Halifax was alarmed. He seems to have accepted the Rumanian minister’s apprehension at face value. But Tilea’s account should have been examined more carefully. Had the Wilhelmstrasse conceived so bold a stroke, Rumania’s government would have known of it, and an appeal to Britain would have been made on the very highest level. Instead, Halifax and Cadogan—without consulting first with Sir Reginald Hoare, their envoy in Bucharest—sent cables to Britain’s ambassadors in Paris, Moscow, Warsaw, Ankara, Athens, and Belgrade, spreading Tilea’s story and instructing them to ask what the leaders in these capitals would do if events confirmed it. Sir Reginald, when informed of Tilea’s story, requested that these distress signals be withdrawn; he found the tale “utterly improbable” and the Rumanian foreign minister denied it in every particular. Sir Howard Kennard, His Majesty’s ambassador to Warsaw, cabled that Poland’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs was “highly skeptical,” and so, it developed, were other foreign ministries throughout Europe.79
Tilea had been discredited. Nevertheless, he retracted nothing, and the response of His Majesty’s Government was exactly what it would have been had he been confirmed. Chamberlain convened an emergency meeting of the cabinet on Saturday, the eighteenth. Halifax reported that Rumania’s foreign minister, Grigore Gafencu, denied that there was a word of truth in what Tilea had said and affirmed that relations between his government and the Reich were “proceeding on completely normal lines as between equals.” Therefore, said the foreign secretary, the matter was “probably” not “immediately threatening,” as they had thought. But, as they all knew, he continued, the Führer was capable of anything. He proposed that they anticipate the next crisis and ponder what HMG’s position should be. His own opinion was that “if Germany committed an act of naked aggression on Roumania, it would be very difficult for this country not to take all the action in her power to rally resistance and to take part in that resistance herself.”80
They discussed how to go about ascertaining which countries might be willing to join Britain in standing up to Nazi Germany. At the time that Churchill had urged a Grand Alliance in Parliament, such a coalition had been feasible, but since Munich Britain had few friends in eastern Europe. His Majesty’s Government simply wasn’t trusted. Other ministers suggested the obvious course—to court the Soviet Union, Nazi Germany’s sworn enemy and the most powerful military force in eastern Europe. But Chamberlain, as he wrote his sister, held “the most profound distrust of Russia.” He concluded that Saturday meeting by saying that “the real point at issue” was whether Britain could persuade “sufficient assurances from other countries” to justify “a public pronouncement that we should resist any further act of aggression on the part of Germany.”81
It was Tilea who suggested that Britain’s position would be strengthened if Poland joined them as a third ally. Halifax and Chamberlain found the prospect appealing. Poland shared a common border with Rumania and, according to British intelligence (whose agents cannot have been on speaking terms with Churchill’s informants), was “in a strong position with regard to Germany.” The governments in Warsaw and Berlin were much alike. Both persecuted Jews; both despised Soviet Russia; both had conspired against the Czechs—during the Munich crisis and its aftermath Ribbentrop had worked in tandem with Colonel Józef Beck, Poland’s foreign minister. The Poles had left nothing undone to weaken Prague’s position and, with Hitler’s approval, had annexed Czech territory. In 1934 the Reich and Poland had signed a ten-year nonaggression treaty proclaiming mutual respect for existing territorial rights, the first breach in France’s structure of alliances in eastern Europe. Since then Beck had toiled strenuously—and, it seemed, successfully—to remain on the best possible terms with Germany.82
To be sure, the port of Danzig was a potential sore spot. But the city’s Polish commissioner, asked about the possibility of a German coup, “definitely” discounted it. In London, Dirksen, the German ambassador, assured Halifax that although the Reich intended to pursue a new role for the city, Hitler’s means would entail neither threats nor violence. Instead, he would propose “consultation with the Polish government.” (The anesthetic effect of German promises to negotiate in these years was extraordinary. Hitler never negotiated. He lied, he bluffed, he blackmailed, but serious negotiation was a skill he despised, a refuge for weaklings.) The last and decisive card in Poland’s deck was her military reputation. Unlike her neighbors—and Great Britain—she boasted a field strength that was, at least on paper, immense: a million men under arms and another 800,000 reserves.83
