by Walter Ellis
The ensuing pause lasted several seconds.
“I work for the British Government.”
“So your work for the Duke is just a cover?”
“Not exactly. I do, in fact, keep an eye on him. He’s a bit of a loose cannon.”
“So I’ve heard.”
He decided to plunge straight in. Better to be hung for a sheep than a lamb. “But the truth is, I’m here to assess the chances that Spain might join the war. As you can imagine, the arrival of Wehrmacht forces here would not exactly be welcomed by the British government. What you said about me and Gibraltar, was that just a guess?”
“Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“I’ve heard my father talking. I know that Franco wants it back – and a whole lot more besides. I know that the Germans are interested. And I know that your side are pretty desperate to hold on to it.”
“You’re very well informed.”
“I move in the right circles.”
This was true, Bramall realised with a start. “What’s your own opinion?” he asked.
“About Gibraltar?”
“Yes.”
“That it’s part of Spain and must be handed back. It’s one thing to have captured it during a war two hundred years ago. But to hold on to it against the wishes of the Spanish people after all this time – that is unforgivable.”
“I understand your point of view, of course.”
“But you don’t share it?”
“Well … not right now. With the war the way it is, it’s one of our few trump cards. Lose it and we might as well say goodbye to any hope of victory. Hitler would shut off the Mediterranean and he and Mussolini would lay siege to Egypt. Before you know it, Britain would be in the same position as France.”
Isabella allowed the hem of her skirt to rise another centimetre or two up her thighs. “So you’re suggesting that Spain should abandon one of its oldest national claims in order to preserve the British Empire? That’s asking rather a lot, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’d be doing rather more than preserving the empire. Much more important is the fact that you’d be stopping Hitler from taking over the whole of Europe, and much of Africa into the bargain. Like it or not, Britain right now is the only defender of freedom still in the game, and Gibraltar is the new front line against tyranny.”
She glared at him, not wanting him to think he had gained the upper hand. “So why did England not support the Republic? You could have given guns and other supplies to Azaña and Negrín. But you didn’t. You and the French did everything you could to make sure that the legitimate Government of Spain was starved of the resources it needed to defend itself against what was a right wing military coup.”
Bramall swept a hand through his hair. She sounded just like bloody Romero. “I agree with you,” he said. “You’re absolutely right.”
“It was a disgrace.”
“Yes it was.”
“You left it to Hitler and Mussolini to decide the issue.”
“You’re right, we did.”
She intensified her glare. “Is that all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say? It was indefensible. England was wrong – terribly wrong. France, too. We thought that if we got involved, we would be aiding a Communist takeover on our doorstep.”
“Instead of which you ended up with a Fascist dictatorship.”
Bramall could feel himself starting to become exasperated. “Well, don’t blame me for that,” he said. “I was a journalist, not a statesman.”
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Isabella saw the face of Teresa Alvarez. She shut her eyes against the image and turned in fury towards Bramall. “You were here. You saw what happened. You could have done something. You could have warned the British people.”
Bramall shifted uneasily in his chair. “Don’t overestimate the power of the press. Even when I was in Madrid, I only ever saw a tiny part of the picture – and as far as brutality was concerned, both sides were as bad as each other. What’s important now is that England has learned its lesson. We have a new Government, a new Prime Minister – someone who has argued all along that war was coming and it was up to the democracies to prepare themselves. We may have got off to a bit of a bad start, but we’re still in the fight.”
Isabella appeared to digest this latest information. “So what about Gibraltar? If England wins the war and Spain has been helpful, will you hand it back?”
She shifted her legs again. Another inch and he’d be able to see her stocking tops.
“That’s not for me to say.”
“Ha!”
“Well, I’m sorry, I’m not in the fortune-telling business. But I will hazard this much: if Franco joins the Axis and then Hitler loses the war, hell will freeze over before Churchill agrees to any kind of deal.”
“That would be logical. But what if we end up on the winning side? You have to admit, the Germans are doing rather well just now.”
“In that case, things will be worse than anything you can imagine. It would be the beginning of a new dark age. Ownership of Gibraltar would at that point be the least of all our problems.”
Isabella tried to imagine how she would feel if word arrived that England had been invaded and Churchill had been shot. It would spell the end of freedom not just for a generation in Europe, but for generations to come. “Very well,” she said, the tone suggesting a hard-won concession. “We have all done things of which we are ashamed. What do you want me to do?”
Bramall felt a frisson of relief course through him. It wasn’t so much that he thought Isabella could actually be useful; it was just good to know that she wouldn’t be a thorn in his side. “What can I tell you?” he said. “Keep me informed. Tell me anything you hear. Other than that, stay out of trouble.”
She looked straight at him. “When will I see you again?”
Bramall sighed. “That’s going to be a problem, I’m afraid.”
“Why?”
“The thing is, I know Luder.” Isabella’s eyes registered her shock. “Or at least, we’ve met. I was a diplomat in Buenos Aires and I ran into him a couple of times. We discussed business and his assessment of the situation in Europe. The usual stuff. He’s a Nazi, working for Berlin.. All he cares about is money and power, and he doesn’t care who gets hurt in the process. But more to the point, people are frightened of him. Women especially. And with good reason.”
