by James Philip
The driver gunned the Embassy car’s engine hard; Marija and Rosa were forced back into their seats.
Suddenly they grasped each other’s hand.
CLANG!
Splinters of glass sprayed into the car.
Behind their heads the rear window blew out.
Chapter 30
Tuesday 19th May 1964
Arabian Sea, 47 miles ENE of Al Hadd, Oman
Lieutenant-Commander Walter Brenckmann junior had been standing duty as Officer of the Deck shortly after dawn forty-eight hours ago when the Australian destroyer had approached Carrier Division Seven at flank speed with her bridge signal lamps blinking angrily.
YOU ARE IN RESTRICTED WATERS. PLEASE OBSERVE RADIO SILENCE.
Until then he had suspected – but not known for a fact – that Carrier Division Seven was steaming into hostile waters.
Walter had passed the word for the commanding officer of the Kitty Hawk, Captain Horace Epes to come to the bridge. Shortly afterwards, Captain Epes had requested the man in command of Carrier Division Seven, Rear Admiral William Bringle’s presence on the bridge.
Captain Epes had been mightily displeased by the approaching destroyer’s presumption. Nobody told a US Navy ship how to conduct its operations in international waters.
Rear Admiral Bringle had visibly stiffened with outrage.
Her Majesty’s Australian Ship Anzac, a vessel completed shortly after the Second World War on the pattern of the Royal Navy’s later Battle class ships had careened through the heart of Carrier Group Seven at better than twenty-five knots before turning in a wide circle to assume station on the Kitty Hawk’s starboard flank at a range of less than two hundred yards; at which stage an abbreviated acrimonious exchange via a crackling, distorted FM radio link had commenced between the commanding officer of the Anzac, and Admiral Bringle.
‘Please state your intentions, Kitty Hawk?’
‘My intention is to go about my lawful business in international waters, Captain.’
Anzac’s commanding officer had identified himself as Commander Steven Turnbull and he clearly did not have much time, or any innate sympathy, with the senior officers of foreign navies.
‘I am instructed to inform you that the United States Navy has no lawful business in these waters, sir. Your government surrendered any lawful business your Navy might have had in these waters when it reneged on its obligations to its friends in these parts. Stand ready to receive the Commander-in-Chief of All British and Commonwealth Naval Forces in the Indian Ocean. His helicopter will approach your flagship from approximately due south within the next thirty minutes. On his arrival I strongly recommend you think up a better story than the one you’ve just given me to justify your presence in these waters, Admiral. I will hold position to starboard until further notice. Please notify me by signal lamp if you intend to alter course. That will be all.’
The link went dead.
Admiral Bringle had stared at the receiver in his clenched fist.
‘Continue to recover aircraft,’ he had grated, clunking the handset onto the bridge plot.
Kitty Hawk’s Executive officer had hurried onto the bridge at that juncture.
‘I have the deck, Mr Brenckmann!’
‘You have the deck, sir!’
As promised the helicopter bearing the Commander-in-Chief of All British and Commonwealth Naval Forces in the Indian Ocean approached out of the south. After a terse radio conversation with Captain Epes, the Westland Wessex had swooped down to land abreast the carrier’s big island bridge.
Moments later a generously fleshed man of indeterminate middle years had emerged from the Wessex.
Walter Brenckmann, having been hastily dragooned into joining the reception committee for the flagship’s unexpected visitor, found himself at Captain Epes shoulder.
‘Horace Epes, Kitty Hawk.’
The newcomer had viewed the carrier’s captain thoughtfully for a moment; and then his cherubic, lived-in face had split with a broad grin.
‘Nick Davey, Rear-Admiral, these days. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, sir. I probably need to make my apologies to your Admiral for Steven Turnbull’s rustic misunderstanding of the correct protocols. But what can you expect? That’s our Antipodean friends for you!’
