by Alan Bardos
'Admiral Fisher, there are no troops available to provide such support.’ Churchill’s tone softened, ‘It is bad form to quote oneself to one's self. But allow me to do the same, boldness in war is prudence and prudence imbecility.'
Fisher closed his eyes. 'I said that, it is true, but the British Empire ceases without the Royal Navy to protect it. The resulting loss of ships from the operation would seriously damage the Royal Navy's advantage over the German High Seas Fleet.'
Churchill banged his desk, only willing to humour the old man for so long. 'As far as I am concerned, Admiral Fisher, you have supported the operation in question. You even suggested that it can be accomplished with obsolete ships. Thus their loss would not undermine Britain's naval supremacy over the Germans.'
Fisher sat down, muddled and frustrated. He accepted Churchill’s argument, but knew he was also right. Yet evidently, he could not find the right words to put his point across. 'Surely there must be another way of achieving our objectives without taking such an awful risk.'
Sir George, who up until that moment had welcomed the distraction from the drubbing he'd been receiving, now saw the opportunity he needed in the old admiral's distress.
'Excuse me, First Lord, First Sea Lord. I believe that I have a solution to this problem. It’s a diplomatic initiative that would complement the naval demonstration. It would be quite a feat if we could bring it off.'
Churchill looked round and raised a hopeful smile. 'Go on, Smyth.'
'Well, it’s simply, as you said, First Lord, the Turkish Government is unsteady. They were divided about entering the war, the Germans pretty much bribed them to come in. We can exploit that weakness, with some sort of… alternative compensation to come out of the war.'
Sir George thought the idea might have more merit than he'd originally anticipated, but he now realised, exasperated with himself for being a tremendous fool, that the important point was whether Churchill believed it would work.
'We do not have to bring the navy directly to bear on the Turks. Simply imply its power and invite the Turkish government to cease hostilities. To in fact take the money or be destroyed. That would negate the need to mount a full-scale operation in the Dardanelles, saving our ships and men and winning the glory in a seemingly bold, decisive, Napoleonic strike.’
'Carrot and stick, yes, that could be worth looking into.' Churchill spoke to Sir George for the first time that day without the scorn of a school master pounding a dullard boy.
'Of course, I'd need access to naval personnel,' Sir George said. He had no intention of conducting the negotiations himself, in Constantinople. He knew of someone from the diplomatic service he could send, but there would inevitably have to be someone from the navy involved to keep Churchill pacified.
'You'll see to it, Fisher?’ Churchill asked, not overly enthusiastic about the idea.
'I'll need to consult with Hall, but it’s possible that Hankey may already have suggested something similar,' Fisher said.
'In that case perhaps I could assist in some advisory capacity, overseeing the, err... initiative,' Sir George said helpfully. The trick was now to be seen to be involved without having to get ones hands dirty.
'Good, Smyth, you'll be my representative with the Intelligence chaps.' Churchill had made his decision. It was now up to his staff to sort out the details. 'That's more the kind of thinking I've been looking for.'
Sir George nodded, manfully taking on the responsibility. He was a man of destiny. All that was required now was a lightness of touch, a certain amount of finesse, and there would be no more nonsense about being put in uniform.
The storm outside rattled the windows and Sir George wondered again if it might be artillery fire. Then his mind turned to lunch at his club.
Sir George gave Captain Reginald ‘Blinker’ Hall lunch a few days later. The Director of Naval Intelligence had appeared none too pleased at the invitation, when he was shown into the private room Sir George had taken.
After an excellent Dover sole and a few stiff gins, which Sir George assumed was what one gave the navy, Hall’s ruddy complexion began to glow and his famed facial twitch subsided.
Hall came from an old naval family and had established himself as highly competent. Sir George knew that he would have to handle him with tact, but that was very much Sir George’s forte and this was his forum.
‘Look Hall, I understand you are obviously overrun with work. So I thought I might offer a helping hand.’
