcripts of communications between the accused and Soviet officials. The volume of evidence was far too great to digest in a such a short period.
"But why?", he asked
"For the Hun, revenge most assuredly," replied Winston. "For the Soviets, the same goal that has always buttressed their motivations. Worldwide revolution. A dictatorship of the proletariat. A dictatorship that undoubtedly Morrison and the radicals would seek to spearhead."
Bevins shook his head. "No, I cannot--"
"Ernest, you were on their list of targets too," replied the Prime Minister dourly. "They know as well as I that you are a committed anticommunist. Unlike Morrison and Wilkerson, you were never seduced in your youth by the radicalism that threatened to drag Europe back down into the abyss. And had you gone home tonight as was your routine, you would have met the same fate as Attlee."
The Labour Minister sagged back. Indeed, Bevins was on the right - perhaps the far right of Labour policy position. He always had been.
"Civilization cannot survive if it is yoked to a propertyless proletariat was one of your sayings, I believe," said Churchill. "And for that, they determined that indeed it was you who was unworthy to survive. I have seen the other targets, some who are now dead. The list that was recovered from Willie Gallacher's body was extensive and--"
"Gallacher's dead?", asked Bevins in growing sadness. "I was just at his bedside twenty minutes ago."
The Prime Minister was quiet for a moment. A darkness seemed to fall upon his countenance. Bevins noted that he was trembling.
"Winston, are you okay?"
And after another few seconds, he was. Churchill shook his head and apologized. "I am sorry. I think that the fact that I was nearly gunned down myself tonight is finally reaching the peripheries of my mind. And as exhilarating it is to escape one's demise is, it is also quite troubling."
He took another sip of his brandy. "The police had told me that Gallacher was dead when they found the materials on his body."
"He's on death's door," replied Bevins. "He was shot five times and is in a coma. He is not expected to survive."
"For a man of his caliber, I pray that he does not," said Churchill firmly. "Ernest, these materials are a blueprint for the destruction of the British Empire. The focus on the war blinded Attlee to the radicalism within his own movement. Indeed, there may be such agents within the Conservative party as well. I do not apologize for the single mindedness that we all have had in pursuing the defeat of the Nazi regime. But now we must open our eyes if we are to defeat the even greater threat that lies before us. The fate of Britain is in our hands. Undoubtedly, you have heard my address tonight. Now, more than ever is the time to put aside political differences. We must unite if we are to save our nation."
Churchill extended a hand. "Can I count on you, Ernest?"
Chapter 5 - Deluge
June 11th, 1945 6:53PM EST
Jaucques Cousteau's eyes flashed open. He squinted, the harsh lights overhead momentarily blinding him.
"Where...where am I," he asked.
"The Marblehead," replied Lieutenant Thomas Pritchard. "I'm the ship's head doctor. You were rescued from the water after your ship was attacked."
Cousteau tried to sit up and then winced.
"Take it easy, my friend," said Lt. Pritchard. "You have over eighty stitches in your shoulder and a heap more in your forehead."
Cousteau groaned.
"What of the crew?" he asked.
Before the doctor could answer a French crewmate leaned into view. "One hundred and fifteen feared dead, sir," answered Raymond Oullette. The quartermaster's arm was heavily bandaged. "Another eighty three are missing. The rest were successfully transferred to the Marblehead."
"And the Bearn?"
Oullete hesistated.
7:03PM EST
Cousteau limped onto the bridge. The Marblehead's captain, George Kraker put down his binoculars and faced the battered French officer.
"Welcome to the Marblehead, Mr. Cousteau," he said, extending a hand.
The French officer refused to take it.
"You cannot," he said. He drew a deep breath. He had lost a considerable amount of blood only hours earlier from the shrapnel that had punctured his shoulder and lacerated his forehead, and any exertion at this hour was taxing. "No," he continued, "You cannot scuttle my ship."
"That German submarine may still be out there," replied Captain Kraker. "We depth-charged the hell out of her but we saw no sign of debris. Besides, your ship is as good as dead anyway."
