The Commander-in-Chief briefly explained what had happened. North and south of Sedan, on a front of fifty or sixty miles, the Germans had broken through. The French army in front of them was destroyed or scattered. A heavy onrush of armoured vehicles was advancing with unheard-of speed towards Amiens and Arras, with the intention, apparently, of reaching the coast at Abbeville or thereabouts. Alternatively they might make for Paris. Behind the armour, he said, eight or ten German divisions, all motorised, were driving onwards, making flanks for themselves as they advanced against the two disconnected French armies on either side. The General talked perhaps five minutes without anyone saying a word. When he stopped there was a considerable silence. I then asked: “Where is the strategic reserve?” and, breaking into French, which I used indifferently (in every sense): “Où est la masse de manœuvre?” General Gamelin turned to me and, with a shake of the head and a shrug, said: “Aucune.”
There was another long pause. Outside in the garden of the Quai d’Orsay clouds of smoke arose from large bonfires, and I saw from the window venerable officials pushing wheel-barrows of archives on to them. Already therefore the evacuation of Paris was being prepared.
Past experience carries with its advantages the drawback that things never happen the same way again. Otherwise I suppose life would be too easy. After all, we had often had our fronts broken before; always we had been able to pull things together and wear down the momentum of the assault. But here were two new factors that I had never expected to have to face. First, the overrunning of the whole of the communications and countryside by an irresistible incursion of armoured vehicles, and secondly NO STRATEGIC RESERVE. “Aucune.” I was dumbfounded. What were we to think of the great French Army and its highest chiefs? It had never occurred to me that any commanders having to defend five hundred miles of engaged front would have left themselves unprovided with a mass of manœuvre. No one can defend with certainty so wide a front; but when the enemy has committed himself to a major thrust which breaks the line one can always have, one must always have, a mass of divisions which marches up in vehement counter-attack at the moment when the first fury of the offensive has spent its force.
What was the Maginot Line for? It should have economised troops upon a large sector of the frontier, not only offering many sally-ports for local counter-strokes, but also enabling large forces to be held in reserve; and this is the only way these things can be done. But now there was no reserve. I admit this was one of the greatest surprises I have had in my life. Why had I not known more about it, even though I had been so busy at the Admiralty? Why had the British Government, and the War Office above all, not known more about it? It was no excuse that the French High Command would not impart their dispositions to us or to Lord Gort except in vague outline. We had a right to know. We ought to have insisted. Both armies were fighting in the line together. I went back again to the window and the curling wreaths of smoke from the bonfires of the State documents of the French Republic. Still the old gentlemen were bringing up their wheel-barrows, and industriously casting their contents into the flames.
Presently General Gamelin was speaking again. He was discussing whether forces should now be gathered to strike at the flanks of the penetration, or “Bulge”, as we called such things later on. Eight or nine divisions were being withdrawn from quiet parts of the front, the Maginot Line; there were two or three armoured divisions which had not been engaged; eight or nine more divisions were being brought from Africa and would arrive in the battle zone during the next fortnight or three weeks. The Germans would advance henceforward through a corridor between two fronts on which warfare in the fashion of 1917 and 1918 could be waged. Perhaps the Germans could not maintain the corridor, with its ever-increasing double flankguards to be built up, and at the same time nourish their armoured incursion. Something in this sense Gamelin seemed to say, and all this was quite sound. I was conscious however that it carried no conviction in this small but hitherto influential and responsible company. Presently I asked General Gamelin when and where he proposed to attack the flanks of the Bulge. His reply was: “Inferiority of numbers, inferiority of equipment, inferiority of method”—and then a hopeless shrug of the shoulders. There was no argument; there was no need of argument. And where were we British anyway, having regard to our tiny contribution—ten divisions after eight months of war, and not even one modern tank division in action?
