by James Philip
“I’ve heard nothing as yet,” Oliver Franks reported honestly. He and Fulbright might not share a common agenda but he considered the Secretary of State a friend and between friends, even ‘diplomatic’ friends, honestly was often the best policy.
“Okay, this is the thing,” the Secretary of State prefaced, getting down to business. From his tone it was evident that he did not believe he was actually having to say what he was about to say. “The US Navy stationed four modern warships at Malta under the command of Rear-Admiral Detweiller. Four guided missile destroyers at Malta to cover the archipelago in the absence of your ships on the Cyprus operation, Oliver,” Bill Fulbright explained. “Our ships have better communications equipment than your guys on land. They were also there to fill in gaps in Malta’s air defence early warning system. Defence is in contact with those ships and they aren’t at Malta or anywhere near it.”
“Oh.” The British Ambassador knew very little about the disposition of forces in the Mediterranean; but he did know that every available ship and aircraft had been assigned to the task force charged with ejecting the barbaric Red Dawn horde from the island of Cyprus over a thousand miles east of Malta. He quickly joined up the dots and saw the perils of the picture thus revealed. There was a communication breakdown with Malta. The ships stationed at Malta to protect the island were elsewhere. Who exactly was guarding the most strategically important island in the Mediterranean? “Er, you spoke of the rumour mill grinding, Bill?”
“The New York Times is running a front page story headlined ‘The Brits Go It Alone’ claiming some kind of major bust up between your C-in-C and Admiral Detweiller,” Fulbright said angrily.
Oliver Franks was momentarily too stunned to speak.
“The story is that the British Government is planning to appoint Admiral Luce as Supreme Commander Mediterranean of all Allied Forces.”
“That’s nonsense, Bill,” the British Ambassador stuttered. He took a deep breath to restore his badly shaken equilibrium. “Madness in fact. I know that our talks with your Defence Department have thus far been inconclusive on the subject of the future structure of the high command in the theatre; but it is inconceivable that the Prime Minister would unilaterally circumvent or seek to anticipate the outcome of those discussions. As you well know, senior members of Mrs Thatcher’s inner circle are reconciled to the post eventually being filled by an American officer. Albeit,” he felt duty bound to add, “accepting that this will create difficulties back at home unless or until there are US troops on the ground in the Mediterranean.”
Bill Fulbright sighed.
“The New York Times isn’t the only paper running the story. By noon the House of Representatives is going to be like a wasp’s nest somebody just hit with a baseball bat, Oliver.”
Chapter 13
12:47 Hours (GMT)
Friday 3rd April 1964
Leinster House, Kildare Street, Dublin
It was horribly quiet in the Taoiseach’s office. The quietness was of that indefinably threatening, dangerous kind which easily provoked unthinking words spoken in haste which were later bitterly regretted.
A less seasoned diplomat than Sir Ian MacLennan, since 1959 the British Ambassador to Eire, the Republic of Ireland, that still young nation made up of twenty-six of the partitioned thirty-two counties of Ireland, might have spoken ill-advisedly, without mulling the consequences of his meanings. Even with over three decades of hard-won experience in the diplomatic service, he was sorely tempted to speak his mind. However, that was not why Her Majesty’s Government had, in its wisdom, sent him to Dublin.
The three Irishmen in the room waited.
The Taoiseach, Sean Lemass drew a tiny quantum of comfort from the greying, elegantly attired and poised Englishman’s poker-faced initial reaction to what he had just learned.
Frank Aiken, the Minister for External Affairs, breathed angry, vaguely disconsolate snorts of air as he teetered at the edge of the precipice and glimpsed the dark nothingness below him.
Lieutenant General John McKeown, the Chief of Staff of the Irish Defence Forces, whose total uniformed manpower – including reservists he could not afford to call up without bankrupting his country - numbered significantly less than half the boots on the ground that the British currently had stationed just in Ulster, was less angry than his political masters, for he knew that if it came to war his forces, outnumbered on land and incapable of inconveniencing the might of British arms in the air or at sea, would have no alternative but to lay down their weapons and surrender or be obliterated within days. A soldier’s lot was simpler than that of a politician because the realities of a given situation were invariable stark, and the scope for manuever limited or non-existent.
Sir Ian MacLennan had heard what he had heard; now he was trying to read the mood of the other three men in the room. It would be this latter judgement rather than the communication of the facts that had just been laid before him which would determine the advice that he would, sometime in the next hour, pass on to his old friend the Foreign Secretary, Sir Thomas Harding-Grayson in Oxford.
His own thoughts were racing; that was bad.
Think of something else, man!
He had lost count of the number of times he had visited Leinster House. The building, its name in Irish ‘Tigh Laighean; had been the home of the Oireachtas, the Parliament of Ireland since 1922. A great white-washed lump of a Georgian building in keeping with much of the architecture of nineteenth century Dublin, it had been the seat of the Dukes of Leinster, the descendents of the Norman Fitzgeralds who first came to Ireland in 1169 and later became the Earls of Kildare. The history of Ireland had trampled through the corridors of this great building in the heart of Dublin...
