Operation Manna (Timeline 10/27/62 - Australia)

by James Philip

  Chapter 22 | Chain of Command

  Saturday 16th February 1963

  Government House, Cheltenham

  The rush of cables from Washington, Canberra and several places nobody knew existed anymore had rudely dragged the Foreign and Colonial Secretary out of his post-war stupor.

  ‘Is the man insane?’

  Fifty-nine year old Alexander Frederick ‘Alec’ Douglas-Home, 14th Earl of Home, normally the most urbane and composed man in any room, had briefly lost his temper. There was no other man in the Emergency Administration who could match his seniority, exemplary parliamentary and governmental credentials, and by right had he been fully compos mentis in the immediate aftermath of the October War it would surely have been he, not Edward Heath who sought and gained the support of the Queen and as importantly, the Chiefs of Staff, and assumed the poisoned chalice of the post-Armageddon premiership. In fact there were many in the Conservative Party – what remained of it – who were mightily disappointed that the greatest living Party grandee had not already asserted his rightful prerogative and ousted the upstart Grammar School boy from Broadstairs.

  Edward Heath was fully aware of the gathering groundswell of discontent as he strove to keep the hastily summoned Cabinet meeting on a level keel. He wondered, fleetingly, if this new crisis was simply the prelude to some kind of palace coup.

  Personally, he liked and respected the angry elder statesman of the Party. Alec Home had been Stanley Baldwin’s PPS – Parliamentary Private Secretary – and when Baldwin was succeeded as Prime Minister by Neville Chamberlain in 1937 he had become his ‘right-hand man’ and ‘his eyes and ears’, a crucial thing since Chamberlain was a notoriously distant, solitary man. Later Winston Churchill had made Home Lord President of the Council in his wartime coalition. Denied the opportunity to fight for his country by tuberculosis[87] diagnosed when he applied for a commission in the Royal Lanarkshire Regiment Alec Home had side-stepped the opprobrium of Munich and appeasement - he had been too junior, too low in the pecking order - that had eventually blighted the careers of contemporaries like Rab Butler.

  Alec Home had been Foreign and Colonial Secretary since 1960 and until the October War everybody had taken it as read that when eventually Harold Macmillan decided to step down he would automatically step into his shoes. In the days before the Cuban Missiles Crisis went so disastrously wrong he had staunchly supported the Kennedy Administration’s stance...

  Now his angry gaze swept around the table in the cold, dimly lit faux Tudor banqueting hall of the dead Fleet Street baron’s ghastly mishmash of incompatible architectural styles which presently housed the rump of what had once been the British Government. The surroundings would have been comical if the situation was not so disastrous!

  To the Foreign Secretary’s right hand sat Edward Heath, whom he was still struggling to regard, and respect as his political master. Beyond the ‘Prime Minister’ sat the taciturn, unflappable Sir Henry Tomlinson, the Secretary to the Cabinet in this benighted age. Peter Thorneycroft, the Defence Minister was flanked by the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir David Luce and Conservative Party Chairman Iain Macleod, himself in a restless, combative mood. James Callaghan, the leader of the Labour and Co-operative Party, greyly ashen in his exhaustion seemed lost in his premonitions. The only other person in the room was the Minister of Supply; irritatingly, Margaret Thatcher was perfectly coiffured – or as near as damn it in this vile new age - and gave every appearance of being as fresh as a daisy.

  ‘Well, is he?’ Alec Home demanded, addressing his follow up to the First Sea Lord, whose normally immaculate uniform had about it today a tired, creased look.

  ‘No, sir,’ the professional head of the Royal Navy, the only one of the three services to have emerged more or less unscathed from the recent war. ‘I can assure you that Julian Christopher is among the sanest men I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Even as we sit here we could already be at war with the Americans in the Pacific!’

  ‘It is fairly obvious that the US Navy is up to something it should not be up to in the Coral Sea, sir,’ Sir David Luce said respectfully. ‘If so this would be in direct contravention of its obligations under the Five Eyes, the ANZUS and its customary, pre-war, standard operating procedures and protocols with the Royal Navy, sir.’