The man who might well determine if these troops would be sent into battle was an enigmatic Polish colonel who in some ways resembled the Führer. No one questioned Józef Beck’s ability. His remarkable diplomatic skills had led to his appointment, at the age of thirty-eight, as Poland’s foreign minister. Respected for his intellect and powerful will, he was also distrusted—even detested—for his duplicity, dishonesty, and, in his private life, depravity. In Rome, where he had spent an extended visit-cum-vacation, the Princess of Piedmont had said of him that he had “the sort of face you might see in a French newspaper as that of a ravisher of little girls.” Ciano thought him “an unsympathetic character who produces a chill around him.” On one of his visits to London that spring, HMG gave him a lunch at the Savoy. Churchill thought him “cynical” and “coldhearted.” Winston was watching him carefully, because he knew more about the strain between Warsaw and Berlin than anyone else there except the guest of honor. He casually asked Beck: “Will you get back all right in your special train through Germany to Poland?” The colonel gave him a sharp look and replied quietly: “I think we shall have time for that.”84
Léger had advised the FO not to trust Beck because, to deflect Hitler southward, “he betrayed Rumania or is in the process of doing so.” The very premise of Halifax’s stratagem was false; it was Beck who fostered the notion that Poland was safe from Germany and did all he could to make it plausible. His ambassador in London told Halifax that Beck would “go a long way” to avoid a quarrel with the Reich. Beck himself, in conversation with Halifax, said that he and Ribbentrop would soon open negotiations over Danzig and he had decided to offer the Germans “magnanimous” terms. It would be his posture to do “nothing provocative.” Pressed for details, he replied that he “did not propose to trouble” the British with an analysis of the Danzig dilemma. The problem was local, he said, and easy to solve; the possibility that it might grow into an international issue was inconceivable.85
Polish support of Rumania was indispensable, Halifax believed; however, on March 19, when he asked Beck to join a four-power declaration to warn the Germans against aggression in eastern Europe—the four being Britain, France, Poland, and Russia—Beck declined. Such a move would only provoke Germany, he said, and Poland did not want to associate herself in any way with the Soviet Union. In Warsaw, Ambassador Kennard asked Beck to “ponder” the matter, and within five days the Polish foreign minister came back with a counterproposal, relayed to Halifax by Beck’s London ambassador, Count Edward Raczyński. Beck suggested that the two countries sign a bilateral convention that would call for Britain and Poland to “consult” in the event Germany threatened Poland. This should be kept a secret, Raczyński said, to avoid antagonizing the Reich. Halifax and Chamberlain were cool to the idea. For one thing, it made no mention of Rumania, which was the locus of Britain’s concern. Besides, a secret convention would offend the French, whom the British had been consulting regularly, and would have no impact as a deterrent to the Nazis. A public pronouncement was needed.86
Halifax now conceived of another approach, which he proposed to the P.M.: What if Britain took matters a step further and offered to guarantee Poland? That might persuade Beck to reciprocate by joining Britain in guaranteeing Rumania. Chamberlain thought it was worth a try; after all, the Führer had no designs on territory governed by the Poles. What could be the harm? On his instructions, therefore, Halifax, Cadogan, and Butler spent the ev
ening drafting a declaration of England’s commitment. After consultation with the Quai d’Orsay, the consequence was an Anglo-French offer to rescue Poland or Rumania if either were attacked by Germany and resisted, although the commitment to Bucharest was contingent upon Warsaw’s also agreeing to intervene—support the P.M. and his foreign secretary were confident they could secure. On March 27 the proposal was transmitted to Warsaw and Bucharest.87
As soon as reactions were received from these capitals, it was thought, negotiations to refine the details could proceed apace. The Continent was quiet. Nothing seemed particularly urgent. And then, suddenly, everything did. One reason was Chamberlain himself. Despite his hard-headed businessman’s approach to issues, he had a hidden mercurial streak; he blew hot and cold, destroying a defensible Czechoslovakia one year and now guaranteeing Poland—which would prove far less defensible—the next. He had been misled by rumors all month, and this was dangerous, because his decisions were often based on fragile, unconfirmed evidence. Tilea’s false alarm was one example.
