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Troubador Publishing Ltd - Robert Webber

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86 pages

English

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"History has shown there are no invincible armies" Josef Vissarionovich Stalin November 1939. Stalin has signed a non-aggression pact with Hitler and is focussing on reclaiming the former Grand Duchy of Finland. Alex Carlton is sent undercover as a Swedish newspaper correspondent to monitor the developing situation and report back to MI2, in London. As soviet bombers drop their bombs on Helsinki, Alex arrives in Finland and soon finds himself embroiled in the political and military efforts of a small Baltic state facing the might of Russia. He is captivated by the sheer determination of the Finnish people, and the skill and mastery of their military leaders as they defend their country against overwhelming odds, inflicting devastating casualties on the Soviet aggressor. For the 105 days the war lasted, Alex faces danger and risk, and after it is all over, he discovers that life is even more complicated when the country is at peace.

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Historical fiction

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	26 novembre 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781800468542
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Copyright © 2020 Robert Webber

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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To my son, also born in Finland,
Nicolai
Contents
Prologue
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
Prologue
Alex Carlsson was undeniably a complicated person. In his mere twenty-three years, he had already had four different names, which to somebody unaware of his peculiar circumstances would undoubtedly have been highly questionable. Suspicious his antecedents may have been, but each had been borne out of the peculiarity of circumstance and entirely justifiable in their own right. The most recent incarnation had been the construct of the backroom gnomes at the Secret Intelligence Service of Britain, who adjudged it to be sufficiently close enough to the name by which Alex was more generally known, yet adequately different so as not to be remarkably similar. Even the name by which he was more usually customarily identified, Alex Nicholas Carlton, was a derivation of his birth name, Aleksander Nikolayevich Karlov and he was, since the death of his father, a vladetel’nyy graf , or proprietary count at the imperial court of Russia. The son of a much-decorated nobleman who had given his life in a bid to save the imperial family from slaughter at Yekaterinburg in 1917; a man much loved by his mother, the Dowager Countess, but a man whom Alex had never met – and yet a man whose high standards of honour and propriety Alex strived to live up to.
Alex was debonair in a youthful sort of way. Although only twenty-two, his boyish charm and devil-may-care attitude had already marked him out to be something of a celebrity in the clandestine world of intelligence, which some may argue was a less-than-advantageous trait, considering the covert nature of such work. It had been during his training that he had exposed a fellow trainee as an enemy agent and rather than awaiting justice through a court of law, had shot him in the act of self-defence. If Alex was concerned about having dealt so finally with an adversary, it did not show in his demeanour; such matters were to be expected in a time of war.
It had only been a few short weeks since Alex had wed the rebellious but beautiful daughter of an overbearing war hero, Theodora, who was almost universally known as Teddy, in the most whirlwind of all marriages. She, wholly unaware of the adventure on which Alex was about to embark, believed him safely established in a bleak and remote area of Scotland, undertaking tedious but necessarily secret work for the Royal Navy. This deception sat worryingly on Alex’s shoulders, but he acknowledged that ignorance was bliss, and he entirely preferred that his wife should not fret, as he knew she would have should the truth be known. Distress, Alex understood, was not beneficial for their unborn child. Of course, he knew the risks that he was undertaking, but Alex was keen to help his adoptive country in its time of need and anything that one could do to frustrate the intentions of Soviet Russia, he felt duty-bound to attempt.
The Bolsheviks had murdered the last tsar of his motherland, along with the tsarina and the imperial family; defenceless children callously butchered by machine-gun bullets was beyond the pale. Quite apart from that, they had killed his father, the man whom his mother had worshipped intensely and the man whom he knew he would have loved, also.
