by John Harris
While a lot of the Opposition’s reaction had not been sincere, and the Prime Minister knew it was not sincere but an attempt to make party capital out of his difficulties, he was well aware that underlying it all there was also a great deal of distaste and unhappiness at the names that were being thrown at England.
‘Bombs will be dropped,’ the Leader of the Opposition had said bitterly. ‘Men will be killed and buildings will be destroyed. No matter what the Prime Minister might call it – and he can describe the operation as a police operation as much as he likes – what will happen in Africa cannot to my mind be called anything else but war. All the words in the dictionary can’t alter that fact, and if we are not careful we shall not only be at war, but will also have been labelled the aggressors.’
The Prime Minister moved restlessly inside his overcoat. Carey’s speech had seemed a little holier-than-thou, and he didn’t quite see it that way. To him, the operation was proof that Britain, like anyone else, had the prerogative to stand up for her rights. Everyone else had been standing up for their rights ever since World War II and, as a result, Great Britain had lost her empire and the Commonwealth no longer had much meaning, and he had determined when the crisis had first blown up that this time Britain should stand up for herself. It had therefore come as a surprise that the rest of the world had not seen it that way. What was standing up for rights in smaller countries was apparently aggression in big ones, especially where they had a record of imperialism behind them.
The Prime Minister frowned. It seemed these days, after years of being in favour, that the current was running against him. The meeting at Rudkin and Hale had been a disaster and the lunch and dinner addresses had quite failed to draw sympathy. It was, in fact, the first time he had ever heard of a Prime Minister being booed by members of an august chamber of commerce. He had tried to have things explained to the lobby correspondents later but somehow that had not come off, either, as the results in the newspapers showed.
As the car stopped outside Number Ten, the policeman on duty saluted. The Prime Minister caught a glimpse of a crowd, thinned down by rain, cold and boredom, and a few faces that obviously belonged to students. Miraculously banners appeared.
‘JAW NOT WAR’, he saw at once. And ‘WAIT, DON’T HATE’, and the usual lunatic ‘THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH’ as some crackpot tried to muscle in on the scene.
He flinched at the storm of booing as he headed for the open door of his official residence. He had always had a reputation of not being able to handle hecklers and, like Carey, he’d never had the ‘Constituency Smile’, so that, in spite of his long experience of politics, he knew he had never conquered his dislike of being unpopular.
As he crossed the black and white tiled floor, passing the second policeman without a glance, the door shut behind him and the storm of protest outside was abruptly muted. His Principal Private Secretary appeared as the manservant helped him off with his coat.
‘They’re all here, Prime Minister,’ he said briskly. ‘With the exception of the Chief of Defence Staff. His office rang and said he’d been delayed but that he was on his way.’
The Prime Minister nodded and, moving along the red-carpeted corridor with its busts of Pitt, Melbourne and Disraeli and the photographs of past Cabinets and Imperial Conferences, he opened the door of the Cabinet Room. It seemed to be full of people. Some of them were sitting at the long green-baize-covered table and others were standing in groups talking. The Foreign Minister stood beneath the drab portrait of Walpole, who had always been one of the Prime Minister’s heroes. For a long time he had liked to see himself as the man who had also kept England great without foreign adventures, building up her economy rather than her army, and as he stopped in the doorway he felt bitter that, having run down the Services like Walpole, he now found himself in a position when he was having to call on them to rescue him from a situation which was not of his making.
As the doors closed behind him, the other men turned to face him. The Home Secretary, a tall lean man with cold grey eyes behind his rimless spectacles, straightened up alongside the table where all the newspapers were kept. He didn’t join in the greetings of the others but moved silently to his place among the mahogany and black chairs. Someone had switched the lights on against the grey light of the day and the old panelling gleamed faintly in the glow.
The Prime Minister sat down in silence before the green scrambler telephone and the panel of buzzers. As though it were a signal, the others also began to take their seats, and red leather document boxes were opened.
‘I’ve called you here today,’ the Prime Minister began, ‘because I’ve had rather a disturbing signal from Hodgeforce. It’s one I feel you should know about and one on which I feel I need your advice.’
His Parliamentary Private Secretary placed a file in front of him labelled Stabledoor and he opened it quickly. On top of a series of decoded telegrams that the Foreign Office had sent across, Hodges’ signal lay in front of him, to the Prime Minister as dangerous as a bomb.
‘The Commander-in-Chief of Hodgeforce,’ he went on, ‘has originated this signal and its implications are so serious I felt I needed to know more about it. General Hodges is now at sea with the rest of Hodgeforce heading for King Boffa Port. Together with one or two members of the Inner Cabinet, I took the decision that set the ships in motion after the rioting that ended the lives of a number of British nationals at Boffa and Sarges. For the most part, you were not involved. Now, however, you have become involved. I need your help.’
He picked up the flimsies on which Hodges’ signal was printed and read them slowly.
‘General Hodges’ message is a long one and he makes it quite clear that he’s in no way questioning his instructions. He’s only concerned with the ability of the force under his command to do what it’s set out to do. This, he feels, would not have been easy at the best of times but, now, he feels he’s faced with a new problem. It seems there’s been disaffection among the troops.’
