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CHAPTER 1 - THROWBACK

He woke, and instantly wished that he hadn’t.  The throbbing headache which consumed him seemed to extend beyond his head into every part of his body.  He began to moan, but stopped abruptly as the ache intensified.  He lay unmoving, gritting his teeth, enduring in silent desperation. 

After an indeterminate period, the pain subsided enough to risk an attempt at coherent thought.  What on earth had he done last night?  He was not a heavy drinker, and besides, the worst hangover he could recall was a pale shadow of this suffering.  Had he been in an accident?  Fallen ill?  He gingerly searched his memory, but could find nothing to account for such appalling agony.  The pain gradually dimmed further.  Slowly, he opened his eyes to the dull light of early morning.

He was lying on his back, staring at a ceiling.  The ceiling was plain, with an old-fashioned frilly lampshade surrounding the single bulb.  The lampshade stayed steady and his head remained intact.  Adventurously, he turned his head sideways and immediately shut his eyes to ward off the surge of nausea.  Time passed.  Slowly, he opened his eyes again.  No reaction.  He took stock of what he could see.

The wallpaper was dull and also old-fashioned.  So was the varnished wooden door and the brown Bakelite light switch next to it.  Puzzlement began to grow.  He was certainly not in his bedroom, nor in anyone else’s that he recognised.  Curiosity overcoming the gradually receding pain, he raised his head.  A thin, brass curtain rail, suspending thin, drab curtains, framed a sash window.  A further effort brought a pair of discoloured brass taps into view, followed by a porcelain washbasin on a metal stand, framed and partly obscured by the foot of a brass bedstead.  A pair of brown leather shoes completed his field of view.  He wiggled his feet and the shoes moved in sympathy.  Turning his head to the other side, he saw a large wardrobe in dark wood.  There was nothing else in the room, apart from a wooden chair on which sat his holdall.  

Experimentally he tried moving his legs.  They obeyed orders promptly.  The pain was fading rapidly now, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed with more confidence.  Slowly sitting upright, he took stock.

He appeared to be uninjured, and although weak and shaky, did not feel ill.  He was fully dressed, still possessed a full wallet and his keys, and he confirmed (after a careful stretch to the chair) that his holdall retained its usual contents.  Not a robbery, then.  A careful shuffle to the end of the bed gave him a limited view of rooftops with a larger structure some distance beyond.  At first, the rooftops caught his attention.  There was something odd about them.  The wisps of smoke rising from the chimneys was an unusual sight, but he suddenly realised that what puzzled him wasn’t anything he could see, but something he couldn’t see: there were no aerials;  not a satellite dish, not even the most humble antenna. 

Something else nagged at him.  He looked at the structure in the distance.  It appeared to be an enormous, barrel-roofed greenhouse with towers at each end.  He stared at it blankly, until he gradually realised that his memory was telling him what it was, but his mind was refusing to accept the data.  He was looking at the Crystal Palace.

For a long time he sat unmoving, his mind jammed by the utter impossibility of the evidence of his eyes.  Slowly, his thoughts unfroze.  He could not deny what he was seeing: the pride of the Great Exhibition of 1851, moved from Hyde Park to a permanent home at Sydenham Hill, destroyed by fire in the 1930s. 

Destroyed by fire in the 1930s – nearly seventy years ago!  His mind locked again and he fought desperately to regain some equilibrium.  He tried to think logically, to build on small steps.  How did he know this was the Crystal Palace?  Because he had seen pictures a hundred times, there was nothing of this size remotely like it.  How did he know when it was destroyed?  Because he was a historian, it was his business to know.  So which year did he think he was in?  2004, at the end of the summer.  How did he know that?  Because he was a lecturer at London University, preparing for the next academic year.  Knowledge flooded back into him as if a dam had burst.

His name was Don, Dr Don Erlang.  He repeated this out loud, to make sure it sounded right.  The sound of his own voice in the quiet room startled him.  He was forty years old, divorced five years ago, living alone in a flat in Kennington.  He couldn’t possibly be seeing the view out of the window, and as he never took hallucinogens he must be experiencing an extremely vivid dream.  Feeling very self-conscious, he pinched himself hard.  It hurt.  The Crystal Palace floated serene and unperturbed in the distance.  He tottered to the washbasin, poured some cold water, splashed it into his face, then looked up.  Still there.  This close to the window, he could see more.

The street was cobbled; near by was a junction with a larger road.  Ancient cars crossed the narrow field of view.  A couple pushed a pram across the junction, the woman in a long dress and coat, the man wearing a trilby.  The pram had huge overlapping wheels.  His mind dived for cover again and he forced it to work with an effort of will.  There had to be a rational explanation. 

The simplest was that he was suffering from an intense delusion.  How this came to be, he had no idea.  Certainly life was much less rewarding these days, with steady increases in class sizes, pressures to research and publish, the obtrusive quality assessments.  Still, it wasn’t so bad that he was likely to have cracked under the pressure.  His discipline was his all-consuming interest, indeed a contributory cause of the failure of his marriage.  He knew more about the military history of the Twentieth Century than all but a handful of other academics and his life was in its study.

Suppose he had lost his sanity?  What should he, could he, do about it?  How should he behave?  Most immediately, what should he do now?

He realised that he would have to leave this room, and instantly felt a strong reluctance to do so.  The room was a little old-fashioned, but it was known, safe, explicable.  The outside world was another matter.  He forced himself to straighten up from the sink, walk to the chair, pick up his bag and walk to the door.  It felt like a journey towards unknown terrors.  He braced himself, opened the door and walked out.

Autumn 1934

Afterwards, Don remembered little of the building he walked through.  It appeared to be some sort of low-cost boarding house but he met no-one to ask.   The street was equally deserted, so he walked to the junction with the main road.  The light breeze did not entirely dispel the smell of smoke.

Across the road there were some shops, one of them a newsagent.  He walked over, feeling an icy chill of apprehension.  A looming shape and the blare of a horn caused him to jump quickly to the pavement.  He entered the shop and approached the piles of newspapers.  The nearest had the headline ‘THOUSANDS OFF THE MEANS TEST’.  He noted vaguely that it was the Daily Mirror, and that the lead story was about Government efforts to help the workless.  It took a real effort to force his eyes to the date.  Monday 3rd September 1934. His vision spun in front of him, and he grasped at the counter to stay on his feet.

‘Are you all right mate?’ He barely heard the concerned voice, but nodded and staggered out into the street. He began thinking again some time later, when he was already a distance from the shop.  He looked at his digital watch, which informed him that the time was 9.37 a.m., and the date Friday 3rd September 2004.  Exactly seventy years.  He was only a few yards further down the road when the significance of the date struck him.  It was precisely five years before the British Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, would announce that the German refusal to withdraw from their invasion of Poland meant that Britain was at war with Germany; five years before the start of the Second World War.

He kept on walking blindly and after a while realised that he was beginning to feel calmer, more relaxed.  There must be a limit to the amount of stress a mind could take before it began adjusting, accepting the current appearance of reality, no matter how absurd.  At least this particular delusion was remarkably consistent as well as detailed, with no obvious anachronisms.  Of course, that could simply reflect his knowledge of the times.  That being so, he reflected that he might as well behave accordingly: as if the delusion were reality.

What to do next?  He was already beginning to feel hungry and it was clear that this delusion required him to go through the motions of eating if he were not to become uncomfortable.  He had enough money to buy food, but when he stopped to check his wallet he found that it still held twenty-first century currency, useless in this context.  He would need to find someone to help him.  He noticed from the position of the sun that he had been instinctively walking north, towards the centre of London.  He had a long way to walk, but although it had evidently rained earlier, it was becoming warm and sunny.  As he walked, he considered who he might contact.  It occurred to him that he was not without resources.  Some of the gadgets he possessed would be of great interest, and above all he had knowledge.  The thought struck him with such force that he stopped.  Six years of war.  Fifty million dead.  Britain bankrupted.  Eastern Europe imprisoned.  In this milieu, his knowledge was beyond price.

He continued walking more thoughtfully.  He was treating this delusion as if it were reality, but what alternative was there?  He was clearly going through some escapist wish-fulfilment fantasy, as there were few people as well-equipped as himself to provide useful advice about what to do over the next few years.  He might as well enjoy the opportunity and see what happened.