"Dead?", asked Cousteau, getting angrier by the moment. "I am told that her list has not increased in the last ninety minutes. She can still be saved!"
"I am not risking my men on that burnt out hulk."
Cousteau's vision narrowed, his anger growing. "The sea can be considered a universal sewer. I wonder which line of excrement deposited you into it?"
The Marblehead's captain was stunned. No one had ever spoken to him in such a fashion, and certainly not on his own bridge. He turned to a crewman.
"Mr. Jenson, please remove the French sailor back to--"
"I am returning to the Bearn," declared Jauques Cousteau. "With as many of my men who are willing to go. We shall seek to save her. To do otherwise is to invalidate the sacrifice of every Frenchman who has died so far. You may assist if you want. You may go home if you want. This is not about you. It is about the honor of France!"
7:22PM EST
The Bearn wallowed in the distance, listing at 22 degrees. While Cousteau had been accurate in saying that her list had not increased in over an hour and a half, she was imminently in danger of capsizing. All power was out, and the only illumination provided was the moonlight above and searchlights from the lingering Marblehead. Captain Krater had allowed Cousteau and 110 French sailors to attempt to salvage the carrier, but had assured them that the Marblehead would not be loitering if the German submarine returned.
Cousteau sat at the prow of one of five launches that were heading towards the darkened carrier. It would be a race against time to save the Bearn. Power would somehow have to be restored so that pumping operations could resume. Weakened bulkheads would have to be shored up. And as much topside weight as possible would need to be removed. He had no illusions of the difficulties of this task. But he had to try.
His head itched. Cousteau reached up and rubbed his forehead, then realized his fingers were wet. It was blood. Some of the stitches had torn as the launch was buffeted by waves. He adjusted his cap to ease the throbbing. The white beanie had been given to him by a Marblehead sailor to provide additional protection against the wind and waves just before he entered his boat. Now it was soaking up the blood that was oozing from his forehead.
On a separate launch another sailor took a series of photos of the return to the Bearn. He was a photography enthusiast and had managed to bring his camera with him when they had evacuated the carrier. It was equipped with Kodachrome film, and the expensive photos would be in color. They captured perfectly Jacques Cousteau waiting defiantly at the bow of his boat, preparing for his return to his ship. His beanie was now crimson, and the color photos that were to be produced painted it a vibrant red. The images of Cousteau in the red hat would become famous indeed.
Jaucques Cousteau's eyes flashed open. He squinted, the harsh lights overhead momentarily blinding him.
"Where...where am I," he asked.
"The Marblehead," replied Lieutenant Thomas Pritchard. "I'm the ship's head doctor. You were rescued from the water after your ship was attacked."
Cousteau tried to sit up and then winced.
"Take it easy, my friend," said Lt. Pritchard. "You have over eighty stitches in your shoulder and a heap more in your forehead."
Cousteau groaned.
"What of the crew?" he asked.
Before the doctor could answer a French crewmate leaned into view. "One hundred and fifteen feared dead, sir," answered Raymond Oullette. The quartermaster's arm was heavily bandaged. "Another eighty three are missing. The rest were successfully transferred to the Marblehead."
"And the Bearn?"
Oullete hesistated.
7:03PM EST
Cousteau limped onto the bridge. The Marblehead's captain, George Kraker put down his binoculars and faced the battered French officer.
"Welcome to the Marblehead, Mr. Cousteau," he said, extending a hand.
The French officer refused to take it.
"You cannot," he said. He drew a deep breath. He had lost a considerable amount of blood only hours earlier from the shrapnel that had punctured his shoulder and lacerated his forehead, and any exertion at this hour was taxing. "No," he continued, "You cannot scuttle my ship."
"That German submarine may still be out there," replied Captain Kraker. "We depth-charged the hell out of her but we saw no sign of debris. Besides, your ship is as good as dead anyway."
"Dead?", asked Cousteau, getting angrier by the moment. "I am told that her list has not increased in the last ninety minutes. She can still be saved!"
