Group Captain Charles Bowman, DFC, AFC, CBE, had planned something of a reunion.
He had spent a good deal of time and effort in the garden, getting it into good order ready for today. It was not a spectacular garden it had to be said. Mostly laid to lawn, or grass with weeds, really, and with shrubberies down each side and a bit of woodland at the end, it was nevertheless a pleasant retreat, especially on a sunny day. Bowman had fed the lawn, and it had greatly improved the look of the thing as well as getting rid of some of the more obvious weeds and the moss. So much an improvement, in fact, that for the first time he had managed to get decent stripes in it when he cut it yesterday.
He was pleased, too, with the small vegetable garden he had cut out when he first arrived. That was flourishing, and the two small apple trees he had planted in the centre of it had bloomed well and were now bearing quite a good crop of fruit. Sally was particularly pleased with the herbs he had planted there. She delighted in being able to nip out for a fresh bunch of chives, or a handful of mint. ‘Always so much better than bought’, she maintained. And she had worked wonders on the patio with tubs and pots, overflowing with geraniums and all the other things that did well in tubs and pots.
What with one thing and another, he was sure their friends would be impressed, and would enjoy the garden during their short visit.
Fortunately, it had been a glorious day, and they would be able to sit out in the garden over their gins, or whatever, but Sally was not to be persuaded that it would be nice to have supper on the patio as well. Sitting on garden furniture and using the best cut glass was not a good idea, it seemed. So now the table had been laid and the flowers arranged in the dining room. But perhaps they could have coffee and a brandy outside afterwards, if it was still warm.
Two of his oldest friends and colleagues were due later that afternoon for a quiet drink, and then supper. It was always good to meet old colleagues with whom one had served, and it was now quite easy to organise a get-together like this, since they all lived within a reasonable distance of one another.
When they had first met, they were all serving on the same RAF base overseas, in the Middle East, but that was a good few years ago now. Somehow, they had managed to keep in touch, in some cases thanks more to their wives, who had always got on extremely well. They were in some way rather better at picking up the phone or sending notes at Christmas and birthdays, but it was never easy, in the turbulence of service life, to keep in contact with people living on the other side of the world.
This would be the first time they had all met for - what? It must be about seven or eight years now. Charles had been working in the Whitehall Defence Ministry then as he was now, while Padre Frances Tucker was based at RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire, and his other guest, then only a Squadron Leader, was visiting London for a conference from his posting in Germany. Dennis Hood had managed to bring Gill, his wife, with him from Wildenrath, so they had all congregated at the RAF Club in Piccadilly. That was the last time the six of them had met together, although he knew that Frank Tucker and Denis Hood had met a few times recently. Dennis was back in the UK now, Frank had retired, and they were both living within a few miles of one-another.
Charles Bowman heard the car in the drive, and looked out of the study window. It was Frank Tucker, still driving the rather battered old Rover that he had bought when he left the Royal Air Force.
“Frank and Audrey are here,” Charles called to Sally, in the kitchen.
He knew Sally was almost as excited as he was, and had been making a special effort to ensure that everything was perfect for their evening together. No sooner had the Padre and his wife been ushered into the lounge than Gill and Dennis Hood arrived. The noise and excited chatter that followed was infectious, as they all tried at once to catch up on the all the news.
Eventually, they settled in the garden with a drink, and even Sally managed to join them as she left Mary, her home help, to attend to the final preparations for dinner.
“You don’t know how lucky you are to have some help in the kitchen,” commented Audrey.
“I do realise that,” replied Sally. “Fortunately, one of the airmen’s wives was looking for something to do to keep her occupied and earn a bit of pin money to help with the bills, so I snapped her up. She’s really excellent, too.”
“Those were the days,” rued Frank Tucker. “Can’t afford that sort of thing now as a civvy vicar, more’s the pity.”
“I’m sure you could find someone in the parish, couldn’t you Audrey?” asked Gill.
“Afraid not,” replied Frank. “It’s quite a wealthy parish, and not a lot of spare cheap labour about. And the diocese doesn’t pay enough for me to hire expensive help, even if there was any.”
“Still managing to run that old Rover of yours, I see,” said Dennis Hood.
