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Chapter 42, War Office, 17 August 1936
He sat, hands clasped together, staring into the distance as if posing for a portrait. There was a gentle rap at the door.
“Sir, he’s here.” Duff Cooper looked blankly at his secretary, who offered, quietly, “General Dill, Minister.”
“Ah, yes,” Duff Cooper said, still seeming unsure. “Palestine, or Malaya?”
“Palestine, Sir,” the civil servant confirmed.
“Er, thank you. Tell me, would you take a stand over a matter of principle in support of a friend?”
The civil servant, a tall, awkward man, squirmed slightly. “I hope that I would, Sir.”
“Would you? Even if it would mean the certain end of your career?”
The secretary was a temporary supplementary, a student who had scored highly in the examinations and who was gaining experience in the War Office by supporting the civil servants providing summer cover for the Secretary of State’s usual inner circle. He nodded, slowly. He could not but guess as to what Duff-Cooper was referring.
“I still would,” the Secretary said.
“I wonder if I will have your resolution,” Duff-Cooper said softly. “Thank you, Cairncross. Still hoping for the Palazzo?”
The ‘temp’ nodded. “Although I hear that the Cabinet Office and the Treasury are recruiting.”
“They’ll need to,” Duff Cooper said darkly. “Fisher and his toady Wilson will need good men with sound minds before this is out.”
“Shall I send General Dill in, Minister?”
“Yes yes, let’s be at it.”
A splendidly scarlet tunic wearing General Officer, accompanied by a Major in the scarlet and dark green of the Durham Light Infantry, strode in.
Duff Cooper knew Major General Dill very well; as his outgoing Director of Operations and Intelligence he could hardly not. He even knew that the Military Assistant from the Durhams had a reputation for fiery (and profane) efficiency. But both had an air of aloofness that Duff Cooper, now facing the most stressful moment of his career to date, found foreign, intimidating.
“Thank you, Sir John, Major, for coming,” Duff Cooper began slowly. The secretary came in and performed for Duff Cooper the same role as Major Belsay was for Dill, taking notes and keeping quiet. “The situation in Malaya,” there was a cough, at this, from the temporary secretary, “in Palestine,” he said, flatly, “is frankly not as I’d want it! You’ll see that we’ve put Evans’ report of the Anabta skirmish in your briefing pack,” Duff Cooper said, frowning again. There was a pause, before he resumed. “Ah yes, er, how much of this are you aware of?”
“Frankly, Sir,” Dill said crisply, “not much. I know that a convoy of civilian buses was traveling from Haifa to Tel Aviv under the protection of our troops when it was ambushed.”
“Well,” said Duff Cooper, looking at his notes, “that’s the gist, certainly. Here it is, ‘at a point about one and a half miles West of Anabta’,” he read, “oh yes, ‘an estimated sixty to seventy fighters belonging to a faction led by an Ibrahim Nassar’ he’s an interesting one, Sir John…”
“…so I’ve heard,” Dill said wryly.
“Well, anyway, the situation degenerated rapidly and the whole thing reads like a battle. Three battalions of the Sixteenth Brigade involved,” he said.
Dill and Belsay were more concerned with the shambolic nature of the briefing. A departing general routinely made a round of briefings and ‘calls’ on government and military figures; this was designed to expose him to the thoughts of those in power to better understand their intent (and therefore his mission). But this was something that a subaltern at Sandhurst could have come up with.
Duff Cooper, himself no stranger to Army matters, seemed to sense that he was missing the point. He looked at his secretary and then to Belsay. “Perhaps you two could give us a minute,” he said tiredly. A quick look from Dill confirmed that Belsay should comply, and the two juniors retreated.
“Minister,” Dill began.
“No, no,” Duff Cooper said, raising a hand to stop the General. “We’re in trouble Sir John, and given that you’re deploying it is a good thing that you’re informed. Baldwin has spent,” he paused, “an age lining up the Cabinet, Church and Dominions against His Majesty. It is highly likely that the Cabinet will resign if the King does not back down over this Simpson business.”
Dill was a canny operator, who, despite his slightly dull nature knew how operators worked. “All of them?”
Duff Cooper started, snapped back as if he had been slapped. “Well that’s the point, as soon as one of us breaks ranks, the game’s up.” He surprised himself at his levity, despite his ever present terror at the thought of the growing crisis.
Dill stared at his Secretary of State. “And, you…”
“…am twisting on the bloody rack,” Duff Cooper, thinking that Dill was bound for Palestine and, therefore, well ‘beyond the Pale’, sensed that he had absolutely nothing to lose by pouring out his heart to someone. “Slippery Sam has hinted that he will go over to the rebels, and has all but guaranteed that he’ll bring me with ‘im if he does.” He huffed with fury at the notion of following Hoare. “As if I would follow him. Him! The A bloody recruiting officer, a bloody drafty. Follow him? Not even out of a sense of curiosity,” he quipped, quoting an old army adage about bad leaders. “And of course, Anthony can’t break cover against Baldwin’s stately progress, doesn’t want to hand Neville the Crown, not without a fight, so has promised the undertaker that I’m still a Cabinet loyalist.” He pounded the desk in impotent rage.
