Retreat from Northern Belgium
In northern Belgium, the Allies completed their withdrawal behind the Escaut Line on the 19th, with the Belgian Army in position from Terneuzen on the coast down to Oudenaarde. Below them, the B.E.F. occupied a strong position on the Escaut as far as Maulde on the French frontier. The 5th Division had been pulled back to Seclin, just south of Lille, as Army reserve, and on the night of the 19th Gort ordered the 50th Division, minus one brigade group, to concentrate north of Arras on the Vimy Ridge of First War fame. Here it was ‘to prepare for offensive action’. South of the B.E.F., Blanchard’s First Army had the task of holding a ‘mole’ anchored on Condé-sur-l’Escaut, Valenciennes and Bouchain, around the end of which the irresistible flood of the Panzers swirled westwards. Bombed repeatedly during the last stage of its withdrawal, the B.E.F. was extremely tired. Lieutenant Miles Fitzalan-Howard, with Montgomery’s 3rd Division, recorded in his diary what was a typical experience for those days: ‘In five nights I have had eight hours sleep; 18th. up all night; 19th, up till 3, sleep till 7; 20th, up till 3, sleep till 7; 21st up; 22nd in bed.’ Nevertheless, the B.E.F. was in much better shape than Blanchard’s forces, which had consistently borne the brunt of the fighting in the north since the first encounter with the enemy, and had suffered higher casualties than either the British or the Belgians.
Retiring across the French frontier near Condé, Major Barlone was one of those who experienced a momentary sense of relief:
There at least, behind our defences, we can breathe. But refugees, fleeing towards the interior of France, tell us that our pill-boxes are unoccupied. During a long halt, giving my mare a chance to rest, I gallop forward on another horse and am astonished to find our blockhouses empty.
The staff of Barlone’s divisional H.Q. (the 2nd North African) billeted itself in the town of St Amand, where fewer than fifty civilians remained. The troops, according to Barlone, were permitted
to take from the houses anything they need, for we know that the Germans will be here within a few days. The officers can dip into the cellars of the Hôtel de Paris, on the Place du Beffroi, to their heart’s content; a sentry stands at the door and only officers are allowed to enter.
Despite the faulty discipline implicit in this surprising admission of legalized looting by ‘officers’ only, Barlone states that the morale of his men was good; they were ‘bewildered rather than discouraged’.
The same was also true of Prioux’s Cavalry Corps, despite the repeated drubbing it had taken from the Panzers. But the troops were dead tired, and it required all the energy of the officers to prevent them from sleeping at their posts. The 1st D.L.M. was still fighting bravely far away in the Forest of Mormal, though nominally it was supposed to be under Prioux’s control; many of his other tank companies had been farmed out in supporting roles to other divisional commanders who, despite Billotte’s strict orders to the contrary, were now proving reluctant to return them to their rightful master. Therefore, with his Cavalry Corps thus debilitated, Prioux was surprised to receive an order from Georges at midnight on the 18th, instructing him to ‘attack tomorrow, 19 May, in the direction Cambrai–St Quentin with a view to breaking up the armoured elements operating there’ – i.e. the bulk of nine German Panzer divisions. It was one more revelation of just how hopelessly out of touch the French High Command was with realities at the front. Prioux at once sought out Billotte to explain precisely why he would be unable to comply.
Are the British Leaving?
Early in the afternoon of 19 May, an important telephone conversation took place between Generals Georges and Billotte, while Georges was in session with Gamelin and a British delegation headed by General Dill. In the course of it, Billotte remarked, according to General Roton, ‘I learn that the British are said to have decided to fall back on Calais in three or four stages, and to evacuate.’ The supposition was erroneous, based on a misunderstanding between Billotte’s and Gort’s staffs; nevertheless it illustrated the direction in which Gort’s thoughts were beginning to run. The various factors governing the British decision to evacuate the B.E.F. concern this story only marginally. They require mention, however, so far as they touch upon the last Allied counter-stroke that had any prospect of slicing through the Panzer Corridor and releasing the armies about to be encircled in the north.