Winston Churchill.  The obvious name came to mind.  After a while, Don dismissed the idea.  In 1934 Churchill was in the political wilderness, a notorious Jeremiah, always prophesying war.  He would be convinced readily enough by Don’s story but it was unlikely that anyone would listen to him.  He needed to speak to someone with authority, but not a politician who might consider only the party political implications.  After a while, he made up his mind and walked with more purpose, staring with fascination at his surroundings. The relative absence of motor vehicles made the walk more of a pleasure than he would have expected, but he had to smile wryly as he encountered his first trams. He recalled reading recently that London was considering the reintroduction of a tram system and wondered if the old tracks were still there, buried under the tarmac. He crossed the Thames by Blackfriars Bridge, noting with a pang of nostalgia the steam train chuffing its way across the railway bridge to his right. He had forgotten, though, just how smoky the air would be, and how grimy the buildings in their layers of soot.

The porter at Imperial College was suspicious.  ‘The Rector is a busy man.  He isn’t accustomed to seeing people without appointments.’  His look clearly suggested that anyone as strangely dressed and dishevelled as Don, still perspiring from his long walk, would be unlikely to be granted such an honour.

‘Do you have an envelope I could use?’ Don asked politely.  The porter grudgingly passed one over.  Don opened his wallet and slipped something inside the envelope before sealing it.  ‘Could you take this to the Rector, please?  I am certain he will want to see me.’  He tried his most confident smile.  With more grumbles and suspicious looks, the porter bade him wait and disappeared inside the building.

Henry Tizard was irritated but clearly intrigued.  ‘What’s all this nonsense about?’  He asked coldly, holding up the 2002 pound coin. 

Don did not immediately reply, but instead passed over his digital watch.  Tizard looked at it with incredulity, his pale face even more tense than usual, fierce eyes glinting through metal-rimmed spectacles.  Don opened his holdall and took out the notebook computer.

‘Let me show you what this can do.’  He said calmly.

Don reflected with some amusement that for all Tizard’s reputation for being penetrating, tough and prickly, he looked decidedly nonplussed now.

‘Very well, then,’ Tizard said abruptly, ‘for the sake of argument, let’s accept your story that you’re a visitor from the future.  What do you want?  Why have you come to see me?’

‘The second question is easier to answer than the first, Sir Henry,’ Don began, then realised his mistake as Tizard frowned.  ‘I’m sorry, of course you haven’t been knighted yet.’

There was a glint of amusement in Tizard’s eyes.  ‘Indeed I haven’t,’ he growled.

Don ploughed on.  ‘You are chairman of the Aeronautical Research Committee and shortly to become chairman of the Committee for the Scientific Survey of Air Defence, which will among other things sponsor the invention of radar.’  Seeing Tizard’s expression, Don hurried on.  ‘You are one of the most respected scientists in the country and your word carries weight with politicians as well as your peers.  Besides,’ he added, ‘I knew where to find you.  As to what I want, that’s hard to say.  Perhaps, above all, to give a warning.’

‘What kind of warning?’

Don spoke slowly.  ‘The War to end all wars isn’t over yet.  This is no more than a pause in the struggle.  The worst is yet to come.’  He leaned back in his chair and then paused as an increasing distraction claimed his attention. 

‘Before I begin,’ he said apologetically, ‘do you think I could have something to eat and drink?’

The meeting had taken weeks of argument, demonstration and persuasion to organise, and was being held in conditions of absolute secrecy.  Don had not been introduced to anyone present, but Dunning had warned him about that. 

‘They haven’t been able to ignore the evidence you brought with you, which is why they are coming,’ he explained, ‘but they are acutely sensitive of the prospect of public ridicule if news of the meeting leaks out, so they won’t officially be here.’

Tizard had introduced Charles Dunning to Don a few days after what Don had come to think of as his ‘reversion’.  A neat, well-dressed man of about his own age, Dunning was self-effacing but had an air of quiet authority.  He had described himself as a civil servant, but his reticence combined with his remarkable ability to make things happen suggested to Don that his particular branch of the civil service probably had no official existence.  He had rapidly organised some rooms close to Whitehall in which Don had been spending most of his time, and had turned up without warning to take him to this meeting. 

Dunning had assured him that although no politicians were present (‘This is being kept away from them until their advisers know what to make of it’) the meeting included highly influential civil servants and military advisers (‘They won’t be in uniform, but you’ll probably be able to pick them out’). 

So far Don had related, for the umpteenth time, the story of his strange reversion and his summary of the events of the next decade.  He had then spent a considerable time fielding detailed questions, many of which he found surprisingly difficult to answer.  He somewhat ruefully realised the extent to which general background knowledge tends to be frustratingly unspecific. 

The air was thick with smoke, cigarettes vying for pre-eminence with pipes and cigars.  Don felt ill, but was too nervous to ask for a window to be opened.  The chairman of the meeting was a lean, grey-haired man wearing the authority of one whose judgement was unquestioned.  He had chain-smoked cigarettes throughout the meeting.

‘Very well, we have heard Dr Erlang’s account.  Let us assume for the purpose of this meeting that it is accurate.  Certainly there are enough straws in the wind to make his story credible.’   He began ticking them off on his fingers.  ‘Last June Hitler and Mussolini met in Venice.  At the end of that month, Hitler purged Rohm’s faction from the Nazi Party.’ (Don tried to recall when the phrase ‘Night of the Long Knives’ had been coined).  ‘In August,  the Austrian Chancellor, Dolfuss, was assassinated by a Nazi and in the same month Hindenberg died and Hitler immediately combined his position as Chancellor with that of the Presidency.  He is clearly well on the way to becoming the unchallenged dictator of Germany.  In the light of Dr Erlang’s revelations, what response should we make?’

There was a rather uncomfortable pause.  Clearly, no-one wanted to appear foolish or gullible.  Finally, an elderly man who had not yet spoken removed his cigar and cleared his throat.

‘The key problem is clearly the German Nazi Party in general and Hitler in particular.  Japan is a separate issue of lower priority.  The question must be: how can we stop Hitler?’

An obviously cultured younger man, whom Don had tagged as a Foreign Office official, elegantly waved his cigarette holder and begged to differ.

‘From what we have heard, the Nazi Party is an inevitable expression of German frustration at the outcome of the Great War, and Hitler no more than a demagogic catalyst.  If he fell, he would be replaced by someone else with similar ambitions.’

‘But perhaps by someone more reasonable, less megalomaniac.’  This from a rather earnest, pipe-smoking individual whose application of hair cream did not entirely stifle the exuberance of his light brown curls.

‘But Hitler’s paranoiac megalomania will be the cause of his downfall.  A more rational leader may still wish to expand Germany’s boundaries but would make fewer mistakes in so doing.  Even with Hitler’s misjudgements, we have heard how close Germany will come to winning the next war.’

‘But if only half of what we have heard is correct, Hitler is appallingly evil.’

‘All the better.  It gives us a much less ambiguous target.  A more reasonable man might be much harder to turn public opinion against, particularly in America.’  The last speaker was clearly military, although Don was unable to guess the Service.

‘Could the League of Nations be used in some way?’

‘No fear’, retorted Diplomat with feeling, ‘If we try to encourage them to take a more active role, they would just expect us to contribute most of the military forces. We could end up being dragged into a war anyway, in circumstances not of our choosing.’

‘Is there no way we can persuade the Germans away from their folly?  Show them our evidence?  Get them to see reason?’  Creamed Curls was sounding desperate.  Military Man was unmoved.

‘War appears inevitable.  Dr Erlang is the biggest secret weapon we will have.  His existence must not be revealed.’

There was a thoughtful pause.  Chairman broke the silence.  ‘I agree that the consequences of revealing Dr Erlang’s existence are too incalculable to be risked, in terms of public opinion as well as German reaction.  Events would be set off on an entirely new course which could result in a much more disastrous outcome for this country.  And the interests of this country must be paramount in our minds.’ 

Don shuffled, feeling he ought to protest, but was stilled by the murmurs of agreement around the table.  Chairman was warming to his theme.

‘Let us consider the situation.  We are warned of a terrible war which we, none the less, will win.  It is therefore to our advantage to take no radical steps which might affect the outcome, but to make whatever adjustments appear necessary to our policies in order to reduce our losses and end the war in a more favourable position.’  There was much nodding around the table.

