by James Philip
Of course, the dreadful weather conditions would be the same for the enemy but, understandably, Michael Carver was wholly concerned only with the intractable problems the storm was likely to cause allied troops. Thus, knowing that if he travelled to the Marne Front, he was likely to be snowed in, at a minimum, for at least several days, possibly a week or more, he had deemed it essential that he take ownership, in person, of the decision whether to proceed, or to delay the planned offensive.
In fact, he had already decided that a seven-day postponement was inevitable. This was the third ‘perfect storm’ of the winter, in which apparently freak, once in a hundred or two or three hundred-year climactic conditions, conspired to produce ‘super-hurricanes’ in the North Atlantic, or in this case, to transport a Siberian blizzard to normally temperate Western Europe. Maddeningly, the generally clear, dry, frosty weather of the last fortnight had been marvellous campaigning weather.
Once the conference room had been cleared of junior officers and aides, Michael Carver wasted no time attempting to sugar-coat the bitter pill. In the room where the city council of Châlons-sur-Marne had sat, debated, haggled in the years of peace, the Chief of the Defence Staff looked around the table, his gaze settling on Alain de Boissieu’s face.
“We must stand down until this storm blows through, gentlemen.”
Guy Méry stirred unhappily.
“The snow might lay on the ground for days or weeks, and even when it thaws the ground will be heavy, and river obstacles swollen, in flood…”
Michael Carver listened patiently.
“I agree, conditions will not be ideal. They hardly ever are. However, for our irregular troops – the majority of our frontline forces – General Winter will be their death. I know full well that your professional units, like those of the BEF in the west, are fully capable of fighting in this weather. Unfortunately, two-thirds of our forces are not. Moreover, for so long as this storm lasts there will be no possibility of re-supply or reinforcement either from England via the Channel, or from the depots located around Calais and Boulogne. Tracked vehicles may be able to cope with the snow, wheeled fuel tankers and ammunition lorries cannot. Presently, we have a situation where our assault troops are billeted under shelter, protected from the worst of the storm.” He let all this sink in, knowing that he was not telling any of the men present anything they had not already worked out for themselves. “Gentlemen, I am proposing to unilaterally order an initial seven-day postponement of northern element of Operation Mangle.”
Much though this had been anticipated there was, nonetheless, a reluctant sigh of relief around the table.
“That said,” Michael Carver continued, “the Royal Navy has been directed to delay its operations against the Front Internationale in the south by forty-eight hours; and then, when our offensive in the North gets under way, to hit the enemy with everything it’s got, as planned.” He smiled ironically. “It happens that this delay would probably have been inevitable. Apparently, the cruiser Belfast was unable to sail on schedule with the rest of Admiral Leech’s squadron, and the assault ship, HMS Fearless, was held up by unspecified technical difficulties. Both ships should be on station in the next few days. Likewise, the two American nuclear submarines we asked for…”
Major General Guy Méry leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.
“Is the plan still to ‘neutralise’ the Villefranche Squadron, Sir Michael?”
The Englishman nodded solemnly.
It was Alain de Boissieu who broke the silence.
Carver was struck once again by the profound recent change in the man. His voice now rang with calm authority and clearly, he and the commander of the 2nd Corps had agreed to bury their professional and personal differences in recent weeks.
“As distasteful as it is to us all, Guy,” he declared regretfully, “if that fleet was to break out into the Western Mediterranean it might threaten Malta, or Gibraltar. As for the possibility those ships might fall into the hands of the Russians, like all those Turkish ships did back in 1963 and 1964, well, frankly, that does not bear thinking about!”
“No,” his compatriot agreed. “It is just that it brings back memories of July 1940 and the disaster at Mers el Kebir…”
Alain de Boissieu returned to the main issue.
“I agree with Sir Michael’s appraisal of the tactical situation. Clearly, not the least of the problems with the weather is that it makes aerial reconnaissance and fire support for our ground troops impossible.”
