The Command

by Christopher Nicole

‘I cannot believe how eminent politicians, clever men, can so delude themselves. Do you know, I had a chat with Chamberlain the other day’ — Neville Chamberlain was Chancellor of the Exchequer — ‘and he was positively preening himself. All Hitler is suffering from is a bad press, he told me. Of course he wants to be strong vis-à-vis the rest of Europe, and especially Russia, he said. I entirely agree with him on that. But he has no intention of ever taking us on. Or he wouldn’t have signed this agreement. With the German navy no more than thirty-five per cent of the British, we have absolutely nothing to fear from him. Can you believe it?’

  ‘But doesn’t he have a point?’ Murdoch asked.

  ‘The point, my dear Murdoch, is this: has Germany a navy at all at this moment?’

  ‘Well, no. A few river launches.’

  ‘Quite. Therefore Hitler is starting from scratch. Now, how long do you think it will take him to build a fleet thirty-five per cent our strength? We have eighteen battleships; that means he can build six. We have ten aircraft carriers; that means he can build three. We have fifteen heavy cruisers; that means he can build five. We have sixty light cruisers; that means he can build twenty. We have two hundred destroyers; that means he can build seventy. We have seventy submarines; that means he can build twenty-five. Now that is quite a programme.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Murdoch agreed. ‘It’s going to take him several years to complete.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So?’

  Churchill showed signs of erupting. ‘Murdoch, don’t you realize that what we have really done is tell a chap, who is certainly a potential enemy, but who at this moment has no fleet at all, that for the next six or seven years he can build ships just as fast as he can get them on and off the slips?’

  ‘Ah,’ Murdoch said. ‘Good God! No, I hadn’t realized that.’

  ‘And who can tell what the situation is going to be in seven years? It is the most absurd, and dangerous, thing any government could possibly have done. And when I tell them that, they look at me as if I was mad. As I said, it drives me to despair. What is even more soul-destroying is that we could put an end to Hitler’s schemes, and possibly him too, right this minute, just by sending you with an army corps, including your armoured brigade, to France and having it take up a position on the Rhine. The French would welcome it. Indeed, they’d put one of their armies alongside ours.’

  ‘It won’t happen,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘I know. Blithering idiots.’

  ‘I mean, it won’t happen, because I was informed yesterday that I no longer am responsible for armoured troops.’

  ‘Don’t tell me they’re retiring you?’

  ‘No. I’m only fifty-four, dammit. I’m coming up to Aldershot for a spell at the Staff College.’

  ‘Now that may be a good thing. You could still be the next CIGS.’

  ‘I’d like to think that, but I know it won’t happen. Not with my reputation and after that Afghan business. Still...it’ll give Lee a chance to get to know London; as we’ll be so close we’re going to buy a flat — I’ll spend my weekends in town. And...’ he grinned. ‘There will still be Mackinders with the armoured brigade. Ian has just been gazetted captain.’

  *

  But he was deeply sorry to have turned his back on the regiment, and its new colonel, Colin Destry, who had fought with him right through the war and had been at his back when he had charged the Mahsuds. And this, he knew, had to be for the last time. He was now merely filling in time until his retirement; a couple of years at the Staff College, and then a colonial governorship, and then...old age. The future was brought home to him forcibly that Christmas, when his mother died. Florence Mackinder had been weakening gradually over the years, although her general health had remained remarkably good. Now, at the age of eighty, she just stopped breathing on Boxing Day.

  Cables were sent to America, but Harry had left his uncle’s to go south into Mexico, and no one knew where he was. Murdoch knew Lee worried about it, but as an army wife, not knowing the whereabouts of her menfolk was not an unusual experience for her, and she was more concerned with their imminent move to London.

