Right of Reply

by John Harris

  He frowned suddenly and pushed the papers away, irritated and suddenly tired. He was fully aware of the forces that were moving towards his destruction and he felt himself surrounded. He knew perfectly well what was going on inside his own party. The Home Secretary had not left him in much doubt. If his enemies had their way, his career was ended and, unable to accept what was staring him in the face, his mind still searched for a solution.

  The hint about being taken ill suddenly had been dropped quite quietly and very simply by the Foreign Secretary, and the Prime Minister knew exactly what they were intending to do with him, because he would have done the same thing if he’d had to. They were proposing to allow the world to think he’d had a brainstorm and that all the events of the past few weeks had sprung entirely from that.

  It was a brutal move, but politics, he knew, was a cruel game, and he searched desperately for the solution he was still sure he could find.

  He slowly turned over the papers that lay under his hand on the desk, but there was one he’d asked for which hadn’t yet arrived.

  He sighed and glanced at the map of Khanzi. Already the usual crackpots were trying to get into the area to be ready to count the bodies and quote the numbers at him in the House, just as they had at the time of Korea and Indo-China and Algeria and Suez and Vietnam. Every outbreak all over the world, no matter who was to blame, drew its quota of lunatics ready to claim that a big nation was beating the living daylights out of a small one. Even the Americans who had more than once halted the forward march of Communism had got nothing but insults for their efforts.

  The Foreign Secretary entered the room. His face was grave and sombre. Because of the crowd outside the Prime Minister’s residence, he had had to enter via Number Eleven and make his way across. Starke looked up as he stopped before the desk.

  ‘I have the report you asked for, Prime Minister,’ he said.

  His voice was cool and indifferent, as though he could already see the writing on the wall and wanted to be remembered for having registered his protest. The Prime Minister gave him a bitter look. He had no love for the Foreign Secretary who had been quick enough to jump on the Prime Minister’s bandwaggon when he was on the way up, and was now covering his retreat in case the Prime Minister fell.

  ‘I’ve sounded the American Ambassador, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘They are quite adamant.’

  Unknowingly, the Prime Minister used almost the same words as the Leader of the Opposition.

  ‘It’s none of their affair,’ he said.

  ‘The way they see it, it is, Prime Minister. Quite apart from the financial angle, and that’s serious enough, God knows, they’ve found themselves running into a blank wall every-time they project a new move. There’s been a new shift of opinion among the Afro-Asian bloc. All those African states who previously supported us have now about-faced and Scepwe’s realised how strong his position is and altered his demands. There’s no possibility now of his accepting a United Nations police force from any nation while this party remains in power in England.’

  The Prime Minister’s eyes flashed. ‘I won’t be dictated to,’ he snapped. ‘Not by a lot of men recently out of the jungle.’

  The Foreign Secretary looked shocked. ‘They’re members of the Commonwealth, Prime Minister.’

  ‘I sometimes think the Commonwealth would be better off without them.’

  ‘Prime Minister’ – the Foreign Secretary looked grave – ‘a conference has been planned for the weekend at Nairobi. Every African nation, and that includes the Arab nations and all those who previously supported us, is sending a delegate. It’s been hurried and I expect it’ll be the usual awful mess, but, Prime Minister, they’re going there to try to create a United States of Africa.’

  The Prime Minister looked up.

  ‘Prime Minister, this is the first real move towards a United Africa, and you know, as I know and everybody else knows, how potentially strong a United States of Africa could be, now that they’ve begun to industrialise. The first thing they intend to debate is the sending immediately of volunteers to King Boffa Port.’

  The Prime Minister rose slowly from his chair and moved to the window. London was grey in the dull spring weather, with the buildings bluish in the haze.

  ‘What we feared is happening, Prime Minister,’ the Foreign Secretary continued in a low voice. ‘If the Africans unite against us in war, no European nation could stay out of it. The threat would be too enormous. Then the Chinese will come in behind the African states and the Russians and the Americans will never dare to stay out. This is why the United States is insisting, Prime Minister. We all know that unification of this sort will not be good for Africa and even less good for Europe.’

