World War Two Will Not Take Place
Bill James
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This first world edition published 2011
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
Copyright © 2011 by Bill James.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
James, Bill, 1929-
World War Two will not take place.
1. World War, 1939-1945–Diplomatic history–Fiction.
2. Secret service–Great Britain–Fiction. 3. Undercover
operations–Germany–Berlin–Fiction. 4. Berlin
(Germany)–History–1918-1945–Fiction. 5. Great
Britain–History–George VI, 1936-1952–Fiction.
6. Alternative histories (Fiction)
I. Title
823.9′14-dc22
ISBN-13: 978-1-7801-0012-8 (ePub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8003-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-330-4 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
BOOK TWO
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
BOOK THREE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
For a good deal of factual guidance on this period I am indebted to Munich, The 1938 Appeasement Crisis, by David Faber (Simon and Schuster), and The Climate Of Treason, by Andrew Boyle, though what I’ve made of this guidance is, of course, my own responsibility. As the title would indicate, this book adjusts some history.
La Guerre de Troie n’aura pas lieu
(The Trojan war won’t happen)
– Jean Giraudoux
BOOK ONE
ONE
Mount flew to Berlin-Templehof in the afternoon, passported as Stanley Charles Naughton, businessman. Section kept a service apartment under the S.C. Naughton name off Hindenburgdamm in Steglitz, a sedate, tree-lined suburb to the south-west of the capital. Mount had used it several times in the last couple of years and considered the address still reasonably anonymous. The apartment itself was on the second floor in a very modern, New Objectivity – Neue Sachlichkeit – style block, built in the late 1920s or early 1930s, Mount would guess, though much of the district’s imposing grey stone and red-brick property went back to mid nineteenth century. It was a suitable kind of prosperous, developing area for the pied-à-terre of a British company’s visiting executive. But no matter how right it might be, Section wouldn’t lease this kind of accommodation for more than three years. An unusual pattern of usage – or more a non-pattern – might get it noticed. There’d be a change soon.
Mount knew what his mission was, of course. Stephen Bilson had briefed him earlier today in that painstaking style of his. But Mount had wondered (1) whether the objective was achievable; and (2) whether, even if it were, it would make much difference to the general international condition of power and politics.
Mount often wondered if his journeys and various activities for the Section had much point. But, as Stephen Bilson told him not long ago, ‘In this kind of work little is absolutely plain, Marcus.’ The suggestion here was that, looking back later on, Mount might hindsight-understand how seemingly useless operations fitted into a master plan. And Mount would admit SB’s hint usually turned out true – or as true as anyone could expect in this kind of work, where so little was absolutely plain, or absolutely true, or absolutely anything. Bilson had served in France throughout the war and was at the Somme. He may have often wondered how – or if – some slaughterous spell of combat contributed to a general strategy. During such bloody fighting he’d picked up two medals, even if, at those moments, he hadn’t properly understood this or that battle’s objective.
Just the same, Mount continued to think his present mission especially dud and doubted it would ever be proved otherwise. Bilson’s decision to send him to Berlin had been too rushed, too impulsive. These were untypical words to use about SB, who habitually displayed absolute calm in all weathers, and whose thinking was methodical, sane, clear; except, obviously, at those times – fairly frequent – when it had to get professionally serpentine and, or, fog-producing, in the nation’s interest.
There’d been an episode at another airfield yesterday: Heston, not far from London. Mount and Bilson had gone there together. Would it be exaggerating to describe SB’s reaction to events at Heston as near panic? Mount didn’t want to call it that. He needed something to believe in and, often, SB and his level-headedness and medals had been it. However, standing with Stephen Bilson then, on the rim of the crowd at Heston, Marcus Mount had thought he detected a quite swift, painful change of reactions in his chief: a move from satisfaction bordering on relish, towards anxiety bordering on despair. Mount had tried to work out what caused this, and when. Bilson had seemed fine, and more than fine, while they waited for the Lockheed to appear out of the clouds and make its descent. This seemingly bland mood persisted right up until the plane completed its landing and the Prime Minister appeared at the top of the steps, waving his peace piece of paper. But, surely, that’s what SB had schemed for. Why should it distress him now, offend him now?
Chamberlain had done the job that Stephen, in his devious, oblique, commanding style, must have managed him into doing, or helped manage him into doing, at any rate. Shouldn’t Bilson feel and display delight? Some details of the PM’s performance were, on the face of it showy and vulgar – did Chamberlain need to beam so manically, flourish the document so frenetically? – but that, surely, could not cancel the central, core worth of what he’d achieved in Munich. Politics would always be vulgar, and war politics especially. Chamberlain had the kind of face that found excitement or enthusiasm difficult to register. There seemed to be something permanently cowed and nervy to him, even when he talked as if he had nothing to be cowed and nervy about. At Heston, in fact, he had a kind of triumph to report, didn’t he? Did he?