  ‘You’re seriously telling me that we have no idea what they are up to?’

  ‘Quite, sir,’ the First Sea Lord confirmed; he had his suspicions of course but David Luce was not a man who dealt in rumours.

  The Foreign Secretary opened his mouth to utter a new objection.

  ‘Forgive me, Alec,’ Edward Heath interjected apologetically. ‘All the evidence is that the Kennedy Administration is either unable or unwilling to meet its obligations to its allies, and is pursuing a policy of cherry-picking which treaty undertakings it will and will not respect. It is not without significance that while discussions at the highest levels are going on with Canada, South Africa and the Australasian governments, all of whom are working hand in glove with the Royal Navy and members of the IEA,’ at this juncture he glanced thoughtfully towards Margaret Thatcher, ‘no such meaningful, or in any way substantive talks, even about talks, are presently going on with Washington. In fact, thus far the efforts of our late Ambassador and his successor have got nowhere.’

  The news of the death of the United Kingdom’s man in America, David Ormsby-Gore, effectively a Kennedy family insider, some ten days before had cast a dark shadow over any hopes of invoking significant US aid before the end of the winter. Ormsby-Gore had been tearing his hair out long before he collapsed, a victim to the ‘war plague’[88] currently sweeping the eastern United States.

  ‘We must not confuse the two issues,’ the Foreign Secretary retorted, setting aside his ire and at pains not to be seen to be playing the role of the wise elder statesman to the young upstart. Although not personally close to Heath he liked and respected the younger man, in whom he, as had Winston Churchill, Anthony Eden and Harold Macmillan during their premierships had always recognised future prime Ministerial qualities. ‘Our Commonwealth relations are important but the United States is vital to us.’

  A genteel feminine cough drew every eye.

  Margaret Thatcher was half-smiling, half-frowning as if in mild confusion.

  ‘Surely if the Americans have so many ships that they can spare several of them to provoke an international incident in somebody else’s waters thousands of miles from home,’ she posed, ‘they can share a few vessels to transport corn, wheat, fuel and medicines across the North Atlantic to their hard-pressed allies in Europe?’

  ‘We cannot afford to let our emotions govern our actions.’

  ‘Our people are freezing to death,’ the only woman at the table reprimanded the great man, her tone suddenly hectoring. ‘Our people are starving while we sit here discussing treaty obligations that went out of the window in October. If Admiral Christopher needs to blow a few American ships out of the water to remind our friends across the pond that we exist, so be it!’

  Edward Heath scowled.

  ‘Hyperbole apart,’ he groaned, ‘time is short. If we are to instruct Admiral Christopher to stand down we must do it in the next few minutes.

  Sir David Luce sighed, sat forward, and rested his arms on the table before him. It was all he could do not to roll his eyes in despair.

  ‘Under the revised operating arrangements agreed in Cabinet on 3rd January it was determined that the British Pacific Fleet and all naval forces east of Suez should come under the Australasian Naval Council. Julian Christopher is currently serving as that body’s C-in-C afloat on the Ark Royal.’

  ‘That was just a courtesy arrangement,’ Lord Home observed.

  ‘With respect, sir,’ the First Sea Lord countered, ‘however it might be regarded in England, Julian is answerable not to us in this instance but to Vice Admiral Sir Wilfred Harrington of the Royal Australian Navy, who in turn reports to the Australian Defence Minister Athol Townley; who
is ultimately responsible for his actions to Prime Minister Sir Robert Menzies. That, I am afraid, is the chain of command.’

  ‘So,’ Margaret Thatcher the most awake person at the table summarised, ‘what you are telling us, Sir David, is that we are wasting our time talking about all this?’

  ‘No, Minister. If directed by Cabinet I would of course order Julian Christopher to stand down the Ark Royal Battle Group. Admiral Christopher would chafe to receive such orders but knowing him as I do – our friendship goes back to the forty-five war - he would obey my orders to the letter. That is not the issue. Respectfully, the decision before Cabinet tonight is whether the UKIEA plans to tear up the new treaties – or rather, the memorandums recently initialled with our Commonwealth allies – authorising planning to proceed for Operation Manna.’