Dill, to Duff Cooper rather dully, seemed focussed on his mission. “If I need to refer up to London…”
“…go to Deverell, direct, or Hankey.” Deverell was the Chief of the Imperial General Staff. “Keep it away from the politicians until you absolutely have to. It’s going to be bloody chaos.”
“Your intent for Palestine?”
“Keep a lid on it. The rebels are almost certainly crossing back and forth into French mandated territories; Anthony has raised it with Delbos,” Duff Cooper, typically said the French minister’s name perfectly. “But you will need to liaise with Damien de Martel and his crowd.”
“De Martel?”
Duff Cooper nodded blankly, “French High Commissioner of the Levant. They’ve got their own problems, so try and find common ground with them.”
“But, Sir Arthur…”
“…is a tired old man. I like Wauchope, I do, but he and Ormsby-Gore aren’t doing anything.” He sighed heavily. “You’re going to have to reach up into the political more, far more, than you an I envisaged.” He shook his head slightly. “They’ve changed tactics,” he saw Dill raise an eyebrow, “the Arabs that is. We’ve moved on from large scale descents, it’s all small scale, ‘tip and run’ stuff. All looks very Boer War, actually.”
Dill, who had served with his Irish Regiment in that conflict as a subaltern, raised the other eyebrow. “I see,” he said softy.
“Small bands of rebels, striking when we’re weak, y’see.” He tossed a letter at Dill. “Read the bit about El Hamme. The Police post attacked a week ago, a number of arms were stolen.” He looked, angrily, at Dill. “This one, just a few day ago. A small party of our troops who were bathing near Beisan on the subjected to a surprise attack by a large Arab armed band.” Another sigh, more impotent rage. “Unfortunately their Lewis gun jammed and those who were on guard were killed by the band, who succeeded in capturing the Lewis gun and some rifles.”
“What is it, Mr Duff Cooper, that you would have me do.”
“Do?” It is right, it is right, that we clamp down on this. We’ve tried talking, we’ve tried playing one side off against the other. I need resolve, Sir John.”
“And the Royal Commission?”
“Yes, yes there’s that isn’t there? Remember that their terms of references are rather lofty.” He searched among two buff folders and found what he was looking for. “A ha. ‘To ascertain the underlying causes of the disturbances which broke out in Palestine in the middle of April; to enquire into the manner in which the Mandate for Palestine is being implemented in relation to the obligations of the Mandatory towards the Arabs and the Jews respectively; and to ascertain whether, upon a proper construction of the terms of the Mandate, either the Arabs or the Jews have any legitimate grievances on account of the way in which the Mandate has been, or is being, implemented; and if the Commission is satisfied that any such grievances are well-founded, to make recommendations for their removal and for the prevention of their recurrence.’ Then some waffle about the membership.”
Dill had one final question. “Reinforcements?”
“Ha, you’ve had that which we can immediately give, from Egypt. So keep close to Weir.” ‘Keep close’ was an odd, ill-fitting way of suggesting cooperation, but Dill understood. “So there you have it,” Duff Cooper wrapped up, acknowledging a polite knock that reminded him that it was time for his next appointment, “you have two hostile groups, each hostile to both us and the other. You’re undermanned, and are losing soldiers in penny packets to well-timed raids. You have a weak colonial administration, and potential French duplicity. And if you ask London for guidance you’ll find us swept up in scandal. Quite the mess I’m handing you,” he said with a smile.
Dill offered an awkward, uncertain half-smile in response, and filed out quietly.
Duff Cooper sighed and turned to correspondence. A trio of Great War generals, Sir Ian Hamilton, Sir Ivor Maxse and Sir Hubert Gough were talking of the need for the military to be ready to ‘maintain law and order’. Duff Cooper closed his eyes, and looked at the three letters before him. Maxse was, from Duff Cooper’s reading of his badly scrawled note, strident that ‘Parliamentary good order’ be upheld. Hamilton had offered a prettily typed letter in which he fussily but incompletely argued in support of the King, while Gough, who loathed Baldwin, was, in his absurdly pompous letter, arguing for the Guards Division descending upon Parliament a la Charles I. Duff Cooper closed his eyes and shook his head sadly, and jotted a note for one of the civil servants to draft a template letter for him to send to all of them. He rang for one of the clerks and was astonished to find both his Parliamentary and Permanent Under Secretaries, one a politician the other a career bureaucrat, entering together. That was ominous, but Duff Cooper sought solace in a quip.
“A bit too much horsepower for a simple typed reply,” he said lightly. Neither of them smiled.