When the next morning – this morning – Mount had spoken in the Section to Olly Fallows and Nick Baillie, about the Heston events, he’d said: ‘Of course, I might be wrong about a swing of attitude in SB. He’s not easy to read.’
‘Harder than The Waste Land,’ Fallows said.
‘He’s sending me to Berlin at once – “Sub rosa, entirely sub rosa.” But the whole thing at Heston should have been
a celebration,’ Mount said. ‘He’d actually created the scene.’
‘Well, yes, in a sense,’ Baillie said.
‘I’m sure Chamberlain wouldn’t have gone and acted compliant, except for him,’ Mount said. ‘And wouldn’t have come back with promises for the adoring crowd and the relieved country, but for him.’
‘They’re known to have private conclaves, yes,’ Baillie said. ‘Stephen hates war.’
‘He was good at it,’ Fallows said.
‘He wouldn’t want more,’ Mount said.
‘But he’d also realize that war might be inevitable, and a delay would give us more time to stock up on the arms and barrage balloons and gas masks and blanco,’ Baillie said.
‘That’s presumably why he wanted to be there for the PM’s return at Heston,’ Fallows said. ‘He’d like to see the completion of his work at first hand. He took you with him, Marcus, to learn in a very vivid way what his purpose was, and what the Section’s purpose should be – and perhaps to pass on that message to the rest of us young underlings. Did he say, “Marcus! Come along, sonny boy, and witness the sterling results of our work?”’
‘Normally, he’d hate to join any public display for fear he’d get identified,’ Baillie said. ‘But he must have thought the PM’s mission exceptionally, uniquely, successful – demanding his formal presence at the welcome home. He’s persuaded Neville to stop a war.’
‘Or, at least, postpone a war,’ Mount said.
Perhaps Fallows and Baillie had it right. Possibly Bilson had wanted to educate Mount via the drama of Heston. And nobody could say it wasn’t dramatic. The happy tension could be felt, in fact, long before Bilson and Mount actually reached Heston yesterday in the car. The narrow approach roads to the airport were jammed with vehicles and people on foot determined to make a joyful reception for Chamberlain. And when Bilson and Mount did reach the airfield they found a huge gathering of excited folk had assembled. Mount felt a kind of carnival spirit. Among the crowd he saw what he judged from their formal clothes to be a party of Eton schoolboys. Good God, there would be more than a hundred! They’d obviously been given leave to witness these triumphant moments. News of the Prime Minister’s success in his talks with the Führer had, of course, reached Britain a good while ahead of his plane.
Like everyone else there, the boys continually stared up into the grey skies, looking for the airliner with the Prime Minister aboard. Such a turnout! And perhaps Chamberlain deserved it. Yes, perhaps, Mount decided. In a little while, he’d heard the aircraft’s engine, and then, after a couple more minutes, he spotted the plane descending majestically towards Heston. The Super-Lockheed 14 landed, taxied and came to a stop. Airport staff placed steps in position. The door opened, and Neville Chamberlain appeared and waved happily to the people. Instantly, a cheer of response erupted. The Etonians, in a group and obviously organized, yelled his name, with the accent heavily on the first syllable: Neville, Neville, Neville. He came down the steps and turned to where microphones had been placed on the tarmac. He waved a piece of paper. ‘This morning I had another talk with the German Chancellor, Herr Hitler, and here is a paper which bears his name upon it as well as mine. It asserts the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with each other again.’ He waved the paper once more. The crowd gave a huge, prolonged cheer.
It was not long after this that Mount thought he noticed the abrupt and huge change in Bilson’s mood. Mount wondered whether SB objected to that noisy claque of Eton schoolboys. But Bilson himself had, of course, come from one of the top public – meaning private – schools or he’d never have been invited into his present job. He’d know – just as Mount knew from his own school days – that the kids of well-heeled families could be especially excitable and loud. Bilson’s attitude on social class might be complex, though. Apparently, he’d insisted on joining up as an ordinary soldier in 1914. The commission didn’t come till well into the war – late 1916.
He and Mount had watched the Prime Minister’s Daimler eventually move off on the way back to London. Other cars tagged behind in a triumphal procession, some carrying Press and broadcasting people, but most simply enthusiasts and sightseers. Several drivers blared their horns repeatedly in salute. At least this made sure the string of vehicles couldn’t be mistaken for a funeral cortège, though the misery Mount sensed in Bilson might suggest a funeral was what it definitely was. Perhaps his sadness came from a larger cause than the schoolboys’ behaviour. Did Stephen think he’d suddenly glimpsed the end of that vastly variable and internationally disputed quality, British honour? He’d wanted proper recognition of what the PM had achieved, but not on such a noisy, delirious, unthinking, reverential scale.
This morning, the Press was almost uniformly enthusiastic about the Munich trip. The Times had headlined its report of the meeting ‘A Cordial Welcome From The Führer’, and the Labour Daily Herald had sent him off with the large type message ‘Good Luck’ and spoken of united, cross-party support for his efforts.