‘Some gentle nudges on the tiller,’ murmured Diplomat, ‘take in a reef here or there.  Changes which, begging your pardon’ – this to Don – ‘would do no harm even if your promised apocalypse turns out to be a damp squib.’

‘We are agreed then,’ stated Chairman with justified confidence.  ‘It might be helpful for us to have a preliminary tour around our foreign and defence policies in order to identify areas which could do with attention.’

‘Mustn’t forget the empire,’ observed a man whose ruddy face was emphasised by his white hair, ‘incredible about those Japanese.  I wouldn’t have thought they would have the nerve, let alone the ability, to pose any risk to ourselves or the Americans.’

‘I agree entirely,’ smoothed Diplomat, ‘but from what we have heard, the errors which cost so dear - beg pardon, will cost; or should it be would have cost?  These tenses are becoming confusing.  No matter – the forecast problems in the Far East should be easy enough to correct with better preparation.’

‘That depends,’ responded Ruddy Face, ‘the Navy can’t be expected to deal with Japan at the same time as Germany and Italy. It would be highly dangerous to risk war with Japan unless we could be assured that America will fight with us.’

‘From what we have heard,’ commented Chairman, ‘that should not be too much of a problem.’

There was a thoughtful pause.

‘Are we agreed on that?’ Enquired Chairman.  Emphatic nods.  ‘Very well then, let us turn to the German question.  What are our options.’

Creamed Curls was still optimistic.  ‘We could speed up re-armament and take a tougher line with Hitler; aim to stop him at some point before the attack on Poland.  Perhaps the re-occupation of the Rhineland? The crisis over Czechoslovakia?’

‘That would only postpone the conflict’ (this from Elderly Cigar) ‘and it’s not feasible anyway unless we have full backing from France.’

‘Can’t we attempt to convince France of the need to re-arm and take a strong line as well?’

Elderly Cigar looked incredulous.  ‘My dear chap, have you been over there?  Read their newspapers?  Listened to their politicians?  They are perpetually torn apart by conflict between left and right-wing groups and have no political stability at all. And while most countries are pulling out of the Depression, French production is still declining. What’s more, they were so traumatised by the slaughter of the Great War that they would do almost anything to avoid conflict. They intend to hide behind their Maginot Line and haven’t the will to confront anything.    I am actually astonished that they are apparently going to stick to their treaty obligations and back us over Poland.’

Chairman frowned.  ‘Very well then, what other options do we have?’

Military Man had no doubts.  ‘Re-arm more quickly and effectively, persuade the French to do the same – as far as possible – and concentrate on defeating Germany as soon as possible after 1939, when they’re still busy with invading Poland and simultaneously covering the Russians to ensure that they don’t advance too far.’

‘Risky, given German strength and French weakness,‘ murmured Diplomat.  ‘Let’s face it, it’s clear that in order to guarantee German defeat, we would have to bring the Russians in against them.  This will only happen if Germany attacks Russia, and Germany won’t do that unless France is defeated first.’

Everybody looked at Diplomat.  He waved his cigarette holder. ‘One of our most vulnerable points will be after the defeat of France.  According to our friend here, nobody knows what would have happened if Hitler had invaded us in 1940, with our Army defeated and its equipment lost.’

‘They would never have got past the Navy.’  Ruddy Face’s allegiance was now clearly identifiable.

Chairman was interested.  ‘What do you suggest?’

Diplomat smiled, rather enjoying the limelight, thought Don.  ‘I propose that we stay away from European entanglements and let Hitler do what he likes on the Continent.  He will have no reason to attack Britain and will not be able to if we prepare our defences against invasion.  There is still a good chance that Russia will defeat him single-handed, only much weakened.  We can then step in to put things right.’

Creamed Curls was indignant.  ‘We can’t do that, it would be legally and morally impossible given our treaty obligations.’

‘What’s more,’ added Elderly Cigar, ‘Hitler’s desire for conquest appears to be insatiable and there will still be the risk that if he can secure his position in Europe, Germany will turn on Britain.  Furthermore, as he grows in power so will his influence here.  Nazism already has many supporters.’

There was silence as thoughts turned to the frequent, well-attended meetings of the British Union of Fascists.

‘And not all of his supporters are down at the level of Mosley’s Blackshirts,’ murmured Diplomat.

‘Quite so,’ said Chairman, a little sourly Don thought.  ‘We need a way of minimising our losses without breaking our treaty obligations.’

‘Try this one for size,’ offered Diplomat.  ‘We refrain from giving that expensive guarantee to Poland – seems a daft idea anyway as we could never do anything effective to defend them and the Treaty of Locarno doesn’t commit us to guaranteeing their boundaries. That means that we don’t have to declare war until the Germans charge through the Low Countries on their way to France.  It will then be too late for us to get any substantial part of our Army over before the French are defeated.  Then we could sit, honour satisfied but with defences intact.’

Another pause, this time more encouraging.

‘I like the sound of that,’ from Elderly Cigar.

‘So do I,’ said Ruddy Face ‘and I suggest a refinement.’  Enquiring looks.  ‘We prepare instead to pinch Norway from under the Nazis’ noses.  If Hitler follows the script, we will be fully engaged in battling his invasion of Norway just at the point that he moves on France, so we will have a cast-iron reason for not coming to France’s aid.  Holding Norway will incidentally save us a great deal of trouble later on.’

Creamed Curls winced and objected.  ‘How do we know that the Germans will still invade Norway just before attacking France, if we’re not already at war with them over Poland?’

‘We don’t,’ said Diplomat, ‘but we can take steps to ensure that they do.  Suppose they were made aware that we would certainly declare war if they attacked France, and would then seek to ensure that Norway remained friendly to us?  That would give Hitler enough incentive to catch us on the hop by invading Norway first.  Ironically, our interests and those of the Nazis would be identical at that point: to prevent us from becoming involved with the fighting in France.’

Chairman waited for further contributions, but no-one seemed inclined to take the argument further.  ‘Very well, gentlemen.  We seem to have arrived at a consensus over the broad thrust of our policy.  I suggest we cancel any other commitments in order to continue these discussions next week.’

That evening, Don bought a copy of the Daily Mail on his way back to his rooms.  ‘GENERAL STRIKE IN SPAIN’ announced the headline. And the sub-heading, ‘Sound of firing heard in Madrid.’  This would be the abortive precursor of the Spanish Civil War, he thought, with an attempt to form a Catalan republic leading to a battle in Barcelona.  The real fighting would start in the following year. 

Another headline caught his eye; ‘NATION DEMANDS MORE AIR DEFENCES’.  It seemed that the Conservative Party conference had passed a resolution expressing ‘grave anxiety in regard to the inadequacy of the provisions made for Imperial defence.’  Neville Chamberlain, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, had tried to fend off criticism by describing the government’s plans to increase home defence aeroplane squadrons from forty-two to seventy-five over a five-year period.  The Party was obviously not so easily satisfied.  Sir Arthur Steel-Maitland, a former Cabinet Minister, claimed that air attacks would be so sudden and destructive that within forty-eight hours of war having been declared, one or other side would be annihilated. 

That, thought Don, showed a remarkable lack of comprehension of basic statistics about aircraft, bombloads and the amount of destruction which bombs could cause.  He read on.  Lord Lloyd pointed out that Britain’s armed forces were so weak that  the country was ‘no longer in a position to guarantee the safety of our sea routes and food supplies.’  That struck much closer to home, he thought.  If war was inevitable, as the country’s most influential observers seemed to believe, much needed to be done.

Don walked to the window and looked down into the street.  As on the previous few nights, an anonymous car was parked opposite the entrance to his building.  A brief flare within it marked the lighting of yet another cigarette.   Someone was keeping an eye on him and didn’t care if he knew it.

Dunning dropped in a few days later, as usual without warning.  Don had been using the unexpected free time to walk around 1930s London, re-learning the city he had previously known so well.  He did not enjoy cooking and was finding the limited variety of eating places a distinct drawback; no Chinese, no Indian, no pizzas, even a burger would have been a welcome relief.  The pubs were no help either; meals weren’t available, and the restricted choice of beers (mostly mild or India Pale Ale) didn’t much appeal.  He noted that despite his frequent absences, Dunning clearly expected him to be in, and wondered about the extent of the surveillance he was under.

