David M Thomas - The Schneider Papers

‘He’s asked the Air Ministry for more money, did you know that?’ replied Starling accusingly.

‘Yes I did. Money well spent in my opinion, Group Captain,’ said Mason, defending his friend.

‘Got to work first Mason!’ was the gruff retort.

‘How do you know Frank Whittle?’ asked a voice behind him. It came from the double breasted suit from Whitehall.

‘We were at Central Flying School together, doing our flying instructor course,’ he answered.

‘And crashing planes’ quipped Starling, smiling mischievously. Yes, those were the days, thought Mason. Aerobatics in the unstable Gloster Gamecock was always a thrill, and he smiled to himself as mental images like a slideshow came and went.

There followed a slow series of lectures and discussion from the various invited airmen, each on his own speciality. Mason learnt about performance envelopes of various in-service German aircraft from Jacobs using the notice board, where he tin-tacked rows of black and white pictures, and then a slide and movie show of planes taking off and landing. The more they talked – inputs from Rhys on new airfields being built, including emergency landing grounds; timetables and extent of army tank combined with reconnaissance planes; fighter and light bomber aircraft manoeuvres from the ‘Supply and Research’ duo – the more apprehensive Mason became of the whole German war machine. He also realised how much Air Intelligence didn’t know. There were wide knowledge gaps. But overall, even with what was known, truly the Luftwaffe of September 1936 was quite impressive. Mason concluded the obvious: we are just not ready.

After a while, Group Captain Starling moved a chair to the head of the table and began, ‘You’ve heard the situation. We cannot get involved in a war with Germany at this time. We are simply not prepared. The army is the army. It is here, and we have the English Channel between us and Europe. The Royal Navy is a formidable force. It can block the English Channel against invasion, but, gentlemen, not indefinitely.’ He paused for effect. ‘We cannot guarantee air superiority. Without air superiority we cannot guarantee the safety of our cities. We need time. We need to know where Germany is in terms of airpower today, and where it will be next year, and the year after that. Coupled to what are they up to with new designs, new aircraft.’

He paused. There was a moment of silence. To Mason this is what he had secretly feared, to the others it was a recap of what they already knew and feared.

‘Very good, thank you gentlemen.’ Starling put both hands on the conference table and bowed his head in acknowledgement. That was their cue to leave. The supporting cast picked up their assorted maps and files and filtered silently through the door into the corridor. Last to leave was the man who introduced himself as being from Whitehall. He played absentmindedly with a pencil left on the table; as if miles away in his thoughts. He finally stopped; as if a conclusion had been reached. He jumped to his feet, buttoned his jacket, straightened his tie, winked at Mason, and hurriedly left without a glance at Group Captain Starling. Mason stayed behind; he knew Starling was not finished with him.

The nest was silent. It was quiet until the aircraftsmen had negotiated the noticeboard and associated paraphernalia through the doorway and back into the corridor and the door closed.

Then came the orders. ‘You and young Matthews are going to Berlin to see Group Captain Lefoy, our man at the embassy. Your task is to find out all you can about current and future Luftwaffe plans. What are they up to? More innovation or just upgrades to the existing bombers and fighters portfolio? And perhaps other little tasks.’ Starling gave a dismissive hand wave. ‘Lefoy will fill you in.’

Mason got the distinct impression that Starling was not fully in the picture. Even a senior member of Air Intelligence was in the dark. So who’s in charge? Who’s pulling the strings?

‘There was no need for Matthews to be at this briefing. Regard Lefoy as your coordinator; your team leader. His show.’

The last two words were said deliberately slowly, and for added emphasis Starling gave Mason a long theatrical stare. Let that sink in. He knew Mason. He had his medical and psychological file on his desk.

‘You will leave for Berlin separately. Wilkinson, my Adjutant, will fill you in on your travel plans. Meanwhile,’ he raised and dropped both arms, ‘we plod on here,’ he said with a warm smile, but the body language indicated a degree of helplessness.

‘You leave next week. Wilkinson will give you your travel documents and currency.’ There was a pause. Starling, his lips now pursed, got up from his chair, walked around the table, and shook Mason’s hand firmly and slowly. ‘Good luck Squadron Leader.’

Starling, after a while, added, ‘Mind how you go.’ Too late. Mason had gone.

***

The Adjutant, Squadron Leader Wilkinson, was waiting for him in the corridor. He looked harried and had two cardboard file boxes under his arm. ‘Follow me, office just down here.’

As they walked, the bellowing voice of Group Captain Starling stopped both of them in their tracks. Starling was in the corridor, now walking the other way. Wilkinson stopped, recalled by his master. ‘You go ahead, its room 255 on the left. Won’t be long,’ followed by an exasperated, ‘I hope.’

Matthews was already there. Both raised their eyebrows in greeting. For a few seconds they sat in silence. Mason thought of the meeting and then the last time he was in the building, and all that unravelled afterwards. Matthews cleared his throat, moved his chair slightly sideways towards Mason and crossed his legs. ‘I was told that there was an overseas economics exercise I was to be part of, and told to report here for nine o’clock.’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘And I’ve just been with a Wing Commander Air Intelligence economics section and a Secret Service type chap down the corridor. We talked about the new German Four Year Plan, and they told me you would turn up, and I was to be with you for the Group Captain Starling meeting.’

‘Well you’re one up on me, I was just told to be here. Period,’ replied Mason, slightly piqued that young Matthews had been given more information. But he had been in the service long enough to know that he would know when it was decided he needed to know.

The door opened suddenly and in bounded Wilkinson. ‘Apologies and all that,’ he said with a grimaced smile. It was obviously not easy working for Group Captain Starling.

As soon as they had sat down at his desk, Wilkinson opened a top left hand drawer and retrieved two passports, and two sheets of typed paper. He glanced at both passport names and married passports to the sheets of paper.

‘One for you, and one for you,’ he said, handing each a passport and a job description summary. ‘This is your cover. You, Mason, are George Madden, a newspaper journalist, and you, Matthews, are John Anderson, an economics journalist. Madden, you work for the Daily Sketch, and Anderson for the Manchester Guardian. Please read and memorise your new identities.’ They both read their life histories. He also presented each of them with business cards made out to their new lives. ‘This is not going to help you get out of serious cross examination, just the cursory ‘hello sir, and who might you be?’ type of question,’ and with that Wilkinson sat back in his chair. As far as he was concerned, that was it. Job done. Mission completed. Both of them, for a moment, stared at Wilkinson and at their new passports, before putting them away in inside jacket pockets. Both decided, independently, not to ask questions. No point. Wilkinson didn’t have the answers.