“Wouldn’t be without it,” replied the Padre. “I can get a made-up nine-foot fly rod in that. It’s my fishing car! And I always promised myself a Rover when I retired.”
“And I’ve got my own little one,” said Audrey. “Not much more than a shopping trolley with an engine, really, but it’s quite enough for me to get about in while Frank’s out and about in the parish - or fishing.”
“A two car family?” said Charles. “I thought you were hard up and living like church mice!”
“We certainly miss the RAF salary,” said Frank, “but we manage. Talking of fishing, how’s that boy of yours, Denis?”
“Robin’s fine, thanks,” he replied.
“I do wish you’d stop calling him ‘Robin’,” protested Gill.
“But everyone calls him that,” Denis reminded her. “With a surname like ‘Hood’, what else can you expect? I was always called Robin at school, too.”
“It’s such a pity - Jonathon is such a nice name,” said Gill.
“Anyway, to answer your question, Frank,” continued Denis Hood, “he did very well at school, I’m pleased to say. Got stacks of ‘O’ levels and then enough top-grade ‘A’ levels to get into Oxford. Doing computer science or something, but then he always was a bit of a wizard at maths. He’s due to graduate next year. He’s still mad on fishing, though, thanks to you, and that’s all he wants to do when he’s not fiddling about with computers!”
“Not much fishing around Oxford, as I know from my days at Brize Norton. A few decent fisheries with stocked rainbow trout, but no chalk streams nearby worth talking about. But Robin learnt quickly, and he’s become a good fisherman. I always enjoyed his company when we fished together.”
“I suppose he’ll do something ‘in computers’ afterwards, will he?” asked Charles. “Everyone seems to be in computers these day - goodness knows what they all do!”
“Oddly enough,” replied Denis, “he thought at first he might go into advertising. He seemed to think there’s lot of creative work to be done with computers in that field - computer graphics, animation, that sort of thing. So he’d be using computers, and I suppose he thought he would be developing specialised programmes as he went along. A novel approach, I must say. He has always regarded computers as his hobby, although he has recently talked of setting up his own company one day. He has actually written one or two small software programmes already, although don’t ask me what they are supposed to do. But he must know what he’s doing, even if I don’t, since Microsoft has bought one of them. I think that has convinced him that he really ought to set up on his own straight away, rather than wait, perhaps with a couple of others from Oxford.”
And so they chatted on, catching up on all the news over dinner.
Charles and Sally Bowman had a rather large house in the Chilterns, near the High Wycombe Headquarters of Strike Command - except that it wasn’t strictly theirs. It was a married quarter that belonged to the RAF, but it was a decent sized, redbrick place in half an acre, although it hadn’t been much of a garden when they arrived. Earlier occupants had not done much to it.
They were lucky to get the house. Most people working in the Defence Ministry were give quarters in Uxbridge, which were not nearly so comfortable, although they were, it had to be said, handier for commuting into London. But Charles’ role in Ops. Planning meant he had quite a lot to do with the people at Strike Command, so it suited them perfectly.
The Hoods also had a nice place, a modernised farmhouse near the old RAF base at Dunsfold, in Surrey. Dennis had been involved with the Harrier jump-jet for several years, and had helped to set up the first operational squadrons in Germany, before working on secondment with British Aerospace, the planes’ makers, at their factory at Dunsfold. Since he was soon due to leave the RAF, this couldn’t have worked out better for them, as the company had offered Dennis a job at the factory when he retired, working on future development of the aircraft. It suited them all very well. Dennis was doing a job he enjoyed, with what he thought would be a secure future and was still able to get in quite a bit of flying. Gill was more than happy in the old farmhouse, and could get to the shops in Godalming or Guildford whenever she wanted, while Robin, who was then a boarder at Wellington College, had easy access to some of the best chalk streams in the country, and some excellent still waters as well, when he was home at weekends or during the holidays.
