As the Crow Flies

A young Wren officer came forward to greet the middle-aged sergeant before ushering him through to an anteroom.

“The Prime Minister has the American ambassador with him at the moment,” she explained. “But he doesn’t expect his meeting with Mr. Kennedy to last much longer.”

“Thank you,” said Charlie.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.” Charlie was too nervous to think about drinking tea. As she closed the door, he picked up a copy of Lilliput from a side table and leafed through the pages, but didn’t attempt to take in the words.

After he had thumbed through every magazine on the table—and they were even more out of date at Number 10 than at his dentist—he began to take an interest in the pictures on the wall.

Wellington, Palmerston and Disraeli: all inferior portraits that Becky would not have bothered to offer for sale at Number 1. Becky. Good heavens, he thought, she doesn’t even know I’m in London. He stared at the telephone that rested on the sideboard aware that he couldn’t possibly call her from Number 10. In frustration he began to pace round the room feeling like a patient waiting for the doctor to tell him if the diagnosis was terminal. Suddenly the door swung open and the Wren reappeared.

“The Prime Minister will see you now, Mr. Trumper,” she said, then proceeded to lead him up a narrow staircase, past the framed photographs of former prime ministers. By the time he reached Churchill he found himself on the landing facing a man of five feet nine inches in height who stood, arms on hips, legs apart, staring defiantly at him.

“Trumper,” said Churchill, thrusting out his hand. “Good of you to come at such short notice. Hope I didn’t tear you away from anything important.”

Just a Bren lesson, thought Charlie, but decided not to mention the fact as he followed the shambling figure through to his study. Churchill waved his guest into a comfortable winged chair near a roaring fire; Charlie looked at the burning logs and remembered the Prime Minister’s strictures to the nation on wasting coal.

“You must be wondering what this is all about,” the Prime Minister said, as he lit up a cigar and opened a file that was resting on his knee. He started to read.

“Yes, sir,” said Charlie, but his reply failed to elicit any explanation. Churchill continued to read from the copious notes in front of him.

“I see we have something in common.”

“We do, Prime Minister?”

“We both served in the Great War.”

“The war to end all wars.”

“Yes, wrong again, wasn’t he?” said Churchill. “But then he was a politician.” The Prime Minister chuckled before continuing to read from the files. Suddenly he looked up. “However, we both have a far more important role to play in this war, Trumper, and I can’t waste your time on teaching recruits Bren lessons in Cardiff.”

The damned man knew all along, thought Charlie.

“When a nation is at war, Trumper,” said the Prime Minister, closing the file, “people imagine victory will be guaranteed so long as we have more troops and better equipment than the enemy. But battles can be lost or won by something that the generals in the field have no control over. A little cog that stops the wheels going round smoothly. Only today I’ve had to set up a new department in the War Office to deal with code-breaking. I’ve stolen the two best professors they have at Cambridge, along with their assistants, to help solve the problem. Invaluable cogs, Trumper.”

“Yes, sir,” said Charlie, without a clue as to what the old man was talking about.

“And I have a problem with another of those cogs, Trumper, and my advisers tell me you’re the best man to come up with a solution.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Food, Trumper, and more important its distribution. I understand from Lord Woolton the minister in charge that supplies are fast running out. We can’t even get enough potatoes shipped over from Ireland. So one of the biggest problems I’m facing at this moment is how to keep the nation’s stomach full while waging a war on the enemy’s shores and at the same time keeping our supply routes open. The minister tells me that when the food arrives in the ports it can often be weeks before the damned stuff is moved, and sometimes even then it ends up in the wrong place.

“Added to this,” continued the Prime Minister, “our farmers are complaining that they can’t do the job properly because we’re recruiting their best men for the armed forces, and they’re not receiving any backup from the government in exchange.” He paused for a moment to relight his cigar. “So what I’m looking for is a man who has spent his life buying, selling and distributing food, someone who has lived in the marketplace and who the farmers and the suppliers both will respect. In short, Trumper, I need you. I want you to join Woolton as his right-hand man, and see that we get the supplies, and then that those supplies are distributed to the right quarters. Can’t think of a more important job. I hope you’ll be willing to take on the challenge.”

The desire to get started must have shown in Charlie’s eyes, because the Prime Minister didn’t even bother to wait for his reply. “Good, I can see you’ve got the basic idea. I’d like you to report to the Ministry of Food at eight tomorrow morning. A car will come to pick you up from your home at seven forty-five.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Charlie, not bothering to explain to the Prime Minister that if a car did turn up at seven forty-five the driver would have missed him by over three hours.

“And, Trumper, I’m going to make you up to a brigadier so you’ve got some clout.”

“I’d prefer to remain plain Charlie Trumper.”

“Why?”

“I might at some time find it necessary to be rude to a general.”