Franco's Map

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Franco's Map Page 19

by Walter Ellis


  Somerville read the signal without comment, knowing that in the end the only two players who mattered were himself and Gensoul. Captain Cedric Holland, commander of the Ark Royal and a fluent French speaker, was theoretically his intermediary. But Holland, now on board the Foxhound, was unable to talk with the French commander face to face. He was negotiating by letter, then signalling Somerville for further instructions. As lunchtime came and went, with the temperature on board the ships of both fleets soaring into the 40s, word came that French tugs had begun working to release the Strasbourg and Dunkerque from their moorings.

  Somerville ordered the mining of the harbour. “Instruct Gensoul that if his ships attempt to put to sea, they risk imminent destruction.”

  Minutes later, a group of Swordfish light bombers from the Ark Royal flew across the harbour mouth and dropped contact mines in full view of the French. Almost simultaneously, the 13.4” guns of the Strasbourg and the Dunkerque began to rotate.

  Signals came and went. London grew increasingly impatient. Sometime after three, Somerville signalled to Holland. “Does anything you have said prevent me opening fire?”

  Holland, in despair, replied: “Nothing I have said, since terms were not discussed, only handed in and reply received.”

  The sun blazed down, glinting off the metal of the Hood’s 15” guns. Onshore, a group of four French shore batteries were uncovered and made ready for use.

  Late in the afternoon, with shadows lengthening, Somerville sent Gensoul a further, despairing cable:

  If one of the British proposals is not accepted by 1730 BSM, I must sink your ships.

  Back came the reply from Gensoul, in English:

  Do not create the irreparable.

  In Vichy, Darlan was under pressure from Laval to strike a blow for French arms. The Admiral did not, in fact, need any prompting in this matter. He loathed the British, frequently recalling that his great grandfather had died at Trafalgar. When he ordered his ships into battle, it was in the knowledge that the French squadron at Alexandria was in active discussions with the British and in no position to assist. Only a handful of French ships in the Mediterranean enjoyed freedom of action, and none, apart from a couple of submarines based down the coast in Oran, were within striking distance of Mers. France could only trust to Gensoul and hope for the best.

  Madrid: Office of Interior Minister Serrano Suñer, July 3

  Bramall was ushered into Serrano’s office through double doors that would have admitted a man twice his height. The doors were grandiloquent. They spoke of an man of gigantic stature. In fact, the Minister, crouched behind his ormolu encrusted desk, seemed to have shrunk since Bramall saw him last. He was dressed in his Party uniform, a pale imitation of SS garb, minus the jackboots. In place of the oak leaves and braided threads of the Death’s Head hierarchy, he sported the traditional Yoke and Arrows badge of the Falange, dating back to the time of the Reconquista, and looked more like an airline pilot than a paramilitary chief. His office was both tasteful and efficiently organised. Filling one entire wall were glass panelled bookshelves lined with legal volumes and what looked like party archive material, plus a few obvious personal favourites, including a biography of Napoleon and two copies of Mein Kampf, one in the original German, the second translated into Spanish as Mi Lucha.

  Most alarming of all, above the room’s ornate fireplace, where the usual focus of attraction would have been either a gilded mirror or a portrait of some distinguished figure from Spain’s past, was an enormous, detailed map of “The Spanish Empire.”

  The framed map, obviously brand new and, as the indentations on the plasterwork confirmed, replacing an earlier artwork, was notable for two absences. There was no acknowledgement of Gibraltar’s status as a British Crown colony; nor was there any border separating Spanish Morocco from surrounding French territory. Instead, the whole of Morocco, including the Western Sahara, as well as the Algerian province of Oran, were shaded yellow, as, down towards the base of the chart, were an amalgam of Spanish Equatorial Guinea and French Gabon, re-named Spanish West Africa. Ominously, a series of concentric circles, like a ripple, expanded outwards from Gibraltar all the way to the frame. The status of Portugal had been left ambiguous – no doubt intentionally so. Like Spain, it was marked in yellow, as was the Portuguese colony of Guinea-Bissau, in West Africa. But the international border, agreed, reluctantly, by Madrid in 1668, remained, indicated by a faint dotted line.