Frank Tucker had been given a parish in Farnham when he had left the service, so he too had easy access to good fishing, while Audrey had a comfortable, if large, vicarage to care for, and plenty of parish work to keep her busy. Already that evening, Gill and Sally had been persuaded to help out with the church fete in a month or so, making cushions and cakes and things like that for sale. Charles had agreed to go as well to help run the raffles - if he was free, of course. Dennis would run one of the stalls, and they would all have supper in the vicarage afterwards - another reunion, and quite like the old days in the Middle East. Then, it was almost routine after evensong to retire to the air-conditioned vicarage, as Frank called his married quarter on the desert airfield, for a bite of supper and a game of Scrabble.
“I meant to ask you, Dennis,” said Frank, as they sat over coffee, “whether there’s any truth in the story I heard that your firm is pulling out of Dunsfold.”
“Quite true, I’m afraid,” replied Dennis Hood. “The order book for new-build Harriers dried up last year, and Dunsfold has been involved in maintenance and up-rating work. Now that’s all being moved up north to Warton, and eventually Dunsfold will close.”
“Will you go to Warton?” asked Frank.
“I don’t think so,” replied Hood. “But obviously I shall have to move, along with some 800 others who work there. Between you and me, I’ve been half promised a job at the company’s new Headquarters at Farnborough, so we shall be able to stay put for once, rather than have to move house again.”
“That’s lucky,” said Charles. “When will you know for certain?”
“Any time, really - I’ll let you know when it’s official.”
“Well,” said Charles Bowman, “since we’re talking about the future, it seems we shall be upping stumps again at the end of the year, too.”
“Where to this time?” asked Frank. “Locally, I hope, now that we’ve all got together again.”
“You will all be more than welcome to pay us a visit at our new posting any time you like,” replied Charles. “But I’m afraid it won’t be any good climbing into that old Rover of yours. I’m going to Harare as Defence Attache!”
“Sounds a good posting, Charles,” said Dennis, “Defence attache, eh? Well done! But Zimbabwe of all places! Couldn’t you have picked somewhere more civilised?”
“We are certainly looking forward to it, although as you say, there are better places in Africa than that wretched country. I remember visiting it when it was Rhodesia, and the place has certainly changed a lot since then. You don’t need the sort of briefings I’m getting to know that - there’s enough in the papers to give you a good idea of what’s happening. But I shall actually have quite a large parish, as I shall be accredited to Mozambique, Malawi and Zambia as well, so I shall be able to travel about a bit. Lusaka is a nice place, but I don’t know Maputo or Lilongwe at all. The chap I’m taking over from is an Army Colonel, whom I’ve met, and he has certainly enjoyed it.”
“Hearing about your travels, you two, makes me feel I’m missing out,” said Frank Tucker. “But I’m not really getting itchy feet again. I shall be quite happy staying in my present parish for as long as the Bishop wants me there. But I certainly can’t see us getting to Africa for our next reunion, can you Audrey?”
“Our next reunion,” Audrey reminded them, “is the church fete, so let’s at least look forward to that.”
“You might just get a visit from Robin, though,” said Dennis. “He and his current girl-friend plan to take their gap year in Africa after they graduate, since they both went straight to University from school.”
“By all means, do get them to look me up, if they can,” said Charles. “What’s she like, this girlfriend?”
“Excellent girl,” replied Gill. “Just the sort Robin needs.”
“Is that her future mother-in-law speaking?” asked Audrey.
“Could well be,” laughed Gill. “They met almost as soon as they got to Oxford, and have been down to see us at Dunsfold quite often. Although I say it myself, they make a lovely couple, and we both rather hope they will settle down together one day.”
“That will put paid to his fishing,” joked Padre Tucker.
“You can’t honestly say that,” responded Audrey. “You don’t do too badly as a married man! But it is a pity we’ll not be able to have many more of these delightful reunions. It’s been so nice to get together again with old friends.”
“Talking of old friends,” said Charles Bowman. “Do either of you remember Paul Bridges?”
“Used to be Provost Marshal, d’you mean?” asked Frank.
“That’s the chap,” replied Bowman.
“I knew him quite well,” said Dennis Hood. “Don’t tell me you’ve come across him again?”
“I have indeed,” replied Charles. “Ran in to him at the RAF Club a week or so ago.”
“What’s he doing now, then?” asked Hood. “I’ve quite lost touch with him, as one does when one leaves service life.”