Sir Ian MacLennan collected his wits.
“Gentlemen,” he sighed, “you will appreciate that it is in all our best interests that I understand exactly what you are telling me and exactly what your motives are in telling me it. Frankly, I think that we have just stepped beyond the realm of what is, and is not, diplomatic. If we in this room cannot speak openly to each other about this matter, honestly and truly, I fear for what may transpire.”
Sean Lemass and Frank Aiken looked to John McKeown.
The soldier was grim.
“It is the understanding of the Irish Government that sometime in the last three weeks a consignment of four experimental prototype General Dynamics Redeye shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles was brought into the country from the USA. One of these missiles was discovered in a semi-dismantled condition along with a full-functioning M171 missile launcher; the other three weapons are unaccounted for at this time. In the last forty-eight hours definitive information has emerged that these weapons are in the hands of an IRA active service unit known to be planning ‘actions’ against ‘high prestige’ civilian and military targets on ‘the Mainland’.”
Sir Ian MacLennan took a deep breath.
“Have you spoken to my colleague the American Ambassador about how these weapons came to be mislaid?” He asked of Frank Aiken.
“The Ambassador refused to comment on the specifics of the case,” he retorted irritably. “He also refused to discuss the specifications of the missing ‘Redeyes’. Apparently those details are classified!”
John McKeown cleared his throat.
“However, after making inquiries via ‘back channels’ I have established that the original US Army requirement for an infantry surface-to-air missile system was drawn up as long ago as 1948, Ambassador,” he explained. “The contract for the missiles that we are talking about – with an infrared homing guidance system – was given to Convair in 1959 and the first test launches were conducted in 1960. Shoulder-launch tests began in 1961 but technical problems had stalled the project around the time of the October War. The missiles smuggled into this country are from the first small-scale production run in the second half of last year and are designated as Mark XM41 Redeye Block I models. All the missiles so far produced were inten
ded as trial, evaluation and practice rounds. The missile we recovered bore US Army certification and testing tags and stencilled serials, therefore, it must at some time have been accepted by, and stored in a US Army armoury prior to its shipping overseas.”
The British Ambassador was interested in this fact but he was not convinced it was the important thing.
“Forgive me, I am not a military man, General,” he remarked, his tone relaxed and non-confrontational despite his roiling emotions. “The provenance of the rockets is academic. If the IRA ever succeeds in getting one of these infernal devices onto United Kingdom soil I need to know how dangerous they are?”
“That I don’t know, sir.”
“Why not?”
“The Redeye system has not been accepted for frontline deployment by the US Army. My understanding is that it was about to begin a two year pre-acceptance testing period.”
“Could it shoot down a V-Bomber or a civilian jetliner, General?”
“Theoretically, yes, sir.”
“And you think the IRA may have smuggled three of these rockets into England?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how long have you gentlemen known this?” Sir Ian MacLennan inquired urbanely, as if the answer to his question was of no consequence whatsoever when in reality it was the difference between ongoing peaceful co-existence – insofar as that was possible given the troubles in Ulster – or at best, a retaliation that was unlikely to be of the minimalistic variety, or at worst, outright war.
“Several hours, Sir Ian,” Sean Lemass said. “We believe that the weapons are in the hands of an IRA man called Seamus McCormick. Your authorities in England, Special Branch and I daresay, MI5, will know him as Stephen Michael McCormick. He was born in Scotland in 1934 and applied to stay in the British Army at the end of his period of National Service in 1954. He deserted while stationed in Derry in October 1961. He had married a local girl from Dungannon when things were much calmer in the north. Her people were Catholics, like McCormick. One afternoon she was returning home with several other women when a gang of boys and young men started throwing stones at them. McCormick’s wife, Siobhan, was struck by a stone, actually it was a half-brick, and in falling fractured her skull. She never regained consciousness. She was twenty-four at the time of her death and expecting her first child. It seems that McCormick had previously joined the British Army to get away from the sectarian strife of Glasgow where he had grown up.”
The British Ambassador arched an impatient eyebrow.
“Anyhow,” the Taoiseach went on, “at the time he deserted McCormick was a sergeant in the Royal Engineers. He was an ordnance specialist; a bomb disposal expert. Between 1956 and 1959 he was based at Bovington and assigned to the Royal Tank Regiment’s Experimental Ordnance Company. Which means he is familiar with, and presumably expert in the maintenance and deployment of prototype wire-guided rocket-propelled anti-tank and other precision guided munitions. The IRA have plenty of men who know which end of a gun to point at the target, and quite a few bomb-makers, I’ll be bound. But unless somebody came over with the Redeyes from America, they’ve only got Seamus McCormick who can actually make the things work.”
“Why haven’t you arrested this man McCormick?” Sir Ian MacLennan asked, knowing his principles in Oxford would want to know that very, very badly.
“We tried to,” Lieutenant General John McKeown interjected, his tone that of a man offended by the implied suggestion that his country would casually allow criminals to possess and to parade through the streets carrying anti-aircraft missiles. “Garda Síochána and Special Branch officers supported by my men carried out a series of raids across this city and elsewhere last night hoping to nip the IRA’s forthcoming offensive in the bud.”
