Cold Peace

Avoiding WWIII

RAF Gatow
Thursday, 8 April 1948

Three days later, when Priestman arrived at work, his intelligence officer awaited him in the outer office.

He took one look at Boyd and braced himself inwardly for bad news. “Problems?”

“Not exactly. I just thought I ought to be the one to bring you these.”

“What?”

“The latest Soviet-controlled press clippings about the crash.”

“That bad?”

“They’ve changed their tune a bit. The first headline reads: ‘British Aircraft rams Soviet Trainer!’ The text continues: ‘Bursting from low cloud without proper clearance, a British aircraft ploughed through an innocent Soviet training aircraft in the act of landing. The British aircraft was in complete violation of all air safety regulations—”

“I don’t want to hear any more. Is anyone going to believe that?”

“Not anyone who saw it happen — and probably not many others either. The free press has made quite a fuss already about an airliner being attacked — or at any rate endangered — by a fighter. I think most Berliners with an open mind will see this for the rubbish it is. The issue isn’t really whether anyone believes it or not, but rather what it tells us about Moscow’s attitude. Compared to the response that you had from Colonel Kuznetsov the day of the crash and what General Robertson reported regarding Sokolovsky’s response the day after, this text represents an abrupt change of tone. It appears to have been dictated directly from Moscow, and as such tells us about the political atmosphere there.”

“I’ll subscribe to that. It’s damn near a declaration of war. Any other thoughts?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far, sir, but it is significant that the Soviet Leadership is unprepared to offer even commonplace and formal condolences for an accident. Usually, tragic accidents enable bitter enemies to bury their differences temporarily. The Soviets, on the other hand, seem intent on maintaining an image of perfection and strength. So much so, they cannot admit to a mistake by a young pilot. Such a response from Moscow does not bode well for the future of our relationship.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Priestman commented dryly.

Boyd continued earnestly. “They’ve closed the autobahns more than once. Since the start of this year, they’ve targeted the rail and barge links as well. We only just got the trains moving again by providing them with the passenger and cargo manifests.”

“I know. And they’re forcing the Germans who want to travel on our trains to obtain Soviet permission first. They have effectively established their right to decide who and what moves on the transit routes — without actually boarding the trains or carrying out inspections,” Priestman summarized the situation as he saw it.

“My concern, sir, is that the air corridors may be next. Although the collision itself was an accident, they may have hoped the harassment would intimidate the BEA pilot into aborting the approach — or maybe they hoped to persuade BEA to suspend passenger service altogether. If that’s the case, this might become a routine practice.”

“I don’t think our fighters will have any difficulty preventing something like this from happening again. I was perfectly prepared to shoot a Yak out of the sky if it so much as strayed into the corridor while I was escorting the ambulance back the other day.”

“Ah. Yes.” Boyd looked slightly uncomfortable. “I’m sure our fighters could provide effective defence — if we still had fighter escorts.”

“You mean we don’t?” Priestman asked flabbergasted.

“No, sir. General Robertson cancelled that order late last night after you went home. He felt that Sokolovsky’s assurances about this being an accident ought to be trusted.”

“We’re supposed to ‘trust’ the Soviets after all the lies and insults and harassment we’ve been subjected to?” Priestman demanded furiously, feeling renewed sympathy for Colonel Howley. “What’s wrong with the precaution of maintaining fighter escorts?”

Looking more uncomfortable than ever, Boyd reported, “Robertson said he didn’t want to risk World War Three because — I think his exact words were — ‘because of some trigger-happy fighter pilot.’”

Priestman stared at his Intelligence Officer. If he opened his mouth, he risked saying something that he might later regret. Only after he had his temper better under control did he snap, “I hope General Robertson flew over the wreck before he made that decision.” Then he continued into his office and slammed the door.