This analysis did not appear to take Isabella by surprise. There was a resigned pathos in her response. “I know all about that … side of him.”
Bramall leaned forward in his chair. A sudden, detestable image had entered his head. “You don’t mean that he …?”
“No, no. He didn’t … violate me. There were too many people around and, anyway, my uncle would have shot him. But I could tell that he wanted to. I could see it in his eyes. The thought of it excited him, I’m sure of it. And if I don’t get away from him, one day he’ll do it.”
“Not if I’m around, he won’t,” Bramall said hurriedly.
A satisfied expression crossed the young Spaniard’s features. Bramall had lost the initiative and he knew it. Suddenly, though, he didn’t care. He watched her as she touched a finger to her lips and studied him for what seemed an eternity. Eventually she spoke. “So are we friends now?”
Bramall’s mind raced. “Well,” he said, “it complicates matters. But it looks as if I’m stuck with you.”
“How awful for you. I’ll try not be a burden.”
Bramall grinned. “You could never be that,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’m glad you decided to come here tonight. Not just because you may be of assistance to me – though that’s obviously welcome – but because, well … it’s been
a long time since I met a young woman as … beguiling as you.”
She smiled at him through half-closed eyes. “I think I should go,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I think you should.”
Madrid: British embassy, July 2
The Windsors’ car, an elderly Buick, driven by a member of the Intelligence Service, with an armed colleague in the front passenger seat, was drawn up outside the embassy ready for the trip to Lisbon. Behind it sat a Citroën, with an embassy security guard at the wheel, for the conveyance of the Windsor’s friend and neighbour in Antibes, Captain George Woods, his Viennese wife, Rosa, and two small border terriers, as well as the redoubtable Buchanan-Smith. Hoare had briefly inquired about the appropriateness of an enemy national, Rosa Woods, as part of the entourage but was assured by the Duke that she didn’t have a political thought in her head, which he reluctantly accepted. Jeanne-Marguerite Moulichon, the Duchess’s lingère and maid, was left behind, charged with fetching more of their belongings from Paris. In the absence of the Duke’s valet, Fletcher, whom London had returned to front-line duties with the Army, there were no actual servants among the party, which meant a greater reliance on friends and other third parties. Thus, the third car in the convoy, pulling a trailer filled with luggage and personal effects, was driven by a Spanish police officer accompanied by two members of the Guardia Civil.
Hoare, who had cabled both Churchill and Halifax with the news that the Duke was on his way to Lisbon, thence to the governorship of the Bahamas, was relieved that his time as chaperon to the royal party was almost at an end. Churchill’s decision to provide the renegade royal with an imperial role was exactly the response he had been praying for. God knows, the nine days in Madrid had taken their toll on him, bringing on several fits of depression. This morning, however, he was the picture of bonhomie – so much so that he was humming “The Lady is a Tramp,” by Rodgers & Hart, when the former king came sauntering down the embassy steps wearing a pale grey suit with lemon pinstripes set off by white spats. There was some paperwork to clear up and he had requested a last-minute chat with the PM in London, which meant using a secure line. But now, at long last, everything was in place.
Hoare’s voice exhibited a judicious mix of respect and affection. “Time for the off, Sir. Nothing too taxing by the sound of it. The Spanish security services will be close by at all times. A suite has been booked for tonight at the Hotel Nacional in Mérida. Upon your arrival at the frontier in the morning, Portuguese officials will take over and a representative from the embassy in Lisbon will escort you to the Hotel Palacio in Estoril, which I am sure Your Royal Highness and the Duchess will find most agreeable.”
“We’re obliged to you, Hoare,” said the Duke. “Hope we didn’t cause you too much trouble. Know this must be a busy time for you.”
“Not at all, Sir. You made many friends, and the reception on Saturday was quite the talk of the town
“Very good. Tell Bramall we look forward to seeing him in Lisbon.”
“Indeed, Sir.”
The Duchess, looking pale and drawn, as if she hadn’t slept, extended her hand, the back of which Hoare brushed briefly with his lips.
“So, Ambassador,” she said, in the husky accent that seemed to the Englishman a fruity mix of Baltimore and the Home Counties. “It’s goodbye – again. Or should I should say, ‘adieu?’ We are grateful to you for everything you have done.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I am, as always, at your service.”
And that was it. The last thing His Majesty’s principal envoy to Spain heard from the royal party was the yelping of the border terriers. He waved, then turned on his heels, avoiding the temptation to break into a jig. As he mounted the steps of his embassy, he felt like a jaded husband whose wife has just left for a month in the country. He was a free man again. His life was his own and there was nothing he could not accomplish.
Mers-el-Kebir, Bay of Oran, French North Africa: July 3
Vice Admiral Marcel Gensoul, in command of the French fleet in Oran, didn’t need to be told that his ships were sitting ducks. At sea, they presented a formidable force. There were the brand-new battleships Dunkerque and Strasbourg, backed up by the more venerable Provence and Bretagne, plus a seaplane carrier, six large destroyers, a dozen torpedo boats, six submarines and a gaggle of oilers and supply ships. But they were at anchor, their boilers unlit. To make things worse, they were clustered together in an unfinished harbour, lacking even the security provided by a concrete outer wall.