There was a startled murmur from among the men round the long table. The Service chiefs tried to avoid the eyes that were directed towards them, and the Prime Minister coughed to gather their attention once more.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ he went on, ‘you’ll all know what’s happening. The Khanzian radio has already started a loud outcry blaming us for the deaths in the rioting. This is all incorrect and specific orders were issued to Hodgeforce that civilians were to be protected; and these riots are not of our doing.’
‘It’s never easy to particularise,’ the Foreign Secretary said. He was a short plump man with a reputation for being difficult to pin down, but he was one of the abler members of the Cabinet whose reputation had largely sprung from his detestation of the newspaper and television interviewers who tried to get him to speak without a prepared statement. He had long since been accepted as the man most likely to step into the Prime Minister’s shoes.
He gestured as the Prime Minister looked at him. ‘It’s one of the things we have to accept,’ he said quietly.
The Prime Minister frowned. ‘Undoubtedly,’ he said. ‘Although the orders are that civilians are not to be harmed, it’s still obviously going to be difficult to direct a bomb exactly. And bombs will have to be dropped and guns will have to be fired. Perhaps we can do something about that, but this is not why we’re here. General Hodges reports that there’s a great deal of dissatisfaction over this operation among the men, and that most units are affected. The chief problem seems to be that the troops consider they have the right to object to what’s taking place and they’re acting accordingly.’
He glanced at the paper in his hand. ‘There’s a high incidence of unserviceability in the RAF, and at least one of the British escort vessels taking part has dropped out of the convoy with engine trouble due to suspected sabotage. There have also been cases among the military units of lost and even damaged equipment. General Hodges also reports meetings in canteens – meetings in protest against Stabledoor.
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‘Now, gentlemen, you have the facts as I have them. The fleet is due off King Boffa Port three days from now and the RAF will go in when it arrives to soften up the place. It was my belief when this project was authorised that a landing would be virtually unopposed, and even welcome, and it was with this is mind that we took the decision to launch Stabledoor. It was my belief also that this country was behind us.’
The Foreign Secretary coughed. ‘The country may be, Prime Minister,’ he said, ‘though, with respect, I have begun to doubt it, but we have certainly made many enemies abroad. Ambassadors’ reports show a grave disquiet in European countries and, further east, our embassies have actually been stoned. In Jakarta, our embassy has been burned down and totally destroyed by a mob of students. There’s also mounting American anger – I might even say fury – because many of our ships and troops carry American equipment. They’re objecting very strongly to this on the grounds that it was provided against Russian aggression in Europe or Chinese aggression in the Pacific, and that it was never intended to be used for British aggression in Africa.’
He stopped, looking like a man who had had an unpleasant task to perform and was glad it was over and done with. The Prime Minister stared angrily at him, fully aware that the interruption would swing the talk away from the point he wished to debate.
‘One can’t rush to put out a fire without treading on someone’s toes,’ he snapped.
‘Or without a great deal of cost to the taxpayer,’ the Chancellor of the Exchequer commented gloomily, diverting exactly as the Prime Minister had feared. ‘There’s not the slightest doubt, Prime Minister, this is going to involve us in a vast expense which is bound to have an effect on the next Budget. And that,’ he reminded, ‘is at a time when we’re expecting to go to the country within a matter of months. It’s usual to be more optimistic at that time.’
The Prime Minister was about to reply when the Foreign Secretary interposed again, his manner determined as though he had decided that he must have his facts known before the Prime Minister could sweep them aside.
‘There’s one more thing,’ he said, ‘that you ought to know. The Russian leaders haven’t been seen for forty-eight hours and, while this in itself is unusual, it’s also been noticed that Marshal Yostopov didn’t turn up at the Bolshoi Theatre last night when he was expected, and Marshals Younich and Bastroi failed to put in an appearance at an embassy party.’ He paused and gestured. ‘Yostopov, Prime Minister, is the man they expect to head the Army in case of any involvement, and Younich and Bastroi, as I’m sure you know, are the heads of the Navy and the Air Force. I have to confess I find this very worrying, particularly as I’m now pretty certain that both the Americans and the African states have been getting at President Braka of Malala.’
The Prime Minister’s eyes narrowed, his own attention diverted now. ‘Getting at him?’ he said. ‘How?’
The Foreign Secretary shrugged. ‘It’s my information,’ he said, ‘that the African Group of States are threatening him with an economic boycott if he persists in supporting us, and that the Americans are offering him a thumping big loan if he doesn’t. Two hundred million dollars is the figure I’ve heard.’
The Prime Minister sat back in his chair, stunned, his train of thought broken, but, as though to pile on the agony, the Home Secretary, two seats down the table, now looked up and began to speak. He was a dynamic man who had served in a number of governments and not only was he experienced in office, but he was also considered to be something of an expert in war. As War Minister in Starke’s previous government, he had been sent to the Ministry of Defence to integrate and reorganise the Services after years of neglect. He hadn’t been oversuccessful because the unexpected need for economies had thwarted him, and the Prime Minister always felt it was held against him that the Home Secretary’s ideas in those days had never been carried through.