Hall appeared mildly amused by Sir George’s opening gambit and coughed. ‘Forgive me, Sir George, weak chest. The reason why I’m not on a ship.’
Sir George wondered if that was meant as a rebuke for not being in uniform himself. ‘I have extensive experience with the black arts of diplomacy. Knowledge that could be of infinite value…’
‘Sorry, let me stop you there, Sir George. I assume it's the VB code you’re after?’ Hall finished his gin, carefully placing the glass on the table.
‘Code… sorry you’ve lost me, Hall,’ Sir George said pouring gin into Hall’s glass. The conversation was taking an unhelpful turn.
‘Yes, the Verkehrsbuch, or transport book code, it’s used by the Germans to converse with their high-level naval assets and embassies. We’ve cracked it,’ Hall said.
‘Have you really, how extraordinary.’
‘Which I’m assuming is why I’m being subjected to all this flannel. You’re desperate to find a use for yourself at the Admiralty and as all you know is pushing around paper. You think getting your hands on those intercepts will give you some point.’
‘Captain Hall, let me assure you such technical matters are of little consequence to me. I understand there are people who deal with such things, that is where my knowledge and interest in codes begins and ends.’ Sir George smiled lightly.
‘Well why the bloody hell are you wasting my time?’ Hall barked, Sir George thought he heard his false teeth clatter and felt himself shudder.
‘It’s your scheme to pay the Ottoman Empire to end hostilities that interests me,’ Sir George said, with all the delicacy he could muster after several gins.
‘I see.’ Hall frowned, irritated. ‘I was led to believe, when Hankey suggested the idea, that matters would be left to oneself to organise.’
‘What exactly is Hankey’s role in the operation?’ Sir George asked. This was the key issue he needed to address. The Secretary of the War Council had been a Royal Marine intelligence officer and was a well connected political operator. If he had chosen to oversee the operation it would make it a little harder for Sir George to justify his role and take credit.
‘He has no role,’ Hall replied tersely.
‘So Hankey informed you of the value of sending representatives to negotiate with the Turkish government and then left you to your own devices?’ Sir George asked hopefully. Hall was evidently a man who liked to operate on his own.
Hall levelled a steady gaze down the barrel of his large hooked nose. ‘That is correct.’
‘I take it you have operatives, suitable for carrying out sensitive negotiations of this kind?’ Sir George asked.
‘Yes, of course I do.’ Hall burst out, brevity and directness were the soul of his conversation.
‘Look there’s no need to adopt that tone with me, Hall. Regardless of any involvement you might have had with Colonel Hankey. You report to the First Lord of the Admiralty and not the Secretary of the War Council,’ Sir George said, summoning all the authority he could muster. This operation was his chance to satisfy Churchill’s mania for half-baked schemes and he was not going to let some obstinate sea dog stand in his way.
Hall stiffened at the rebuke. A naval man through and through, he evidently respected the chain of command, if not the men within it. ‘I don’t really see what concern any of this is of yours or what possible contribution you could make, Smyth.’
Hall’s whole manner and appearance were starting to remind Sir George of a falcon preparing to rip the entrai
ls out of some unfortunate wood foul.
Sir George employed his most superior tone. ‘The First Lord of the Admiralty has appointed me as his representative for this operation. A task I intend to perform to the utmost of my ability. And since you ask what my contribution is, I have found someone who would be an ideal candidate for this little endeavour.’
‘A stuffed shirt from the diplomatic corps no doubt,’ Hall sniffed.
‘Not exactly, the person I have in mind is very far from a stuffed shirt.’ Sir George paused. ‘He has something of a reputation, but he would I believe be of great value to an operation of this type. His name is Gerald Fitzmaurice and he was a senior consular at the British Embassy in Constantinople.’
Sir George hadn’t met him but was fully aware of Fitzmaurice’s reputation. An Irishman who had operated on the boundaries of good taste and gentlemanly conduct in Constantinople before the war. He was rumoured to have planned a coup against the Turkish government, which led to his expulsion from the British Embassy. ‘Fitzmaurice is an unrivalled authority on the state of play in the Ottoman Empire. He’d be invaluable in an operation of this type.’