  Croft had said Franco’s Map was a myth. Well, there it was. Perhaps there were memos, too … and perhaps there was more to Admiral Canaris than anyone suspected.

  Serrano rose to shake hands with his guest, then sat down in an armchair by the window overlooking the Puerta del Sol. “Join me,” he said, gesturing to a second chair. “I trust you are well?”

  “Never better, Sir. Spain obviously agrees with me.”

  “Muy bien!” The Minister drew the left sleeve of his jacket over the gold watch on his wrist, then sat back and crossed his legs. “I understand that the Duke will not be returning to England.”

  “That’s right. He has been appointed Governor of the Bahamas.”

  “What does that suggest to you?”

  “That Nassau is a lot further away from London than Madrid.”

  Serrano registered silent agreement. “And his time in Lisbon?”

  “Not yet determined. Part of my remit is to remain here in case His Royal Highness should decide to return.”

  “You think that likely?”

  “I know he enjoyed his time here. He felt he was among friends and more able to express himself. He was also, I think, intrigued by the Foreign Minister’s suggestion of a house near Seville.”

  “Ah yes. I’ve no doubt he would find it agreeable.” Serrano leaned forward. “We are men of the world, Señor Bramall. Just between us, what are the chances he might take Beigbeder up on his offer?”

  “I consider it a possibility. I wouldn’t put it higher than that.”

  “It would be a slap in the face for Churchill.”

  “True. But it could be borne. In any case, after all that’s happened in recent years, His Royal Highness may well feel that such a blow would not be entirely inappropriate.”

  “I take your point.”

  Bramall was not sure whether to go on. The Minister was obviously interested in his opinions. But if he played up the possibility of a royal rumpus and then the ex-king departed meekly for the Bahamas, how would it look? He decided to leave his existing comments where they lay.

  Serrano twisted in his chair to look out of the window into the square below, where two beggars, a woman and her small daughter, were being moved on by a policeman. “You will, of course, have heard the news,” he said at length.

  “You mean the business at Oran? I’m afraid I know very little, Sir. Just what I learned in my hotel before setting out to come here. What information do you have?”

  “There is much confusion. But it looks as if the French admiral has been issued with an ultimatum: join the British or see his ships sent to the bottom. It would appear, Señor Bramall, that your Prime Minister is not a sentimental man.”

  Bramall smiled wanly. “What alternative does he have? He couldn’t let the French fleet become an instrument of the Axis powers.”

  For several long seconds, the Spaniard reflected on the character of the British war leader, who seemed to him truly a monster. Then he turned back to his guest, an envoy of a kind from the self-same monster’s lair. “Like you,” he said, “I await to see what will happen. But it is by any standard an extraordinary affair.”

  “You’re right, of course. We can only hope that the two sides will somehow arrive at a peaceful solution.”

  Serrano continued to look thoughtful. “Which brings me to my next point. In the event that Spain should agree not to join the present
European conflict, what do you imagine would be the attitude of the United Kingdom towards the future status of Gibraltar?”

  It was a question that got right to the heart of his mission. Bramall decided that if he was going to bluff, he might as well go all the way. “That is a matter you should raise with our ambassador. How can you trust anything I tell you on so vital a subject?”

  “Come, come, Señor Bramall. There is no need to dissemble. I am not asking you to betray your country, I am asking your opinion.”

  “Well, Minister, if you press me, I would have to say that there are those in London sympathetic to the Spanish claim.”

  “Including Churchill?”

  “In extremis, yes – and these are extreme times. But Lord Halifax, I am reliably informed, is already willing to consider the issue, providing of course that some arrangements can be made for the re-disposition of the Royal Navy in the western Mediterranean.”

  “In Morocco, for example.”

  “That would certainly be one possibility. The Ceuta peninsula could conceivably be traded for Gibraltar, allowing both our countries to move forward with dignity.”