The burden of General Gamelin’s, and indeed of all the French High Command’s subsequent remarks, was insistence on their inferiority in the air and earnest entreaties for more squadrons of the Royal Air Force, bomber as well as fighter, but chiefly the latter. This prayer for fighter support was destined to be repeated at every subsequent conference until France fell. In the course of his appeal General Gamelin said that fighters were needed not only to give cover to the French Army, but also to stop the German tanks. At this I said: “No. It is the business of the artillery to stop the tanks. The business of the fighters is to cleanse the skies [nettoyer le ciel] over the battle.” It was vital that our metropolitan fighter air force should not be drawn out of Britain on any account. Our existence turned on this. Nevertheless it was necessary to cut to the bone. In the morning, before I started, the Cabinet had given me authority to move four more squadrons of fighters to France. On our return to the Embassy, and after talking it over with Dill, I decided to ask sanction for the dispatch of six more. This would leave us with only the twenty-five fighter squadrons at home, and that was the final limit. It was a rending decision either way. I told General Ismay to telephone to London that the Cabinet should assemble at once to consider an urgent telegram which would be sent over in the course of the next hour or so.
The reply came at about eleven-thirty. The Cabinet said “Yes.” I immediately took Ismay off with me in a car to M. Reynaud’s flat. We found it more or less in darkness. After an interval M. Reynaud emerged from his bedroom in his dressing-gown and I told him the favourable news. Ten fighter squadrons! I then persuaded him to send for M. Daladier, who was duly summoned and brought to the flat to hear the decision of the British Cabinet. In this way I hoped to revive the spirits of our French friends, as much as our limited means allowed. Daladier never spoke a word. He rose slowly from his chair and wrung my hand. I got back to the Embassy about 2 a.m., and slept well, though the cannon fire in petty aeroplane raids made one roll over from time to time. In the morning I flew home, and, in spite of other preoccupations, pressed on with the construction of the second level of the new Government.
The War Cabinet met at 10 a.m. on the 17th, and I gave them an account of my visit to Paris, and of the situation so far as I could measure it.
I said I had told the French that unless they made a supreme effort we should not be justified in accepting the grave risk to the safety of our country that we were incurring by the dispatch of the additional fighter squadrons to France. I felt that the question of air reinforcements was one of the gravest that a British Cabinet had ever had to face. It was claimed that the German air losses had been four or five times our own, but I had been told that the French had only a quarter of their fighter aircraft left. On this day Gamelin thought the situation “lost”, and is reported to have said: “I will guarantee the safety of Paris only for to-day, to-morrow [the 18th], and the night following.” The battle crisis grew hourly in intensity. That afternoon the Germans entered Brussels. The next day they reached Cambrai, passed St. Quentin, and brushed our small parties out of Péronne. The Belgian, the British, and the French Armies concerned continued their withdrawal to the Scheldt.
At midnight (May 18–19) Lord Gort was visited at his headquarters by General Billotte. Neither the personality of this French General nor his proposals, such as they were, inspired confidence in his allies. From this moment the possibility of a withdrawal to the coast began to present itself to the British Commander-in-Chief. In his dispatch published in March 1941 he wrote: “The picture was now [night of the 19th] no longer that of a li
ne bent or temporarily broken, but of a besieged fortress.”
Far-reaching changes were now made by M. Reynaud in the French Cabinet and High Command. On the 18th Marshal Pétain was appointed Vice-President of the Council. Reynaud himself, transferring Daladier to Foreign Affairs, took over the Ministry of National Defence and War. At 7 p.m. on the 19th he appointed Weygand, who had just arrived from the Levant, to replace General Gamelin. I had known Weygand when he was the right-hand man of Marshal Foch, and had admired his masterly intervention in the Battle of Warsaw against the Bolshevik invasion of Poland in August 1920—an event decisive for Europe at that time. He was now seventy-three, but was reported to be efficient and vigorous in a very high degree. General Gamelin’s final Order (No. 12), dated 9.45 a.m. on May 19, prescribed that the Northern Armies, instead of letting themselves be encircled, must at all costs force their way southwards to the Somme, attacking the Panzer divisions which had cut their communications. At the same time the Second Army and the newly-forming Sixth were to attack northward towards Mézières. These decisions were sound. Indeed, an Order for the general retreat of the Northern Armies southward was already at least four days overdue. Once the gravity of the breach in the French centre at Sedan was apparent, the only hope for the Northern Armies lay in an immediate march to the Somme. Instead, under General Billotte, they had only made gradual and partial withdrawals to the Scheldt and formed the defensive flank to the right. Even now there might have been time for the southward march.