‘Just thought I’d drop in to see how you’re managing.’  Dunning said pleasantly.

‘Well enough Charles, but I’m becoming increasingly concerned about the policy decisions being made.’  Don had been worrying for days, and knew that the situation would slip out of his grasp if he kept silent.  ‘The powers-that-be seem set on allowing this war to happen and in using my information merely to fight it more efficiently.’

Dunning raised an eyebrow but did not comment.  Don leaned forward urgently.

‘They have no conception of the horrors this war will bring.  Millions slaughtered in Nazi concentration camps simply because of their racial origin.  Tens of millions of Russians killed.  There has to be a way to stop it.’

Dunning looked at him thoughtfully.  ‘I agree with your sentiments, Don, but what can be done?  You have said yourself that international tensions are such that, one way or another, Germany is bound to try to avenge the crippling penalties of Versailles.  Do you suppose that other countries will voluntarily give back the territories Germany has lost?  Perhaps in your time governments are more rational, less nationalistic, but there is a tide rising in Germany which will not be held back by the threat of war.  This boil has to come to a head before it can be lanced.’

Don said nothing, feeling overwhelmed by a sense of hopeless inevitability.

‘Japan is an even worse case,’ continued Dunning.  ‘They may not have a defeat to avenge but they are looking to expand their empire and are chronically short of the raw materials they need, which happen to be conveniently available in nearby territories occupied by the USA or European countries.   Conflict is becoming increasingly inevitable.’

‘It just seems so absurd, pressing on down the road to war knowing full well what the cost will be.’

‘Perhaps the world has to go through this experience,’ Dunning said gently, ‘before nations are ready to put conflict behind them as a way of solving problems.’

Don thought of Korea, Vietnam, Bosnia and the Middle East, and put his head in his hands.

‘In any case, by helping this country to win the war more quickly you will be reducing the period of suffering to a minimum.’

Don sighed.  ‘Very well, it doesn’t seem as if I have any other option.’

It was clear that much discussion had been going on in the week since the previous meeting.  Chairman seemed quite jaunty.  ‘Let me begin by summing up.  We agreed last time that we would make no changes to our existing foreign policy but we would take care to ensure that our political masters enter into no further commitments, with particular reference to Poland.  What we need to do now is to concentrate on any fundamental changes we should be making to our Imperial defence policy in order to come out of the forthcoming conflict as well as possible.  Dr Erlang, do you have any observations to make?’

Don, who had firmly placed himself by a window which he had managed to open slightly, wondered briefly what conclusions they had reached already.  They seemed remarkably confident of their ability to cope without detailed advice once they had grasped the basic issues.  Still, he had already prepared what he was going to say.

‘I will start with defensive measures before going on to the question of offensive action.  First of all, top priority has to go to the measures needed to repel an invasion of the British Isles.’  He had their full attention.  ‘This will involve a sophisticated aircraft detection and fighter control system backed by plenty of fighters, and fast bombers capable of attacking any invasion fleet.  Strong fighter defence will also be necessary to provide cover for the naval units which will be engaged in attacking enemy vessels.  Finally, mechanised divisions containing tanks, artillery, anti-aircraft vehicles and armoured troop transports need to be held in south-east England to respond rapidly to any landings.  Above all, timely and accurate information will be needed to guide the defence effort so a robust communications network needs to be set up and thoroughly tested.  I don’t just mean telephones and radios, but a co-ordinated, multi-service system for gathering information from a range of sources, analysing it and ensuring it is passed on to the relevant military commands as quickly as possible.’

Much thoughtful nodding around the table.

‘The next priority will be to prevent the North Atlantic supply lines from being cut by submarine warfare.  It nearly happened in the last war and is still the biggest threat.’

Ruddy Face stirred uneasily and appeared to be about to say something.  Don continued quickly.  ‘I know the Navy feels confident that sonar – I mean Asdic – is the ultimate answer to submarines, but I can assure you that it isn’t that straightforward.’

Ruddy Face looked appalled, but at a gesture from Chairman held his tongue.

‘Air cover is the key to defeating submarines,’ continued Don, warming to his theme and slipping into lecturing mode.  ‘Maritime patrol squadrons should have priority in being issued with long-range aircraft.  Incidentally, it would be advisable to hang onto those bases in the Irish Free State, and not allow the politicians to give them up before the war.’

‘Noted,’ observed Chairman drily.

‘Land-based air cover won’t be enough.  Cheap aircraft carriers will also be needed to accompany convoys.’

Creamed Curls was becoming increasingly agitated.  ‘But bombers will surely be the main means of fighting war.  They should have priority over any other type of aircraft.’

‘They will be important,’ conceded Don, ‘but once again it’s not that simple.  Bombing has the potential to cause great destruction, but as a war-winning weapon it will not be as effective as many people fear.’ 

Don saw real alarm on Creamed Curls’ face and remembered the bitter inter-service rivalry which had followed the end of the Great War, with the two older services trying to return to their pre-war pre-eminence and the newly-formed RAF fighting to preserve its independence.  The RAF under Trenchard had taken to proclaiming the theories of Douhet and others who argued that bombing would be so destructive that it would supersede other methods of fighting.  It had therefore become an article of faith in the RAF that the bomber would always get through, and could win wars by itself.  He had a distinct feeling that Trenchard and his followers would be acutely unhappy about the message he was bringing.

‘Turning to other issues,’ Don continued, ‘there are some basic questions of changes in military organisation and equipment which will be needed to enhance war-fighting capability; above all, the closer integration of the three armed forces in developing combined arms tactics, with a particular emphasis on amphibious warfare.  Put briefly, you will need to develop the capability of transporting armoured divisions overseas and putting them ashore on an unprepared coast, closely supported by aircraft sufficient to overwhelm local defences and attack enemy troop concentrations and strongpoints.’  Don recalled the chaos which had affected the Norwegian and Dieppe landings and added: ‘It will also be prudent to acquire during peacetime detailed maps, photographs and other information about areas in which you may need to fight, with particular emphasis on coastlines.’

Varying degrees of interest, scepticism and dismay were evident from around the table.

‘What about the Empire?’  Asked Ruddy Face, returning to his theme of the previous week.

‘Actual defence will mainly be provided by aircraft, ships and troops which can be put in place shortly before war is due to start.  However, it will be important to prepare the ground to support the defences.  This means, for example, building substantial bombproof storage for fuel and ammunition, storing plenty of food, providing sufficient airfields complete with shelter for the aircraft, providing submarine pens where appropriate, and so on.  As much military equipment as possible should be pre-positioned ready for troops to use when called up.’

‘Some of that has been done,’ observed Chairman, ‘but the cost is considerable.’

‘But probably not as much,’ interposed Diplomat, ‘as losing the colonies.’

‘There is another alternative,’ Don said hesitantly.  Chairman looked wary.

‘I have already indicated to you that, from the late 1940s onwards, Britain starts giving independence to its colonies.  It could be argued that there isn’t much point in fighting for them now, if we’re going to give them up soon afterwards.’

Ruddy Face appeared close to apoplexy.  Even Diplomat seemed ruffled.  ‘Quite out of the question, dear chap.  There is tremendous popular, and therefore political, support for the Empire.  Just last week the government’s modest inclination toward giving India more home rule was roundly condemned by the Conservative Conference.’

‘Besides,’ added Chairman, ‘we could hardly simply cut the colonies free and abandon them to German, Italian or Japanese invaders.  We would be honour-bound to offer them support against a common enemy.’

Don gave up.  Shortly afterwards, the meeting broke up and Dunning accompanied Don back to his rooms.

‘I feel boxed in, Charles.  Every attempt I make to reduce the scope of the next war seems to be blocked.’

‘But for very good reasons, I’m sure you realise.  It raises interesting questions about the extent to which knowledge of forthcoming events enables us to alter them.  In detail, yes, but the broad sweep of historical events seems to have a momentum of its own.’

Dunning changed the subject.  ‘With the basic policies decided, it’s time to get down to details.  It’s unlikely that you’ll be meeting that particular group again.  Instead, we aim to get our specialists to extract all the information you can provide; painlessly, of course!  To help with that, a change of scene has been arranged.  You’re off to the countryside.’