Since Stalin’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov, had signed a non-aggression pact with his German counterpart, Joachim von Ribbentrop, it was clear that Stalin’s intentions towards its former Grand Duchy of Finland were hostile. Indeed, it seemed as though half the Russian army and much of its air force were camped on Finland’s eastern border, awaiting the word to advance and retake the land lost in 1917. Finland’s loyalty both then and currently lay with the “Whites”, the supporters of the Russian monarchy. When the country fought for its independence, their commander was Gustav Mannerheim, a former general in the Russian Imperial Army and a close confidant of the murdered tsar.
Alex’s role for British intelligence was that of gathering information from Finland so that those more senior than he could strategise Finland’s role in the war that had enveloped Europe. His arrival in Gothenburg was in anticipation of and preparatory to his departure for Helsinki in a few weeks. Alex fully expected to be briefed further about the precise nature of the role that he was to play, possibly even by his old school friend and recent best man, Simon Potts, who had secured a comfortable intelligence role with the British Legation in Stockholm.
On balance, although this was a simple fact-finding mission, where danger was considered only a remote possibility, Alex acknowledged that his role was fundamental and it was one into which he was eager to get stuck. There had already been far too many delays in getting him to Sweden; some, admittedly, of his own making, others the fault of circumstance, but he knew that much depended on his success and that was not a burden that Alex wore lightly.
I
It is a fact that Gothenburg, Sweden’s second city, with its leafy boulevards and Dutch-style canals, steeped in history and culture, is considered a most attractive place to visit. Even so, one would have been hard-pressed to have applied such an adjective on the morning of the first day of November in 1939, when the skies had opened, and a deluge greeted those brave enough to venture outside.
It is also a fact that ships entering harbour and berthing, even at the best of times, are noisy beasts and the commotion associated with docking in the early hours is likely to waken all those who are not blessed with the deepest sleep – and Alex was a person who did not sleep deeply. Consequently, just as the clock in the first-class passengers’ dining room chimed, 4.30am, the S/S Suecia docked with such a commotion that Alex roused from his sleep, and as he stirred himself to begin the day, he looked through his cabin window and was one of the first to acknowledge that November had started awfully.
Alex lay in his bunk, unable to get back to sleep as thoughts tumbled around his head in a confused manner until his inability to sort them into any resemblance of order prompted him to put uncertainty aside and go for breakfast. He was, quite naturally, anxious; on the one hand, excited by the adventures that lay ahead, but on the other, the awful weather meant that he was in no great hurry to leave the ship. Had this been a ferry, he may well have remained snugly on board and returned with the vessel to England and his wife, but the land that he had left was not destined to be his next port of call.
It had taken a full four hours since awakening before he mustered sufficient resolve to begin the day, and on entering the dining room, he was quite pleasantly surprised to find that few of his fellow passengers were joining him for breakfast. A couple of repatriated diplomatic wives on the ship acknowledged his presence with a smile or nod of the head, but Alex was relieved to discover that most of the passengers had already disembarked.
Choosing a table where he could surreptitiously watch who was entering the dining room, Alex called a steward to him and ordered, ‘S kinka, äggröra, bröd, fil och kaffe ’ – ham, scrambled eggs, bread, sour milk and coffee – a typical Swedish breakfast. Alex picked up an old copy of a local newspaper from the next table and read what was happening in the world, according to the Swedish regional press. His breakfast, when it came, bore only a passing resemblance to what he had ordered – a slice of ham, some crispbread and a pot of coffee.
‘ Ursäkta! ’ – Waiter! – Alex called, but the steward had already left, and he reluctantly breakfasted on the food, even the coffee was disgusting. Alex had yet to acquire the taste of coffee first thing in the morning and far preferred tea, but in his life as a Swedish newspaper reporter, his personal preferences were laid aside as he adapted to more traditional Swedish customs.
Breakfast, in Alex’s opinion, was never to be regarded as a convivial meal and he was glad that none of the ship’s passengers sought to engage him in conversation, and as soon as he had finished, he returned to his cabin to finish packing his suitcase before his planned disembarkation at about 10.00am. He had not unpacked fully, so repacking was straightforward and took much less time than Alex had allocated, so he lay on the bed and took the photo of his young wife and smiled at it, clasping it close to his breast and wishing that it was she, in perso