“Oh lorks, what now,” he said huffily. “Palestine? Egypt?”
“Have you, by any chance,” Donald Howard, 3rd Baron Strathcona and Mount Royal, his Parliamentary Under Secretary, began, had a chance to read the letters by the former generals.”
Sir Herbert Creedy, his senior civil servant, sighed sadly. “They remain Generals, albeit not on the Active List, Lord Strathcona.”
Duff Cooper waved at them to sit. “It’s nothing to worry about, is it?”
Strathcona had recently been the Deputy Chief Whip (with the rather delicious title of Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard) and looked surprised. “You’d have to agree, ‘Duffy’, they’re hardly beacons of loyalty.”
Duff Cooper snorted dismissively. “A few crackpot Victorians creep out of the woodwork, it’s hardly as if the Guards Division is marching down Whitehall.” He waved the letters away dismissively. “Get that young chap to type something up.”
Strathcona looked to Creedy, who looked to Duff Cooper. “We have, Secretary of State,” Creedy began formally, “both been approached, independently, to ensure the loyalty of this Department and the Army.”
Duff Cooper stood up, angry, and rapped the desk with his knuckles. “Who”? He asked this bluntly, sharply. “Who is demanding that my Department accounts for itself?”
Strathcona looked at his shoes, seeming to confirm Duff Cooper’s suspicion that Margesson was behind the Parliamentarian’s visit. He turned to stare at Creedy. “Fisher? Hankey?”
“Fisher,” Creedy confirmed, “through Sir Horace Wilson. It’s not just us,” he said, mitigating by explanation, “I understand that Sir Samuel at the Admiralty is meeting his Under Sec…”
“Enough,” Duff Cooper snapped. “both of you can leave,” he said grandly, “inform the Chief Whip and the Sir Warren bloody Fisher that the War Office will do its duty.”
It was too couched, too careful, and with clear reluctance Strathcona leaned forward to say more. “Margesson was very clear, Alfred,” Duff Cooper winced at this use of his first name, “that Neville likes loyalty.”
Duff Cooper had now turned, and was gazing out of the window. Decision time, he thought. ““She is hard as nails and doesn’t love him,” he said in an irritable mutter.
“Sir?” Creedy was baffled.
Duff Cooper ignored the civil servant to his Parliamentary colleague. “Please ensure that you thank Captain Margesson for his interest in the War Office, we will of course follow orders. As for you,” he gestured to Creedy, “tell Fisher’s little goblin that he can come and call on me if he has a problem. Thank you!” He said this with energy, and taking the hint they left.
The Secretary of State for War poured himself a stiff drink, and arranged to meet with the First Lord of the Admiralty at his earliest convenience.
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GAME NOTES
Duff Cooper to the fore! To be honest, I have faffed with this update, amidst a truly torrid week of a case that refused to die (it’s still going now, as I procrastinate again); it was largely ready on Monday but dilly-dallied (ironically enough that was Churchill’s nickname for General Dill!) as I wasn’t happy with it. But, I note going through the AAR that there has been a quite a bit of interest in Duff-Cooper so wanted it out there for your consumption.
But to Dill first, and we have seen him a few times, in Egypt, in the meeting setting up the Joint Intelligence Committee, and now, here preparing to go out to Palestine as GOC of the British contingent there. The contingent and the conflict was an interesting one, fighting a very odd little campaign (and I’ve lifted the details straight from the OTL) with the summer seeing skirmishes that ranged from traditional law and order constabulary to rather larger affairs like the “battle of Anabta”. The point, I guess, is that it was an ongoing (probably worsening) situation in the summer of 1936 and Dill is going out to take command of the bolstered British Army presence. This being a UK AAR there is, of course, suspicion of French knavery; certainly the Arab ringleaders made the most of the terrain and the porous border to flit between the British and French mandates. Of course the claims that the naughty French are undermining noble Britannia’s legitimate mandate is more hypocritical than usual, as the British had the same attitude to the French problems in Syria and the Lebanon. We’ll hear from Dill, again, as he takes up his position.
But, as ever, particularly for Part Two of the AAR, we focus on the political crisis, and for the first time, in a while, we turn to someone who is almost always lumped in with the King’s supporters (Sinclair doesn’t count, his turn was very ‘eleventh hour’ and he was never in the Royal camp). Duff Cooper is a fascinating politician, by equal measure stolid and conservative (small and big ‘c’) as well as racy and modern. He is famous for a few things and again they are wonderfully diverse, for every stand against appeasement (his resignation speech of 3 October 1938 is certainly articulate) there is shambolic personal life. For every well-written article there is his poor handling of Singaporean politics when he was the Minister Resident just as the Pacific War began.
You're right, and this is as striking as I could make it. I also think that Sinclair had to do something to counter Lloyd George's appeal to both the King and the nation.