  The Prime Minister turned, his eyes tired.

  ‘Suppose we turn Hodgeforce round and send it back to Pepul?’ he asked.

  The Foreign Secretary shook his head. ‘Prime Minister, it must not go back to Pepul. It must come home.’

  ‘It can’t come home. Twenty thousand men arriving in England full of complaints and full of reports, and all demanding an explanation – whatever their views – it would destroy us.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister, but they’re threatening sanctions against Malala if she doesn’t drop her demands against Khanzi and I expect that before long a signal will go out to their troops to withdraw. We can’t go back to Pepul.’

  The Prime Minister moved back to his chair, his actions nervous, his face full of anger.

  ‘I will not have the country humiliated,’ he snapped.

  The Foreign Secretary seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

  ‘The withdrawal of Malalan forces, Prime Minister,’ he said as pointedly as he could, ‘will leave us out on a limb, about to invade a nation that is ready for us and with a whole continent at its back, while we have only half the force we intended to put into the operation, and that remaining half disunited and torn with dissension. Prime Minister, Hodgeforce is heading for a tragedy of the greatest magnitude.’ He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. ‘Certain members of the Cabinet, Prime Minister, myself included, feel that we could not go so far.’

  The Prime Minister turned, feeling like a baited bull. ‘Then I will go it alone,’ he said.

  Three

  On the bridge deck of HMS Leopard, General Hodges stood alongside Admiral Downes and stared through the naval binoculars which a silent commander had passed over to him.

  The rain, which had fallen intermittently all day, had stopped at last and the air felt suddenly fresher. The sea was calmer, too, with only a slight swell now and a light wind. It was a still night with stars that glowed brightly through the gaps in the clouds beyond the pitch-black angularity of the ship’s superstructure. There seemed to be no sound in the whole fleet except the throb of engines and the hiss of water, and even these sounds seemed blotted out, too, so that only murmured conversations reached up to the bridge deck and the pale moonlight accentuated the darkness beyond its reach.

  In the distance, across the black sea, Hodges could see a faint glow appearing and disappearing across the sky, almost like the beam swinging round a radar screen, coming over an edge of purple that ran along the horizon.

  ‘The shadow’s Poro Island,’ Downes said. ‘The light’s King Boffa Light. It lies ten miles outside the entrance to the harbour, on Locco Island. That’s just beyond Poro, so that places us roughly forty miles from King Boffa Port. In three hours from now, we shall be in position for the run-in.’

  ‘And in Khanzian territorial waters?’

  ‘Well inside. We’ll be committed.’

  Hodges said nothing and stared at the light again. In spite of the warm night, he felt chilled, almost as though a dose of malaria were creeping up on him. These silent final hours had their own unnatural quality. Below him somewhere, a tin mug clattered in the darkness and he heard a muttered oath. It seemed unreal to Hodges. The arguments, the endless training, the excitement were over, but he was s
till bowed under the accumulation of too many depressing problems.

  He was where a real soldier ought to be, ready to command troops in battle, and in the cabin under the ship’s bridge, messages would soon begin to arrive asking for help of various kinds, to which he would have to give immediate decisions.

  He felt no joy at the thought, however, because of the harsh sounding of a subconscious alarm that things were desperately wrong with his command.

  He’d never been a man to suffer fear much, and he’d never felt overmuch anxiety as an officer at ordering men to their deaths. He had long since accepted this as part of his job, and as a young officer had felt no resentment against those superiors who had ordered him into situations which could have resulted in his own death.

  He knew he probably had the deaths of many men on his conscience, but he’d always felt they’d been justified by the circumstances because his country had been at war and it had been a case of other men’s deaths or the deaths of his own men. He’d not suffered from remorse.