“Obviously,” Michael Carver interjected, “you should continue raiding and other scouting, or intelligence gathering activities as you see fit during the period of postponement, Alain. It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the coming storm will decimate our foes without us lifting a finger!”
Frank Waters chortled wickedly.
“That would be a damned shame. Nothing like seeing the whites of the other fellow’s eyes when he knows you’ve got his number, what?”
“Yes,” the Chief of the Defence Staff breathed, with markedly less blood-thirsty enthusiasm, “quite.”
Chapter 12
Tuesday 31st January 1967
Battleship Jean Bart, Villefranche-sur-Mer
Rene Leguay had had to be carried through the ship. That afternoon, he had passed out the moment his head hit the pillow, of his bunk in the Admiral’s cabin near the stern of the leviathan. He wanted nothing but to go back to sleep; even though he knew that Aurélie would not have allowed the others to rouse him unless it was a matter of life and death. Despite the pain he was still groggy.
As there was no coffee, an ersatz, vile chicory-flavoured brew was offered to him and obediently, he drank it down. Whether by accident or by design, it was so disgustingly bitter it partially snapped him out of his drugged stupor.
“Now I’m being poisoned,” he groaned, determined not to show the pain he was in. Somebody had tried to arrange cushions on the hard chair in the radio room. It helped, just not very much. He met Aurélie Faure’s concerned gaze. Her face was pinched with worry and this sobered him as nothing else could. “Please inform Captain O’Reilly I am ready to speak to him.”
Very little that Aurélie had just said to him about her conversation with the British officer had sunk into, let alone stuck in his mind.
There was a delay as communications were re-established.
“He sounded like a Quebecois?” He checked with the woman.
She nodded.
With a sharp knife one could have cut the atmosphere in the compartment; everybody understood that the next few minutes would decide…everything.
“Put this on the speaker,” Leguay directed, while they waited. “Everybody on the bridge needs to hear this, too.”
He was passed a headset.
He held the microphone to his face.
And heard at last the voice of the man who was going to be, in all likelihood, his executioner sometime in the coming hours.
Yes, he was definitely a Canadian, Rene Leguay decided.
“This is Captain Dermot O’Reilly of Her Majesty’s Ship Campbeltown,” the other man declared in flat, unemotional French. “To whom do I have the honour to address, sir?”
That was a nice touch!
“You are speaking to Contra Amiral Rene Leguay, I command what was, until a few days ago, the Mediterranean Fleet of la Marine de la Révolution. My fleet successfully repulsed an attempt by forces of the Front Internationale to seize it two days ago. We are, therefore, now deemed enemies of the people, fugitives...”
“What is the status of the ships under your command, sir?” O’Reilly asked neutrally, his voice echoing around the bridge.
“Those of my ships which are capable of making steam are preparing to depart this place in search of sea room, Captain O’Reilly.”
There was a pause.
“To what end, sir?”
Rene Leguay half-smiled.
“Thank you for your consideration, Captain O’Reilly,”
he said, grimly, sensing that the man at the other end of the connection had intuitively grasped the parlous situation of the Villefranche fleet. And, as one captain to another, had no intention of further denting his interlocutor’s dignity. “My ‘end’ is simply to escape the tyranny of the Krasnaya Zarya maniacs who now rule my country. If you demand my surrender then you have it, sir. However, my personal preference would be to sail the fleet to a safe harbour where my people will be free to decide for themselves if they wish to join the fight against our mutual foes.”
Leguay realised that this was quite a lot for O’Reilly to assimilate all at once, so, he waited patiently. In the event he only had to wait about five seconds.
When he spoke, Dermot O’Reilly’s voice – despite the static and clicking of the connection – rang with command.
“I regret that I am operating under specific and non-negotiable rules of engagement, sir,” he apologised. “I am obliged to require you to unconditionally surrender all your ships to British and Commonwealth naval forces. In this connection I am authorised to accept that surrender on behalf of my direct superior officer, Rear Admiral Leach. Is this acceptable to you, Amiral Leguay?”
The Frenchman swallowed hard.
He thought he was going to be physically sick for a moment.