Newcastle under Lyme. A place I thought was made up until I was 12.
Hmmmn. The problem that the Liberals have is scale, mass. They've lost the high profile (but odious) Sir John Simon to the National Government, and have a dominant Conservative Party happily sucking in supporters from other parties. They're minnows compared to Labour, and Attlee's party is much reduced after the disaster of the 1935 election.
I am deliberately opaque here, as I believe that it is not certain as to why Sinclair was prepared to be tolerant of the King. Was it to outmanoeuvre the ever tricksy Lloyd George, or was it because he genuinely believed in the King? Both seem valid.
Alas the latter, although given that his speech was a change of policy (and a sudden one at that) it is plausible that he had two speeches prepared.
Thank you Sir, and given the flag proudly displayed as your avatar, ich freue mich, dich zu sehen — du willkommen bist (at least I think I got that right). Come join is in the club, the footman will bring you a newspaper and take your drinks order, just don't turn the wireless up too loudly.
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It's
When? This bit cut off.
Don't have much to say on this one. Politics be politicking. Duff be duffing. Palestine...is on fire.
Standard fare, aside from the King and Wallis 'the Bloody' Simpson overshadowing it all. Again. Hard to believe they'll all be worrying about a world war in a few short years.
Can't see it from Ivory Towers, it's true.
When? This bit cut off.
Don't have much to say on this one. Politics be politicking. Duff be duffing. Palestine...is on fire.
Standard fare, aside from the King and Wallis 'the Bloody' Simpson overshadowing it all. Again. Hard to believe they'll all be worrying about a world war in a few short years.
Can't see it from Ivory Towers, it's true.
I don't know what Dill did wrong to get the Palestine posting, but it must have been something quite horrific. And always good to see a bit of Duff Copper and his intriguing ways. I think he under-sells himself a bit, you don't win the DSO for being a bit lily livered, so I am sure he will have the resolution. His problem is making the decision, is this in fact a good principle to make a stand on and what is actually the best thing to do to support his friend.
Oh well done sir. *Round of applause*
Which is by quite some way the most incredible part of the entire affair. To risk destroying the Empire for love is at least a romantic gesture, if an incredibly selfish and stupid one. For Eddie to risk it all for his bizarre, almost abusive, relationship with Simpson is baffling. It goes back to the point about Duff Copper's resolution - arguably a real friend should be talking Eddie out of this whole idea and walking him off the ledge, not joining him in jumping off out of misplaced solidarity.
I'm still not convinced it really exists.
I can buy the prevarication on the part of Duff-Cooper here. He knows the consequences of the decision he makes, both ways. And, given the way things are lining up, his decision might be a pivotal one. The fate of the realm is not an easy thing to encompass at the best of times. And ... these are not the best of times.
It is almost as if the situation in Palestine is a mirror to what Duff-Cooper has to face. Two camps who dislike each other, and both containing members that dislike him (to a greater or lesser extent) and him in the middle. The initial skirmishes are done, and now it is time to be counted...
Cairncross seems appallingly young.
I must agree with @El Pip - one wonders what heinous things has Dill done to deserve this posting? I mean, on the one hand Palestine has been a mess for a long-time by this point - I mean its not as if the last couple of generations of Ottoman-rule was anything but troubled. One of the greatest ignorances about the Middle East today is that these problems date back only to Post-WW2, or Balfour, or another ridiculous 20th century date (not saying these things are not important, just ... it's more complicated). Dill's posting would be hard enough without the brewing crisis in London. And this briefing, yes, the shambolic nature of the start of it with Duff-Cooper constrained by witnesses was almost painful.
The sounding out is just downright offensive. Chamberlain preens, so he does.
It is almost as if the situation in Palestine is a mirror to what Duff-Cooper has to face. Two camps who dislike each other, and both containing members that dislike him (to a greater or lesser extent) and him in the middle. The initial skirmishes are done, and now it is time to be counted...
Cairncross seems appallingly young.
I must agree with @El Pip - one wonders what heinous things has Dill done to deserve this posting? I mean, on the one hand Palestine has been a mess for a long-time by this point - I mean its not as if the last couple of generations of Ottoman-rule was anything but troubled. One of the greatest ignorances about the Middle East today is that these problems date back only to Post-WW2, or Balfour, or another ridiculous 20th century date (not saying these things are not important, just ... it's more complicated). Dill's posting would be hard enough without the brewing crisis in London. And this briefing, yes, the shambolic nature of the start of it with Duff-Cooper constrained by witnesses was almost painful.
The sounding out is just downright offensive. Chamberlain preens, so he does.
Surely – surely – this was intentional!