  By that Christmas, Italy and Abyssinia were at war, with Italy being denounced by the League, and threatened with sanctions. It sounded very like a possible European war, as Mussolini defied the League, but it all fizzled through the inability of the British and French to agree on imposing oil sanctions, which would either have forced Mussolini to pull his men out of Africa, as they could not be supplied with that essential ingredient of modern warfare — or try to shoot his way through the Royal Navy. The only real result of the fiasco was to turn Mussolini from an ally of the British and French against German resurgence into a potential friend of Hitler — a friendship which grew steadily over the next year, and culminated in a treaty which Mussolini grandly described as forming the axis of Europe.

  During this critical period, British minds were distracted by the death of King George. Murdoch, like a great many officers in all the armed forces, felt it as an almost personal blow, and was honoured to be one of those required to stand guard at the catafalque in full-dress uniform and black armband. Then during the following year there was the Abdication Crisis. Murdoch had only met King Edward a few times, and had not been taken by his personality. Again, however, like most serving officers, he was concerned by the possibility of having to renounce his oath to serve King and country. He was heartily relieved when in December the King decided to abdicate and leave the throne to his brother.

  By this time Hitler had reoccupied the Rhineland, again in total defiance of the Versailles Treaty, and a brutal civil war had broken out in Spain, between the Nationalist forces of General Franco, who were avowedly fascist and received support from Germany and Italy, and the left-wing government, which was very close to being communist, and received support from Soviet Russia. The British Government determined to keep its distance from all of these sinister developments, but by now it was pretty obvious to any thinking man who was not a blind optimist that all of Europe was on a collision course with itself, a course from which Britain could hardly step aside.

  The trouble was, from the point of view of the army, that they suddenly found themselves third in line for funds and therefore equipment. Obviously the navy had to be kept up to scratch in view of the fact that Germany was now building monster battleships and that Italy, a probable ally of Hitler if it came to bullets, possessed a powerful battle fleet. Equally obviously, the Royal Air Force had to be expanded just as rapidly as possible, as horrendous reports arrived from Spain of the damage done by German bombers over defenceless cities. The army was told to do its best with what it had.

  Thus the discussions at the Staff College became concerned with the here and now. Down to only a few years previously all the British armed forces had been ordered to budget, and plan, on the assumption that Great Britain would not become involved in a general conflict with any other sizeable power for a period of ten years. This period had been extended year by year. But now at last it was scrapped in favour of preparing for an imminent confrontation with Germany.

  After such a lengthy period of ‘peacetime manoeuvres’ it was rather like starting from scratch. Murdoch was delighted again to be working with men like Bill Ironside, and the new Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Lord Gort, even if it was a little disturbing to know that Gort was five years younger than him — he also held the Victoria Cross. What was more disturbing were certain assumptions drawn by the British Staff, the most important being that the French army was the finest in the world, and the second being that a war with Germany, if it came, was being envisaged as an essentially defensive operation.

  The basis for this was again the French principle. Every leading soldier in the French Army had had personal experience of the bloodbath on the western front in the Great War, and was determined that it should never happen again. Equally were they haunted by the rapid German mobilization and invasion of their country in 1870. Ever sin
ce then they had been building forts where the two countries abutted, and indeed these powerful fortifications had been chiefly responsible for the German decision that any future invasion of France had to take place through Belgium — the decision that had precipitated the World War. Following their narrow victory in that conflict, the French had again turned their minds to limiting German options. To this end their erstwhile minister of war, General Maginot, had begun the construction of a vast system of fortifications, which bore his name, in effect linking the existing forts with miles of concrete and steel, and which now stretched from the Swiss border to the forest of the Ardennes. In this continuous fortress it was proposed that the French would maintain themselves while the German forces pounded themselves to pieces against iron and steel and lead; it would be Verdun all over again, only on a greatly increased scale. The theory was that after a very brief period of this the Germans would collapse as in 1918.

  When Murdoch questioned the validity of maintaining an army, any army, much less that supposed to be the finest in the world, in a strictly defensive posture, with its inevitable effect on morale and loss of initiative, he was told he did not understand French élan. When he pointed to the historical record that troops which stood on the defensive had not usually been victorious, he was told to study Waterloo.

