Upon arriving in Paris, Alan Wilson and the rest of the British diplomatic delegation were immediately faced with their first task: sorting out the question of occupation zones.
At Yalta, the postwar occupation of Germany had been divided among the United States, Britain, and the Soviet Union. But in later discussions, the Soviets—acknowledging that France still possessed a large colonial empire—did not press too hard against the idea of giving the French a zone of their own.
For the moment, Wilson and the other envoys were to meet with the Americans and the French to hammer out the details: how the French zone would be set up, and when exactly French troops would move in.
True, everyone knew negotiations with the last remnants of the German armed forces were close to completion—surrender could come any day. But Germany was still a mess. Aside from the scattered diehards still fighting, the sheer level of destruction made it impossible for the country to support occupation forces on its own.
The reports from the front were chilling. Even men used to war's statistics sucked in a sharp breath.
In Cologne, sixty-six percent of housing had been destroyed; Düsseldorf was worse—ninety-three percent of homes uninhabitable. In Frankfurt, eighty thousand of its 180,000 dwellings had been flattened.
Across the British zone—some 5.5 million homes in total—3.5 million were either completely destroyed or heavily damaged. Germany as a whole had possessed sixteen million dwellings before the war; 2.34 million were gone, and over four million more had at least a quarter of their structure ruined.
Some Allied personnel, having heard such reports, were still surprised when they entered Germany and saw buildings standing. In reality, most were empty shells. In Hanover, fewer than one percent of buildings were untouched.
"According to the Expeditionary Force commanders, ninety-three percent of the railways in our assigned zone are damaged," said Ethel, waving a file before placing it in front of Wilson. "Fewer than a thousand kilometers of track are usable—and none of it connects. Functionally, the rail system is gone."
"For the Ruhr, the heart of German industry, that's catastrophic," another envoy remarked, scanning the report. "If it's not an outright liability, we'll be lucky."
"They brought this on themselves," Wilson replied without a flicker of sympathy. The Germans had backed their Führer to fight for the Fatherland; they should have been ready for the consequences.
In his youth, perhaps, he might have been swayed by the sharp uniforms and rousing slogans. Not now.
Mature industrial nations, he thought, must accept responsibility for their choices—especially when those choices end with being bombed to rubble.
"Even so," Wilson continued, "for our own convenience we'll have to repair the railways, bridges, and basic infrastructure. Our zone holds much of Germany's industrial core. The good news is, there's surviving equipment and machinery we might adapt for home use. The bad news is, because it's the industrial heartland, it was hit hardest by Allied bombing. A treasure trove and a nightmare, all in one."
"Actually, Alan," Ethel said evenly, "the main cause of the destruction wasn't our bombing—it was Hitler and the German High Command ordering deep demolition before retreating. We have more than enough evidence to prove it."
"Of course, of course," Wilson said at once, smacking his forehead. "Entirely their doing. The valiant and civilized Allies would never harm civilians—iron discipline at all times. And even the rare rogue element can't tarnish the noble image of our armies."
A knock at the door broke the moment. A soldier stepped in: "Mr. Wilson, Mr. Ethel—the French liaison is here to meet with the newly arrived delegation."
"On our way," Ethel replied. The moment the soldier left, his expression soured. "No doubt more haggling over the French zone. They're always a nuisance—just like de Gaulle. Lacking the strength, but clinging to this idea of 'French dignity.' Infuriating."
Wilson shrugged. "We have no choice. The political situation's fluid, and in these postwar negotiations over the spoils, allies aren't always… fixed in place. Unless you're ready to bypass de Gaulle entirely—Stalin would certainly enjoy that."
And who else could one talk to in France besides de Gaulle? The French Communist Party, of course.
But with no one else able to outmatch the Communists, even the most arrogant posturing from de Gaulle and his backers had to be tolerated. Not just by Britain's envoys in Paris, but by Roosevelt and Churchill themselves—unless they fancied striking deals with "Red France."
Britain and America did not see eye to eye on de Gaulle. The Americans were wary; the British were, in truth, inclined to throw him a lifeline. Both nations, after all, still held vast colonial empires—Britain with some thirty million square kilometers, France with over ten million.
Facing a Soviet Union intent on "liberating the world," or an America waving the banner of self-determination, the two faded empires had every reason to stand shoulder to shoulder.
"Nine hundred years of wars with France," Wilson mused as they left the office, "and now we sit at the same table."
By the time they reached the building's entrance, both men were all smiles. Wilson stepped forward, hand outstretched toward the arriving French representative.
"You're too kind—we've only just arrived."
"Our great allies in Paris—if we were any slower, the gentlemen might be offended," the Frenchman replied warmly. The two delegations clasped hands, exchanged pleasantries, and walked back inside together, arms almost around each other's shoulders.