The house was large and sited somewhere in the Berkshire countryside.  Don wasn’t sure exactly where, as the car journey had been at night.  The absence of the large, reflective road-signs – that he was used to taking for granted – disorientated him, and he was able to recognise few landmarks on the way.  The grounds were spacious, surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire.  No other buildings were visible from the grounds.  The only break in the fence was at the main driveway, guarded by a small gatehouse, occupied continuously by men who were evidently soldiers despite their civilian clothes.  It did not take Don long to realise that he was effectively a prisoner.

A few days after arriving, he returned from a pre-lunch stroll around the grounds to be met at the entrance by Dunning.  With him was Mary Baker, an attractive, dark-haired woman whom Dunning had introduced as ‘your secretary, assistant and general factotum’.  Don had not been aware that he needed a secretary and suspected that she was yet another pair of eyes to watch him.  It was noticeable that at least one of them was always around.  He sometimes wondered if he was becoming paranoid.

‘Some people to meet you, Don,’ Dunning announced.  ‘I’ve put them in the lounge and I’ll introduce you in a moment, but I thought I’d better explain who they are first.  They represent the intelligence branches of the three Services and will be solely responsible for interviewing you about developments in their areas.  For obvious reasons, we want to keep contact with you to as small a group as possible.  They will all have rooms here, and will be alternating between staying here to talk to you and going off to use your information where it matters.’

They had reached the door of the oak-panelled lounge and Dunning shepherded Don inside.  He was immediately the focus of intense scrutiny from three pairs of eyes. 

‘May I introduce Peter Morgan, RAF; David Helmsford, RN; and Geoffrey Taylor, from the Army.  Needless to say, neither their ranks nor their uniforms will be evident here.’

Formalities over, Don settled down over tea to study the new arrivals.  They all appeared to be in their late thirties or early forties, unremarkable at first sight except for the air of sharp intelligence common to all three.  They had clearly been fully briefed on his background and were consumed with curiosity. 

Morgan, slim and fair-haired with an air of boyish enthusiasm, was first to speak.  ‘We’ve been trying to work out which service you’re least popular with,’ he said with a grin.  ‘The Navy, for insulting their beloved battleships by insisting on the importance of aircraft carriers; the Army, for dismissing their equally beloved horses in favour of clanking machinery; or my lot, for shooting down the bombers and, to add insult to injury, advocating the transfer of the Fleet Air Arm to the Navy.’

Don smiled.  ‘Well, gentlemen, who’s going to be the first to give me a going-over?’ 

They all grinned in response.  ‘David tried to argue that the Senior Service should take precedence, but Peter and I sat on him until he agreed to draw straws,’ drawled Taylor, ‘as a result of which you have the pleasure of starting with me.’

‘Seriously, you needn’t worry about offending me,’ Taylor said after a long lunch filled with speculation, debate and above all, questioning of Don.  ‘I’m an engineer and have little time for the prejudices of the well-bred cavalry.  Anyone with any sense can see that machine guns and artillery have done away with horses in the front line; they just make big targets and can’t dive for the nearest shell-hole when they come under fire.  Unfortunately many of the senior staff grew up worshipping horses and have tried to pretend that the Great War was an aberration.’

‘It’s not just the tanks,’ interposed Don, ‘everything else needs to be able to accompany them at the same speed and with armour protection; artillery, anti-aircraft guns, infantry, supplies and even engineers.’

Taylor laughed.  ‘I know.  Fuller has been arguing that for years and we have been holding annual exercises with mechanised formations.  Hobart introduced a real novelty in this year’s exercise by making extensive use of radio communications between tanks.  The main problem we have is in deciding the right proportions of the kinds of tanks we will be making; slow heavily-armoured ones to accompany the infantry and fast lightly-armoured cavalry vehicles.’

‘Neither.  If the tanks are too specialised you’ll never be able to depend on having the right types available when you need them.  In one respect, the tank enthusiasts are right to draw parallels with naval practice; like battleships, tanks need a good balance of characteristics – fire-power, armour, speed - so they can cope with whatever comes up.’

Taylor grunted and filled his pipe.  His brown hair and neat moustache were unremarkable, but his powerful build and air of calm competence were impressive.  ‘I’m putting together some detailed information about our current plans for you to comment on.  However, to turn for the moment to infantry equipment, I’m afraid your pleas for adopting a small-calibre automatic rifle have not been well received by the Master General of the Ordnance.  He is adamant that we have too much invested in the three-oh-three calibre to be able to afford to change, and that designing a new automatic rifle and a new cartridge would take too long anyway.’

‘I was afraid of that, but I have some alternative ideas...’. 

The next morning was the Navy’s turn.  ‘The first problem is our relationship with Germany,’ said Helmsford. He was tall and dark with a habitually sardonic expression, and inclined to choose his words with care. ‘We’ve been considering a naval treaty with them to try to limit their plans for expansion.’

‘I advise you to forget it. It will only bring criticism on Britain for recognising formally Germany’s breach of the Versailles Treaty, and we know that Hitler will build anything he wants to anyway.’

‘What about wider international agreements?  As you must know, we are deep in preparation for the second London Naval Conference due to be held next year, and one of the main issues is the size and gun calibre of new battleship construction.  And I have to add that your scepticism about the value of battleships won’t get a favourable hearing – the Admiralty will never agree to stop building them while everyone else is carrying on. However, the cost of these ships is so high that we are pressing for the smallest ships we can – ideally around twenty-five thousand tons and with twelve-inch guns – but the Americans are pushing for much larger ships. ‘

‘I’m afraid they’ll win.  On the other hand, that can be turned to our advantage.  If we manage to win agreement to thirty-five thousand tons and fifteen-inch guns – which should be quite feasible – we could save a huge amount of time and money by reusing fifteen-inch turrets from existing, obsolete ships, and incidentally save ourselves the trouble of maintaining and manning them.  We can use the resources saved to concentrate on aircraft carriers.’ Don warmed to his theme; ‘The Navy did actually accept the reuse of the old fifteen-inch turrets from the Courageous and Glorious to arm their last battleship – the Vanguard – so all I’m suggesting is to incorporate those into the new design, and scrap the five old ‘R’ Class battleships so their turrets can be reused as well; really, they contributed – will contribute – next to nothing to the war. And frankly, the old fifteen-inch will be much more reliable than the new fourteen-inch you’re planning.’

Helmsford considered.  ‘That might just be acceptable.  But as for your other comments about the importance of anti-aircraft over surface fire, you had better be warned that I’m a gunnery officer by training!’

Don grinned. ‘Sorry, but the evidence is clear. Aircraft are a much bigger threat than surface ships to warships, so it’s essential that all ships have good AA armament – and that includes directors as well as guns. In any case, even against surface targets, the hit probability of a destroyer’s guns is so low that they would do better with eight four-inch dual-purpose guns rather than four, low-angle four-point-sevens – the rate of fire is so much higher.’

Helmsford grimaced doubtfully. ‘People will need a lot of convincing. And you say that the capital ships should have nothing bigger than four-point-sevens as secondary armament?’

‘Yes, definitely. Give them modern, heavier shells by all means, but a well-designed twin turret in that calibre will be much faster-firing and more effective than those dual-purpose five-point-two-fives, as well as being lighter.’

Helmsford sighed. ‘All right, I’ll do my best, but I never thought you would present me with such a headache!’

Morgan was his usual ebullient self.  ‘You’re quite right about the direction of aircraft design, of course.  I’ve been to see the aeroplanes just about to set off from Mildenhall on the England-Australia race.  Those sleek de Havilland Comet monoplanes are beautiful!’

‘And they’ll win!’ Don grinned.  ‘But aircraft are only a part of the story.  The key to success is to choose the right engines and concentrate on developing them by specifying them for future front-line aircraft.  Another important issue is armament. Next comes the priority given to different aircraft types, and I’m afraid the RAF won’t like them.’  Morgan raised an enquiring eye. ‘Fighters come first, which means that for once the politicians’ preference is correct, albeit for the wrong reasons – they only like them because they’re cheap and quick to build so they can meet their promises to build up the number of RAF squadrons more easily. But maritime patrol planes come next, and then some modern carrier-borne fighters and bombers. They all have a higher priority than the RAF’s beloved bombers.’ They were soon deep in conversation.