“Well, he’s left now, too,” replied Bowman. “Retired as an Air Commodore, and fell right on his feet, so it seems. Started off as Head of Security at the Bank of England, and now he’s working in the Cabinet Office, running the Briefing Rooms - the famous COBR we read about when there’s an emergency on.”
“Well I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Dennis. “I really must try to make contact again, now I know where he is.”
“You know,” said Sally, “We very nearly invited him this afternoon, but we weren’t really sure how well either of you knew him. What a pity.”
“Tell you what,” said Frank Tucker. “Why not invite him to the fete? Do you think he’d come?”
“I’m sure he would,” replied Charles. “I’ll give him a ring next week, and let you know.”
“I wonder if his wife’s any good at patchwork,” mused Audrey. “I could do with a few tea cosies.”
The phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Charles Bowman, excusing himself.
It was the office.
“Sorry to bother you, sir.”
It was Squadron Leader Gavin Williams, from Charles’ office in MOD.
“Are you on duty or something today, Gavin?” asked Charles.
“I am now, sir. Bit of a flap on, and they called me up to go in for a meeting, but I wanted a word with you first, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s going on then?” asked the Group Captain. “It must be urgent - it’s Saturday, and Whitehall doesn’t usually work at the weekend if it can help it.”
“This is actually rather more Westminster than Whitehall,” said Williams. “The meeting’s been called by the Cabinet Office. I know we’re not on a secure line, but, without giving too much away, it’s about Zimbabwe.”
“What about Zimbabwe?”
“Contingency plans, and that sort of thing. They want to know if we have any.”
“Who’s ‘they’ exactly?” asked Bowman.
“The meeting’s in one of the Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms in a couple of hours, and it will be us and a couple of other MOD people - Army for sure - and the Foreign Office, Prime Minister’s office, Treasury, that sort of thing. Low level at the moment, I think, which is why I’ve been asked rather than you. At the moment.”
“Don’t say that,” said Bowman. “I’ve got a house full of dinner guests! But what’s brought about this sudden rush of blood to the head?”
“Well, you know the trouble white farmers are having over there. As I understand it, several neighbouring countries are putting a bit of pressure on us to ‘do’ something, and the Prime Minister had a phone call this afternoon from the President of Zambia. So it set him thinking.”
“Governments aren’t supposed to think,” grumbled Bowman. “They’re not good at it, and it always leads to trouble. What do you suppose they want us to do?”
“At the moment, sir, this is just a talking shop, to see what’s possible and what isn’t. Timescales, costs, that sort of thing. But I wanted some guidance from you about how far I should go about our own contingency plans at this stage.”
“Are you quite familiar with them, Gavin? “asked Bowman.
“Yes, sir, I am. We went through them again only a few months ago when it began to look bad for the farmers out there, so I know broadly what we can and can’t do.”
“O.K. then,” responded Sqn. Ldr. Williams’ boss. “Use your own judgement about how far you go, depending on the level of chaps at the meeting, but there’s no harm in telling them broadly what we can do and what we can’t. No clue, I suppose, about what they’re ‘thinking’?”
“None at all, sir,” replied the Squadron Leader.
“Well you know we’ve plotted three scenarios - evacuation, food airlift, and regime change. If it’s the latter, tell them to forget it. Our strategic airlift capability is far too stretched, with Afghanistan, Iraq, the Balkans and everything else even to begin to think about shifting an army half way round the world, and then keeping it supplied for years. You’ll have the Army on your side with that one for sure. The other two are more practical, although evacuation will need people on the ground and support from the neighbours because of over-flying. Food can be parachuted in, if we know where it’s needed, and the Foreign Office and the charities can sort out its distribution once it hits the ground. But if we need helicopter airlift as well for local distribution, remember how thin on the ground we are there, what with the Chinook problems and everything”
“Got that, sir. Thanks.”
“Any problems, let me know - I shall be at home for the rest of the day,” said Bowman.
“Right, sir.”
“And after the meeting winds up, let me know what happens will you, especially if they are expecting us to ‘do’ anything in a hurry. I might have to brief the Air Marshal. Doesn’t matter what time that is. Otherwise, the morning will do.”
“Understood, sir. If it’s urgent, I’ll keep going and keep you in touch. Otherwise, I’ll de-brief you in the morning.”