Duff Cooper comes across quite harassed on all sides. His dealings with the General seem competent enough (actually frighteningly so, to my ill-informed senses, for this government) and his sallies against Fisher and Chamberlain's lackeys come across with all the necessary intensity of indignation. What he'll do about it all is another matter, and frankly I'm none the wiser. I get the impression that a lot of people are just getting sick of the whole affair, and when 'resolution' comes it will be in the form of the matter blowing up in no small number of people's faces.
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Must have been, particularly after the Cairncross chat.
@Le Jones is just showboating now, it is most impressive.
He did indeed get to work at both. I do like the inclusion of real-life traitors in AARs and must confess to already having used two of the five in my own piece. I wonder if we’ll see Cairncross and his dubious ideals displayed again?
Unfortunately, no. He and his other would-be traitors, spies, cohorts and various 'useful idiots' all met up at a mid-range hotel in the Midlands quite by accident, realised they were all in the same sad business and elected to have a change of heart. They pooled their collective resources and opened a dairy produce facility and shop in rural Yorkshire called 'Cheese of Four Seasons and of All Nations'. They would go on to be a most beloved British institution, and one of the more progressive. To this day, the cheesemakers of England are amongst the most inclusive, kindly and good-natured proffesions for anyone of any creed to enter.
Of course, that was only one universe. There is the other, where Churchill tries to ambush them all at the conference but gets waylaid and they accidentally burn the place down with them inside it.
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Not much to add here, except that it seems to me that Duff Cooper is very much caught between a rock and a hard place here -- loyalty to the King personally, played against his duty to best serve the United Kingdom as a whole. While they don't all necessarily have that same personal connection to the monarch themselves, I'm sure this sort of "Crown vs. Empire" scene is playing out in a dozen different variations in every government office in London.
Wonder if it means many businesses will make the ultimately empty show of switching their brand from 'Crown' whatever to 'Empire' whatever, or something like that.
Chapter 43, The Convent, Gibraltar, 25 August 1936
It was very, very early, although the streets were still busy; it was mainly workers heading to the dockyard, and the odd local trader taking stock to his place of work.
There was another figure, staring blankly out of his window, arguably the most privileged window in Gibraltar. He clipped on his ceremonial sword and eased himself, gently, down into his chair.
“This,” he began slowly, heavily, “is extraordinary.”
Butler frowned. He was about to launch into a passionate advocacy of the plan but for a commanding look from Commander Sephton. That the normally placid Sephton was taking charge of this situation was reassuring to Butler. “Your Excellency, this request comes from the top,” Sephton said in his soft, yet still authoritative voice, slyly not revealing what ‘the top’ actually meant. “To me, Sir,” he continued, leading the Governor, “London has expectations of us for this mission.”
“Does it, indeed,” the Governor of Gibraltar, Sir Charles Harington Harington, continued carefully. “And just what is this mission?” In his dress uniform Harington looked quite the part of a Governor.
Sephton turned to Butler, who in turn looked directly back at him; this was, technically, actually quite robustly, an Admiralty matter, the Secret Intelligence Service merely being on hand to see what ‘choice cuts’ they could get.
“Well Sir,” Sephton said carefully, with a hint of something else (bullishness? Confidence? Butler wasn’t sure), “last night the Italian cruiser Gorizia suffered some sort of explosion, or fire. Acting on Admiralty authority,” Sephton said pointedly, to remind the Governor where the demarcation of powers lay, “a rescue will be mounted with Navy tugs. We made contact with her at zero two hundred. They’re on their way to Gibraltar now.”
Harington made an ‘a ha’ expression. “I see,” he said carefully.
“When they get here, Sir, we will offer them a repair crew. It would normally be led by a reasonably senior officer to, ah, smooth over any difficulties.”
“And,” Harington completed the thought, “that would be you,”, he looked at Sephton.
“Yes Sir, that would be me. I’m familiar with the design, and I would also bring a small repair party.”
“And you,” Harington said to Butler, “are going into the Admiralty party?”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Butler said flatly. “We considered making me a member of the Diplomatic or Colonial Service but they’ll be wary of that. Even if they’re not, Whitehall would feel the need to complicate matters. and the Italians would acquiesce. Tours, receptions, it’ll be a mess.” He could see that Harington, who was well acquainted with formal, diplomatic life, seemed to agree, or at least not disagree. “Whereas a simple engineer might be left alone to, shall we say, get lost and wander around a bit.”
Harington turned to Sephton. “What do you require of me?”
“As the Executive authority here in Gibraltar we’d like you approval to launch the espionage element of the mission.”
“And what,” Harington said tiredly, “do we do if your cover is blown? D’you know anything about marine engineering?” There was real bite in that question.
“Well I read Engineering, at Cambridge, Butler said with equal scorn. “I’m sure that might help.”
Sephton buried his smile swiftly as Harington seethed. “Sir, I sense your reluctance, but…”
“…but nothing,” Harington snapped. “I have, unlike, I surmise, you two, seen too many good men slain for want of knowledge of the enemy. Your request is enthusiastically approved, but I have the right, Commander, to understand the risks that we’re running. Good day to you, gentlemen, I’m already late for my official breakfast with that dammed priest,” he waved them out of his study.