  ‘When we will no doubt play the part of the Prussians,’ he commented, ‘and come up on the flank to save the day. But the Prussians arrived attacking.’

  That remark did not increase his popularity, but the British Staff were having thoughts about what happened where the Maginot Line ended. The Forest of the Ardennes was regarded as being impassable to large bodies of troops. It had proved difficult in the Great War, and the French, who still dreamed of Napoleonic victories, reminded everyone how the Duke of Brunswick’s army had become bogged down in the forest back in 1792. When Murdoch reminded them of the catastrophe of Sedan in 1870, he was reminded in turn that the Prussians had then come upon the French from the east and south, that is, after crossing the border in open country — this was now obviously impossible, because of the Maginot Line.

  What then of Belgium? Belgium was neutral, and both Germany and France, and Britain, had again reiterated that neutrality after the Great War. But the Germans had violated Belgian neutrality in 1914, and Murdoch, from what he had seen in Berlin, had no doubt that Hitler was a far more pragmatic politician than Bethman-Hollweg; if the Maginot Line could only be turned by a wheeling movement through Belgium, then there would be a wheeling movement through Belgium.

  In this respect he was at last entirely at one with his colleagues, and strenuous efforts were made to induce Belgium at least to enter into secret military discussions as to what would be done should another war with Germany break out. But the Belgians refused to contemplate such a possibility affecting them; they had another solemn treaty to rely upon. The British Staff therefore went ahead with their own contingency plans based on the assumption that, if Hitler did invade Belgium, the Belgians would again call for help, as in 1914. Careful calculations were made as to the possible rate of German advance, having regard to the powerful Belgian fortifications which had held up the Germans in 1914, and it was determined that, using Sedan and the ‘impassable’ Ardennes as a hinge, as the Germans crossed the Belgian border in the north-east, the British, with French support, would cross the border in the south-west, and advance as far as the River Dyle, where they would stem the German onslaught.

  This nearly drove Murdoch to despair. ‘They are advancing to defend,’ he grumbled to Churchill. ‘It will be Mons all over again. But then we knew we were both outnumbered and facing high-quality troops. Now we are supposed to be part of the finest army in the world, and the strongest numerically, and we are still doing nothing more than looking for positions to be held. Why in the name of God have we created what is really one of the best armoured divisions anyone has, if we are going to keep it in reserve?’

  ‘Maybe the Germans will also have a defensive mentality,’ Churchill commented. ‘And will just sit and glower at us.’

  ‘Do you really believe that, Winston?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. I believe Germany is governed by a bunch of gangsters, who, if they gamble, or are forced to gamble, will gamble everything. If even half of the rumours one hears about what is going on in that country are true, they are the biggest thugs on the face of the earth. The tragedy is that it could so easily have been prevented. Ah, well, we will just have to put our faith in the French.’

  *

  However much he feared Germany’s growing military strength, Murdoch had always taken the rumours of summary executions, concentration camps, torture and mistreatment of the inmates, which were carried by escaping Jews, with a large pinch of salt. He recognized that people like Reger, if Margriet was to be believed, had a good deal of the sadist in them, and being imprisoned is never a very pleasant experience — as he knew, personally. But imprisonment and mistreatment of minorities or political opponents by a civilized European state in the twentieth century seemed absurd.

  He was now to discover differently. Early in 1937 Helen had become engaged to a naval officer, Lieutenant Commander Stephen Cross. The wedding was to take place at St James’s, Piccadilly, and the reception would follow at the Cafe Royal. It was to be a splendid occasion, in which many old friends from the regiment, as well of course as the bride’s two brothers, came up from the west — and to the delight of everyone but more especially Lee, young Harry arrived, from Paris, where he was living and working on his first novel. He looked fit and well, and much more sure of himself than four years earlier.