During his visit to Paris on the 16th, Churchill had miraculously managed to boost the sagging sipirits of Reynaud and Daladier. But he and his entourage had themselves returned to London profoundly alarmed by what they had seen and learned, more so than they revealed to their ally. The very next day Churchill wrote a minute to Neville Chamberlain, as Lord President of the Council, asking him to examine in general terms ‘the problems which would arise if it were necessary to withdraw the B.E.F. from France’.
At this moment, Ironside was revealing in his diary that he for one no longer had much confidence in the ability of the French to halt the Germans:
We have lived in a fool’s paradise. Largely depending upon the strength of the French Army. And this Army has crashed or very nearly crashed… At the moment it looks like the greatest military disaster in all history.
If the German advance continued, the B.E.F.’s line of communications through Amiens would be threatened, and in this eventuality Britain would be forced to try ‘to evacuate the B.E.F. from Dunkirk, Calais and Boulogne’. It was, thought Ironside, ‘an impossible proposition’. Nevertheless, that day he suggested to the Admiralty that they begin collecting all small vessels.
Then, on the night of the 18th–19th, there was a critical meeting betwen Lord Gort and General Billotte. At about midnight the French Army Group commander drove to Gort’s command post at Wahagnies. For the past week, the B.E.F. had received no orders from Billotte; it was the first time that he had come to confer with Gort and report on the full extent of the crisis. Hitherto the French had tended to regard both Gort and Britain’s small contribution to the land-war effort with a certain amount of contempt. Now suddenly, in this moment of crisis, it was apparent that France would have to rely upon the ‘amateur’ but relatively intact B.E.F. to play a key role in future strategy, and accordingly its commander assumed a new importance in French eyes. Gort’s experiences over the past week had already greatly reduced his confidence in the judgement of the French High Command, and what Billotte now told him only confirmed his gloom. According to Gort, Billotte described:
the measures which were being taken to restore the situation on the front of the French Ninth Army, though clearly he had little hope that they would be effective. Reports from the liaison officers with French formations were likewise not encouraging: in particular I was unable to verify that the French had enough reserves at their disposal south of the gap to enable them to stage counter-attacks sufficiently strong to warrant the expectation that the gap would be closed.
What if the gap could not be closed? Then nine German Panzer divisions would be curling round the unprotected rear of Gort’s nine divisions. Two alternatives presented themselves to Gort: he must withdraw either to the line of the Somme or to the Channel coast. The first had the obvious advantages that the B.E.F. would be falling back on its lines of communication, and would keep in touch with the French; on the other hand, it meant that the Belgian Army would be forced to relinquish Belgian soil or its allies – and, should evacuation of the B.E.F. finally become inevitable, it would obviously be that much more difficult if the Channel ports were abandoned. But if the B.E.F. did fall back on the Channel, this
would involve the departure of the B.E.F. from the theatre of war at a time when the French might need all the support which Britain could give them. It involved the virtual certainty that even if the excellent port facilities at Dunkirk continued to be available, it would be necessary to abandon all the heavier guns and much of the vehicles and equipment.
Henceforth Gort would be torn between a desire to aid the French loyally in their attempts to counter-attack, and concern at not letting
his nine divisions, the cream of the British Army, be cut off from the sea. However, what Billotte had revealed to him of his prospects for ‘closing the gap’ were so discouraging that, on the 19th, Gort warned the War Office that it might have to consider evacuating the B.E.F. ‘I realized that this course was in theory a last alternative,’ said Gort. ‘Nevertheless, I felt that in the circumstances there might be no other course open to me.’ That same day the War Office and the Admiralty began joint discussions, under the code name of ‘Dynamo’, on the ‘possible but unlikely evacuation of a very large force in hazardous circumstances’.
Exit Gamelin
19 May was a Sunday. Although the French Government placed its hope for a miracle that day in two earthly champions – de Gaulle who was atacking on the Serre, and Weygand momently expected from Syria – the soul of France turned instinctively to Notre-Dame, as it had done when the Governor of Paris had invoked the aid of its patron Sainte Geneviève at the worst moment of the Siege in 1870: as it had done during countless other crises in the long course of French history. That day there was a moving service of intercession attended at Notre-Dame by the entire Government and representatives from the whole of French public life. Outside on the parvis was also gathered a large congregation ‘that aroused the emotions by its piety and unanimity’, said Senator Bardoux. There was ‘a splendid evocation of the saints of France, while the relics of Sainte Geneviève, of St Louis were paraded… each of the saints was invoked and the crowd responded in chorus. Bullitt [the American Ambassador], who was in the front pew, was unable to hide his tears.’