“Well,” Sephton said reflectively, as they walked down to Naval base, “I judged him wrong.”
“We judged him wrong, John,” Butler said in wonder. “I was sure that he was a pig-headed old fool.”
Sephton smiled thoughtfully. “Perhaps that’s why he has been parked here,” he said ruefully. "Can't have senior officer thinking for themselves, y'know."
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Assaye was her name, an overworked tender plying her trade between the ships of the Fleet and, for today, a craft under the orders of a full Commander. Sephton, kindly, had allowed a young Lieutenant, Milburn, to take charge. Butler, as ever, hated being afloat. He settled into the Sou’wester loaned to him by the dockyard, the spray from the Assaye’s low bow flicking into his face. He was glad in the mad dash down from the chaos around Madrid he hadn’t had time to shave as he suspected that tender, raw skin would suffer in this salty air. His head felt light, his stomach uneven. Everyone else, from dockyard workers to the Navy, seemed to be either eating, drinking, or both.
“Why in the name of God did I persuade you to go out to ‘em?” It was a rhetorical flourish of Butler, and Sephton knew that the SIS man was trying to cope with his seasickness.
“You were right to do it,” Sephton said confidently, staring at the closing Gorizia through his Navy issue binoculars. “Most of the Ship’s Company will be dealing with getting alongside; they won’t scrutinise the arrivals and will be caught unawares.”
“Port ten,” Milburn, keen to impress Sephton, was very much the man in command. With his confident expression and determined stance he looked like he had come straight from Jutland, fought when the chipper Lieutenant was a toddler. It was an oddly reassuring pretence, though.
“Here she comes,” Sephton said with real presence.
The Gorizia seemed to have a list to Starboard and was perhaps down at the stern; even the confirmed ‘landlubber’ Butler could discern as much and Sephton grunted agreement when they made a pass. Butler sensed that the older man was already analysing the Italian warship. There had been another change, more subtle, during the passage as Sephton seemed to grow into command of the small detachment and Milburn silently ceded authority.
They approached the Italian cruiser via a wide, sweeping curve towards her port quarter; Sephton muttered something about a ‘pilot ladder’ and took charge with a quiet authority.
“You two”, Sephton said quietly, “stick to your ‘grown ups’ like glue.” This was to Butler and another SIS operative, a fluent Italian speaker who had been placed in the delegation to pick up anything. "Right, here we go. Let's do this properly," Butler grimaced, thinking that a false exhortation wasn't necessary, but saw the delegation reorganise themselves. Seeing Butler's confusion Sephton patiently explained. "Rank order, traditionally the senior chap goes first."
"I presume," he said with heavy sarcasm, "that I'm a deckhand third class, somewhere near the back?"
"No, in the middle, as befits a scientist employed by the dockyard. With an almost piratical flourish, the corpulent Commander seemed to jump onto the ladder, which was less of a staircase and something more suitable for a child's bunk bed. A few more officers and civilians jumped up, and then it was Butler's turn. With a terrified stomach and no sense of the interraction and rhythm of the sea, ship and tender, he leaped to the ladder, mistiming it as the two hulls closed together, throwing up a column of spray. One of the Britons saw his difficulty, and, despite being on the same precarious ladder, nevertheless reached down and with some effort and not a little blasphemy, dragged him up.
The Italians had clearly expected a large delegation and were there to receive the British en masse. A senior-looking officer shook Butler's and, made some sort of quip (presumably at his expense) in Italian when he saw the Englishman's sodden state. The Italian speaker from SIS muttered the agreed story, that he was here to examine the power generation (suitably innocuous, but allowing him to wander around the ship) and he was nodded to a bored looking Italian senior rating, in dirty fatigues and his cap at an angle that could not even be described as jaunty. Fate, that thing which could either make or ruin an agent's day, was smiling down on him: his Italian minder was a lazy slob. Looking around, he could see that some of the British had been handed crisp, military-looking escorts with shiny peaked caps and immaculate English. Butler's minder grunted, and led him into the bowels of the ship. A cabinet was opened and he found himself staring at a switchboard. It all looked routine, and he was just starting to enjoy himself in the role of a humdrum electrical engineer when one of Sephton's men walked past. "Commander S's compliments, Sir, and you're needed up top." He muttered something in an approximation of Italian and Butler's minder grunted and withdrew. "I just told him we're going up top."
Butler waited until his minder had definitely retreated. "Problem?"
"Well," the officer began, "we know what caused the explosion. Something with aviation fuel, so there's no reason for you to be peering in switchboards. We thought it best to get you back up top."
That made sense, although Butler wondered why he had been allowed to get this far into the ship when it was evidently unnecessary. "Alright, distract Musso's older brother there and I'll try and break away. Where are we gathering?"