“Thanks, Gavin. Fancy them getting into such a state on a Saturday, and after all this time, too. It serves them right for cutting off the land re-settlement grants that were promised at the Lancaster House agreement.”
“Getting into the wrong hands, apparently,” said Williams, “although what they expected in a rotten regime like that, I can’t imagine. The world’s gone mad, if you ask me.”
“Well, let’s not pontificate,” said the Group Captain. “What time are you leaving?”
“I’m at home at the moment sir, but I’ll leave in about half an hour.”
“I’ll ring you at home, then, if anything else occurs to me before you leave.”
Charles Bowman hung up, and sat thoughtfully for a moment before re-joining his guests on the patio.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “It was for me after all.”
“Not the office, surely?” asked Sally.
“Afraid so,” replied Charles Bowman. “Government getting its knickers in a twist again, and having a panicky meeting. One of my chaps has been called in, but had the sense to ring me first.”
“I hope you won’t have to go as well,” said Frank. “I was just beginning to enjoy this little get-together.”
“Well, my chap did say it was only him ‘at the moment’, but he said that twice, so you can never be sure. It’s apparently only to look at what contingency plans exist - no real emergency at the moment.”
“Can we be told what it’s about?” asked Dennis.
“Zimbabwe, since you ask,” replied Charles Bowman.
“On a Saturday evening? What’s the President been up to now, for goodness sake?”
“Nothing new, it seems,” said Bowman. “From what I can gather, a few of his neighbours are getting fidgety about the way he’s treating white farmers, and want to know what Britain plans to ‘do’ about it.”
“Not our problem any more, I thought,” said Frank.
“Well, the economy is in a pretty poor state at the moment, with most of the farms producing next to nothing, so perhaps they just want some food aid flown in. We shall see.”
“I suppose there’s no chance of you getting sent out there earlier than planned?” asked Frank Tucker.
“The thought had crossed my mind,” replied Bowman.
“Well, I do hope not, my dear,” said Sally. “I couldn’t face another short-notice move at our time of life. I thought we’d had our share of those.”
“I think it’s unlikely,” replied her husband, “but it may mean a quick trip out there to make sure our planning is going to work. It just depends what, if anything, the Government decides.”
“And nothing will be decided for days or weeks, if I know how the machine works,” said Dennis Hood. “It sounds a fairly low level meeting tonight, anyway.”
“Yes. It is. It could escalate, I suppose, but this is just politicians wanting to be seen to be doing something at the moment. Apparently, the PM had a call from one of the next-door Presidents this afternoon, so is being seen to respond.”
“I remember the times when the boot was on the other foot,” said Dennis. “Now, here we are jumping about just because some uppity nigger has picked up the phone!”
“Now, now, Dennis,” said Gill. “You mustn’t talk like that! You can get thrown into prison for that sort of language these days.”
Dennis ‘humphed’, and the others laughed.
“Where’s the meeting being held, as a matter of interest?” asked Frank Tucker. “Down the road?”
“No,” replied Charles Bowman. “In London, at the Cabinet Office actually.”
“Isn’t that Paul Bridge’s new patch?” asked the Padre.
“Of course it is - I’d quite forgotten,” said Bowman.
“I wonder if he’s at the meeting,” queried Gill. “Wouldn’t that be a coincidence, since we were only talking about him a short time ago.”
“It certainly would,” agreed Sally.
“If he’s doing anything, he’d be chairing it, I should think,” said Dennis Hood.
Charles Bowman looked at his watch.
“I’ll see if I can find out,” he said. “My bloke won’t have left for the meeting yet. I’ll give him a bell.”
He disappeared again into the study, looked in his address book, and dialled the number.
“Squadron Leader Williams,” the phone was answered.
“Gavin? It’s Group Captain Bowman,” said Charles.
“Yes sir?”
“Sorry to bother you just before you leave, but have you any idea who is chairing this meeting you’re going to?”
“Yes. They said it was the chap in charge of COBR. A retired Air Commodore Provost Marshal, I think they said, but I can’t remember his name, I’m afraid,” replied Williams.
“Paul Bridges, by any chance?” asked the Group Captain.