There would be no divine intervention that day on behalf of General Gamelin. It was to be ‘the last day of my military existence’, although he had no inkling of this as it began with a telephone call from General Doumenc, at about 0500 hours. ‘I thought it was pointless waking you earlier’, said Doumenc, ‘but I have the very clear impression that the time has now come for you to intervene. I can’t say any more over the telephone.’ Gamelin replied that he would be at Les Bondons at eight o’clock. ‘Today, the hour has come,’ Gamelin declared dramatically in his memoirs. ‘I hope that it is not too late.’ Arriving at Les Bondons, Gamelin found Georges still agitated and depressed in the extreme, amid an atmosphere of chaos similar to what he had seen the previous day. Colonel Minart, on liaison to Georges that day, describes the scene vividly:
A large number of officers of all ranks, in particular several generals, some very busy, others downcast, come and go in the different rooms of this enchanting property of Les Bondons… Telephones, maps (events have moved so quickly that the maps of Finland and Norway have not yet been removed from the walls) dossiers, scribbling-pads, notebooks of all sorts are spread out, as if for a jumble sale.
A grand piano was heaped high with képis, while nearby liaison officers from the various armies were ringed about by interrogators:
Some of them, having succeeded in passing through the enemy columns, have achieved remarkable deeds… adding to the disorder, through the thin partitions of this bungalow of grand luxe there filters a noise of typewriters, the ringing of telephones, the inadequately silenced noises of motor-cycles housed outside, the musty smells of the kitchen or blocked lavatories, the infantile waggeries of orderlies, secretaries or chauffeurs, witnesses that were generally unaware of – and too close to – this decomposition. One had the impression of attending a consultation without hope of a hundred done-for doctors, specialists of different kinds brought in in extremis to a dying man who had already been given up.
Gamelin announced to Georges diplomatically that he felt it necessary now, ‘as Allied Commander-in-Chief, to formulate a general scheme of manoeuvre’. Asking for a pen, he then retired to a small room to draft his famous ‘Personal and Secret Instruction No. 12’, his first and last intervention in the battle. Some of his staff, says Gamelin, wanted him to take matters entirely in his own hands. ‘But I did not want to inflict upon General Georges this humiliation in front of everyone. I was anxious to maintain “form”, to preserve his amour-propre and his authority’ – perhaps a curious consideration at this moment of French destiny.16 Accordingly, Gamelin began self-effacingly:
Without wishing to interfere in the conduct of the battle now being waged, which is in the hands of the Commander-in-Chief of the North-East Front… I consider that, at the present time:
1. There are grounds… for extending the front of our Eastern Armies and those covering Paris towards the west, and for maintaining the link with No. 1 Army Group.
2. That, as regards No. 1 Army Group – rather than let it be encircled, we must act with extreme audacity;17 first by forcing, if necessary, the road to the Somme, and secondly, by throwing in particularly mobile forces against the rear of the Panzer divisions and the motorized infantry divisions which are following them. It seems that there is, at present, a vacuum behind this first echelon.18
3. To prepare with all available resources an offensive against the bridges at Mézières…
4. The complete strength of the French and British aviation must now devote itself to joining in the battle…
5. Everything depends on the next few hours.
M. GAMELIN
This was hardly the language of a supreme warlord, of a Joffre or a Foch, vigorously grasping the reins in his hands; it seemed almost more like a justification before the court of history. The vaguely worded concept of striking at the rear of the Panzers was obviously correct, but it had come hopelessly late in the day. A ‘few hours’ was more than the Allies had left at this point, and where now were the ‘particularly mobile forces’ called for by Gamelin’s plan?