  Chapter 23 | Honour Satisfied

  23:55 Hours, Saturday 16th February 1963

  Coral Sea, West of Grande Terre, New Caledonia

  ‘CAP reports Saint Paul’s main battery has just lit up,’ the CIC talker broadcast to the bridge of the Ark Royal. ‘New report: two of the escorts have also opened fire.’

  Julian Christopher’s brow knitted momentarily.

  He turned to his Flag Captain.

  ‘What the Devil are the clowns shooting at, Frank?’ In Captain Francis Jellicoe Maltravers the C-in-C of the British Pacific Fleet had stumbled into a purebred kindred spirit. The two of them would have been equally at home on the deck of one of Nelson’s ships of the line at Trafalgar, or singeing the King of Spain’s beard in company with Drake and his piratical crew.

  The two men stood over the tactical plot.

  Ark Royal was forty miles west of the nearest American ship; Belfast and her escorts were well over thirty miles to the south. At a pinch the US cruiser’s nine Mark XV 8-inch 55-caliber rifles could throw a full bore – maximum propellant charge – high explosive two hundred and sixty pound round around thirty thousand yards, around fifteen nautical miles. Off the top of their heads neither man could recollect how far the Saint Paul could ‘shoot’ a larger, three hundred and thirty-five pound armour piercing round; probably thirteen to fourteen miles, they speculated as if they were discussing clay-pigeon shooting.

  ‘Order the CAP to close with the Saint Paul, if you please,’ Julian Christopher directed, a command phrased like a conversational suggestion.

  The Saint Paul was a minimally modified World War II gun ship with no modern guided surface-to-air weaponry; likewise none of her consorts was likely to be armed with anything capable of threatening a high flying jet fighter.

  ‘Tell the CAP to stay out of the engagement envelope of the cruiser’s secondary armament.’

  According to the latest copy of Janes Fighting Ships – the 1961-62 edition – in the Ark Royal’s library the Saint Paul still carried her full 1945 complement of a dozen Mark XII 5-inch 38-caliber dual purpose guns mounted in six twin turrets; with each rifle capable of shooting a fifty-five pound anti-aircraft shell six miles high at maximum elevation. However, three or more miles from the cruiser the two Sea Vixens, manoeuvring evasively at in excess of five hundred knots above twenty-five thousand feet ought to be immune to 5-inch high angle fire.

  ‘The cruiser is shooting at something in the water approximately five miles south-south-west of its position...’

  Specifically, the US vessels were not shooting anywhere within fifteen to twenty miles of any of Julian Christopher’s ships.

  ‘Stranger and stranger,’ Frank Maltravers remarked, his tone that of a man who had been looking forward to a good honest stand up fight and just discovered that the bout had been cancelled before he got to the ‘party’.

  Julian Christopher changed his mind.

  ‘Belay my last order. Warn off the CAP. Stand-off ten miles and orbit.’

  His crisp command was echoed around the carrier’s bridge.

  ‘Saint Paul is on the TBS!’

  ‘Mission accomplished,’ the Captain of the American heavy cruiser informed the C-in-C of the British Pacific Fleet. He was relaxed, absent was the angry angst of his earlier exchange with Christopher. ‘Please be advised that I am taking the opportunity to exercise my gun crews as I leave these waters.’ The thunder of a main battery broadside rang across the open circuit. ‘What did you have in mind if we stayed on station, Admiral?’

  ‘My orders are to confront and remove you from these waters. That was what I planned to do at two minutes past midnight. That,’ he added, ‘is what I will do if you linger overlong in these parts wasting ammunition. Over.’

  The sound of another broadside came distantly across the circuit.

  Then the connection went quiet.

  Julian Christopher signalled the nearest yeoman to hand him his headset.

  ‘Please raise Admiral McNicoll,’ he requested, his thoughts ranging into the night to where the US ships were demonstrating their firepower.

  ‘McNicoll,’ called his second-in-command, his voice sounding boxed and metallic through the scrambler filters.