“Yes, that’s the fellow,” replied Williams. “Do you know him?”
“Very well, as a matter of fact. You’ll have no trouble with him in the chair.”
“Well, that’s good news,” replied the Squadron Leader.
“Do me a favour, Gavin? After the meeting, give the Air Commodore my compliments, and ask him to give me a ring sometime, will you?”
“Of course I will, sir. Any particular message?” asked Williams.
“Not really,” replied Bowman. “It’s not urgent, but somebody here wants to know if his wife does patchwork tea cosies. Goodnight.”
With that, Charles Bowman put down the receiver.
At the other end, Squadron Leader Gavin Williams stared at the phone, with his mouth open.
Now he was quite sure the world had gone mad.
***
As it happened, the Cabinet Office meeting was quite short.
The Air Commodore in charge of the Briefing Room organisation was certainly on the ball, and had managed to find the copies of the contingency plans for that region, which were sent to his office as a matter of routine. Not only that, he had also managed to summon enough clerical support to have prepared a synopsis of them, copies of which were handed to all the members of the meeting when they arrived. Within ten minutes of the meeting having started, everyone knew what was possible and what wasn’t.
They discussed each scenario in turn.
Regime change was clearly not an option. Although the President’s tactics were obviously threatening the economic future of the whole of central and eastern Africa, it was equally clear that it would be virtually impossible to form a coalition of countries ready to support any effort to bring about his overthrow simply on those grounds. Indeed, some of his neighbours actually supported his efforts to return land to what they saw as its rightful owners. Since it was a political non-starter, the fact that it would be logistically “mission impossible” anyway, was hardly mentioned.
The evacuation of the remaining white farmers was also quickly ruled out. Apart from anything else, most of them wanted to stay anyway, and they were too few in number and too scattered over the vast country to make any speedy, centralised, operation feasible. Even those who had already been evicted had mostly elected to stay in Zimbabwe - it was, after all, their home, and if they did leave, they were forbidden from taking any money out of the country with them. In any case, where would they be taken - to England? No: this was clearly out of the question.
A case could be made, however, for the distribution of food aid on humanitarian grounds. It was agreed that such a programme should be launched, if at all, under United Nations auspices, and that the UK could offer logistical help in the distribution of essential supplies, but only as a partner in a broader, multi-national effort. The Treasury was very sniffy about the likely cost of such a venture, while the Foreign Office pointed out that Zimbabwe had already rejected aid from the United Nations World Food Programme, claiming that the country was enjoying record harvests, which meant that it was self sufficient. The fact was that more than half the remaining population was going hungry, although it was claimed by sources in South Africa that some 70% of the workforce had fled to neighbouring countries to avoid oppression and a collapsing economy, and that up to 30% of the entire population had already left the country. A rather shame-faced Foreign Office mandarin also admitted that the UK had resisted providing any direct aid to white farmers in the past as a matter of policy, so as not to be seen to be bankrolling the Government-sponsored war veterans’ efforts to take over their land. Any direct involvement in a food aid programme now could well be seen as a political U-turn in this country, and unwanted interference in Zimbabwe’s affairs in Africa.
In the end, it was agreed that a report would be sent to the Prime Minister and Cabinet colleagues reflecting the meeting’s view that not much of immediate benefit to Zimbabwe, its white farmers, or, for that matter, the UK, could be done. The report would recommend, however, that a further approach should be made to the United Nations to see whether there was any likelihood of the World Food Programme being able to restart its distribution effort in Zimbabwe, notwithstanding that country’s present attitude, and offering possible UK support in the future if that was considered desirable and practical. Or words to that effect.
Gavin Williams was very glad he was not a civil servant or directly involved in the world of politics. But he admired the skill with which Air Commodore Bridges had chaired the meeting and steered it to a conclusion that there was no immediate emergency requiring further action by his COBR organisation. He had even managed to persuade one of the Cabinet Office civil servants to draft the committee’s report, so when he adjourned the meeting, he had nothing further to do, for the time being at least.
Williams remembered his further commission from Group Captain Bowman, and approached Bridges with some temerity and embarrassment. He had to wait his turn to get a quiet word with the Head of COBR, as there was the inevitable series of discussions going on “in the margins” as t