Sir Ian MacLennan was unimpressed.
Within a couple of hours of the news of those raids becoming public there would be a Republican mob outside the British Embassy yelling abuse, waving outrageous placards and hurling bottles and stones over the fence. The last time there had been a big demonstration all the phone lines in and out of the Embassy had been cut, the water and electricity disconnected and by and large, the Dublin police had sat on their hands and done virtually nothing to keep back the crowds.
“What can you tell me about the ‘actions’ Seamus McCormick’s ‘active service unit’ plan to carry out in England?”
The three Irishmen said nothing.
“Ah, that’s the way it is going to be,” the British Ambassador groaned. “Just so that we all understand how things stand,” he prefaced dryly. “The Irish Republican Army which broadly speaking subscribes, albeit violently, to articles of political faith like a united Ireland and an end to British influence in the north - objectives which are coincidentally peaceful articles of faith to your own governing Fianna Fáil Party - has acquired sophisticated modern weapons and is determined to wreak havoc in the United Kingdom, England specifically. You have just undertaken what will be interpreted in Oxford as a ‘token’ series of unsuccessful raids to disrupt the IRA’s plans. Those raids failed in even that limited purpose. Therefore, the Irish Government knew what was happening in advance and effectively, did nothing material to stop it. For what it is worth I personally believe that you gentlemen are honourable men and that you have been honest with me today. But my Prime Minister and my Foreign Secretary have never had the opportunity to meet you face to face and to form a similar personal opinion. When I transmit my report of this meeting to them I pray that they listen not just to my factual report of this meeting, but are prepared to listen to the advice that I will attach to that report. However, I am not at all sure that anything I can say will do much good. Frankly, in the United Kingdom my principals draw little or no distinction between Ireland, the Irish and the Irish Republican Army, and as you well know the failure of the Irish Government to do anything to materially reduce the tensions north of the border since the October War has very nearly completely poisoned the well of Anglo-Irish relations.”
The British Ambassador got to his feet shaking his head.
The only reason people had not starved on the streets of Dublin last winter was that Ted Heath’s and then Margaret Thatcher’s administrations had diverted ships from the Operation Manna convoys to Ireland. This was at a time when winter was biting hard on the mainland and the bread and meat ration in England, Scotland and Wales had had to be cut to ensure that supplies lasted until the spring. The decision to divert those ships had gone through on the nod. Nobody in England had asked for a bouquet of flowers for putting food in the mouths of Irish men, women and children that its own government was unable to feed and its American military ‘guests’ regarded as cheap labour.
“I say this not as a threat, gentlemen,” Sir Ian MacLennan said wearily. “But in the event of attack on the Royal family, Parliament, even on Oxford itself, let alone an attempted assassination of a major political figure in England I very much doubt that the Unity Administration of the United Kingdom would feel constrained in any respect in its future policy towards the Irish state.”
Sean Lemass rose to shake his hand.
“General McKeown’s boys will be on the street today, Sir Ian. You and your people will be safe when this things breaks.”
The British Ambassador took the assurance with a large pinch of salt.
“Look,” he murmured, almost thinking better of what he was about to say. “Dammit!” There was nothing to lose and he suddenly thought about the vast majority – the mostly ‘silent’ majority – of the three million or so souls living in the twenty-six counties of the Republic. Hardly any of them wanted any part in the ‘armed struggle’ of the men with the guns and the bombs still fighting a war that was over forty years ago. Who, if anybody, spoke for them? “Forgive me, Taoiseach,” he continued, “but it seems to me that things are so bad that you have two choices; you can either sit here in Leinster House and await events, or you and your colleagues can take the bull by the horns.”
Sean Lemas
s met his gaze with his own, inscrutable level stare.
“What did you have in mind, Sir Ian?”
“You should send a Minister to Oxford.”
“To plead our case like the supplicants we once were?”
“No,” the British Ambassador said, suppressing a groan of despair, “to claim Ireland’s rightful place as a proud and independent nation in the new World order!”
Chapter 14
14:48 Hours
Friday 3rd April 1964
Turkish Navy Ship Mareşal Fevzi Çakmak, 37 miles NW west of Grand Harbour
The Mareşal Fevzi Çakmak had enjoyed a long and somewhat chequered career in the Royal Navy prior to her handover to the Turkish Navy on 29th June 1959. Since the previous autumn she had been assigned to the small flotilla charged with escorting the re-activated Great War battlecruiser Yavuz wherever that great ship roamed. A fast, agile and well-found vessel equipped with a new radar and communications suite before her transfer to Turkey, she had been well-appointed for her post-October War role. Her six 4.7-inch guns in three twin turrets, her Squid anti-submarine mortars and her still impressive turn of speed belied her age and in most situations made her a formidable foe. However, having witnessed the fate of the Yavuz and the Sverdlov class cruiser Admiral Kutuzov, the crew of the Mareşal Fevzi Çakmak had, to a man recognised the utter hopelessness of their position.