Implicitly, if he cavilled then the British would destroy his fleet. His dignity, his sense of honour was not worth the blood of a single one of his people.
“Yes. That is acceptable to me in every respect,” he said with a heavy heart.
“Thank you, sir,” O’Reilly replied, clearly relieved. Suddenly, he was crisply business-like, there was no time to be wasted. “I must know if the Front Internationale or your people, have installed surface-to-air missiles to defend the city of Nice or the anchorage at Villefranche?”
“To my knowledge, no. I regret that I cannot be certain what air defence provisions have been made at Nice.”
“Can you confirm that Nice is held by FI forces?”
“Yes. We anticipate that they will make another attempt to capture the fleet as soon as tomorrow…”
“Please list the vessels under your command, sir.”
“My flagship is the Jean Bart. In company is the Clemenceau, the cruisers Jeanne d’Arc and De Grasse, and the destroyers La Bourdannais, La Galissoniene, Surcouf and Kersaint, and the frigates La Savoyard and Le Lorrain. The oiler La Seine and several smaller patrol boats and auxiliaries, including several fishing boats are also present in the bay. All are under my command and my protection.”
“How many people do you have on your ships?”
“Perhaps, two thousand five hundred. That is, men, women and children. Few of my ships have much ammunition in their magazines for their main batteries, Jean Bart included. My magnificent flagship had not fired her big guns for nearly ten years until the other night.”
To Rene Leguay’s surprise, the other man chuckled.
“That must have been quite a thing!”
“It was, it was…”
O’Reilly sobered: “What happened to the submarines based at Toulon before the October War, Amiral Leguay?”
“Until recently, they were manned by skeleton crews. I would be surprised if at least one of them had not been fully re-activated by now…”
“So, one of them could be standing off Cap Ferrat as we speak?”
“Yes…”
“Very well,” O’Reilly concluded. “Please continue to prepare your ships to get under way. Campbeltown will come alongside Jean Bart at first light. At that time, I will formally accept the surrender of your fleet. Thereafter, you and I will discuss what needs to be done, Amiral.”
Rene Leguay acknowledged this without comment.
O’Reilly informed him that he was passing his handset to the Campbeltown’s Communications Officer.
“We need to establish robust radio communications,” he explained tersely. “Alternative secure channels, and so forth. Please keep this channel open. You and I will speak again in the morning.”
O’Reilly hesitated.
“The Task Force’s combat air patrol will extend its area of operations north to cover your ships. You should hear our aircraft overhead within the next few minutes.”
On board the Jean Bart, Rene Leguay passed the headset back to a technician.
He tried to get to his feet unaided; a bad mistake.
Aurélie Faure and the two nearest men grabbed him as his knees buckled.
Chapter 13
Tuesday 31st January 1967
Washington Post, 1150 15th Street, Washington DC
Ben Bradlee was on the phone when Kay Graham quietly knocked at his door and slipped, as was her habit, almost shyly into her Managing Editor’s office. Her friend’s secretary had warned him that her boss was on the phone to ‘somebody at Justice’. Which, obviously, did not sound like good news; but then the team of lawyers who had been camped out in the boardroom a floor above her head, for most of the last fortnight, was hardly a good omen either.
They had known they were about to stir up a hornet nest; but right now, it felt as if the White House was about to call in Strategic Air Command to level The Washington Post Building!
Yesterday morning, just before dawn the FBI and the Washington PD had turned up in force to ‘seize’ allegedly confidential documents that were ‘illegally in the possession of the company’. The Post’s duty attorney had pointed out two grammatical and three spelling mistakes in the two page-long warrant. Nevertheless, nobody had tried to stop the FBI agents and Washington PD detectives ransacking selected offices and newsroom desks, and when Kay had received a call asking if the boardroom safe should be ‘cracked’, she had meekly – as any good citizen would – given permission for it to be opened.
Of course, the searchers had found nothing remotely relevant to their warrant and by mid-day, given up. Although, not without attempting to ‘steal’ miscellaneous other papers and notebooks which had caught their attention. The resulting stand-off had only ended late last night, when the Special Agent in charge had been served with a subpoena demanding that he ‘desist forthwith any searches or confiscations not authorised’ by the original warrant.