  Now, however, it was different and he was full of dread. Black men all over Africa, turning at last from white man’s rule, were resenting any suggestion of hostility towards them. For years, long after everyone else had forgotten it, they had kept the chip on their shoulders about their black skins, and they were no longer prepared even to talk to white men who were willing to invade their territory. Only a humiliating climbdown could prevent a calamitous upheaval over the whole continent, and Hodges wasn’t sure that humiliation wasn’t better than a vast bloodbath.

  It was this that chilled him. Radio activity from ashore had revealed that volunteers from other African states had started to cross the Khanzian border on the invitation of Colonel Scepwe. There was still a pretence that they were there to conduct exercises on Khanzian soil, but this was no worse than the pretence he himself had maintained that Hodgeforce was carrying out exercises with the Malalan forces, and it was really only a loophole that had been left for the European and American politicians. The volunteers could finish their exercises and go home at any time anyone wished.

  African diplomats from all over the continent were also heading for Nairobi and Hodges knew that this could be the end of white men in Africa, because although with independence, Africans had still accepted them, any attempt to invade Africa by Europeans would mean the operation of apartheid in an opposite direction. There were signs that it was going to affect India and Asia, too. The white man could be forced right back to Europe. Whether or not the fighting escalated into a major conflict, it could have disastrous consequences for the world, morally, politically and financially.

  ‘Hello!’ Downes’ exclamation jerked Hodges out of his thoughts and he swung round and followed the sailor’s pointing finger. The leading ship on the port bow had put on speed and was moving up closer to Leopard.

  ‘That’s Uhuru,’ Downes said. ‘What the hell are they up to?’

  ‘Admiral’ – the commander spoke from the back of the bridge – ‘the Khanzian flagship’s signalling.’

  There was the clatter of Morse from the cabin just abaft the bridge, and a signal lieutenant-commander appeared with a message form in his hand.

  ‘From Uhuru, sir.’

  Downes took the signal and handed it to Hodges.

  ‘COMEMFO to COMHOJ,’ it read. ‘EMFORCE ordered to return Pepul at once.’

  There was no explanation, no apologies, not even any good luck wishes. They had been expecting it for some time but it came as a shock nevertheless.

  Hodges turned and showed the signal to Downes. ‘The Malalans are breaking off the operation,’ he said.

  As he flipped the sheet of paper with his forefinger and turned to watch the convoy, Downes halted the signals officer.

  ‘Make a signal to all British ships,’ he said. ‘Close up and continue the same course.’

  He swung round on Hodges. ‘Do you want to talk to Aswana?’ he asked.

  Hodges shrugged. ‘What’s the point?’ he asked. ‘He won’t know any more than his orders. We’ll have to leave it to the politicians to ask why.’

  The starboard column of ships was now turning slowly outwards, following Uhuru which, after dropping back into position, was swinging slowly away. One after the other they turned, heading due west, then suddenly their navigation lights came on and they swung round once more away from the darkened convoy, and began to head north again.

  ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ Hodges said. ‘Whatever happens, we shan’t be going back to Pepul.’

  ‘That’ll be jolly,’ Downes said grimly. ‘Because if we don’t go to King Boffa Port and take on water and supplies, it’s going to make things just a little tight. We could make it to Gib from here without a stop, but only just.’

  ‘So far,’ Hodges pointed out, ‘there’s no suggestion that we do anything else but what we are doing.’

  Downes glanced at him. ‘Surely to God,’ he said, unexpectedly bitter, ‘those bloody fools at home won’t expect us to go ahead on our own now.’

  Hodges shrugged. He had long since given up thinking about what the people at home, in their massive demonstration of brinkmanship, would do.

  ‘Sir’ – the signalman appeared again – ‘newsflash.’

  The loudspeaker came to life with the voice of a BBC announcer in mid-sentence.

  ‘…Malalan Government. It has been decided in Machingo to accede to the United Nations’ request that any contemplated aggressive action against the Khanzian base of King Boffa Port should be dropped at once pending discussions. A meeting is to be held and it is reported from Machingo that a signal has gone out to the Malalan Fleet, which is at the moment at sea south of the Equator conducting exercises with the Royal Navy.’