He had saluted and stuck out his hand which Kitty Hawk’s commanding officer had, after an awkward hesitation, shaken. The commanding officer of Carrier Division Seven, the captain of the Kitty Hawk and the British Admiral had locked themselves in the Bringle’s day cabin for approximately fifteen minutes; thereafter Rear Admiral Bringle and Captain Epes had emerged with faces dark as thunder and Rear Admiral ‘Nick’ Davey, exuding charm and roguish insouciance had been whisked away by the Royal Australian Navy Westland Wessex which had conveyed him onto the deck of the carrier only shortly before.
The Kitty Hawk had been buzzing with rumours and outlandish gossip in the last two days, and now anybody who was not on watch who could get up on deck or crowd around a vantage point on the ship’s port side was watching the approaching squadron.
It was a somewhat rag tag sight but none the less impressive for all that.
At a distance the silhouettes of the three aircraft carriers exuded menace as their stark lines emerged out of the morning haze, while around them their escorts slowly quartered the azure blue waters.
The Kitty Hawk had suspended air operations over an hour before the flagship of the ‘Australian, British and New Zealand Task Force’ came over the southern horizon.
The modern all-gun cruiser HMS Tiger was streaming a huge battle flag from its tripod main mast, as was every vessel in ‘Nick’ Davey’s motley fleet. Behind the Tiger, the only operational aircraft carrier, the twenty-two thousand ton HMS Centaur, had parked all her fighters and helicopters on her deck. Behind Centaur the HMAS Sydney and HMS Triumph, two decommissioned British wartime light carriers converted respectively to the roles of a fast transport and a heavy repair ship, shouldered through the four or five feet swells.
Through binoculars Walter Brenckmann blinked in astonishment to see that the flight decks of both former aircraft carriers were crowded with tanks, mobile howitzers and other vehicles amidships and forward and aft of the ‘vehicle parks’ with helicopters and aircraft. Most of the deck cargo was protected by dark tarpaulins but any fool could tell what was under them.
Her Majesty’s New Zealand Ship Royalist, an aging Dido class British light cruiser completed in 1943, steamed ahead of the second echelon of the ‘ABNZ’ fleet. Several small Ton class minesweepers kept company with a big grey fleet oiler and another Royal Fleet Auxiliary vessel that looked like an ammunition ship. There were three bigger escorts, two of which Walter Brenckmann identified as the Voyager, an Australian fleet destroyer, and HMS Palliser, a British anti-submarine frigate.
In purely naval fighting terms the approaching squadron was no match for the Kitty Hawk, or frankly, any two of her main escorts; but as a visible statement of intent the ABNZ flotilla made a fine sight. The two old-fashioned cruisers bristled with naval rifles – always a more impressive sight than the clean, modernistic pylons of missile launchers – and the carriers, well the carriers just looked ‘mean’.
“Those are Centurion tanks on the decks of the carriers,” a man by Walter Brenckmann’s shoulder said in astonishment. “Where the fuck did they get all those tanks and choppers?”
“Australia,” he suggested. The Australian military had been buying small job lots of British tanks ever since the Korean conflict. There had to be at least thirty of the monsters on the decks of the Sydney and the Triumph, perhaps half the armoured inventory of the CMF – the Citizens Military Force of Australia –on those two old carriers. How many more had been stowed below? The Australians would have had to have emptied out their entire armoured ‘locker’ to send so many tanks abroad.
Who said the British Empire was dead?
Chapter 31
Tuesday 19th May 1964
The Emba
ssy of the United States of America, Oxford
Lady Patricia Harding-Grayson and Joanne Brenckmann exchanged pecking kisses of greeting before settling in comfortable chairs in the Ambassador’s private rooms. There was a quiet air of siege in the collection of ancient buildings next to Oxford Castle which had been allocated to the American Embassy; outside there were Coldstream Guardsmen in battledress and full combat webbing cradling loaded L1A1 rifles beside uniformed US Marines still equipped with pre-World War II ceremonial carbines. Policemen armed with Webley revolvers and long night sticks manned the cordons roping off the surrounding streets.
