Derek Pennington: The German Peace

Ajax had been en route to Gibraltar when she had received fresh orders from the Admiralty and been diverted to Lisbon.

Normally under international rules, warships from a country at war would only be allowed to visit a neutral country for a maximum stay of twenty four hours. However, in these special circumstances, the Portuguese were turning a blind eye to this limitation, citing the need for ‘emergency repairs’ required by Ajax. This was with the tacit understanding of the German ambassador in Lisbon.

Portugal was Britain’s oldest ally. The Anglo-Portuguese treaty of 1373 was the oldest alliance in the world still in force. However, in this current war Britain deliberately did not seek assistance from Portugal as they considered the non-belligerent role of that country was essential if they wanted to keep neighbouring pro-German Spain from entering the war on the side of Germany.

Now the guns of Ajax were a reassuring sight to the British delegation.

Their aircraft landed safely and taxied as directed, to an isolated but well- guarded part of the airport. There, several motor cars were waiting for them, together with a motorised detachment of tough looking Portuguese soldiers under the command of a Colonel. After a courteous welcome to Portugal by the officer, who spoke excellent, if heavily accented, English, he wasted no further time and whisked them away to their designated accommodation in the city.

This turned out to be a beautiful old villa on the outskirts of Lisbon, part of an estate of the old nobility. The German delegation was housed in something similar on the adjoining estate. The grounds of both were heavily patrolled by Portuguese soldiers.

In between these two residences was an imposing summer house. A perfect meeting place. Neutral ground, as it were.

After seeing the British settled in, the Portuguese Colonel wished them a comfortable stay and departed, taking his escort with him. There were more than enough soldiers guarding the locality already.

The meeting with their German counterparts was scheduled for nine a.m. the following morning. The British decided to meet in one hour for an evening drink before dinner. “Then, I think an early night is called for,” Halifax stated. “We have to have our wits about us tomorrow.”

Apart from Lord Halifax, the British delegation consisted of General Alan Brooke, his aide — Major Jeremy Blackstone, Halifax’s personal secretary, and another civilian who went by the name of Oliver Smyth, ostensibly with the Foreign Office.

General Brooke, aged fifty seven, was from an aristocratic background and had been in the army since 1902. He had served in The Great War with distinction and was regarded as one of the British Army’s foremost generals. Unusually for a soldier, he had built a strong relationship with the Chief of the RAF, which had established a vital basis of co-operation between the two military services. This was something that had long been needed, as the Germans had shown in their recent lightning campaigns.

A man not known for a sense of humour, Brooke was sober, thoughtful, determined. He was considered to be an astute judge of military strategy. He had been at the battle for Dunkirk but, despite pleading to be allowed to stay, he had been firmly ordered to return to England before the surrender. A fellow General later reported that Brooke was severely overcome with emotion at having to leave his men in such crisis.

This was the man, second only to Lord Halifax, who would attempt to negotiate peace with Germany.

Brooke’s aide, Major Blackstone, thirty five, was from an old English family with a history of providing sound and capable servants of the crown, notably in the civil service and the army. Jeremy Blackstone was now the fourth generation of Blackstones to hold a commission in his regiment, the Lancashire Fusiliers.

He had an older brother James, who was a Member of Parliament. His sister, Katherine, one year older than him, was a professional yacht captain, a very rare occupation for a female. She skippered a beautiful classic sailing yacht for a wealthy banker. This job that had been interrupted by the war, when she volunteered for the Royal Navy. A younger brother, George, was a doctor. Jeremy’s father, Horace Blackstone, was a senior civil servant, being Permanent Secretary to the Treasury.

Jeremy had been personally selected by General Brooke to assist him at these talks.

The civilian Oliver Smyth, if that was his real name, had been foisted on Halifax by MI6. As a seasoned intelligence officer, his brief was to listen and learn.

In the adjacent villa the Germans were doing more or less the same as their opposite numbers. Perhaps a little more wine was being consumed at dinner; after all they were the ones calling the shots — weren’t they? They were the masters of Europe.

While this feeling was perhaps understandable in the circumstances, it was an attitude that the Foreign Minister stamped down hard upon the minute he noticed it.

The composition of their delegation mirrored that of the British.

Apart from Baron von Altendorf, the military had sent General Rommel as their representative.

Rommel, forty nine, had been a highly decorated officer in The Great War. He had distinguished himself as a commander of a Panzer division during the invasion of France over the past weeks. He was a superb exponent of speed, surprise and manoeuvre: the tactics employed by the panzers in the campaign that had been so stunningly successful.

He was a leader of men. Direct, unbending, tough in his manners, both to superiors and subordinates alike. He did not suffer fools gladly. In earlier years he had supported Adolf Hitler and his policy of re-armament, but he had later become disillusioned and now held the Nazis and their ideology in contempt.

Rommel’s aide was a newly appointed captain in the Luftwaffe, Adolf Galland. They had met for the first time the previous day. Galland had been a pilot since 1932 and had flown combat missions in Spain in support of the Nationalists under General Franco. He had later been attached to the air ministry before becoming a fighter pilot. Galland was a clear thinker with a no nonsense approach to military matters.

There was also a civilian named Horst Brandt. He was military intelligence and had been sent by Admiral Canaris.

The Foreign Minister addressed the company.

“I have detected a small measure of arrogance, even condescension, towards the British, among us. THIS STOPS NOW!

Remember, it us that approached the British for these talks. They may have suffered a major defeat at our hands at Dunkirk, but they are by no means, a defeated nation. The Royal Navy is still the most powerful navy in the world, and the Royal Air Force is still intact.” He gave each of the delegates a cold stare.

“We will assemble at the meeting house at eight fifty five a.m. sharp; to welcome our opposite numbers, who I expect will be there promptly at nine a.m. Goodnight gentlemen.” He left the dining room.

Somewhere off the south coast of Ireland, Karl Schiller, captain of the German submarine U-48, was peering intently through his periscope at the enemy convoy. The sea state was moderate. Visibility was good. He had positioned his ship perfectly. A nice big merchantman would pass directly in front of him. He would only need one torpedo to send it to the bottom of the sea. He couldn’t miss!

After that they could all go home. The crew could have some well-deserved rest and recreation, and U-48 needed some serious maintenance. He desperately looked forward to seeing his family again. They had been at sea for three weeks. It had been an uneventful cruise until now.