  There was a pause, then light music started again and was stopped at once as the radio room switched off.

  ‘The bastards have tossed the ball into our court,’ Downes said.

  Hodges stared ahead, noticing that it had started to rain again. It felt cold and sharp against his face, and it seemed to shake him out of his unhappiness. He turned briskly to Downes.

  ‘What would happen, Dennis, if we stopped the convoy here, and waited a while?’

  Downes stared at him. ‘Are you thinking of that, Horace?’

  ‘I’m not considering anything at this particular moment. It’s purely a hypothetical question.’

  Downes considered for a moment. ‘It would mean that the whole operation would fall flat on its face,’ he said. ‘If Stabledoor’s to have the remotest chance of success, we have to be off King Boffa Port before daylight tomorrow morning. We shall be inside territorial waters very shortly, and off King Boffa Port in about three and a half hours. We’ve either got to go on or get the hell out of it. If we stop here, we’re bound to be spotted tomorrow and it’ll take a bit of doing to explain what a fleet of a hundred-odd ships is doing just outside King Boffa, armed to the teeth.’

  Hodges moved across the bridge and stared towards the distant glow which was already noticeably brighter.

  ‘We’ll continue on this course,’ he said, ‘but I’d be glad if you’d let me know before we enter Khanzian waters.’

  Downes studied his face but said nothing, and Hodges endeavoured to explain the way he was thinking.

  ‘I’m considering the possibility,’ he said, ‘of turning us round. Now that Aswana’s gone, you’re my deputy and you’ve a right to know. Particularly since, if I do decide this way, I should be refusing to follow instructions, and you would probably wish to take over.’

  Downes stared at him with a drawn face and Hodges went on calmly.

  ‘That, of course, would be throwing the ball into your court, Dennis, and you’d be in an appalling position. It’s only fair to say I haven’t yet decided that way.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Downes said in a low voice.

  Below decks, the troops had lapsed into a glum silence. Everyone knew the Malalan ships had turned away and, although the BBC new
sflash had not been relayed over the ship’s system, it hadn’t taken long for it to be passed round the fleet. Radio operators on every ship had picked it up and whispered conversations in the darkened alleyways had been sufficient to see that it spread to every man on board.

  Captain White looked at Sergeant Frensham. ‘That sets us up as Aunt Sally,’ he said laconically.

  Frensham frowned. ‘What’s going to happen now, sir?’ he asked.

  White shrugged. ‘God knows,’ he said. ‘I wish I did. We haven’t changed course so it looks very much to me as though they’re going to chance it.’

  Frensham’s eyes glittered. Like every officer and senior NCO on board Banff he knew the precautions that had been taken to prevent mutiny. White had taken him into his confidence and Frensham had watched the squads of puzzled Guardsmen and Marines move quietly into position about the ship, not knowing the reason for the change. There had been a lot of grumbling among them because the last-minute moves had disrupted their plans for disembarkation and they knew, as well as any officer, that the result when the time for landing arrived would be chaos. With every disembarkation route through the ship plotted to avoid confusion, units – even supposing the landing went unopposed – would find themselves crossing the paths of other units or even having to force their way into position against the flow of troops heading for the ship’s sides. Men had been separated from their heavy equipment and even from their officers, and they all suspected they were going to find themselves on a hostile shore without leadership or the things they needed.

  The shifting of the small armed squads had been watched with suspicion by the men of the county regiments it was designed to curb, and Frensham had been quick to note the muttering and the groups of men with their heads together. Even as it had been going on, he had expected trouble in the shape of a scuffle or a sudden move to overpower the small sections taking up their positions at vantage points. The stationing of officers near the keyboards and magazines had not gone unnoticed, he knew, while the clearing of the revolver racks from outside the wardroom had been duly reported, he was certain, by the wardroom stewards. Frensham had been twenty years in the Army and had served through more than one military mistake, and what he saw around him on board Banff filled him with horror, especially with the people at home still insisting, in the teeth of the facts, on the operation being carried through.