The word was that the British Guardsmen had orders to shoot anybody who attempted to break into the Embassy and that those orders came directly from the Prime Minister’s mouth. Irrespective of how disappointed she was with their ‘half-hearted transatlantic allies’, Margaret Thatcher was determined that the rule of law be upheld and that the niceties of ensuring the safety of diplomatic envoys, their staff and their families should be scrupulously observed.
‘Just because the Americans seem, self-evidently, to be incapable of protecting our people in Philadelphia that is no excuse for laxness on our part!’ She had declared angrily in the House of Commons only the previous evening.
Yesterday, soon after the news from Philadelphia had arrived there had been a near riot in two streets adjacent to the Embassy as protesters attempted to break through to the compound; presumably to exact their own rough justice for the outrage perpetrated against the ‘heroes of the Battle of Malta’.
“What on earth have you done with Walter today?” Pat Harding-Grayson inquired brightly. The Foreign Secretary’s wife knew exactly what her new friend had done with her hard-pressed husband; the thing was to break the ice and to attempt to cheer up Joanne Brenckmann.
The Ambassador’s wife rolled her eyes.
“He insisted on going down to Portsmouth as planned,” she complained resignedly. In a moment she smiled. “Actually, I knew he was really looking forward to meeting up again with Commodore Penberthy - he’s the new Deputy Superintendent of the Naval Dockyard – and I insisted that he go.”
“Commodore Penberthy?”
“He and Walter got to know each other last year. David Penberthy was captain of HMS Talavera, Peter Christopher’s commanding officer, last year and Walter, as the US Navy’s unwanted liaison officer with your Channel Fleet spent most of his time carrying out goodwill visits to ships in harbour. David Penberthy and his officers were always very welcoming and, frankly, very sympathetic and understanding of Walter’s position. David Penberthy was badly injured in the Battle of Lampedusa. He lost a foot...”
“Of course,” Pat Harding-Grayson recollected. “That was when Peter Christopher took command and saved the day.”
Joanne Brenckmann smiled uneasily.
“It is just dreadful that somebody could attack their cars like that!” She said shaking her head, ashamed for her countrymen. “Sometimes, I despair, Pat. I really do!”
The Foreign Secretary’s had no intention of letting her friend brood on this.
“Well, fortunately, there was hardly any harm done. Lady Marija and Mrs Hannay escaped with only very minor injuries. From what Lord Franks has said the whole American body politic has united in its condemnation of the attack.” She decided to change the subject. “So, Walter is spying on the Royal Navy at Portsmouth today?”
Joanne Brenckmann laughed.
“He’s always wanted to stand on the deck of HMS Victory and climb up her halyards.”
“Shouldn’t Walter be more interested in how soon the Ark Royal will be ready for sea again?” Pat Harding-Grayson countered mischievously.
“Possibly,” the US Ambassador’s wife agreed as coffees were brought in.
“I’d forgotten what proper coffee was, you know?” Her guest confessed.
Joanne Brenckmann raised her cup to her lips, viewing her visitor thoughtfully over the rim. She and Pat Harding-Grayson were ever firmer friends but, and it was a big but, she was the wife of the US Ambassador and Pat was the – very worldly, very astute wife - of the British Foreign Secretary and the confidante of Margaret Thatcher. The Ambassador’s wife could have no illusion that anything she said privately, or that anything either of them said to each other, was in any meaningful way private.
“What’s Tom up to. Nobody’s seen him in Oxford for several days?”
“My dear,” the Foreign Secretary’s wife laughed, “for all I know he could be tucked up in bed somewhere with his mistress!”
Joanne tried not to giggle like a schoolgirl.
Sir Thomas Harding-Grayson was far too busy to keep a mistress; even if he was that sort of man, which he was not.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”
Pat Harding-Grayson had been a little surprised by how adroitly her friend had ‘played the game’ virtually from the day she had arrived in England. For all that she gave the impression of never having been anything other than a Boston housewife and mother, a little down home and disinterested in politics and world affairs, Pat had always found Joanne Brenckmann to be a very shrewd kindred spirit.
