Cold War

“Sir, Tempelhof just closed due to zero visibility during rain squalls. Unfortunately, because of our earlier interruption in operations, I had to inform them that we have too much inbound traffic to allow Tempelhof to divert their aircraft here. However, I agreed to take one inbound C-47 because General Clay is aboard.”

“When is it due?”

“In twelve minutes.”

“Thank you.” Priestman found his raincoat and an umbrella, called his driver, and they drove through the pouring rain to the hardstanding assigned to the American aircraft. Priestman did not have long to wait before a Dakota with white stars on the fuselage whisked by on the runway. Minutes later, it came to a stop at the hardstanding with the rain still pelting down as though it were an Indian monsoon. Priestman stepped out into the deluge to meet Clay at the foot of the stairs, holding an umbrella for the military governor as he guided him back to the car. Priestman then dashed around to climb in the other side with his feet drenched and his trousers soaked and clinging to his legs.

“Thank you,” the General greeted him as he unfolded in the seat beside him, adding with a wry smile, “It’s a bit embarrassing that you’re still operational when we’re closed.”

“We opted for Ground Controlled Approach at all times and have the radar and controllers in place to handle it.”

Clay nodded, “I won’t be a burden to you for long, Wing Commander. The pilot radioed ahead, and my staff will send a car to pick me up here.”

“You’re no burden at all, General. Would you rather wait in the privacy of my office, or go to the Officers’ Mess for a drink?”

“I could do with some bourbon if you have any.”

“I’m not sure about the bourbon, sir, but we can offer Scotch whisky.”

“That would be fine.”

Priestman directed his driver to take them to the mess. As they left their wet outer garments in the cloakroom, Clay remarked, with a shake of his head. “I’ll never get used to this terrible Berlin weather! Where I come from, it’s not this cold and rainy until November.”

As an Englishman, Priestman didn’t feel he could complain about wet weather, but he had been surprised by the amount of heavy rain Berlin had in high summer. He’d also been warned that the weather would get worse in the autumn and winter. To Clay, he offered only a lame joke about “typical English weather,” and got the expected laugh.

As he led the way to the lounge, Priestman noticed staff and officers looking twice as they passed. Clay had a distinctive face familiar to everyone from the newspapers. Priestman ordered Scotch for them both.

“Any idea how we’re doing today?” Clay asked conversationally.

“Due to disruptions beyond our control, not so well, but yesterday we set a record with 707 combined USAF/RAF sorties for the delivery of 4,742 tons.”

Clay nodded without commentary. They both knew that despite setting new ‘records’ they were still not meeting targets. They had more than doubled the number of flights and the volume of tonnage delivered since the end of the previous month, but Berlin’s reserves were still being drawn down. Priestman had heard that the city was just two weeks away from a power shutdown.

Clay took out his cigarette case and politely asked, “Do you smoke?” Priestman shook his head. Clay lit up, took a long drag, and then leaned back in his chair. As if he had just remembered something, his tense, sharp face broke into a rare grin. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time, Wing Commander: your wife is one persuasive woman! I wish I could take her along with me when I go to Washington. She’s just what I need to shake up the National Security Council.”

Priestman laughed shortly, but took advantage of the opening to ask, “Didn’t things go well on this last trip?”

A WAAF orderly brought their drinks, giving Clay an excuse to delay his answer. He rested his cigarette on the ashtray, took a sip of Scotch, then, tapping the ash off the cigarette, took it up again before turning to his host to confide, “I’m the son of a senator, Wing Commander, and I joined the army to get away from politics. Instead, I find myself smack in the middle of the biggest political conundrum since the end of the war.” Holding the burning butt of his cigarette between his fore and middle finger, he pushed the ashtray this way and that before continuing. “The consensus in the National Security Council is that the Airlift cannot succeed and that we must therefore prepare to withdraw in an orderly and timely fashion. However, the State Department is insistent upon a final attempt to negotiate a settlement with Stalin. As far as I can see, the only person in Washington committed to staying in Berlin is President Truman.”

Priestman didn’t like the sound of that, but he clung to the fact that Truman was committed. “Isn’t he the one who counts?”

He was disturbed when Clay did not agree with him. Instead, the American General picked up his whisky and studied it as he swished it around in the glass before replying, “For now he is, but President Truman is facing an election in November which no one thinks he can win. He’s not popular — not even in his own party. The Democrats, furthermore, are in complete disarray. The left wing has broken away to launch a third party, the Progressives, with Roosevelt’s former Vice President Wallace as their candidate. Meanwhile, the reactionary southern Democrats have broken off to support a segregationist by the name of Thurmond. As a result, the democratic vote is splintered three ways, which means the Republicans are almost certain to win. They don’t share Truman’s commitment to Europe. Most of them want a return to isolationism. Their motto is ‘America First’ — and they’re too short-sighted to see we can’t defend American interests if Europe is economically prostrate — much less part of the Russian empire. So that’s the problem, Wing Commander. We have to beat the Reds here in Berlin before the election in the United States brings to power a party that will just walk away from the Airlift and leave the Berliners to be eaten alive by a vengeful Russian bear.”