Spring 1935

Days became weeks which rolled into months.  Winter came and went.  The bare trees allowed a wider view of the countryside, but still no other buildings could be seen.  Don was occasionally taken out by his minders, as he thought of them, to visit a nearby pub or cinema, but was never let out alone.  He sometimes joked about the degree of custodial care, but Dunning was too serious about it to be amused.

‘You must realise that your safety is of vital importance – you’re probably the most valuable person in the country.’  Furthermore, Don added silently, no-one else must know of my existence.

Newspapers were his other contact with the world outside.  He found the old-fashioned sentiments and phrasing, the innocent adverts rather touching, but was amused to note unexpected portents of things to come.  He had not been aware that Scotland Yard had been experimenting with an autogyro for observing ‘traffic-congested areas’ and possibly tracking ‘car bandits’.  A report of a German aeroplane powered by a 2,500 horsepower ‘steam turbine’ and capable of travelling at 230–260 mph for sixty or seventy hours appeared more optimistic, although Don was again surprised to read a report that an American steam-powered craft had flown three times already.  He wondered if newspaper reporters in the 1930s were more or less gullible than those in the 2000s, or more willing to make things up.  It also occurred to him that Dunning need not worry about his spilling the beans to any reporters.  They would probably write up his story, but with zero impact on the public.

In the spring and early summer of 1935, Don began to notice a sharpening of interest and concern on the part of his team of interviewers.  The reasons were evident enough in the newspapers.  He had already been proved right in his prediction about the Saarland, which in January voted to return to Germany by 90.36%.  On March 15th Hitler announced military conscription and an increase in the size of the German Army to thirty-six divisions; ‘The Times’ military correspondent stated that, with nearly 400 machine-guns, the German army was well-equipped defensively ‘but it is hardly to be expected that an army... long restricted in developing heavy artillery and tanks, should have anything like an equivalent power of taking the offensive.’  Don groaned.  The complacency was almost comical. 

Clearly, however, someone in the government was becoming worried.  On the twenty-eighth of the month, Anthony Eden travelled to Moscow to discuss the European situation with M. Litvinoff (Soviet Commissar for foreign affairs) and spoke to Stalin.  He established that there was ‘no conflict of interest’ between the governments.  More accurate than they realise, Don thought; at least in the short term. 

On April 7th, elections were held in Danzig – a predominantly German enclave within Poland and next to East Prussia – which had been detached from Germany and given Free City status after the Great War.  The Nazis increased their vote by eight percent but despite intense propaganda, including visits by Hess and Goebbels, they failed to gain the two-thirds majority necessary to change the constitution in favour of Germany. 

The Foreign Office stepped up its activities; between 11th and 14th April Britain, Italy and France met at Stresa for a conference on the European situation, which led to an expression of ‘complete agreement’. 

‘All this diplomatic posturing will get them nowhere,’ grumbled Don, reading the morning papers in bed.

‘What do you expect?’ asked Mary.  ‘They are politicians and diplomats.  Even if they know that their efforts are likely to prove fruitless – and I doubt they’ve been told – they’ll still try.  It’s what they’re there for.’ 

Don was never quite sure on whose initiative his relationship with Mary had begun.  In darker moments he suspected that she had been chosen for her good looks and her willingness to lie back and think of England.  At other times he was merely thankful that she was there.  Usually serious, quiet and attentive, with a core of sadness which was never far from the surface, her occasional smiles sparked a glow of warmth in him and their partnership gave a structure and dimension to his life that had been missing for a long time. In fact, as time went by it was his past life which took on the aspect of a dream, something less real than his fantastic present. He now felt at home in the 1930s, and he tried not to think too much about how he had arrived there. Whenever his thoughts drifted in that direction, he felt he was teetering on the edge of an abyss.

Mary’s voice wrenched him back to the present.  ‘I wonder if Churchill’s been told about you,’ she mused, studying another paper.  ‘He’s warning that if German air strength continues growing at its present rate it will overtake Britain’s within three or four years.’

‘True enough,’ said Don, ‘but I suspect that he’s not been included in the “inner circle” yet; he had a reputation for sounding off about the Nazi threat for years before the war.  Our lords and masters are anxious to avoid prejudicing the natural development of events – except in a few specific areas – so that my predictions remain valid for as long as possible.  I expect they’ll wait until he becomes Prime Minister before letting him in on the secret.’

‘Now there’s a paradox for you; Churchill is supposed to come to power because of the military crisis under Chamberlain's government. If your advice is followed, the crisis shouldn't happen, so how will Churchill become PM?’

‘Somehow,’ said Don grimly, ‘I have a feeling that it will be arranged.’

‘And there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask: what about the wider paradox? Suppose any one of your grandparents were to be killed as a result of the changes you’re causing? Or that your parents never meet? What will happen to you?’

‘Good question. I’ve given it some thought myself. Of course, I could just disappear in a puff of smoke, but that wouldn’t be the end of the problem; if I’d never existed, I couldn’t have returned here in the first place, so none of the last few months could have happened, so I couldn’t have changed events, so I would have lived to return here – and so on. The thinking becomes rather circular.’

‘So where does that leave you?’

‘There are just two possibilities: either all of my forebears survive and my parents meet up as before regardless of all the changes, or the parallel worlds theory is correct.’

‘The what?’

‘Parallel worlds. The idea is that there is an infinite number of worlds existing in parallel in some undetectable dimension, each different in some small way from the next. They are connected by an equally infinite number of branching points; occasions when something different happened and changed history. So my return to the past would have kicked me onto an entirely different branch; what happens here can’t affect the world I came from, that just continues as before on a parallel track.’

Mary snuggled up to him. ‘Well, just make sure that you stay on this track from now on!’

Summer 1935

Time seemed to pass with ever-increasing speed.  Intensive consultations with his military interviewers were interspersed by anxious scanning of the news as the European tragedy began to unfold.  The celebrations in early May to mark the Silver Jubilee of the King and Queen included reviews of Britain’s military and naval forces.  Shortly afterwards Lord Londonderry, Secretary of State for War, announced a trebling of the strength of the Royal Air Force based at home to 1,500 machines by March 31 1937; the existing thirty-four airfields were to be increased to sixty-five and in addition, seventy-one new squadrons were to be formed.

Charles Dunning was naturally reticent but could occasionally be prompted into revealing progress.  ‘The Defence Requirements Committee has been considering how to act on your advice,’ he said, ‘although we did of course have to disguise it  as the strongly-held views of the best military minds.  They have agreed that the Army should be restructured to concentrate on armoured warfare including capacity for amphibious landings and the development of close co-operation with the RAF.  An experimental paratroop brigade is to be formed and secret trials of the rectangular wing-parachute you sketched are due soon.  The Fleet Air Arm is to be handed over to the Navy within the next few months; Coastal Command will remain with the RAF but under Naval operational control – that took a hell of a lot of haggling and a number of premature retirements to achieve.  The discussions over the Naval Treaty are working out as you suggested and the Royal Marines are being strengthened, with their amphibious role being more clearly defined.  Radar is coming along fine; Tizard sends his best wishes, by the way.’

‘What about the basic education and training side?  We will need far more electrical engineers and factory capacity in order to keep up with the demands for radio and radar systems.’

Dunning grinned sardonically.  ‘Much more difficult – did you ever see the educational establishment move quickly?  We’ve made a start, though, in offering generous bursaries to able students in these areas, and will be identifying electronics shadow factories as well as those for weapons production.’

The military contacts were more forthcoming.  Geoffrey Taylor, despite his cautious and deliberate manner, had obviously warmed to his task.  The Army’s biggest deficiency – the development of competitive, reliable tanks – was being tackled with vigour.  Tank design was assigned to a planning body including Vickers, the only private firm with substantial tank-building experience, car firms to provide mass-production expertise, military officers and the Ministry.  An integrated family of armoured fighting vehicles was being developed with reliability, ease of use and maintenance and the ability to be upgraded as top priorities.  New artillery, mortars, anti-tank weapons and small arms were being designed.

News on the aircraft front was also encouraging.  Morgan reported the selection of the Rolls-Royce PV12 Merlin and the sleeve-valve Bristol Hercules (still some months away from running) as the RAF’s future front-line piston engines.  Napier had been assigned to develop Whittle’s centrifugal fan gas turbine, and advanced project teams at Rolls-Royce and Bristol were working with the Royal Aircraft Establishment to develop Griffith’s axial flow turbines for jet and turboprop engines respectively. 