"I am not risking my men on that burnt out hulk."
Cousteau's vision narrowed, his anger growing. "The sea can be considered a universal sewer. I wonder which line of excrement deposited you into it?"
The Marblehead's captain was stunned. No one had ever spoken to him in such a fashion, and certainly not on his own bridge. He turned to a crewman.
"Mr. Jenson, please remove the French sailor back to--"
"I am returning to the Bearn," declared Jauques Cousteau. "With as many of my men who are willing to go. We shall seek to save her. To do otherwise is to invalidate the sacrifice of every Frenchman who has died so far. You may assist if you want. You may go home if you want. This is not about you. It is about the honor of France!"
7:22PM EST
The Bearn wallowed in the distance, listing at 22 degrees. While Cousteau had been accurate in saying that her list had not increased in over an hour and a half, she was imminently in danger of capsizing. All power was out, and the only illumination provided was the moonlight above and searchlights from the lingering Marblehead. Captain Krater had allowed Cousteau and 110 French sailors to attempt to salvage the carrier, but had assured them that the Marblehead would not be loitering if the German submarine returned.
Cousteau sat at the prow of one of five launches that were heading towards the darkened carrier. It would be a race against time to save the Bearn. Power would somehow have to be restored so that pumping operations could resume. Weakened bulkheads would have to be shored up. And as much topside weight as possible would need to be removed. He had no illusions of the difficulties of this task. But he had to try.
His head itched. Cousteau reached up and rubbed his forehead, then realized his fingers were wet. It was blood. Some of the stitches had torn as the launch was buffeted by waves. He adjusted his cap to ease the throbbing. The white beanie had been given to him by a Marblehead sailor to provide additional protection against the wind and waves just before he entered his boat. Now it was soaking up the blood that was oozing from his forehead.
On a separate launch another sailor took a series of photos of the return to the Bearn. He was a photography enthusiast and had managed to bring his camera with him when they had evacuated the carrier. It was equipped with Kodachrome film, and the expensive photos would be in color. They captured perfectly Jacques Cousteau waiting defiantly at the bow of his boat, preparing for his return to his ship. His beanie was now crimson, and the color photos that were to be produced painted it a vibrant red. The images of Cousteau in the red hat would become famous indeed.
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Chapter 5 - Deluge
June 11th, 1945 8:15PM EST
Paris, France
The basement was dark, the only light a surgical lamp shining down upon the body on the table in the center of the room. The man was dressed in civilian clothes and dirty. But unlike the other bodies from the day's attacks he had only a single wound evident.
Doctor Vigneault paused to look at the body before him.
"He died moments after the blast," he said. There were others in the room of course, observing silently. Vigneault continued, "A single gunshot wound to the head."
General Alphonse Pierre Juin stepped into view. The last few months had been a whirlwind for the Chief of Staff of French forces, having overseen the defeat of Germany and then traveling to San Francisco to help oversee the beginnings of the United Nations. "But he was one of the assassins," he said. "The only question remains, why was he in turn killed?"
Benoit Frachon approached the body. The French resistance leader and head of the country's communist party began to tap the edges of the table absentmindedly as he circled the table. "The first rule of assassination, of course. Kill the assassin. Regardless, we at least know who this individual was."
"Karl Falkenberg," said Jacques Soustelle. The head of the Special Services Branch looked down at his notepad. "Born in 1925, served this year under Skorzeny."
"So it was the Germans," said General Juin. "The British were right."
"Partially," replied Soustelle. "We found no evidence that any other parties were involved."
The DGHS Director looked at Frachon as he said so. The French Communist Party leader was unbowed. "Nor should there be," replied Frachon angrily. "There never has and never will be a collaboration between the people and the Hitlerites. Churchill is using these attacks to solidify his own power base."
"Indeed", said another voice from the shadows.