  Murdoch was very tempted to tackle him on the subject of changing his mind about the army, confident that he would have grown out of his boyhood — he had, apparently, had some fairly grim experiences in his wanderings — but Lee asked him not to.

  Steve Cross had his stag party in a Soho nightclub, and it was a riotous affair which went on until well into the morning. By midnight, however, Murdoch had had as much wine, dirty stories and nearly nude waitresses as he could stomach for one night, and went outside to find a taxi. There wasn’t one in the neighbourhood, so he turned up Greek Street for Oxford Street, where he was sure he would find one on the prowl. He had walked about fifty yards away from the restaurant when he became aware that someone was following him.

  He slowed slightly, while considering the matter without looking round. He was not apprehensive; he remained perfectly fit and he had his rolled umbrella as a weapon. On the other hand, he had had a lot to drink, and there was a dark alley in front of him. So if there was to be a confrontation with a footpad, it was best done now, while there was still a street light handy. He therefore slowed some more, took a deep breath, and turned.

  And found himself looking at a woman. A young woman, he estimated, from a hasty glance at her ankles; the rest of her was concealed beneath a bulky cloth coat, but the general impression was rather one of run-down gentility.

  It was Soho. Murdoch smiled at her. ‘You’re wasting your time, my dear. I really am not in the mood.’

  ‘I would like to speak to you, please, Sir Murdoch,’ the woman said, in a distinctly foreign accent.

  He frowned at her, trying to place her, because she was certainly familiar, even in the gloom, as she came closer. She again said, ‘Please!’ And gave a little tremble which without warning developed into a kind of paroxysm. He caught her as she fell, and realized she was Annaliese von Reger.

  *

  Her eyes had shut as she fainted, now they opened again, for a moment stark with terror.

  ‘Annaliese?’ he asked, unable to believe his eyes. ‘Please,’ she said again.

  Holding her in his arms, Murdoch could feel her body trembling, but he could feel more than that — even through the coat her ribs could be counted, and her arms were pencil thin. ‘When did you last eat?’ he asked.

  ‘I...I had something this morning.’

  ‘I meant a square meal?’
>
  ‘I...don’t know, Sir Murdoch.’

  Murdoch did some hasty calculations. It was past midnight, and the pubs were closed. Several restaurants were still open, but he didn’t fancy taking Annaliese into one; he was a fairly well-known figure, and there could easily be a newspaper reporter around. Nor did he fancy taking her back to the stag party; she’d be terrified out of her wits at being surrounded by drunken soldiers and sailors. He put his arm round her waist, hurried her along the alleyway and into Oxford Street, and to his great relief was able to hail a taxi immediately. He gave the address of his London flat, and placed Annaliese on the back seat beside him.

  She huddled against him, whimpering, while the taxi driver tactfully kept his glass screen closed. ‘How long have you been in London?’ Murdoch asked.

  ‘Four days.’

  ‘Four days? Where have you been staying?’

  She pulled away from him but remained hunched, elbows on knees. ‘I have managed. Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To my home. It’s not far.’

  ‘I cannot go to your home. I cannot...’ Fear was rising in her voice again.

  ‘Nobody is going to harm you, Anna. Least of all me,’ Murdoch promised her. Tut you need a square meal and a warm bed, in my estimation. And safety.’

  She made no reply, just stared out of the window as they swung into Mayfair. He didn’t press her. There was time enough for that.

  The taxi stopped and Murdoch paid him. The doorman peered at him. ‘Good night, Sir Murdoch,’ he ventured.

  ‘Good night, Burton. Is Lady Mackinder in yet?’

  Helen’s hen party was also taking place tonight.

  ‘No, sir,’ Burton said, regarding Annaliese with an expression which suggested that that was a very fortunate thing.

  ‘Ah,’ Murdoch said. ‘Thank you, Burton.’ He half-carried Annaliese towards the lift.

  ‘That man,’ she whispered as the door closed on them. ‘He will report my presence to the police. You will be arrested.’