‘Yes, Fitzmaurice is a miracle worker. He’s served the country well and at great cost to his health,’ Hall agreed, at last accepting that Sir George wasn’t a total fool. ‘Unfortunately, he’s tied up working for the Foreign Secretary at the moment.’
Sir George finished his gin. At last he was back in a world he understood and a world he could influence. ‘So you have other people in mind?’
Hall shifted, clearly not used to explaining himself to a Civil Servant. ‘Yes, a Mr Griffin Eady and a Mr Edwin Whittall, both of whom have lived in Turkey for a considerable period, and are on good terms with a number of notable figures there.’
‘Splendid, splendid, things are further progressed than I’d expected,’ Sir George said.
Hall ignored Sir George’s compliment. ‘Whittall and Eady are currently on their way to Greece. I couldn't get permission for them to enter Turkey as diplomatic guests and I’m unwilling to risk valuable assets without it,’ Hall said and blinked. ‘So from Greece they will establish contact with people sympathetic to our purpose in the Turkish Government and persuade them to meet on neutral ground. I have local couriers in place, but ideally I need someone of little value, but who can still represent His Majesty’s Government.’
‘A pawn we can send into the vipers’ nest and persuade the Turkish regime to accept a bribe from their enemy,’ Sir George surmised.
‘There really isn’t time to find a suitable candidate, who could survive such challenging conditions. Crying shame. It would really have helped give credibility to our correspondence, but the plans for the naval assault are well underway. If this is going to have any hope of working, we need people in place before it starts,’ Hall said.
‘Well, I can’t help you there, Hall, but I might be able to help you poach Fitzmaurice from the Foreign Office.’
Hall blinked rapidly. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘Oh, just a little political sleight of hand.’ Sir George picked up the bottle of gin and noticed that it was empty. He rang for another.
He returned to his office a little unsteady on his feet and found a letter from his wife, waiting for him on his desk. The violet ink and elegant hand were unmistakable. ‘Now what do you want, Madame la Guillotine?’ Sir George wondered before putting his head down on his desk and passing out.
Chapter 4
Johnny felt neat efficient movements wrapping him in a blanket. Memories of the French matron at school began to drift into his delirium. She’d helped him with his French vocabulary when he was confined to the poorly room with glandular fever. Dizzy with nausea and his head resting on her ample bosom, the matron had taught him enough French to come top of his year.
The warmth of the memory evaporated as the window next to him was thrown open and he was deluged with fresh air, and the screaming of men. Every muscle and sinew of his body began to violently shudder, until the window was slammed shut.
The peaty smell of stale whisky finally woke Johnny up. His head was throbbing and some clot had started shining a bright light into his eyes. Johnny tried to wave it away.
‘That’s enough of that, Lieutenant,’ a stern Scottish voice ordered. The light was snapped off and Johnny saw that an elderly army doctor was sitting on the side of his bed. ‘Yes, the fever’s broken, just a wee concussion, no serious damage. Should be rid of him soon enough.’
The comment was addressed to a nurse staring at Johnny, like a buyer inspecting a horse on market day.
‘The gash on his head is healing nicely. It will scar slightly, but I shouldn’t think that will make much difference where he’s going,’ the doctor added wearily.
‘No, indeed I’m quite anxious to get back to my men,’ Johnny said.
‘Your men? You won’t be seeing them again, laddie. Not unless they make up your firing squad,’ the doctor said and laughed at his witticism.
Johnny looked around trying to work out what was going on. He was in a small stone room, with a barred window. ‘What is this place?’
‘We’ve set up an isolation ward for you.’ The doctor was becoming impatient.
‘Am I sick? I thought you said it was a concussion.’
‘Get a hold of yourself, man. You’re not sick, well, only in the head. You’ve been isolated because we can’t have a treacherous type like you spreading their filth to the men,’ the doctor said indignantly.