At 0945, Gamelin put his signature to what General Roton termed his ‘military testament’. Having read it out in a ‘calm and measured voice’ to Georges’s assembled staff, he then went for a stroll in the garden of Les Bondons with General Vuillemin of the Air Force, while Georges began acting upon ‘Instruction No. 12’. Afterwards he stayed for a ‘quick lunch’ with Georges, produced by the chef who had cooked for Pétain a generation and a war earlier. ‘Dispirited like all of us by the defeat, he had put all his frustrated patriotism into the confection of a true wedding banquet,’ recalled one of the staff officers present; but the lunch assumed more ‘the atmosphere of a funeral repast… Then came the dessert, a huge raised pudding covered with cheveux d’ange. It was grotesque and pathetic.’ Only Gamelin seemed to eat with a good appetite.
Returning to Vincennes, Gamelin’s party (according to Colonel Minart) found that
all activity had practically halted as if on the eve of a move. Everybody, thinking about his own personal affairs, was packing in all haste. The cupboards were practically empty. The ’75 cannon installed in the court had been withdrawn. At the first signal, Vincennes could be evacuated like a fireman’s barracks.
In the setting, a travel-worn General Weygand arrived, at about half past three. He informed Gamelin simply that he had been summouned to Paris by Reynaud, and had been instructed to put himself in the picture. Gamelin described the situation to him. Then, he asked permission to call on Georges. As he left, he remarked to Gamelin enigmatically: ‘You know Paul Reynaud doesn’t like you?’ Weygand was followed by a visit from a broken General Corap, to whom Gamelin expressed a few sympathetic words and an assurance that his ‘honour as a soldier was beyond question’. Towards nine o’clock that evening, a car arrived bearing an emissary from Reynaud. He handed to Gamelin a letter succinctly announcing his replacement by Weygand, and thanking him for services rendered ‘in the course of a long and brilliant career’.
Early next morning, 20 May, Weygand arrived at Vincennes to take over. In the C-in-C.’s office, overlooking the moat where the Due d’Enghien had been shot, an unusual exchange took place between the two generals – if one may accept Gamelin’s version of it. Gamelin expressed his belief that ‘the execution of my order is the only solution to save the situation’, to which Weygand apparently replied, tapping his notebook, ‘But
I have the secrets of Marshal Foch!’ ‘I could have retorted,’ says Gamelin, ‘that I had those of Marshal Joffre and they had not sufficed.’ With hurt feelings, Gamelin noted that during the brief final interview Weygand could not bring himself to express ‘one word coming from the heart’; he did not even seem to recall that ‘it was I who had obtained for him the command in the Levant in August 1939’. On this sadly petulant note Gamelin left Vincennes forever. Weygand thought he was ‘manifestly relieved at being spared a heavy responsibility’. The dismissed Generalissimo said goodbye to no one. A few inquisitive secretaries watched his departure discreetly from the windows. The sentries saluted. Some of those watching felt that the gloomy courtyard at Vincennes had just witnessed yet another execution. Gamelin then returned to the ground-floor flat in the Avenue Foch which he had bought for his retirement, and began mulling over his memoirs. The war went on.
Enter Weygand
The new Commander-in-Chief who now held the waning fortunes of the Allies in his hands was seventy-three at the time of his appointment. Supposedly of Belgian parentage, he was illegitimate and to this day his parentage remains a subject of speculation. Some have it that he was the offspring of a Belgian industrialist and a Polish woman; others that Leopold II, the exploiter of the Congo, was his father; while a strong faction contend that the unhappy Emperor Maximilian and a Mexican woman were Maxime Weygand’s parents.19 Mexican blood would certainly have explained the high cheek-bones and deep-set eyes that gave him an increasingly un-French look as he grew older. A small, dapper man with a foxy face (he reminded one Englishman of an ‘aged jockey’) that revealed a quick intelligence, Weygand had passed into the cavalry through St Cyr. Right at the beginning of the First War he had been picked by Foch, more or less at random, as his Chief of Staff, and had remained with the Marshal, like a constant shadow, until the Armistice, and after. He had thus never commanded troops in battle, and, as Spears remarked of him, between this and being a Chief of Staff was ‘as different as riding in the Grand National from taking photos of its jumps’. On leaving Foch’s side he went to Poland, where his admirers consider him to have been chiefly responsible for the great Polish victory of 1920 against the Russians. In 1923 he was appointed High Commissioner in Syria, and then in 1931 became Commander-in-Chief of the French Army. Retiring in 1935, he was called back in 1939 (by Gamelin) to return to Syria as military commander.
To Lose a Battle Page 56