"Upperdeck, Sir, near the main armament at the bow, there's some work on seaworthiness to work out and then we're back to Gib. We'll leave a small party on board to pilot her in."
Butler waited for his opportunity, which was created well by the Royal Navy officer; he merely asked the Italian for a cigarette and some chatter. Thus distracted, no one noticed as Butler slipped away.
He had decided to make his wandering plausible, by heading to the upperdeck but via the cabins of the Italian Officers; he assessed that most of them would be at their stations or sleeping. Walking gingerly forward (at least he believed that he was not heading aft,), he passed a galley, alive to arguing and singing (and the smells of the probably delicious food making his queasy stomach almost heave) and came to a ladder chain. He went up, glad to be clear of the deck that he was on; it seemed too busy for any opportune snooping. Heading forward again, he noticed above him a knot of piping, presumably a mix of electric and water cabling. The smaller cabling, really wiring, stopped outside of a cabin. Butler knocked at the door. No answer. He tried the handle, and with an overwhelming sensation of excitement, not unlike that of a child at a birthday party, found himself staring at the ship's wireless room. He stood, frozen, as he realised that he didn't have a clue what to do: anything too obvious and he would look ridiculous if caught 'red handed'. He decided, instead, to look for anything left 'loafing'; he might not get a codebook, but he might be able to scoop up some loose pages. And then he found it.
It was a tattered leather notebook, small enough to be shoved in a jacket pocket or briefcase, left on a chair that caught his eye; with a furtive glance at the door he flicked through it. Amidst paragraphs of scrawling prose were pages, and pages, of numbers with bits of paper liberally inserted throughout. Trying to open the safe would be foolhardy, being caught would be a diplomatic incident and / or a death sentence, but sequestering a notebook was possible; with luck the Italians wouldn't even know that the British had it. Hiding it within the folds of the Sou’wester, Butler made for the Bridge. A simple nod to Sephton, who met him with a quizzically raised eyebrow, was enough and he was ushered back to the Assaye.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
In the end Sephton, calm, measured, Sephton, gathered them around a table in the Wardroom of HMS Bulldog. There were mountains of biscuits, washed down with scorching hot tea.
“So we’re confirming that the fifty cals are improved versions of their earlier cruisers?”
“Yes,” the Gunnery Officer of HMS Bulldog confirmed with a nod from one of Sephton's men, a Naval architect. “We estimate a higher working pressure and muzzle velocity than the Trentos.”
“Hmmn,” Sephton said, tapping the drawings. “What about the mountings?”
“They do seem close,” the Naval architect confirmed, the Gunnery Officer nodding beside him. “It’s not how I would design them.”
“Thank you," Sephton said, making a note of it. There was a light tap at the door and the Bulldog’s First Lieutenant went to open it. There was a muffled conversation and the Captain, Marsh, was called in.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said as he took a cup of tea. “I won’t disturb you for long, I just wanted to see how you were doing.” He shook Sephton’s hand warmly. “And to ask you, John, when you’re going to get a bloody drive”. A ‘drive’ was Royal Navy parlance for a command.
“I’ve had too much fun for that Swampy”, he said with warmth, for he and the Captain had been at Dartmouth together.
“Come up to the cabin for a wet when you’re done, John. Unless you’re off, after this?”
Sephton nodded sadly. “Write a quick note for His Excellency and take these findings to the Admiralty. They’ll want to analyse our thoughts.”
The Captain nodded and hung around, curious, at the back of the Wardroom.
“So,” Sephton said calmly, regaining control, “what do we think about her tonnage?”
Butler raised an eyebrow but the Naval architect, Atwill was ready and emphatic. “They’re over the limits,” he said with finality.
Butler whistled. Sephton, as a Naval Officer, hated whistling and frowned absentmindedly. “How can you be so sure, at this stage? Surely DNC’s people will need…”
The naval architect shook his head. "They're over. Even if I can't add, which I can, the Italians pretty openly admitted it."
Sephton nodded and tapped the charts again. "Alright, let's write it up. We've got 'em. They've broken the treaty limits, we have proof. Thank you, gentlemen," he said as the delegation filed out. After saying a hurried farewell to Captain Marsh, Sephton walked back along the Queensway Quay and up to the Governor's residence.
"So what was in that dammed notebook of yours?"
"Some code, some internal mail, some blackmailable materials."
"Blackmail?" Sephton's face looked tormented, as if he didn't quite know which expression to make.
"I think that the Radio Officer, or whatever they call him," he said this after a frown from the Commander, "is, what's the Navy expression for infidelity?"
"Oh, banging out of Watch," Sephton said with a smile.
"Well that. From the translations that we have of the notebook, as well as the fact that he's off to a posting back in Rome soon, we might make an offer to him."