Ian Colvin’s warning was another, and in this instance the consequences were far graver. Colvin, Berlin correspondent for the London News Chronicle, was among the most astute newspapermen in Europe. His sources lay deep in the Nazi hierarchy; he was, indeed, part of Churchill’s intelligence net. More than once he had sent to Chartwell directives from the Führer that were distributed to only three or four Nazi leaders. Repeatedly the correspondent’s prophecies had proved true, and when he flew to London and conferred with Halifax and Cadogan late in the afternoon of Tuesday, March 28, he had their undivided attention.88
In January, he told them, “a victualling contractor to the German army” had received instructions to provide “the same amount of rations he had supplied in September 1938, and to have them ready by March 28, 1939.” They were to be delivered “in an area of Pomerania which forms a rough wedge pointing to the railway junction of Bromberg [Bydgoszcz] in the Polish corridor.” That was sinister enough, but Colvin’s flight to London had also been inspired by the previous day’s issues of Völkischer Beobachter, Der Angriff, and the Berliner Tageblatt. All had carried inflammatory accounts of “incidents” on the German-Polish frontier, assaults on Reich customs posts and even German civilians by Polish Schweine, some of whom had confessed they had been acting on orders from Warsaw. No one in the Foreign Office needed to be reminded that the Nazis had manufactured similar border clashes before each of their earlier invasions. Colvin was taken across Downing Street; Chamberlain heard his tale and agreed with the FO’s recommendation—an immediate public declaration binding Britain to the defense of Poland.89
In the morning the cabinet cabled an approved text to the Poles and the French, who promptly endorsed it. Parliament was less docile. Critical MPs elicited acknowledgment that British intelligence had found nothing to confirm Colvin’s suspicions. This was no reflection on him; the standards for a good newspaper story are quite different from those required of a prime minister committing his country’s military forces. As it happened, Colvin had misinterpreted his data. The facts were right, but they were part of a German contingency plan whose date had since been set back. The spurious “incidents” were meant to build a case against Poland, and Hitler was indeed planning to move against the Poles; but his Wehrmacht directive specified action in September, not March. He wasn’t ready now; after touring Memel, his latest conquest, he had stopped briefly in Berlin and entrained for Munich, leaving the OKW various instructions, including: “The Führer does not wish… to solve the Danzig problem forcefully. He does not wish thus to drive Poland into England’s arms…. However, it should now be worked on. A solution in the near future would have to be based on especially favorable political conditions. In that case Poland shall be knocked out so completely that it will not be a political factor for the next decades.”90
His staff knew he meant to hoist the hakenkreuz over all Poland before the first snow fell. Chamberlain was therefore aiming at the right target—though both his weapon and his ammunition were pitifully small—when he told the House on March 31:
I now have to inform the House that… in the event of any action which clearly threatens Polish independence, and in which the Polish Government accordingly considers it vital to resist with their national forces, His Majesty’s Government will feel themselves bound at once to lend the Polish Government all support in their power. They have given the Polish Government an assurance to this effect. I may say that the French Government have authorised me to make it plain that they stand on the same ground in this matter as do His Majesty’s Government.91
Thus Chamberlain reversed the British policy, adopted in 1918, of avoiding continental commitments. He had not—yet—signed a formal military alliance, but he had taken a long step in that direction. All evidence to the contrary, he believed he could discourage Hitler from forcing himself upon the Poles. He was also convinced that Poland was a powerful military nation. In both instances he was wrong.
