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NAKED INSTINCT
Inside the War Room bunker, a chatter of teacups, the odor of damp wool and earthy cigars, as Chiefs of Staff and service ministers settle in around the table.
The Prime Minister stands with his back to the room, facing a map of the Mediterranean, shoulders slumped
at the latitude of the Suez Canal. He chews on a Romeo y Julieta, paces between Tunis and Beirut,
the latest disasters howling through his mind—Yugoslavia capitulated, Egypt lost, Allies in full retreat
on the Greek mainland, pleas for Roosevelt to enter the war declined.
He turns around. “Where will the German strike next?” His cigar jabs the island of Crete, leaving a smudge of ash at Suda Bay.
A brisk stir around the table.
Someone starts to speak, but he cuts him off. “I have made repeated injunctions that Crete be fortified.”
Fatigue leaves him short-tempered. Last night he was awake with the Blitz, tramped up to the roof
at what sounded like a close hit, and squatted on a hot air vent counting Heinkel IIIs. The Blitz
is a personal humiliation. He nods at General Sir John Dill, and sits down.
“We disagree, Prime Minister,” Dill says. “The next objective will be Iraq, not Crete!”
“If the German plans to occupy Iraq, why is he now concentrating upon our defense positions in Crete?”
“A feint to divert attention,” Dill says. “I should add that General Wavell concurs.”
Wavell, head of Middle East Command, is obstinate, and preoccupied with Tobruk.
Admiral Dudley Pound, First Sea Lord, a man of discipline and order, is a miser with words. “Malta!”
“Last year, while she lay naked as a newborn babe, why didn’t he attempt it then?” the PM fires back.
“Our air attacks are now staged from bases in Malta,” the Admiral says.
His mind goes to the German whose strategies don’t always follow sound logic. He is unmoved by his advisors.
He’ll ask intelligence to find out where the German will strike next. He pushes back his chair, the meeting over.
Two weeks later, the Prime Minister is awake inside the bunker, sitting naked on the side of his bed, doing his
daily breathing exercises—pale potbelly rising and falling. Father died at forty-five. He’d decided to be quick
about making his mark in the world, as he too could die young. Now he’s sixty-six. Thompson,
his personal bodyguard, enters with wires that arrived throughout the night. He doesn’t bother
covering himself. Thompson has seen this sorry sight of late more often than Clemmie.
He flips through the wires, pauses at one from W. Cavendish-Bentick: All information points to Colorado—17 May. Colorado is code for Crete. He stands up, stark naked, short of breath, a dull pain over his heart. Crete still isn’t fortified. Three days away. “Send in my secretary! I need to send Wavell a message.”
Thompson approaches with a robe.
“Never ignore your instincts.”
“Sir?”
“I knew which kite the German was going to fly next!”
Margot Demopoulos' work has appeared in the Kenyon Review and is forthcoming in the Sewanee Review.
Email: Margot Demopoulos
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