Fighter guns were a priority; as well as developing the 0.303 inch, a slightly larger version of the Browning (the ‘Vickers-Browning’) was being designed to take the Vickers 0.5 inch cartridge, somewhat smaller than the American equivalent. Hispano-Suiza in France were being pursued for a licence for their new 20 mm HS-404 cannon which was still in the process of being designed, and the development of a belt-feed mechanism for it was being given a high priority to ensure that both could enter service by the end of the 1930s.

Meanwhile, development of the Spitfire and Hurricane had been given top priority with arrangements already underway for their mass production.  Don was acutely conscious of the fact that as soon as war was imminent, the War Ministry would be inclined to freeze current designs in the interests of achieving mass production.  Accordingly, he discussed with Morgan the types of aircraft which would have a long service life to ensure that they would be in production by 1938.  Among other proposals, de Havilland was to be strongly encouraged to design a wooden, twin-engined high-speed unarmed bomber as soon as possible.

Helmsford was equally encouraging about the Navy’s plans.  The fifteen-inch  gun battleship design was proceeding well, as were the new aircraft carriers with their angled decks to enable planes to land without crashing into the ones waiting to take off (‘steam catapults were considered, but would have taken too long to develop’).  Don had advised against the armoured decks used by most RN war-built carriers because of the loss of hangar space and aircraft capacity.  Just as important were the aircraft for them; Bristol had been given the contract to develop Hercules-powered fighters and multi-role torpedo/dive bomber/reconnaissance planes, with as much commonality as possible.

Otherwise, concentration in the naval field was on enhanced anti-aircraft and anti-submarine capabilities, with advanced fire-control systems, the commissioning of Bofors to speed up their development of 57 mm as well as 40 mm automatic guns and the development of ahead-throwing anti-submarine mortars (Don’s mention of the ‘Squid’ promptly led to the name being adopted) with their associated pencil-beam Asdic sets. Don had been surprised to discover that ahead-throwing weapons had already been built and tested, but development was just about to be abandoned when his arrival led to a re-think.

By the autumn of 1935 the international situation was clearly worsening.  On September 5th Italy walked out of the League of Nations Council meeting called to discuss the Italo-Abyssinian crisis.  This was followed in October by an Italian attack on Abyssinia, countered by the urgent reinforcement of British forces in the Middle East.  In November, German army recruits were required to swear allegiance to Hitler as well as to the nation.  Don read the news with a mixture of anxiety, despondency and an uncertain hope that perhaps, this time, he could reduce the scale of the suffering to come.  Mary was a patient, unfailing support.

‘You have done everything you can,’ she said for what was probably the hundredth time, ‘you know all the arguments for keeping your existence secret.  There is too much hatred and frustration bottled up for anyone to prevent what is going to happen.  All you can do is to try to ensure that it is ended quickly, with an outcome that keeps Russia out of as much of Europe as possible.’

‘I know, but I feel so helpless. It’s not just the big picture, it’s the personal aspect as well.’ Mary took him in her arms, feeling the tension slowly leaving him as she stroked his neck.

‘It’s your parents you’re thinking of again, isn’t it? It must be so hard for you.’

Don grunted wearily. ‘Fortunately they’re still young children. I can’t help wondering about them, although I know Charles is right when he tells me to leave them alone.’

‘Well, what would you gain from seeing them? They’re just like any other children, and won’t even meet for years yet.’

He sighed reluctantly. ‘I suppose you’re right, but I still feel I should be introducing them to each other, or something!’

Mary grinned. ‘From what I know of young children, that would just put them off each other for life!’

Spring to Autumn 1936

In the following year the pace of events quickened, although not all of them were concerned with the impending conflict.  In January King George V died, and Don winced at reading the praise heaped upon his heir, the man who would not become King Edward VIII.

Spring saw rapid developments.  In March, the political Left won the Spanish elections; yet another harbinger of war.  In the same month, Hitler repudiated the Treaty of Locarno and sent German troops into the Rhineland, previously demilitarised following the last war.  As a result of their ineffectual response, the French government was voted out of office in May in favour of Leon Blum’s left-wing Popular Front. Churchill warned that failure to match Hitler’s growing military strength could end in disaster for Britain.  A government White Paper on defence, published in March, identified weaknesses and proposed increased spending.  Newspapers were filled with concern about the adequacy of the country’s defences and the threat of war.

Far from being worried, Dunning seemed quietly pleased.  ‘Every time the Nazis make an aggressive move that you’ve predicted, your stock goes up and your recommendations are given even more attention.  People are feeling increasingly confident about being able to cope with the future.’  No doubt, thought Don rather cynically, the attention isn’t doing Dunning’s status any harm either.  However, his evident good humour paid off in a special treat; an unexpected trip for Mary and himself.

Dunning refused to state the destination or purpose, but the big Humber cruised steadily south until it reached Southampton late in the afternoon.  Dunning led them to the water’s edge near packed crowds and they looked out over the Solent.  By now, Don knew what to expect.  The weather was cool and cloudy, but the sun broke through as a huge passenger liner steamed slowly down the Solent.

‘The Queen Mary!’ Mary said, ‘how wonderful!’

‘Off on her maiden voyage,’ added Dunning, ‘first Cherbourg, then on to New York.  Sure to win the Blue Riband.’

Don watched the magnificent ship with a strange mixture of emotions.  Awe, at the majestic vessel. Excitement, at the noisy pride of the crowds.  Perhaps above all, nostalgia, for an era he had never known.  He thought about Jumbo Jets crammed with bleary-eyed, irritable passengers, and sighed.

The summer of 1936 saw no relief from the steady build-up of tension, as piece after piece dropped into place.  In May, Italy conquered Abyssinia.  The next month, Leon Blum’s Popular Front government gave way to concerted strike action by signing the Matignon Agreement, giving French workers high pay for shorter hours and further damaging an already lamentable industrial performance.  In July, a right-wing revolt erupted in Spain; the Spanish Civil War had begun.  In August, the Berlin Olympics were held.

The bad news wasn’t restricted to Europe.  Throughout the summer and autumn, Arabs rioted against the growing numbers of Jews in Palestine; British troops were involved.  Don felt particularly low when he read this news.

‘We haven’t even begun this war yet, but more are already being lined up.’

He had to explain this to Mary; wars after 1945 in which Britain would not be involved had understandably been of little interest to the interviewers.  Mary seemed particularly thoughtful.

‘My mother was Jewish,’ she said.  Don looked at her speechlessly, thinking of all she had heard about the Holocaust.  She raised her arms and shrugged helplessly.  ‘Why does the world have to be like this?’  Don had no answer.

October 1936 saw a huge Nazi rally in Nuremberg and clashes between Mosley’s Blackshirts and anti-fascist demonstrators in the East End of London.  At the beginning of December, Mary found Don looking at the newspaper, sadness on his face.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked quickly.  Don gestured at the paper.  Mary looked at the item featured large on the page.  The Crystal Palace had burned down. 

‘I never saw it,’ said Don regretfully. ‘It was the first thing which made me realise what had happened to me.  And I never went to see it.’

1937–1938

The winter was marked by major events at each end of the social scale; unemployed workers marched from Jarrow to London, and King Edward VIII abdicated in order to marry Wallace Simpson.  For Don, a much more significant event took place.  On 1st January 1937 the Washington and London Naval Treaties expired and the keel-plates of the battleships King George V and Prince of Wales were laid at Walker-on-Tyne and Birkenhead respectively.  So much was in Don’s history; but these were to a different design, guided by his advice.  It was the first concrete evidence he had received of the impact he was making.

The months skimmed by, a continual round of meetings with ever more urgent questions being asked as the nation’s defence expenditure rose rapidly in the face of the German threat.  Don found it more and more difficult to offer helpful advice.  He felt drained dry of everything he had ever learned about the personalities, policies, strategies, tactics, equipment and events of the period. 

Every now and then, his absorption was punctuated by a news item; the bombing of Guernica, the destruction of the Hindenburg at Lakehurst, the coronation of King George VI, the fall of Blum’s government, followed by further rapid changes of government in France.  The Japanese onslaught on China opened yet another chapter in the growing volume of the world’s suffering, while European leaders scurried to and fro, meeting Hitler, trying to avoid the inevitable.