France, already committed to Poland’s defense, was greatly relieved. But Englishmen who possessed strategic vision were, with few exceptions, appalled. Boothby told Churchill: “This is the maddest single action this country has ever taken.” Not only was the policy crazy, he said; so was the man with whom they were dealing. He had talked with Hitler for over an hour, and when the Führer told him that the Reich meant to use Poland as a staging area for a Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union, he said he saw in Hitler’s eyes “the unmistakable glint” of dementia. The Führer had assured Boothby that he did not “wish to attack Britain and the British Empire but of course if England became a Polish or Russian ally, he would have no choice.” Now, to Boothby’s horror, Chamberlain had given “a sudden, unconditional guarantee to Poland, without any guarantee of Russian support.” Basil Liddell Hart agreed that the Polish guarantee was “foolish, futile, and provocative… an ill-considered gesture” which “placed Britain’s destiny in the hands of Poland’s rulers, men of very dubious and unstable judgment.” To dramatize his protest, he resigned as military correspondent of The Times. In the House, Lloyd George asked, and was not answered, whether the General Staff had agreed to defend this country which they could not reach under any conceivable circumstances. Duff Cooper noted in his diary: “Never before in our history have we left in the hands of one of the smaller powers the decision whether or not Britain goes to war.”92
Churchill’s reaction to the Polish guarantee was ambivalent. In his post-war memoirs he wrote of Poland’s “hyena appetite” in joining in the “pillage and destruction of the Czechoslovak State.” In 1938, with the Czechs as allies, fighting would have made sense, he said; now, after six years of “placatory appeasement,” they were asking their young men “to stake their lives upon the territorial integrity of Poland.” He wrote: “Here was decision at last, taken at the worst possible moment and on the least satisfactory ground, which must surely lead to the slaughter of tens of millions of people.” That is not what he said at the time, however. He told the House of Commons: “The preservation and integrity of Poland must be regarded as a cause commanding the regard of all the world,” and added that Chamberlain’s declaration meant there was “almost complete agreement” between the prime minister and critics of his foreign policy: “We can no longer be pushed from pillar to post.” This approached a blanket endorsement. The most generous explanation for the chasm between these two Churchillian positions is that in 1939 he was inspired by the discovery that Chamberlain would fight for something. It is also fair to add that within a week Winston was raising doubts about the Polish guarantee.93
Poland, Chamberlain had told the cabinet, was “very likely the key to the [European] situation.” But Poland wasn’t. It was true that the Poles were brave beyond belief, and that the million men in uniform, splendidly uniformed, were formidably organized in thirty infantry divisions and twelve large cavalry brigades—gallant horsemen all. Unfortunately, they would be useless against Nazi panzers. The Germans plan
ned to invade Poland with ninety-eight divisions. They were the best fighting men in Europe, and their leaders understood the mobile, armored warfare of the future. Halifax, according to Liddell Hart, “believed that Poland was of more military value than Russia, and preferred to secure her as an ally.” Actually, Liddell Hart continues, Poland’s generals “still pinned their trust to the value of a large mass of horse cavalry, and cherished a pathetic belief in the possibility of carrying out cavalry charges. In that respect…. their ideas were eighty years out of date, since the futility of cavalry charges had been shown as far back as the American Civil War.”94
Nevertheless, Józef Beck carried himself as though he were—and doubtless he believed himself to be—the representative of a first-rate military power. Swaggering, chain-smoking, and leering at young women, he arrived in London on April 3 to negotiate the details of Britain’s new pledge to Poland. Though HMG expected that it would lead to a Polish guarantee of Rumania’s frontiers, the FO had not secured an assurance from Warsaw on this point. Now, alone with Beck in Whitehall—Chamberlain, after welcoming his guest, had stepped across Downing Street to No. 10—Halifax brought it up.
To his dismay Beck declined to commit himself. Any such maneuver by Poland, he said, would increase tension in eastern Europe; it would, moreover, “automatically” link Hungary and Germany in a military alliance. Halifax heatedly replied that the link was already there, de facto if not de jure, and with the menacing cloud of approaching conflict already darkening the Continent, “the lack of ‘concerted plans’ would be calamitous.” Beck suavely countered by paraphrasing a recent Chamberlain warning in the House against the establishing of “opposing blocs” of nations; “rigid political systems,” he said, were equally dangerous. At this point the prime minister rejoined them, and the more he listened to Beck the more alarmed he became. Poland alone was pointless, the P.M. said; Rumania was the “vital spot.” The colonel lit a cigarette and repeated his objection to “too rigid a system.” The prime minister tried to scare him. If Nazi troops occupied Rumania, he said, “Poland would have a longer frontier with Germany.” Beck smoothly replied that “the additional frontier would be quite short,” adding that it would be in the mountains, which could be held “with quite a small force.”95
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