  Serrano’s eyes turned upwards to the ceiling and he clasped his hands behind his neck. “Let us move on, then. We remain neutral. Perhaps we are even helpful to the British position. And at the end of the war, negotiations are opened on Gibraltar. Very well. But how likely is it, do you suppose, that London would support Spanish claims elsewhere? I’m thinking in particular of Morocco and Oran. We cannot expect Pétain and the French to be in favour, but what of your Mr Churchill?”

  Bramall sensed that everything up to that moment had been no more than a gentle probing exercise but that now they were reaching the crux of the matter. Gibraltar and North Africa were clearly not separate issues; they were the same issue. If he was able to convince Serrano that Britain was flexible on both, then he might actually begin to justify his existence in Madrid. “You raise an interesting prospect, Minister,” he began. “Should the French fleet be attacked in Oran, it will take a generation at least for France and Britain to become reconciled. Even if he doesn’t go to war, Pétain is bound to break off diplomatic links. In such circumstance, always assuming that British interests are not threatened, ours, I feel sure, would be a neutral voice.”

  How that had gone down? he wondered. Did it make any sense?

  “Fascinating,” said Serrano. “But what if Spain were to take the alternative route? What if we abandoned ‘non-belligerence’ and joined the war?”

  “Then, Sir,” said Bramall, feeling tiny beads of sweat break out on his forehead, “the die would be well and truly cast. Anything could happen. It seems to me that Britain is over the worst militarily and will grow in strength from this point on. And with the United States in the wings, the fighting could go on for years. Even if Spain and Germany succeeded in storming Gibraltar, Churchill would insist on retaliatory strikes – most obviously in Morocco and the Canaries. You could end up losing territory instead of gaining it. Germany would join you, of course, in defending your rights, but what then? Spain and France have claims in Africa. Italy, too, of course – the Duce talks almost every day about beefing up his Libyan possessions. But what about Germany? The Kaizer objected to Spanish expansionism in Morocco in 1906 and again in 1911. I can’t see Hitler joining a protracted war in Africa only to sit back as others divide up the choicest properties among themselves.”

  So far, he thought, he had done well against the polished and indefatigable Serrano. But he didn’t want to push his luck. Now would be a good moment for the Minister to bring an end to the discussion. Instead, the Spaniard uncrossed his legs and with the backs of his fingers brushed several items of imaginary fluff from the trousers of his uniform.

  “What you have argued makes sense,” he said, “even if it is a little self-serving – which is entirely understandable. I note that you take no account of the naval strength of Italy. This seems to me to be a mistake. I spoke yesterday on the telephone to Count Ciano. Have you met him?” Bramall shook his head at mention of the Italian foreign minister. “A delightful man,” Serrano continued. “More like Canaris. So much more obliging than Ribbentrop. The Duce, he tells me, considers the Mediterranean to have been transformed into a prison by the British, who sit as sentinels at either end, controlling who enters and who leaves. But – and on this he was most insistent – a breakout has been planned. The Regia Marina is poised to reclaim Italian honour, and when its fleet sets sail, what hope will there be for a British Gibraltar?”

  The minister lolled back in his chair, observing his guest over the tops of his steepled fingers, the nails of which were more perfectly manicured than any society girl’s. “You are a difficult man to read, Señor Bramall,” he said. “I have the strong feeling that you know more than you are saying. Is this because you are a natural diplomat or it is because you are not telling the whole truth? We have examined your curriculum vitae most carefully and have discovered several things. Among these is that you reported fairly and honourably on our cause during the recent war. You were are a friend of the Times Correspondent, Philby, who was of course decorated by the Caudillo himself. Was there something about you and Philby getting drunk afterwards? Possibly. I don’t remember.”

  When Bramall only smiled, Serrano pressed on. “Something else we learned was that you have an almost astonishing spread of social and political contacts. There is the Duke, obviously, but also Downing Street, the Foreign Office, the British military hierarchy, even the BUF leader, Sir Oswald Mosley. You are young and hold no special rank in society and yet there seems to be no door that is not open to you, my own included. Is it your charm, do you think, or do you know where the bodies are buried?”