‘How long have I been here?’
The doctor glanced up at the nurse, Johnny saw the broken veins of his face and the profile of a large bulbous nose. ‘The knock on his head might have been more serious than we first suspected, he's obviously disorientated.’
He turned back to Johnny. ‘You’ve been here a week, taking up space, but the jumped-up wee man who left you insisted that you be made fit to stand court-martial.' The doctor frowned, ‘Really quite ridiculous, but he was probably correct. What say you, Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins?’
‘I agree, Doctor Glencoe, there is little point in making him face a firing squad if he’s too senseless to appreciate what’s happening.’ The nurse had a broad wholesome accent, rich with the sweet taste of maple syrup, completely at odds with the clinical precision of her words. The whole thing sent a shiver down Johnny’s spine.
The doctor beamed. ‘Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins is a Canadian, of French extraction I believe, which tempers her quaint colonial charm with a typical Gallic lack of tact. Nonetheless she’s succinctly summed up the problem.’
‘I think we should hang onto him for two more days, Doctor,’ the Staff Nurse said smoothly.
‘Do you now?’ The doctor turned back to Johnny. ‘The Staff Nurse here was a Territorial in Canada and thinks she knows better than the rest of us.’
Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins adopted a placid, professional expression. ‘Forgive me, Doctor Glencoe, I did not mean to suggest a course of treatment.’
‘Now there’s no need to adopt that tone, dear girl, I was only teasing.’ The doctor winked at Johnny. ‘See how she hides her sensitive, romantic soul, Lieutenant? Would you believe that as soon as war was declared, she followed her beau to good old Blighty and joined up?’
Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins managed a smile at the joke. Glencoe nodded satisfied that everything was as it should be, again. ‘So, you think two more days, do you, Staff Nurse?’
Johnny had sensed how much she longed for a release from her world of death and screaming damaged men, with la petite mort. A release which Johnny was more than happy to provide. Although the little death had been at a premium. After a bit of coaxing, she’d told him exactly how to fool the old drunk and was even playing along.
‘That’s of course not for me to say, Doctor.’ The Staff Nurse’s eyes glistened in awe as she looked at him.
The doctor’s pale face brightened, charmed by the admiration of a pretty young woman. ‘Yes, quite so. He’s still present
ing with a general malaise, whether that is a symptom or just his personality is impossible to determine. We’ll give him two more days then he is out, concussion or no.’
Doctor Glencoe stood up slowly and stumbled out. The Staff Nurse gave Johnny a playful wink and followed, locking the door.
Johnny lay in bed contemplating his situation for the rest of the day, wondering whether or not he’d been a little rash in putting his faith in his uncle. He’d certainly underestimated Crassus’s vindictiveness. He went over every aspect of the reconnaissance he’d taken with Crassus, trying to think of some way to justify what he’d done.
Savage had been killed, but that still left Crassus as a witness and Johnny’s handwritten note. It was unlikely that the court martial would accept that it was a misunderstanding, or that Johnny had felt obliged to warn the Germans because they had told him about the bombardment. It was not much of a defence, he’d been caught red handed and now he’d meet the bad end everyone had long predicted for him.
Johnny had no idea why Crassus had brought him here rather than putting a bullet in his head, but he intended to make the best of his time and give Williams a chance to get a letter to his uncle.
A little after midnight, he heard the door to his room being unlocked and the rustle of starched cotton. A wave of excitement shot through him. The sound was more sensual than anything he’d experienced at the best mid-range brothels in Paris.
She jumped onto the bed and kissed him. The smell of disinfectant in her hair was wonderfully reassuring and homely, like his boarding school. ‘Ah ha, he never sleeps, this one.’
Staff Nurse Lee-Perkins’s sweet tender kisses distracted Johnny from his pending firing squad. ‘You were glorious, Johnny my lamb, mon biquet. The silly old crock didn’t have a clue we were pulling a fast one.’