Charles De Gaulle stepped into the light and looked at the men before him. His face was even more drawn than ever, the lamp amplifying the creases that seemed to have grown even sharper in his face in the last week. He had been up for over twenty four hours and was exhausted. Better that, he thought, than to be dead in the next room. De Gaulle had taken the advice of Soustelle and began to use doubles after the liberation of Paris last year. There had been already been several assassination attempts on his life already, and he had reluctantly agreed to the measure. Now his double lay dead in the morgue in the room next to him, as did his good friend Gaston Pawlewski. His fatigue conflicted with the burgeoning rage that he felt within him. And the rage won.
"This attack was not only on me," he said. "It was an attack upon France. And there will be a reckoning."
Paris, France
The basement was dark, the only light a surgical lamp shining down upon the body on the table in the center of the room. The man was dressed in civilian clothes and dirty. But unlike the other bodies from the day's attacks he had only a single wound evident.
Doctor Vigneault paused to look at the body before him.
"He died moments after the blast," he said. There were others in the room of course, observing silently. Vigneault continued, "A single gunshot wound to the head."
General Alphonse Pierre Juin stepped into view. The last few months had been a whirlwind for the Chief of Staff of French forces, having overseen the defeat of Germany and then traveling to San Francisco to help oversee the beginnings of the United Nations. "But he was one of the assassins," he said. "The only question remains, why was he in turn killed?"
Benoit Frachon approached the body. The French resistance leader and head of the country's communist party began to tap the edges of the table absentmindedly as he circled the table. "The first rule of assassination, of course. Kill the assassin. Regardless, we at least know who this individual was."
"Karl Falkenberg," said Jacques Soustelle. The head of the Special Services Branch looked down at his notepad. "Born in 1925, served this year under Skorzeny."
"So it was the Germans," said General Juin. "The British were right."
"Partially," replied Soustelle. "We found no evidence that any other parties were involved."
The DGHS Director looked at Frachon as he said so. The French Communist Party leader was unbowed. "Nor should there be," replied Frachon angrily. "There never has and never will be a collaboration between the people and the Hitlerites. Churchill is using these attacks to solidify his own power base."
"Indeed", said another voice from the shadows.
Charles De Gaulle stepped into the light and looked at the men before him. His face was even more drawn than ever, the lamp amplifying the creases that seemed to have grown even sharper in his face in the last week. He had been up for over twenty four hours and was exhausted. Better that, he thought, than to be dead in the next room. De Gaulle had taken the advice of Soustelle and began to use doubles after the liberation of Paris last year. There had been already been several assassination attempts on his life already, and he had reluctantly agreed to the measure. Now his double lay dead in the morgue in the room next to him, as did his good friend Gaston Pawlewski. His fatigue conflicted with the burgeoning rage that he felt within him. And the rage won.
"This attack was not only on me," he said. "It was an attack upon France. And there will be a reckoning."
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Chapter 5 - Deluge
June 11th, 1945 11:30PM EST
Moscow
Laventiy Beria read the transcript and smiled. All evidence that had been found upon Falkenberg's body had been removed. The attempts by the SOE to provide linkage between supposed German assassins and communist sympathizers might have temporarily succeeded in Great Britain, but had no chance of success in France. While he was still perturbed that he had not been given notice of what was to take place in Britain, his sources within the Special Operations Executive had provided more than enough ample notice as to what was intended for De Gaulle.
A pity that De Gaulle had not been killed, he thought. Alas, although the linkage between the Soviet Union and the French Communist Party was strong, it was still not as firm as it could be. The double that had been used was an unknown wild card, but ultimately it did not matter. De Gaulle would eventually step down and be replaced, one way or another.
He opened another folder and perused the notes of Doctor Morrell further. He had provided ample evidence to his "treatments" over the years to Beria's agents, which in turn were the foundation for Project Deluge. It still galled him that a Biblical reference was to be utilized, but it was ultimately Stalin's suggestion after the operation was first proposed in February of the current year. Beria of course agreed. As if he had a choice.