  Bramall swallowed and affected what he hoped was a puzzled expression. “You have me at a disadvantage, Don Ramón,” he said. “But it would be wrong to imagine that I occupy some bizarre, elevated place in my country’s inner circles. You have met my father. He didn’t raise me to be a radical. I have served as a soldier and a diplomat and I hear what people tell me. I am also a lover of Spain – the true Spain, as represented by the Falange. Because of my background, from time to time I learn of things that my Government would rather remained confidential …”

  “ – But which drive events and policy.”

  “On occasion, certainly. But see things from my perspective. I am sitting now with one of the most powerful men in Spain. Does this mean that I direct Spanish policy?”

  A mischievous smile played about Serrano’s patrician features. “Just so, just so. Your point is taken. But what about your Ambassador, Sir Samuel Hoare? He was for some years a senior Minister. Does he enjoy similar … access?”

  Bramall gritted his teeth. “I don’t doubt it for a second. I know that his appointment to Madrid was well received in my father’s circles and that Sir Samuel and Lord Halifax remain intimates. But my role here, such as it is, is not connected to the embassy. I have only met the Ambassador once, with the Duke, and he made it clear that he did not include me in his plans.”

  “That is candid, at any rate.”

  “I have no reason to lie. As I have always said, I am a friend of Spain and of the Party.”

  Serrano studied Bramall for a second down the length of his nose. Then he consulted his watch and rose fluidly to his feet, indicating that the interview was at an end. “Your conversation has been most stimulating,” he said. “I am sure we shall meet again.”

  “Thank you, Minister. You are extremely generous.”

  As if by magic, Serrano’s secretary, Señorita Casares, appeared in the doorway. She looked as if she had just returned from the hairdresser’s.

  “Please show Señor Bramall out,” the Spaniard said. “Arrange for a car to take him to his next destination. Oh, and before he leaves, could you find for him a copy of our outstanding claim to Gibraltar and No
rth Africa. There must be one somewhere.”

  “Of course, Minister. I will fetch it personally from the stationery office.”

  “Excellent. I think you will find it interesting reading, Señor Bramall.”

  “I’m sure I shall, sir.”

  Bramall and Casares retreated into the Minister’s outer office, leaving Serrano himself gazing at the fantastic creation over his fireplace.

  “If you would wait here, Señor Bramall,” Casares said, indicating a chair by the window. “I will be two minutes.”

  “Of course.”

  As soon as the secretary had gone, leaving the door from her office into the corridor slightly ajar, Bramall began, somewhat hesitantly, to survey the contents of her desk. He didn’t have the gall to try the filing cabinets. There was a sheet of paper in the typewriter. He bent over the machine. Good God! It was the first two paragraphs of a letter to the Italian Foreign Minister, Count Ciano. He scrolled it up, click by click, reminded of the time in Cambridge when he examined the personal correspondence of his head of college. Serrano (for who else could it be?), wished the Duce well in his continuing prosecution of the war, but then asked for a reaffirmation of Italy’s support for Spanish claims in respect of North Africa, which were now, apparently, “under review in Berlin.” Oran was mentioned specifically. There was also a reference to “disorder” in French Morocco, whatever that meant, and to the possibility of Spanish “intervention,” in the near future. Nothing more: Casares had obviously been interrupted in mid-stream. Carefully scrolling the typewriter carriage back to its original position, he switched his attention to the leather-bound desk diary. Over the next few days, it told him, Serrano would meet twice with Franco and once with Beigbeder. There were also meetings pencilled in with the editors of the newspapers Arriba and ABC, as well as the chief of police and various advisers. He turned the page. Now this was interesting. A scheduled appointment with Sir Samuel Hoare on Monday the 8th was crossed out and in its place was a new entry, in red ink, apparently written in Serrano’s own hand: “German Legation/10.30/ Beigbeder, Vigón to accompany.”

 

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