Cold Peace

Robertson glared at the two RAF officers and then admitted candidly. “You’ve caught me at rather a bad moment, I’m afraid. I’m just back from a meeting with General Clay and the American General is threatening to punch his way down the autobahn by force. He was talking about two hundred lorries escorted by an engineer battalion to eliminate any ‘technical difficulties’ — and riflemen to shoot any Russians who might try to stop them. It would be an outright provocation, and it would trigger war. I told him flatly that HM’s government would not support such a measure.”

Although Robertson’s words were forceful, his expression was uneasy. In the circumstances, he could not have had a chance to consult with London before making that statement to Clay. In a situation fraught with such severe political implications, no general liked to act without his government’s backing.

Waite and Priestman exchanged a look, and then Waite moved closer to Robertson’s desk. “Maybe there is an alternative, sir. We’ve been working on some calculations,” as he advanced, he pulled his three sheets of paper out of his breast pocket and unfolded them. “I admit these figures are very rough, and there is much that would have to be adjusted and modified as things play out, but they show that an all-out effort by RAF Transport Command could move up to 2,000 tons of goods into Berlin each day by air.”

“Two thousand tons? A day?” Robertson sounded incredulous and glanced at Priestman for confirmation.

“Yes, sir. And that’s just the RAF. We believe the USAF has considerably greater capacity. They have a large fleet of four-engine Skymasters which can carry 10 tons and a few C-74 Globemasters with twice that capacity. Together we should be able to deliver 4,500 tons of goods a day — the absolute minimum, as you see on the second sheet, needed to supply the civilian population at minimum levels.”

Robertson glanced at Priestman. “Can Gatow handle the traffic?”

“Assuming we can complete the new concrete runway, triple the number of Air Traffic Controllers, build additional hard-standings, and install night lighting as well as deploy either army transport staff or local civilians for off-loading, there’s no inherent reason why we couldn’t handle the volume of air traffic Air Commodore Waite is talking about.”

Robertson was frowning. “Those were a lot of assumptions, Wing Commander!” He snapped tetchily. “Aren’t you assuming rather too much — including that everything will go like clockwork? By the ribbons you’re wearing, you ought to know that things never go according to plan in the real world. What happens when one of your aircraft crashes, or just gets stuck in the mud and blocks the runway? And if we don’t have electricity, how do you keep the lights on and the radar and R/T working?”

“You’re absolutely correct, General,” Waite replied smoothly diverting Robertson’s wrath, “Nothing will go exactly according to plan. But what are our alternatives? You have already rejected Clay’s idea of an armed convoy.”

“Most definitely!”

“Are you suggesting we should withdraw from Berlin?” Waite pitched the question perfectly, Priestman thought, without a hint of sarcasm or rebuke.

Robinson scowled and snapped back, “That’s not my decision to make.” For a moment, he faced them grimly, his teeth clenched under his moustache, his fingers drumming on his desk. They waited tensely as he mentally reviewed his options. Finally, he drew a deep breath and announced. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if it can work in the long run or not. An airlift is a damn sight better than shooting our way across the Soviet Zone and starting a war! But the Americans must be on board with this, so we’ll have to pitch the idea to General Clay.”