The Project had been underway now for four months and had been showing unexpected results. At first, the hope was to destabilize Great Britain. She was viewed as the weakest of the Big Three as the defeat of Germany approached. A push here, a move there, and the idea of a friendlier, less obtrusive chess piece on the board was more than inviting. But as next month's election drew near, the chaos that had been unleashed had been beyond his wildest dreams. Stalin was seemingly pleased, if not struggling to keep ahead of the events that were rapidly transpiring in Great Britain and France. But in the end, both were certain that the Soviet Union would end up as masters of Europe.
Beria folded up the binder and made ready for his next report to Stalin. Again, he thought of the name. Deluge. Referring of course to the Great Flood.
He glanced down at the case before him. An identical case had been delivered to Churchill each month following his meeting with Stalin.
Project Deluge, he thought. He supposed it was fitting after all. After all, where did Noah land upon?
Ararat, of course.
Moscow
Laventiy Beria read the transcript and smiled. All evidence that had been found upon Falkenberg's body had been removed. The attempts by the SOE to provide linkage between supposed German assassins and communist sympathizers might have temporarily succeeded in Great Britain, but had no chance of success in France. While he was still perturbed that he had not been given notice of what was to take place in Britain, his sources within the Special Operations Executive had provided more than enough ample notice as to what was intended for De Gaulle.
A pity that De Gaulle had not been killed, he thought. Alas, although the linkage between the Soviet Union and the French Communist Party was strong, it was still not as firm as it could be. The double that had been used was an unknown wild card, but ultimately it did not matter. De Gaulle would eventually step down and be replaced, one way or another.
He opened another folder and perused the notes of Doctor Morrell further. He had provided ample evidence to his "treatments" over the years to Beria's agents, which in turn were the foundation for Project Deluge. It still galled him that a Biblical reference was to be utilized, but it was ultimately Stalin's suggestion after the operation was first proposed in February of the current year. Beria of course agreed. As if he had a choice.
The Project had been underway now for four months and had been showing unexpected results. At first, the hope was to destabilize Great Britain. She was viewed as the weakest of the Big Three as the defeat of Germany approached. A push here, a move there, and the idea of a friendlier, less obtrusive chess piece on the board was more than inviting. But as next month's election drew near, the chaos that had been unleashed had been beyond his wildest dreams. Stalin was seemingly pleased, if not struggling to keep ahead of the events that were rapidly transpiring in Great Britain and France. But in the end, both were certain that the Soviet Union would end up as masters of Europe.
Beria folded up the binder and made ready for his next report to Stalin. Again, he thought of the name. Deluge. Referring of course to the Great Flood.
He glanced down at the case before him. An identical case had been delivered to Churchill each month following his meeting with Stalin.
Project Deluge, he thought. He supposed it was fitting after all. After all, where did Noah land upon?
Ararat, of course.
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Dun, dun, dun... WOW, what a devilish twist! This actually explains quite a lot of Churchill's conduct and paranoia. Truly brilliant.
So I wonder whats happening with U-Boat's that are still out of the South Atlantic doing "things" they have 1 month left before they surrender to Argentina
U-530
U-977
And the sinking of the Brazilian cruiser Bahia which happened in 4 July 1945 but butterfly's could have done there job.
U-530
U-977
And the sinking of the Brazilian cruiser Bahia which happened in 4 July 1945 but butterfly's could have done there job.
Chapter 6 - Best Laid Plans
June 12th, 1945 2:00AM EST
Images swirled around him. Pictures of a great wall being constructed in a bombed out city. Of an old aircraft carrier being demolished. Sitting on the back of yacht, a blanket wrapped around him despite the heat of the summer. Of a blinding light over an immense city. They all flew by in rapid succession, so much so that he could scarcely ponder one before the next arose. He stood on the street before the Claridge Hotel, his face awash in the glow of the fires consuming its upper floors, and then -
Winston Churchill's eyes flashed open. He was laying with his head down upon the work desk before him in his bunker. An awful taste was in his mouth, and his stomach roiled.
An aide was gently shaking his shoulder.