9*
SITUATION. EVENING 18 May
The confusion of the northern command, the apparent paralysis of the First French Army, and the uncertainty about what was happening had caused the War Cabinet extreme anxiety. All our proceedings were quiet and composed, but we had a united and decided opinion, behind which there was silent passion. On the 19th we were informed at 4.30 p.m. that Lord Gort was “examining a possible withdrawal towards Dunkirk if that were forced upon him”. The C.I.G.S. (Ironside) could not accept this proposal, as, like most of us, he favoured the southward march. We therefore sent him to Lord Gort with instructions to move the British Army in a south-westerly direction and to force his way through all opposition in order to join up with the French in the south, and that the Belgians should be urged to conform to this movement, or, alternatively, that we would evacuate as many of their troops as possible from the Channel ports. He was to be told that we would ourselves inform the French Government of what had been resolved. At the same Cabinet we sent Dill to General Georges’ Headquarters, with which we had a direct telephone line. He was to stay there for four days, and tell us all he could find out. Contacts even with Lord Gort were intermittent and difficult, but it was reported that only four days’ supplies and ammunition for one battle were available.
At the morning War Cabinet of May 20 we again discussed the situation of our Army. Even on the assumption of a successful fighting retreat to the Somme, I thought it likely that considerable numbers might be cut off or driven back on the sea. It is recorded in the minutes of the meeting: “The Prime Minister thought that as a precautionary measure the Admiralty should assemble a large number of small vessels in readiness to proceed to ports and inlets on the French coast.” On this the Admiralty acted immediately and with ever-increasing vigour as the days passed and darkened. Operational control had been delegated on the 19th to Admiral Ramsay, commanding at Dover, and on the afternoon of the 20th, in consequence of the orders from London, the first conference of all concerned, including representatives of the Shipping Ministry, was held at Dover to consider “the emergency evacuation across the Channel of very large forces”. It was planned if necessary to evacuate from Calais, Boulogne, and Dunkirk, at a rate of ten thousand men from each port every twenty-four hours. From Harwich round to Weymouth sea-transport officers were directed to list all suitable ships up to a thousand tons, and a complete survey was made of all shipping in British harbours. These plans for what was called “Operation Dynamo” proved the salvation of the Army ten days later.
The direction of the German thrust had now become more obvious. Armoured vehicles and mechanised divisions continued to pour through the gap towards Amiens and Arras, curling westwards along the Somme towards the sea. On the night of the 20th they entered Abbeville, having traversed and cut the whole communications of the Northern Armies. These hideous, fatal scythes encountered little or no resistance once the front had been broken. The German tanks—the dreaded “chars allemands”—ranged freely through the open country, and, aided and supplied by mechanised transport, advanced thirty or forty miles a day. They had passed through scores of towns and hundreds of villages without the slightest opposition, their officers looking out of the open cupolas and waving jauntily to the inhabitants. Eye-witnesses spoke of crowds of French prisoners marching along with them, many still carrying their rifles, which were from time to time collected and broken under the tanks. I was shocked by the utter failure to grapple with the German armour, which, with a few thousand vehicles, was compassing the entire destruction of mighty armies, and by the swift collapse of all French resistance once the fighting front had been pierced. The whole German movement was proceeding along the main roads, which at no point seemed to be blocked.
Weygand’s first act was to confer with his senior commanders. It was not unnatural that he should wish to see the situation in the north for himself, and to make contact with the commanders there. Allowances must be made for a general who takes over the command in the crisis of a losing battle. But now there was no time. He should not have left the summit of the remaining controls and have become involved in the delays and strains of personal movement. We may note in detail what followed. On the morning of the 20th Weygand, installed in Gamelin’s place, made arrangements to visit the Northern Armies on the 21st. After learning that the roads to the north were cut by the Germans he decided to fly. His plane was attacked, and forced to land at Calais. The hour appointed for his conference at Ypres had to be altered to 3 p.m. on the 21st. Here he met King Leopold of Belgium and General Billotte. Lord Gort, who had not been notified of time and place, was not present, and no British officers were there. The King described this conference as “four hours of confused talking”. It discussed the co-ordination of the three Armies, the execution of the Weygand plan, and if that failed the retirement of the British and French to the Lys, and the Belgians to the Yser. At 7 p.m. General Weygand had to leave. Lord Gort did not arrive till eight, when he received an account of the proceedings from General Billotte. Weygand drove back to Calais, embarked on a submarine for Dieppe, and returned to Paris. Billotte drove off in his car to deal with the crisis, and within the hour was killed in a motor collision. Thus all was again in suspense.