At Heston, yesterday, SB gave the Daimler and its tail of admirers and news hounds half an hour to get clear, then followed. ‘He’ll report to the king now and most probably to the Cabinet in the morning,’ he’d said. ‘Delight all round. Out on the palace balcony with all the majesticals for the crowd, I expect. Our monarch, Edward, and his wife, Wallis, are fond of Adolf, aren’t they? It’s part of their affection for Europe. She’s American. To her, Europe is Europe, whether it’s Hitler’s bit or someone else’s. They have minds that generalize – are not good at differentiating. They’ll be delighted with the outcome – pleased that the Prime Minister has preserved good feelings between the two countries. Come to me at noon tomorrow, Marcus. I’ll want you to get over sub rosa, entirely sub rosa, to Berlin immediately.’ He spoke it all in the same, matter-of-fact tone, as if Mount’s trip must naturally follow the PM’s encounter with the king and the Cabinet and all the majesticals – a natural, inevitable part of the same sequence.
Mount said: ‘May I ask what is the—?’
‘Noon. Silence on this, please, Marcus.’
But Mount had mentioned it to Nick and Ollie the next morning, this morning, as part of his account of the Heston sequence. ‘At first, Stephen seemed happily caught up with waiting for the Lockheed,’ Mount said. ‘Then, only minutes afterwards, it’s as if he suddenly had massive second thoughts.’
‘A revelation had hit him,’ Baillie said. Nick was usually quick and definite in his judgements. ‘SB might be the sort for epiphany-type revelations: super-balanced most of the time, but if that balance is disturbed by some epiphany – some massive revelation – his mind becomes very, very disturbed. This could shove our master towards breakdown, temporary or worse. It’s a familiar psychological pattern. It would be made worse, perhaps, when he heard the PM had been invited to the Palace to get the king’s thanks face to face. And the crowd outside yelling, “We want Chamberlain! We want Neville!” Then, later, much the same at ten Downing Street.’
‘Suddenly, this very unlogged, false-papers mission to Berlin,’ Mount said.
‘To do what?’ Fallows said.
‘He’ll brief me personally later today. For my ears only,’ Mount said. ‘I’m packed.’
‘Skulduggery?’ Fallows asked.
‘I assume no weaponry,’ Mount said. ‘How does he get me something from the armoury if I’m not just sub rosa, but entirely sub rosa?’
‘Think you’ll need something?’ Baillie said.
‘It’s Berlin,’ Mount said.
‘Well, yes,’ Baillie said.
‘Maybe he’ll draw a handgun on the face of it for himself and let you borrow,’ Fallows said.
‘You think so?’ Mount said.
‘No,’ Fallows said. ‘You might go and kill someone and the gun could be traced to him.’
‘Who might I go and kill?’ Mount said.
‘That’s for you to decide,’ Fallows said. ‘Some SS thug giving you bother? How can I tell? You’re skimping the i
nformation, Marcus.’
‘I’m skimping because I haven’t got any,’ Mount said. ‘Not till I see him, and it might be half mystery even then.’
‘Be severe with him,’ Fallows said.
‘With SB?’
‘Come right out with it: “How’s about a pistol, plus fifty rounds and a silencer, then, SB?” And he’ll see the reasonableness of this and say, “Glad you asked, young Marcus. Have a brace and a hundred.” And you’ll reply, selflessly, “Won’t this leave you light on one gun hip, sir? I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that. A single will do, and the fifty.”’
‘I do love humour,’ Mount had replied.
Now, he took a taxi from Templehof Airport to the empty apartment. It was neat and spruce: the building management sent a cleaning firm in once a fortnight whenever the place stood unoccupied for a while. The wallpaper always struck him as William Morris-y: mostly dark green, plenty of lively leaves and stalks and gleams of sun through the foliage, very much pro-Nature, especially jungles. Mount could put up with the furniture. It had been bought to chime with the modernity of the apartment. A nest of three very black Bakelite tables sickened him a bit, but he liked the tall, slim hall mirror on a stand and the wide laminated birch and metal armchairs.
Several bronze and ivory statuettes of limbs-flung dancing girls cheered things up in the living room. This had two windows looking over the street. He raised the Venetian blinds. He’d leave these windows uncovered. The lights made an announcement: someone had arrived and required a visitor. It had been important to get an apartment on at least the second or third floor, so the message could be obvious, and so people walking the pavement couldn’t gawp in. This signalling mimicked brothels, though their lights would be red, of course. It was one of the most primitive taught procedures for getting in touch with an agent, and fairly safe, although lights on in the day could cause curiosity. Telephoning would not have been primitive. Nor would it have been safe. Calls were randomly listened in on. Telegrams, even coded telegrams, could be a giveaway. Perhaps someone would wonder why they needed to be coded.
