"...Before leaving Vorontsov Palace for the plenary session at
Livadia that afternoon, Winston and Sarah took a walk down to the terrace for a
better look at the sea in the winter sun. The day was mild, and the sun warmed
the terrace so nicely that Sarah was able to leave her coat behind. She was
beginning to regret having spent her precious clothing ration coupons on
thermal layers to wear under her uniform. The temperature here was a welcome
change from perpetually shivering in the damp cold and fog that enveloped RAF
Medmenham, which left Sarah suffering from painful chilblains on her feet. On
their walk they encountered three of the top British military representatives
from the army and the RAF—Alan Brooke, Harold Alexander, and Peter Portal—who
had just returned from the meeting of the combined chiefs of staff at the
Koreiz Villa. The three officers decided to join them.
As the party of five stood along the edge of the terrace,
looking down at the water, they noticed a remarkable sight. In the slick,
oily-looking gray water below, a slaughter was underway. A school of fish
directly beneath them was being assailed on two fronts: a great pod of
porpoises was attacking from the sea, while a flock of hundreds of seagulls
assaulted from the air. For the predators, it was a feast.
Sarah watched the carnage, expecting the fish to swim away
and save themselves. But as the feasting continued, the fish schooled closer
together. Over and over again, the porpoises attacked like U-boats targeting a
shipping convoy, while the formation of circling gulls dive-bombed from on
high.
Still, the fish huddled in tight formation, safety in
numbers their only protection. They were willing to sacrifice many to protect
the school as a whole.
The slaughter went on and on; the porpoises’ and gulls’
appetites seemed insatiable. Sarah stared in horror and fascination. To her
dismay, the military chiefs failed to share her incredulity. Portal was
daydreaming about what a lovely day it would be for a sail, while Brooke, who
was the vice president of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, stood
admiring the gulls, as well as the ducks, loons, and cormorants that had joined
the action.
Sarah turned to Brooke, shaking him out of his reverie.
“Surely,” she exclaimed, the fish were “idiotic not to disperse.”
Brooke quickly dismissed the idea. “Not at all,” he said.
“It is much better they should stick together.”
Hearing Brooke’s comment, Winston immediately piped up. He
agreed with Sarah entirely. It would be much better for each fish to take the
offensive to preserve its own life than to allow the group to decide for it
that it was just one dispensable fish whose life was worth no less or no more
than its neighbor’s. Brooke, he scoffed, had allowed his “usual cool
dispassionate judgment” to become “badly prejudiced” because of his affinity for
the feathered species.
Sarah and Winston soon headed back to the house to find the
car that would take them to Livadia, leaving Brooke to admire his birds, but
Sarah’s mind lingered over the disturbing scene.
Earlier, Sarah had looked to the lines on a person’s palm to
divine the future. Perhaps now she had been given a genuine sign. The growing
ideological divide over Europe’s fate—whether the continent would be shaped by
the Soviets’ vision for collective action or the West’s commitment to
self-determination—had been starkly mirrored in that grisly ecological tableau..."
('The Daughters of Yalta: The Churchills, Roosevelts, and Harrimans: A Story of Love and War' by Catherine Grace Katz, 2020)
A school of bluefin trevally working a school of anchovies which may compact into a spherical bait ball if they are sufficiently threatenedcourtesy: Bruno de Giusti