On the 21st Ironside returned and reported that Lord Gort, on receiving the Cabinet instructions, had seemed adverse to a southward march. It would involve a rearguard action from the Scheldt at the same time as an attack into an area already strongly held by the enemy armoured and mobile formations. During such a movement both flanks would have to be protected, and neither the French First Army nor the Belgians were likely to be able to conform to such a manœuvre if attempted. Ironside added that confusion reigned in the French High Command in the north, that General Billotte had failed to carry out his duties of co-ordination for the past eight days and appeared to have no plans, that the British Expeditionary Force were in good heart and had so far had only about five hundred battle casualties. He gave a vivid description of the state of the roads, crowded with refugees, scourged by the fire of German aircraft. He had had a rough time himself.
Two fearsome alternatives therefore presented themselves to the War Cabinet. The first, the British Army at all costs, with or without French and Belgian co-operation, to cut its way to the south and the Somme, a task which Lord Gort doubted its ability to perform; the second, to fall back on Dunkirk and face a sea evacuation under hostile air attack, with the certainty of losing all the artillery and equipment, then so scar
ce and precious. Obviously great risks should be run to achieve the first, but there was no reason why all possible precautions and preparations should not be taken for the sea evacuation if the southern plan failed. I proposed to my colleagues that I should go to France to meet Reynaud and Weygand and come to a decision. Dill was to meet me there from General Georges’ Headquarters.
When I arrived in Paris on May 22 there was a new setting. Gamelin was gone; Daladier was gone from the war scene. Reynaud was both Prime Minister and Minister of War. As the German thrust had definitely turned seaward, Paris was not immediately threatened. Grand-Quartier-Général was still at Vincennes. Reynaud drove me down there about noon. In the garden some of those figures I had seen round Gamelin—one a very tall cavalry officer—were pacing moodily up and down. “C’est l’ ancien régime” remarked the aide-de-camp. Reynaud and I were brought into Weygand’s room, and afterwards to the map room, where we had the great maps of the Supreme Command. Weygand met us. In spite of his physical exertions and a night of travel, he was brisk, buoyant, and incisive. He made an excellent impression upon all. He unfolded his plan of war. He was not content with a southward march or retreat for the Northern Armies. They should strike south-east from around Cambrai and Arras in the general direction of St. Quentin, thus taking in flank the German armoured divisions at present engaged in what he called the St. Quentin-Amiens pocket. Their rear, he thought, would be protected by the Belgian Army, which would cover them towards the east, and if necessary towards the north. Meanwhile a new French army under General Frère, composed of eighteen to twenty divisions drawn from Alsace, from the Maginot Line, from Africa, and from every other quarter, were to form a front along the Somme. Their left hand would push forward through Amiens to Arras, and thus by their utmost efforts establish contact with the armies of the north. The enemy armour must be kept under constant pressure. “The Panzer divisions must not,” said Weygand, “be allowed to keep the initiative.” All necessary orders had been given so far as it was possible to give orders at all. We were now told that General Billotte, to whom he had imparted his whole plan, had just been killed in the motor accident. Dill and I were agreed that we had no choice, and indeed no inclination, except to welcome the plan. I emphasised that “it was indispensable to reopen communications between the armies of the north and those of the south by way of Arras”. I explained that Lord Gort, while striking southwards, must also guard his path to the coast. To make sure there was no mistake about what was settled, I myself dictated a résumé of the decision and showed it to Weygand, who agreed. I reported accordingly to the Cabinet, and passed the news to Lord Gort.
The Second World War Page 33