  ‘Ah, Alan,’ the C-in-C grimaced, breaking from his short-lived introspection. ‘It looks like our friends from the Americas are going to skulk away without this thing becoming any more unpleasant. I haven’t a clue what the beggars are shooting at. None of my intelligence people have any idea what they were doing down here. I think we ought to look into that later but if it’s all right with you, I’ll leave that in your capable hands.’

  Julian Christopher had understood from the moment Ark Royal put to sea from Sydney Harbour that however his mission ended there was going to be a huge row about it. Now that the ‘situation’ at sea was ‘resolved’ he needed to be back ashore where he could fight the Navy’s corner.

  ‘I plan to fly to Nouméa at first light. Hopefully, by the time I land my Staff will have organised an aircraft to take me back to Canberra. In the meantime I’m handing command of the battle group back to you.’ He re-checked what he was about to say a second, then a third time. ‘I’ll confirm everything by signal before I go ashore but my orders to you are to shadow the Saint Paul group as far north as 16 degrees South or until such time as you are confident it is not coming back.’

  The thing was always to keep things simple.

  No ambiguities; no caveats, no unnecessary clauses.

  ‘Do you have any questions, Alan?’

  The Australian guffawed quietly.

  ‘I’m to chase the beggars out of these waters and I’m not to make things any worse than they already are, sir!’

  Julian Christopher had laughed.

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty much the size of it!’

  A hour before dawn one of the carrier’s Fairey Gannet turboprop anti-submarine aircraft charged into the air off the Ark Royal’s port catapult, climbed through the overcast and turned south east to make landfall on Grande Terre where a Vickers Viscount in the colours of Trans Australian Airlines was waiting on the tarmac at Nouméa Magenta Airport.

  Overnight HMNZS Otago had ‘rounded up’ the Saint Paul group’s oiler - USS Taluga (AO-62) - loitering twenty miles east of Pinan Island but been unable to stay in company more than an hour. Learning that her fuel reserve was down to twenty percent McNicoll ordered her to make passage for Nouméa at her best economic speed, and detached HMS Caesar to ‘escort the Taluga’ back towards her ‘thirsty friends’.

  Delayed about an hour by the warmth of his welcome and the surprising number of dignitaries who had risen from their beds at the crack of dawn to meet him, Julian Christopher’s aircraft finally got into the air about ninety minutes after dawn for the one thousand two hundred miles flight across the Coral and Tasman seas to Mascot Airport at Sydney in New South Wales.

  He had – bloodlessly thank goodness – asserted the right to freedom of navigation in the Coral Sea, reassured the French authorities on Grande Terre that the new Commonwealth-Australasian alliance meant something and that if necessary it was capable of baring its teeth, and he had exercised several of his vessel
s under near battle conditions. But of course none of that was what the recent ‘exercise’ had been about.

  The Governments of Robert Menzies and Keith Holyoake had needed a tangible sign of the strength to be found in unity – preferably a sign not drenched in blood – and because they had known he was prepared to go to the brink over what, actually, was nothing at all, they had given him the opportunity to seize the moment.

  There was a huge scrum of journalists, photographers and a battery of television cameras in position, forewarned of his arrival at the airport.

  It was a testament to how most Australians viewed America and Americans in that period that Julian Christopher – before the October War exactly the sort of figure who would have been viewed as an anachronistic leftover from the old days of Empire – was welcomed back onto Australian soil like a conquering hero.

  He had done what every Australian wanted to do; he had stood up to a bully and chased the bad guys off into the night with their tails between their legs. And then he had handed over his mainly Royal Navy squadron to an Australian and invited him to carry on chasing the bully!

  The Governor General, today in a tailored lounge suit rather than his full Imperial regalia – not wishing to steal the Fighting Admiral’s thunder – was in the lounge at the airport to greet Julian Christopher.

  ‘We all thought it was fifty-fifty there’d be unpleasantness,’ he confessed to the Commander of the British Pacific Fleet.

  ‘The Ark’s air group would have made short work of it,’ he was informed. ‘The Americans knew that.’

  In the United States it was Julian Christopher who was painted as the villain of the piece. Public enemy number one; albeit at the same time there were loud and persistent calls in Washington DC to sack most of the senior US Navy men in the Pacific.