"Sir, you're needed the ready room", the aide said in an urgent whisper.
"Why?", asked Winston. "What has happened?"
June 12th, 1945 2:01AM EST
Charles De Gaulle sat rigid at his desk. Although he was the only one speaking, his was surrounded by members of the Provisional Government. But they were not his audience. It was instead the people of France.
"I shall not hide the emotion that I feel," the General said. His voice began to quaver, but he continued. "It is the same emotion that seizes all of us, the men and women of France. We have been attacked once more by an enemy that refuses reason. That ignores a compassion that they in turn never gave, and that they do not now deserve.
Yesterday once more the Germans attacked France. Our France. The eternal France. And while I survived this latest assault, others did not.
But let us be certain. While the great French army has vanquished the German military from our land, it is not enough. This scourge has refused to submit to the will of not only France, but of our dear and admirable allies in Europe!"
June 12th, 1945 2:03AM EST
Joseph Stalin sat in his office. The leader of the Soviet Union listened without comment to De Gaulle's radio address, his pipe in his mouth. He had waved off his translator - he had learned enough French in recent years to understand what was being said.
An ornate radio before him was playing the crackling transmission of De Gaulle's speech. Laventiy Beria sat opposite of his leader and listened as well with increasing fascination.
"Well!", continued De Gaulle over the radio. "Since the Germans have refused to submit to the will of Europe, it is they who must be made to suffer! Now is a time for justice!"
Beria leaned closer.
"It is only the people of France who have shown themselves worthy of France," declared De Gaulle. "And it is the will of France that in the next forty eight hours, all German peoples vacate the territories of France!"
For the first time that morning, the hint of a smile crept onto Stalin's face.
Images swirled around him. Pictures of a great wall being constructed in a bombed out city. Of an old aircraft carrier being demolished. Sitting on the back of yacht, a blanket wrapped around him despite the heat of the summer. Of a blinding light over an immense city. They all flew by in rapid succession, so much so that he could scarcely ponder one before the next arose. He stood on the street before the Claridge Hotel, his face awash in the glow of the fires consuming its upper floors, and then -
Winston Churchill's eyes flashed open. He was laying with his head down upon the work desk before him in his bunker. An awful taste was in his mouth, and his stomach roiled.
An aide was gently shaking his shoulder.
"Sir, you're needed the ready room", the aide said in an urgent whisper.
"Why?", asked Winston. "What has happened?"
June 12th, 1945 2:01AM EST
Charles De Gaulle sat rigid at his desk. Although he was the only one speaking, his was surrounded by members of the Provisional Government. But they were not his audience. It was instead the people of France.
"I shall not hide the emotion that I feel," the General said. His voice began to quaver, but he continued. "It is the same emotion that seizes all of us, the men and women of France. We have been attacked once more by an enemy that refuses reason. That ignores a compassion that they in turn never gave, and that they do not now deserve.
Yesterday once more the Germans attacked France. Our France. The eternal France. And while I survived this latest assault, others did not.
But let us be certain. While the great French army has vanquished the German military from our land, it is not enough. This scourge has refused to submit to the will of not only France, but of our dear and admirable allies in Europe!"
June 12th, 1945 2:03AM EST
Joseph Stalin sat in his office. The leader of the Soviet Union listened without comment to De Gaulle's radio address, his pipe in his mouth. He had waved off his translator - he had learned enough French in recent years to understand what was being said.
An ornate radio before him was playing the crackling transmission of De Gaulle's speech. Laventiy Beria sat opposite of his leader and listened as well with increasing fascination.
"Well!", continued De Gaulle over the radio. "Since the Germans have refused to submit to the will of Europe, it is they who must be made to suffer! Now is a time for justice!"
Beria leaned closer.
"It is only the people of France who have shown themselves worthy of France," declared De Gaulle. "And it is the will of France that in the next forty eight hours, all German peoples vacate the territories of France!"
For the first time that morning, the hint of a smile crept onto Stalin's face.