In early 1938 Dunning announced, with unusual good humour, that they were going on a tour, chaperoned by Geoffrey Taylor and himself.

‘Something of a working visit,’ he qualified apologetically, ‘but I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.’

Their first stop turned out to be an almost deserted rifle range ‘somewhere in Surrey.’  A small group of Army officers was huddled around some objects on a bench.  Don was introduced as ‘a senior civil servant in the Ministry’ and the group parted to show him the weapons gleaming against the wooden bench.  A Bren light machine gun was instantly recognisable.  The warrant officer picked up a smaller weapon lying next to it.  It was a short, brutal looking rifle, all metal pressings with a minimum of wood, a curved magazine jutting down behind the pistol grip.

‘This is the new BSA rifle, called the Besal for short, which it is,’ he laughed, ignoring the groans from the others.  ‘Action based on the Bren, but turned upside down and located within the stock, behind the handgrip.  Calibre three-oh-three inch, self-loading with semi-automatic fire only.  Empty cases are ejected straight upwards, but are deflected to one side by this rubber-padded underside of the cheekpiece, which can be instantly flipped over for left-handers.  Weight ten pounds with a full fifteen-round magazine, which is interchangeable with the thirty-round Bren magazine.  Like a go?’

Don declined, mildly alarmed.  He had studied armaments, but firing them was something he had no experience of.  The WO seemed disappointed, but not surprised.  Doubtless his opinion of civil servants had just been confirmed.  Taylor did not hesitate.  He picked up the Besal, cycled the action with brisk efficiency then fired a rapid series of shots at the distant target. Don retrieved a distant memory; the Besal had actually been a simplified machine gun based on the Bren, which had not been adopted. Oh well, fairly close, he thought.

‘This other beauty is the new Solen sub-machine gun,’ continued the WO.  Don, who had been slow to clap his hands over his ears when the Besal fired, barely heard him but hastily covered his ears again as Taylor picked up a weapon even uglier and more brutal looking.  ‘Based on the Solothurn SI-100 but simplified by Enfield for mass production.  Chambered for the nine-by-twenty-five millimetre Mauser Export cartridge, longer and more powerful than the Luger round used in most such weapons. Gives it an effective range of around two hundred yards, which is enough for most purposes. Available with a wooden stock, like this one, or a folding metal one.’  Taylor enjoyed this one even more, firing off the 32-round side-mounted magazine in short, controlled bursts.

Next came a conventional-looking self-loading pistol.  ‘Based on the American Colt M Nineteen-eleven, modified to fire the nine-by-twenty-five millimetre cartridge and with a two-row magazine holding fifteen rounds.’  Dunning stepped forward this time, raised the gun, pulled back and released the slide, then fired off the entire magazine in a seemingly interminable string of concussions. 

Dunning was smiling as they left.  ‘We’ve told the Army that these are meant for paratroops and marines, who’ll need lots of firepower.  Of course, we’re preparing to mass-produce them instead of the Lee-Enfield Number Four bolt-action rifles.’  Taylor snorted amiably, but made no comment.

The next stop was in Dorset, at another army camp busy with construction work.  Some tanks were visible as they travelled through the site.

‘This must be Bovington Camp,’ guessed Don.  Taylor merely smiled and led him into a large hangar-like building.  An armed guard checked Taylor’s and Dunning’s passes carefully.  Inside, some large shapes were covered with tarpaulins.  A few men were sitting on boxes nearby, playing cards by the light filtering down from the skylights.  They jumped up when they saw Taylor and moved to the shapes.  Taylor was clearly enjoying himself, Dunning following quietly behind.

‘We’ll start with this one.’  The tarpaulin was pulled away, revealing a low squat tank, the sloping armour giving a streamlined look.  ‘This is the Crusader.  Eighteen tons, with two inches of armour on the turret and the frontal plate, one inch elsewhere.  Engine at the front, beside the driver – a three hundred horsepower six-cylinder in-line unit; half a Rolls-Royce Merlin, actually.  This leaves the rear half of the vehicle clear for the fighting compartment, in this case with a three-man turret mounting a two-pounder gun firing ammunition compatible with the Bofors forty millimetre AA gun – it makes resupply easier.’ Don caught Taylor’s wink as he remembered suggesting just that, in place of the very similar two-pounder ammunition historically used.  ‘Thoroughly tested in a wide variety of conditions and about to enter mass production in three different factories.’  He moved on and more tarpaulins fell. 

‘All of the rest are based on the same chassis.  The Comet anti-aircraft tank, with two twenty-millimetre Oerlikons in a power-driven turret.  The Cromwell assault tank, with thicker armour – up to three inches – and a twenty-five pounder field gun in the turret.  The Centaur self-propelled gun with the new sixty-two pounder field gun in an armoured compartment. It’s a four-point-seven-inch gun firing the same shells, at a lower velocity, as the new navy dual purpose gun – which has incidentally also been adopted as the Army’s heavy AA gun – and replaces the old five-inch sixty-pounder. Next comes the Cavalier tank destroyer with the new seventeen pounder – essentially the new three-inch high-velocity AA gun – behind an armoured shield.  Last but not least, this Covenanter armoured personnel carrier, with a high, extended body carrying ten infantrymen.’

Don remembered the arguments about the anti-aircraft guns; his insistence on replacing the planned massive 3.7 inch with a smaller and much more mobile gun, which could do double duty as a tank/anti-tank gun, had evidently paid off.

They moved away from the men to more shapes at the other side of the hanger.  Taylor spoke more quietly.  ‘Versions with more armour and more powerful guns are already fully developed, but we’re keeping them back until we need them. We’re also well advanced with testing the chassis of the next generation forty-tonner, with a turret large enough for the seventeen pounder gun or even bigger if required.’

They approached the other vehicles.  The small Daimler Dingo armoured reconnaissance vehicle was instantly recognisable, but the big, low-slung six-wheeled armoured cars were not.

‘These are made by Humber,’ announced Taylor.  ‘Turret interchangeable with that in the tanks, so they can use similar armament.  We’re also developing a range of cross-country lorries using the same mechanicals.’

Don was in good humour after his tour around the Army bases.  The following week, Helmsford arrived to brief him about progress with naval developments.  Construction of the new battleships and aircraft carriers was proceeding apace, and the first of the fast, light carriers built on hulls originally intended for cruisers had been laid down. The new frigates, very light cruisers with four twin 4.7 inch dual-purpose turrets, were also taking shape. Then Helmsford changed the subject.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about.  You mentioned two new German battlecruisers – what were they called?’

‘Scharnhorst and Gneisenau,’ Don replied promptly.  ‘Fast well-armoured ships, over thirty thousand tons, nine eleven-inch guns. They should have been commissioned by now, but I’ve not read a peep about them in the press.  Have our agents reported anything?’

Helmsford looking at him curiously.  ‘No, they haven’t,’ he said.  Dunning suddenly leaned forward, some sixth sense warning him. Don felt a sudden chill.  Helmsford continued.  ‘We’ve been watching the German dockyards carefully, even ‘accidentally’ overflying them with photo-reconnaissance aircraft.  The Germans are not building any more big ships.  Nothing but small destroyers and submarines.’

Don stared aghast.  ‘But we’ve done nothing…nothing that could cause them to change their naval strategy as drastically as this.’

Dunning’s breath hissed between his teeth.  ‘If you were helping Germany instead of us, would you advise them to build big ships?’

Don looked at him helplessly.  ‘No,’ he said.  ‘They were a waste of resources.’

Helmsford passed him a photograph.  ‘What do you make of that?  It was taken in the Baltic.’

It was an oblique view of a sleek hull, low in the water, topped by a slender fin.  There were no guns or other distinguishing features, except for a periscope-like object with an unusually massive head.  Don stared, appalled.

‘It’s an Elektroboot – a high-speed submarine,’ he whispered.

‘When are they supposed to emerge?’  Dunning asked sharply.

Don swallowed.  ‘Nineteen forty-five.’

The three men looked at each other, none wanting to put into words the icy certainty forming in their minds.  Eventually Dunning spoke.

‘That’s torn it,’ he said quietly.  He looked at the white-faced Erlang.  ‘They’ve got someone like you, haven’t they?  Someone just like you.’

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