The news of Hitler's suicide hit London like a thunderclap. By morning, every major newspaper splashed the headline across its front page, and in every street, men and women—young and old—clutched a copy. The man who, in the British imagination, had single-handedly ignited the war, was gone. To many, his death seemed the final marker that this great slaughter, which had claimed tens of millions of lives, was truly drawing to a close.
The first light of peace had broken through. People exhaled as if for the first time in six years. Families dared to hope their loved ones would soon return home.
As for how many German units inside the Reich still refused to believe the Führer was dead—and were determined to fight to the last—that was no longer Britain's concern.
"Not far off from the history I remember," Alan Wilson thought as he glanced at his calendar, locking his front door. His orders to report to the Foreign Office were set; his departure for Europe had been scheduled.
On the streets of London, people waved their newspapers and cheered. The air was buoyant.
"Heading to Whitehall, are you? War's over now—our boys will be coming home," said the taxi driver, proving once again that cabbies everywhere shared the gift of constant chatter.
"Most of them will," Alan replied politely. "Though the Far East isn't finished yet. But with the Expeditionary Force and the Indian divisions recovering our territories out there, I expect we'll have good news in a few months."
He turned to look at the laughing crowds outside and couldn't help thinking: What exactly are you cheering for? Cheering for your husband's return—only to find you've had a healthy baby boy in his absence of two years? Only God knows how many marriages will end in divorce before this is over.
After weeks of mingling in both the Foreign Office and the India Office, Alan was already familiar with their corridors. The final paperwork for his posting was a formality. No one bothered with grand speeches about the urgency or importance of the mission—Alan understood those better than anyone, and unlike some colleagues, he had a personal incentive: the salary the Nizam of Hyderabad was paying him as "Special Commissioner" was not going to be collected for nothing.
Since Germany was still in chaos, the British diplomatic mission sent to establish order in the occupation zone would not head straight there. Instead, their first stop was Paris.
From the Yalta agreements, Britain—with its thirty million square kilometres of colonial holdings—still stood beside America and the Soviet Union as a global power. The British zone of occupation would include the Ruhr, Schleswig-Holstein, and southern Austria—cities like Bonn, Hamburg, Cologne, and Kiel.
The Ruhr alone was Germany's industrial heart. Bonn would later be the capital of West Germany, and Hamburg and Kiel were vital ports. Much of Germany's industrial crown jewels lay in British hands.
Being born to a strong country had its privileges. Once in the British zone, Alan could properly sift through those industrial treasures for whatever suited his purposes.
There was no rush. At the port, the Nizam's London steward came to see him off. As the ship prepared to sail, Alan gave final instructions.
"Alim, I'll contact you from Paris to arrange shipment of what we'll need. If the grain from British India arrives, speak to Burgess—he used to work at the BBC. He can broadcast the Nizam's generosity to a war-scarred Europe. The BBC's perfect for that."
At moments like this, Alan had no qualms about borrowing the connections of one of the Cambridge Five. Business was business.
With a few more pleasantries, he boarded. The ship pulled away toward the French coast—and the complaints began immediately. Several members of the mission grumbled about being sent by sea instead of air. Was there really a danger of being shot down over France at this point?
"Perhaps the Foreign Secretary wants us to see France's real condition for ourselves," Alan suggested with a lazy whistle. "Might make us more appreciative of peace—and more eager to work."
"You may be right," said one fellow envoy, a man named Ethel, nodding gravely before smirking. "Everyone knows the French are the embodiment of courage."
"Of course," another joined in. "I'm sure they won't surrender twice."
"Maybe the French will tell you that surrendering spared them losses. If giving up means you suffer less, why resist at all?"
"That's… oddly logical. Brilliant people, the French."
One quip led to another. The air was thick with mirth, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Alan couldn't help himself—he joined in. Already at the "Today's Humiliation of France" stage, are we? he thought. Slandering the French for no reason at all—splendid way to pass the time.
Crossing the Channel and travelling overland to Paris was no simple matter. Railways were in poor repair; trains would stop and start, unable to run through to the capital. Fortunately, the British Army at a northern port offered assistance, sparing the diplomats a cold, hungry march.
The scars of war were everywhere. Coastal fortifications built by the Germans still loomed over the empty stretches of countryside. The French no longer looked panicked, but they moved quickly, with little of the easy Parisian air. Whatever the official reports said, France was clearly not in good shape.
It was better off than Germany, perhaps—but famine was unlikely here. France was, after all, a major agricultural producer, with a place even in the future pantheon of global farming powers. The French would at least eat.
The Germans, though—that was another story.
After a journey of halts and detours, the mission finally reached Paris. Their memorable voyage was at an end; the work, however, was just beginning.