“That’s quite all right, Joanne. Actually, Tom is in the Middle East. He flew out with the Chief of the Defence Staff to assess the situation. The man on the spot, General Carver is probably the best man we’ve got but the Prime Minister is determined to make sure that the political side of things does not get lost in the business of war fighting.”
Joanne Brenckmann absorbed this revelation.
Anglo-American relations were estranged but unlike in November and December last year, this time around, nobody was about to risk anything getting lost in translation via normal channels. The Kennedy Administration might not know anything about exactly how the British and their Commonwealth allies proposed to fight the rejuvenated Red Army in Iraq or Iran; but it knew that when Margaret Thatcher talked about ‘drawing a line in the sand’ she was in deadly earnest.
Joanne Brenckmann also knew that tomorrow there was to be yet another Parliamentary vote of confidence – the second in a month and the fourth in the short tenure of the UAUK - in the House of Commons in the Great Hall of King’s College. In a day’s time there might be a new government, a new leader and that the United Kingdom’s resolve to continue the fight could evaporate overnight. What then?
“And what is the political side of things?” Joanne Brenckmann asked innocently.
“What happens after the war in the Persian Gulf,” Pat explained pleasantly. The two women could have been discussing table settings or a cake recipe.
The Ambassador’s wife realised that in talking about ‘the Persian Gulf’ as opposed to Iraq or Iran her friend was making a big and potentially key distinction.
“The Gulf?”
Pat Harding-Grayson nodded.
“The Russians don’t want to rule Iraq, they don’t even really want Abadan. What they want is to control the Persian Gulf and to have access to the oceans of the World. They have oil enough for their own needs already; the oilfields of the Caucasus, and soon, if they haven’t seized them already, the oilfields of Iraqi Kurdistan. We’re the ones who need Abadan and you, the Americans, are the ones who will in a few years badly need the oilfields of north-eastern Arabia and Kuwait. Without that oil American industry will grind to a halt inside a decade and then there will have to be another, unimaginably bloody war over the control of the very same oilfields the Administration won’t lift a finger to defend unless or until JFK is re-elected in November.”
Joanne Brenckmann stared at her friend.
“I don’t...”
She knew that she represented one of many back channels by which the UAUK kept in touch with the Administration in Philadelphia. There were too many things it was hard, if not impossible for the British to say directly to her husband, the Ambassador. There were so many nonsensical protocols designed to frustrate direct talking; and too many things which had to be deniable at a later date.
“When Margaret wins tomorrow’s vote of confidence she wants President Kennedy to invite her to Philadelphia.”
“Okay,” Joanne whispered, thinking she understood.
“Everybody’s had a chance to think things through,” Pat went on, keen to break this as gently as possibly to her friend. “However, although the Prime Minister still feels desperately let down by the President she’s come to the conclusion that if we are going to be the ones left holding the, er, baby, then it is only right and proper that there should be an appropriate quid pro quo.”
Chapter 32
Wednesday 20th May 1964
Great Hall, Christ Church College, Oxford
When Margaret Thatcher rose to speak it was to a long and sustained chorus of jeers from across the other side of the hall and a stony silence from the majority of the notional friends at her back. She waited for stillness, for the bear pit to quieten about her. While she waited she looked around at her surroundings struck by the sensation that she had never really seen this place as it was, or for what it had become before now.
Although the reinstitution of Parliament in Oxford had been her decision; the details of that edict and its physical implementation had been handled by others. The immediate post-October War capital of the United Kingdom had been established at Cheltenham almost by accident, the city having survived the war untouched, GCHQ being located within it and it having previously been identified as a possible ‘governmental centre’ in at least one existing war plan. However, Cheltenham had never been a viable long-term capital, not when Oxford, Birmingham, Manchester and historic cities like Winchester or Bristol had survived equally undamaged. But in November 1962 nobody had thought farther ahead than day to day survival; the decision to move to Oxford had come about because symbolically, she had decided that ‘just surviving’ was not good enough.
The British people deserved better than that.
