Cold Peace

It was nearly midnight before Clay’s car pulled up outside his home on the quiet residential street Im Dol in Berlin-Dahlem. The sight of a British car with the fender flags of the British Military Governor elicited a weary sigh from the American General. His wife met him as he entered and told him that General Robertson and two RAF officers were waiting to see him in the living room. He nodded and handed her his cap.

As he entered the living room, the British officers got to their feet and Clay acknowledged them by asking, “What are you drinking, gentlemen? Because whatever it is, I’ll join you.” 

“Lucius, believe me, I wouldn’t be here at this time of night if I didn’t think this was important,” Sir Brian replied.

“I understand, Brian. Kentucky Bourbon?” He asked holding up a bottle.

“Yes, thank you,” all three British officers agreed in unison.

Clay poured for them and for himself and then sank on the sofa and stretched out his legs. He looked utterly exhausted, and his eyes were sunk deep in their darkened sockets.

“Been talking to Washington?” Robertson asked in an understanding tone. 

“It would be one thing if the State Department was afraid. Caution is what one expects of diplomats, but the Secretary of the Army is no damned better! They started asking me if we couldn’t roll back the currency reform!” He paused, glanced at Waite and Priestman and noted. “What I say in this room doesn’t leave this room, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Waite and Priestman agreed in unison. 

“We can’t,” Robertson answered the substance of Clay’s remark.

“No, we can’t, we shouldn’t, and we won’t,” Clay agreed. “What I don’t understand is that Washington could even broach the topic! We talked through the needs and risks of the currency reform ten thousand times before we implemented it. It’s as if they don’t listen to a goddam thing I say! We knew the Ruskies were going to be hopping mad. We knew they’d try something. But we also know they aren’t ready for war and every intelligence source we have says they don’t want one either — at least not yet.”

“Quite right, but they are very thin-skinned, arrogant and quick to bluster. Anger and boasts can all too easily spiral out of control. There is always the risk that the Ivans will start to believe their propaganda and allow things to escalate. We don’t need to respond like frightened rabbits, but we mustn’t do anything provocative either.” Robertson reiterated his position. 

Clay sat nursing his bourbon, his expression sour yet resigned. Washington had punched most of the fight out of him.

Robertson reached over and lightly touched his knee. “Lucius, I want you to listen to what Air Commodore Waite has to say.” Robertson gestured for Waite to take over. 

Waite launched into his short presentation, with Priestman chiming in at appropriate moments without prompting. Clay looked from one to the other, his bourbon in his hand. He was slouching more than sitting on his sofa, and he was far too tired to muster any enthusiasm, but when they finished speaking he didn’t look quite as discouraged.

He looked Waite straight in the eye. “Do you honestly think this can be done? Supplying more than two million people with all the things they need — food, fuel, medicines, toiletries, clothing and the rest?”

“Sir, I’m not suggesting they can be supplied with all the things they need. But I do believe we can airlift in survival levels of essentials during the summer months when the days are long and the weather generally good. I admit an airlift won’t be sustainable through the winter. But it could buy us a few weeks, possibly a month or two, time in which we have a chance to work something out with the Soviets.”

Clay turned to Robertson. “What does your government say to the whole thing?”

“You want the exact words of my instructions?” Roberson asked.

Clay just waited with raised eyebrows in anticipation.

“‘Do the best you can.’ I kid you not.”

Clay laughed. “They want you to improvise.”

“We did it at Dunkirk,” Robertson retorted with a touch of pride in his tone. It wasn’t until that moment that Priestman knew that Robertson had truly bought into the idea and would back them 100%. Meanwhile, Clay lifted his glass in salute and drank deeply.

Robertson continued seriously. ‘We’re going ahead, Lucius. HQ RAF Transport Command has promised that squadrons of freighters will start deploying to Wunstorf tomorrow morning. We’ll keep building up the fleet as Gatow’s capacity to receive the cargo increases. That means getting more air traffic controllers, installing more lighting, and completing the concrete runway currently under construction. It might take a week or more to get things fully running, but meanwhile, we’ll be bringing in enough cargo to push back the date when Berlin runs out of anything essential.”

Clay shook his head ambiguously. Then he drained his tumbler to the bottom and declared. “We’ll do it — but only if the Berliners are prepared to face the hardships that will go with it. I don’t want us flying our guts out only to face riots because the Berliners think they aren’t getting enough of something.”