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167 13 a Foreign correspondent During my first month in England, I stayed a short weekend with my old friend Sholto Douglas, commander in chief of Coastal Command. I had known Sholto since 1932. He and his dear wife, Joan, had the apartment above Maggie and me at 4 West Halkin Street, and the four of us became immediate friends—a friendship that was to last for around four decades. Upon learning that I was back in London, he took the first available opportunity to invite me to his residence adjoining Coastal Command Headquarters. Both Sholto and Joan were wonderful hosts. And they were still keeping in touch with Maggie; Sholto was very proud of her flying prowess with the Air Transport Auxiliary. The most exciting point was when Sholto took me down into Coastal Command’s vast underground operations room. To say that I was overwhelmed by the efficiency of this undertaking, not to speak of the spectacle , would be an understatement. On one side of this vast chamber were boxlike cubicles in which sat important air force officers and their assistants . Facing them was a perhaps 150-foot-wide wall map of the command ’s extent. It was a huge section of the world displayed like a mural, not only the shores of the British Isles, but almost the entire North Atlantic, stretching south to the Caribbean and north beyond the shores of Newfoundland. Swarming over the great map on ladders were young members of the Women’s Royal Air Force (WRAF), planting flags or markers to indicate the latest known positions of Atlantic convoys, Nazi wolf packs, and the like, for Coastal Command to strategize. As Sholto and I emerged from the deeply descending elevator and came into this vast room, he stopped beside a box where an air commodore appeared to be in charge of the evening’s observations. Sholto asked, “Everything in order?” The answer was crisp: “Moving along, sir. No complaints.” HitcHcock’s Partner in susPense 168 Sholto glanced across to where three WRAFs were planting markers off the southern tip of Greenland. He asked entirely casually, “Cape Farewell?” “No change since my last report, sir. There are two down below, but our frigates have ’em marked and are working at it. They won’t get away.” “Keep me informed,” said Sholto. As we ascended into a peaceful evening where sheep were actually grazing in the fields, I was conscious of a shiver down my spine. “They won’t get away,” the air commodore had said; and I was conjuring up the thought of ordinary, decent young German sailors, obeying the wretched Hitler’s dictates and, possibly at that very moment, being blown into deepsea oblivion by dropped depth charges. I didn’t like it, but Sholto was completely unperturbed. Destroy a hundred or so Germans? All in a day’s or a night’s work. Meanwhile, “Cocktail hour, Charles. Dry martini?” Over dinner I told Sholto and Joan about my convoy crossing. Sholto took it all for granted, his attitude being, “Lucky you got through.” He added, “There was little I could have done to help you. The bulk of my aircraft were staging for the Normandy beach landings.” I was glad I hadn’t known this when Nazi planes were approaching the Sam Rich over the North Sea. Coastal Command’s job was to provide convoys with air protection; but the herding home of just twelve ships down the coast of Scotland meant nothing compared to the success of the invasion of Nazi-held Europe. But what fascinated me was Sholto’s interest in my recent Lewis gun experiences. Sholto in his early twenties had been one of the most highly decorated fighter pilots in the RAF—Military Cross, Distinguished Flying Cross, Croix de Guerre. Yet even on previous occasions he had expressed pride in the fact that I had been decorated in World War I. At a cocktail party I remember him presenting me to friends with the remark “Young Charles was awarded the Military Medal for Bravery in 1918—aged just eighteen.” All of which means that Sholto was a generous man. Anyway, I do want to put on record how grateful I am for the memory of the now dead Sholto, who granted me at least a fleeting glimpse of real war on its grandest scale. Thanks to Sholto, I was lucky enough, for a weekend , to be in touch with the true machinery of conflict at its most...

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