As dawn broke, it promised to be another hot African day, airless and stifling. Gensoul, a handsome, upright figure approaching his 60th birthday, lamented his situation. At the time of the Armistice he assumed the fleet would sail for British waters, to fight on with De Gaulle. Instead, High Admiral Darlan, the only commander-in-chief of the Marine de Guerre never to have commanded a ship, had thrown in his lot with Pétain and ordered him to Mers to await instructions. Gensoul took a sip of mint tea. The Royal Navy’s newly assembled Force H was almost upon him. They would arrive off Oran within the hour and he could only guess at what would follow. He knew that a number of French ships in English ports were already commandeered and that others had volunteered to fight on under British orders. In such cases, French commanders felt able to make their own decisions. But Gensoul was not in charge of a scratch flotilla. He could not sign away half the navy on a whim. What he needed was direction – and fast. Force H, operating out of Gibraltar, was powerful. It comprised two battleships, the Resolution and the Valiant; the battlecruiser Hood and the aircraft carrier Ark Royal; as well as two cruisers and a flotilla of eight destroyers. Gensoul, in order to do the right thing, had to know what was expected of him. But his people, exiled in Bordeaux (or was it Vichy? – he didn’t know where his orders came from any more), were silent as the grave. All they had done was confine him to port. He would have given anything to lead his force back into battle alongside his brothers in the Royal Navy. But he would not tolerate naked threats to the safety of his ships. France had been humiliated enough. He cranked the telephone on his desk.
“Give me Signals.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
The voice of the duty officer came through seconds later.
“Cresson.”
“What news?”
“None, Admiral.”
“Then signal them again. We cannot remain indefinitely in a vacuum.”
“Yes, Sir. At once.”
At 8.05, as the temperature on board the flagship Dunkerque registered 24 degrees Celsius, and rising, a Royal Navy destroyer, the Foxhound, approached the entrance to the harbour at Mers. It paused, not crossing the line. A launch was lowered that slowly puttered across to the central point of the anchorage, where it was met by Gensoul’s barge. A fresh-faced lieutenant handed over a note marked: “Most Confidential. Vice Admiral Somerville RN, Task Force H, to Vice Admiral Gensoul, commander French Squadron, Oran.” Five minutes later, Gensoul opened the envelope and started to read. It was worse than he had feared.
It is impossible for us, your comrades up to now, to allow your fine ships to fall into the power of the German or Italian enemy. “We are determined to fight on until the end, and if we win, as we think we shall, we will never forget that France was our Ally, that our interests are the same as hers, and that our common enemy is Germany. Should we prevail, we solemnly declare that we shall restore the greatness and territory of France. For this purpose we must make sure that the best ships of the French Navy are not used against us by the common foe. In these circumstances, His Majesty’s Government have instructed me to demand that the French Fleet now at Mers el Kebir and Oran shall act in accordance with one of the following alternatives:
The four options were then listed: sail with Somerville and continue the fight; sail with reduced crews to a British port, where the French ships would be immobilised; sail
to a French port in the West Indies; scuttle the squadron.
The note concluded:
Failing the above, I have orders from His Majesty’s Government to use whatever force may be necessary to prevent your ships from falling into German or Italian hands.
Gensoul sat in stunned silence for more than a minute after reading the ultimatum. It was as if his entire world had collapsed around him. Then he called for a pen and paper.
In no circumstances, he wrote, would his ships be allowed to fall into Axis hands. This would be contrary to French policy and principles. But neither would he, as commander of a French Squadron, act under duress. In the event that the Royal Navy took precipitate action against his ships, force would be met with force.
Handing the note, in an envelope, to his staff officer, marked for the attention of Somerville, Gensoul ordered that a further signal be sent at once to the French admiralty: “I have been informed that I either surrender my ships or face their immediate destruction. What are your orders?”
To his surprise, a return signal (intercepted by the British) instructed him to open immediate negotiations. At the same time, his ships were to get up steam and await reinforcements. All French ships in the Mediterranean were ordered to proceed to his position. Gensoul was to hold fast, protect his force and await their arrival. “Show the world what it means to be a Frenchman,” the signal ended. It wasn’t much of a lifeline, the admiral concluded, especially since the nearest French ships were at best half a day’s sailing from Oran. But it was something. It gave him a bargaining counter.
On the bridge of his flagship, Admiral Somerville recalled a dinner he had shared with Gensoul and his senior officers onboard the Dunkerque only six months before. He knew full well that the Frenchman was both a patriot and a defender of democratic freedom. It distressed him beyond words to realise the immense and unfair pressure he was heaping on a friend.
Churchill, who had twice served as First Lord of the Admiralty, was equally aware of the horror his policy was about to unleash, and while reinforcing the importance of the mission did what he could to offer his support. “You are charged with one of the most disagreeable and difficult tasks that a British Admiral has ever been faced with,” he cabled from Downing Street, “but we have complete confidence in you and rely on you to carry it out relentlessly.”