Sephton shook his head, glad he wore a uniform. Together, the spook and the sailor ambled slowly towards the residence.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
GAME NOTES
The idea of an Italian cruiser limping into Gibraltar for repairs may seem far-fetched, never mind an RN / SIS mission to learn her secrets, but this is one of those chapters in which a mad idea from the writer is based largely in reality.
Gorizia, a Zara Class Cruiser, did indeed suffer an explosion in August 1936. I have massively truncated the next few days, including a brief stint in Tangiers, for the drama of a large British delegation meeting her in the approaches; the composition of the delegation is largely unknown, but what is true is that a small team from the port did embark before she came into Gibraltar and then, under tow provided by the RN tugs, she came alongside where a damage assessment was made and emergency repairs conducted. Having a vessel of interest (the British had been ‘tipped off’ in 1927 about the breach of the Washington Treaty by a sympathetic Italian source) in an RN dominated port was an intelligence coup for the British, who did, successfully, get access to the ship’s plans and managed, when they gathered the plans and their own calculations, to prove that the tonnage was 1000 in excess of that prescribed by the treaty. Alas no formal protest was made OTL, and I have deliberately not commented upon this in the narrative, as mere agents and Commanders wouldn't be privvy to Whitehall thinking.
The Butler bit is of course fiction but in the game I managed (albeit slightly later), amidst watching the SCW with a couple of agents, to infiltrate the Italian Navy. We're a bit early for real skullduggery, so I figured it would have come through a sudden find, and with Butler already in Spain hatched this plot. Again, there is no James Bond style heroics here, merely an average man doing what he can. Sephton is not real, although is based heavily on a real officer whom I know and who would have fitted right into the RN of 1936.
Harington, mad name and all, was indeed the Governor of Gib in '36. An old, rather 'passed over' figure, he nevertheless seemed open to new ideas. The Gorizia episode was one trial of many for him in 1936, with the end of the Ethiopian War he appears to have become obsessed with the possibility of Haile Selassie washing up in his colony, and was sorely tested by the nearby SCW. I hope that I have been fair to him, while he looked ever inch Gilbert and Sullivan's "very model of a modern major general" he was a pragmatic leader and I think that he served his country ably.
I always worry about DC, like the other DC, Cameron (with whom he has familial connections) portraying him is quite difficult. I think, by way of explanation, he is a bag of nerves at this point and yes, his volatile temperament and brave (reckless?) resolve to fight for his beliefs might come later.
Thank you, that was semi-deliberate, what was more intentional was to contrast the far away loss of life and collapse of order with the Whitehall calamities.
It is. I thought through the departure scene and, well, it just had to happen.
Cainrcross was a cameo that I couldn't resist writing in, particularly in a part of the story desperately agonising over duty, country v self discussions and how much inconvenience can be justified for personal desire.
This debate will come up, later.
Oh dear!
- 2
Open surprise at a governor knowing what he's doing and allowing ungentlemenly warfare on his patch.
The spook not bumbling around and easily getting caught, nor being a super sleuth who managed to figure out the Italian torpedo tech and code books by himself.
The whole mission being well planned, executed and concluded without a hitch, and with valuable information.
And then Whitehall sits on it until time stops. *sigh* Whilst I rarely have sympathy for secret agencies, you really have to feel for the poor bastarfs risking life and limb only for their own nations to continually attack them and never use anything they manage to achieve for any good.
Huh...OK then. Did this happen in otl or is the crisis going to be so bad that people just can't look at king edward potatoes in the same way ever again?
The spook not bumbling around and easily getting caught, nor being a super sleuth who managed to figure out the Italian torpedo tech and code books by himself.
The whole mission being well planned, executed and concluded without a hitch, and with valuable information.
And then Whitehall sits on it until time stops. *sigh* Whilst I rarely have sympathy for secret agencies, you really have to feel for the poor bastarfs risking life and limb only for their own nations to continually attack them and never use anything they manage to achieve for any good.
Huh...OK then. Did this happen in otl or is the crisis going to be so bad that people just can't look at king edward potatoes in the same way ever again?
Hmm. Could go one of two ways: either he's the supremely dependable and almost comically handy, or his social skills are about as robust as his sea legs. Here's hoping for the former, if SIS have done their jobs.
So Harington Harington (let's call him Harry 2 for ease) needs someone to rid him of a… turbulent priest?
(sorry)
Not much to say on the naval side of things as is my wont, but a very welcome slice of derring-do. How much Whitehall will do this this new kernel of information is anyone's guess, of course. But nice to have it.
An interesting little vignette. Butler does get around! He took a risk being such a lubber whilst posing as someone nautical, if not an actual sailor, but got away with it. Given how the breaking of treaties had become such a popular international sport by then, in certain quarters anyway, perhaps it’s not surprising the British didn’t bother complaining. What would it have gained them? A sad situation.