‘There have been refusals to load arms at the docks,’ he was saying, and the Prime Minister got the impression that the members of his Cabinet were growing alarmed at the trend of events started up by Stabledoor.
‘I thought we’d decided to use Reservists in that eventuality,’ he said coldly.
‘They’d been in touch with the dockers and had to be called off,’ the Home Secretary pointed out. ‘There were also riots in Oxford yesterday. And the Strand, Haymarket and the Mall had to be closed to traffic for three hours owing to student demonstrations.’
‘Spontaneous combustion,’ the Prime Minister snapped.
‘I think not,’ the Home Secretary retorted. ‘There were far too many students involved and I don’t think they were all from London. I intend to find out.’
‘What if they weren’t?’
‘Students’ Unions these days have become politically conscious and very militant and, ever since 1967, they’ve been prepared to throw their weight behind any cause they consider worthwhile. I think this could be dangerous.’ The Home Secretary paused. ‘There were several casualties, which are always a bad thing, and one child – a girl of eighteen from the London School of Economics – has died in St Luke’s Hospital.’
The Prime Minister looked grave. ‘I’d like a report on this, please, Home Secretary,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t think we should be unduly alarmed yet, but if someone was to blame for the child’s death we must do something about it. It can’t be laid at the door of the Government.’
The Home Secretary nodded and made a note on a sheet of paper in front of him.
‘I’m not so interested at the moment in reactions at home, however,’ the Prime Minister went on before anyone else could interrupt. ‘I’m more concerned at the moment with Operation Stabledoor. Can we please return to it? General Hodges has been making enquiries about the incidence of disaffection among his troops, and he’s summarised these for me. He reports cheering between ships which is clearly organised, and he suspects, though he can’t find out exactly, that it’s between troops who have no other means of direct communication, to indicate their solidarity. He believes this solidarity is against the operation they’re now engaged upon, and he reports thirty per cent mechanical failure in RAF machines.’ He glanced at the RAF officer down the table. ‘What would you say is the limit to which we can go, Air Marshal, before such failure could endanger the operation?’
‘Twenty-five per cent, sir,’ the RAF man said immediately.
The Prime Minister was clearly startled. ‘He reports ten per cent in the Navy.’ He glanced at the sharp-featured admiral slumped over his papers.
‘Ten per cent is the limit, sir,’ the naval man said.
‘And fifteen per cent among Army vehicles.’
‘We can go up to twenty per cent, Prime Minister.’
The Prime Minister frowned. He was just going to speak again when the door opened and the Chief of Defence Staff appeared.
General Viscount Burnaston was a tall man, with a hawk-like face. He was related by marriage to the Royal Family, but had managed, by his ability, to overcome all political opposition to him on this score.
‘Prime Minister,’ he nodded.
‘I’m glad you’ve managed to arrive,’ the Prime Minister said coldly. ‘You’ve just come in time. I’m anxious to hear more about Stabledoor. This signal of Hodges has me worried.’
‘Has me worried, too, Prime Minister,’ Burnaston said briskly.
‘You’ve seen Hodges’ signal and you’ll know what Service chiefs consider the limit we can go to in unreliability?’
‘I know that, Prime Minister.’
‘It seems we’re on the wrong side, doesn’t it?’
‘It does indeed. But a good general can overcome that if he has to. It’s been done before and it can be done again.’
The Prime Minister felt vaguely relieved. It seemed that the Chief of Defence Staff was prepared, in the teeth of opposition, to throw his weight behind Stabledoor.
‘Hodges claims that there’s disaffection in his command,’ he said. ‘Is he an able commande
r?’
‘The best. He’s been one of our chief fire-fighters for years. He knows the ropes.’
‘Then why is he so worried?’
The Chief of Defence Staff’s brows came down over glittering eyes and the Prime Minister saw at once that he’d been mistaken. Burnaston was not on his side.
‘If Hodges is worried,’ Burnaston said sharply, ‘then he has good cause to worry. I’ve known him a long time and I’ve never known him bleat unnecessarily.’
‘What’s your view?’ the Prime Minister asked more slowly.
‘That he’s probably dead right. I can’t tell at this distance, but there’ve been quite a few demonstrations against Stabledoor at home, and I see no reason to be surprised if there are some abroad, or in our own force. Not these days.’
The Prime Minister frowned. ‘I thought we could rely on our troops,’ he snapped.
‘Prime Minister,’ Burnaston turned his icy glance down the table, ‘if I may speak without appearing to be disrespectful, you can’t expect men to have their heart on risking their lives when the pay they get for it’s just been cut.’
‘Are you suggesting it was a mistake?’
‘The Services were against it from the start. But, as we were told it was an economic necessity, we accepted it. We didn’t like the way the Government announced it – on television when it ought to have been a more personal affair which the troops should have heard before the general public – but we went along with that, too. However, we mustn’t be surprised if we find it’s now causing trouble when we have to use these same troops in a fire-fighting operation.’
The Prime Minister glanced hopefully at the Chancellor of the Exchequer who shook his head emphatically.
‘There’s little opportunity of an increase just now.’