Ben Bradlee’s room was still a complete mess.
There were heaps of files on the floor, piles of typescript still lying unrecovered, the FBI had jemmied open all his desk draws and splintered wood still crunched underfoot. Only one of the three telephones in the office still worked. Similar damage – well, vandalism – had been inflicted elsewhere in the building although the main focus of the interlopers had been in the adjoining newsroom.
Kay Graham had no idea where, what The Post’s staffers now called the ‘Langley Papers’, were. Day-to-day, certainly hour-to-hour, she suspected that not even Ben Bradlee knew where the three boxes of files were to be found.
Only an idiot – or in this case, a gang of idiots like the people surrounding J. Edgar Hoover – would think for a second that they would be dumb enough to keep the stash at 1150 15th Street!
But then, the evidence they had to hand was proof positive that the FBI was not alone in being run by megalomaniac, paranoid imbeciles with no regard whatsoever for the constitutional rights of their fellow citizens!
When the Langley Papers had first arrived on The Post’s doorstep – actually they had been left in the corridor outside the apartment of a newly recruited rookie stringer, called Robert Woodward, who had previously been connected with The New York Times – Kay Graham had initially suspected that The Post was being ‘hoaxed’, either by the FBI or the CIA, possibly at the behest of the Administration, to discredit its ongoing investigation of the Warwick Hotel Scandal.
If anything, Kay had been even more suspicious than Bradlee; whom she had asked to check out ‘this Woodward guy’ before they risked putting their heads in what had every hallmark of being an ‘Administration bear trap’.
Twenty-three-year-old Robert Ushur ‘Bob’ Woodward, had turned out to be an interesting
young man. A native of Geneva, Illinois, he was the son of an attorney, and had studied History and English Literature at Yale under the auspices of the Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps, graduating in the summer of 1965. At Yale he had been initiated into the Phi Gamma Delta fraternity and been a member of the Society of Book and Snake, the college’s fourth oldest secret clan. One of three children of his father’s first marriage, he had grown up in a household swollen by the three children of his step-mother. Tragically, his father, the President of the DuPage County Bar Association, his stepmother, Alice and three of his siblings had disappeared in the days after the Soviet nuclear strikes on Chicago in October 1962, and of his two surviving sisters, Wendy had died of cholera and war plague in Madison, Wisconsin in 1963, and Anne, had perished in the atomic bombing of St Paul at the outset of the war in the Midwest.
Unsurprisingly, it seemed the young man had had some kind of breakdown, which had led the Navy to send him ashore from his first ship, the USS Northampton, and by the end of the war in the Midwest, he had been honourably discharged into the Reserve with the rank of Lieutenant, junior grade. His Yale contacts had got him introductions to The Times and The Post, and several West Coast papers when he visited friends in DC, where, it seemed, the young man had by design, or inertia, settled last autumn.
Ben Bradlee had told Kay from the start that: ‘No, this is exactly the sort of thing that James Angleton would do if somebody was stupid enough to let him get away with it.’
Ben was convinced the CIA had wanted The Times to get the apparently too good to be true scoop. In any event, he had wasted no time instructing Carl Bernstein to ‘take this guy Woodward up country and figure out what we’ve got.’
In the meantime, he and Kay had agonised over what to do with their possibly lethally poisonous chalice.
Kay had known James Angleton for many years. He and his wife, Cicely – née d'Autremont - were among her circle of long-standing DC friends. She had heard that the marriage was no bed of roses; a thing which struck a chord. James Angleton was one of those men who tended to bury themselves in old and new compulsions; he presumably poured the same intellectual curiosity and intensity into his work for the CIA, as he did into growing rare orchids or hooking trout in the rocky streams of New England. Kay knew each of the Angleton’s children, again not well but by name and a little by temperament. Cicely and the kids had been out of town when their Georgetown town house was burned down during the Battle of Washington.
