by John Harris
Starke frowned. ‘We must make an opportunity,’ he said.
‘Prime Minister,’ the Chief of Defence Staff leaned forward, ‘with respect, not now. It’d seem too much as though we were giving way to pressure. Next month, when all this is over, yes. Next year, yes. But not now, though, of course, there could be no objection to a promise.’
The Prime Minister frowned. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I must confess, I’m very worried about Hodges’ signal. Disaffection’s a thing which isn’t normal in British troops.’
‘It was in the Thirties,’ Burnaston pointed out quietly. ‘And for the same reason – pay.’
‘But surely,’ the Prime Minister gestured angrily, ‘since it’s occurred, the commander on the spot ought to be able to deal with it.’
The Chief of Defence Staff heaved his bulk round in his chair, almost as though he were turning his back on the Prime Minister, even as though he’d lost patience.
‘It would have been easier,’ he said, ‘if they could have announced a month ago that the pay cuts were being restored – even if only partially.’
‘We couldn’t do it,’ the Chancellor of the Exchequer snapped. ‘We’d just had to borrow one thousand million dollars from the United States and similar sums from the International and Swiss Banks. They were insisting that we make some effort to cut our expenses. We were trying to.’
‘We could have cut a few other services,’ the Chief of Defence Staff rapped back. ‘It never seems to me to make much sense to subsidise houses for people earning fifty pounds a week, or to give golf and skiing lessons at after-educational establishments. This could save us a great deal more than Service cuts.’
‘It wasn’t possible,’ the Prime Minister said gruffly.
‘It never is,’ the Chief of Defence Staff said bluntly. ‘It might lose votes.’ He was a very wealthy man and he was not afraid to speak his mind. ‘The Services are also conscious that when it was proposed to cut Civil Service pay, their unions protested vigorously. It must have seemed to Servicemen that, since they don’t have unions, it was easier to cut their pay.’
The Prime Minister was about to speak but Burnaston continued steadily. ‘I realise I’m being harsh,’ he said. ‘But I have to say it. I wasn’t in this country and therefore wasn’t asked my opinion when the cuts were decided on and I have to make my protest now. However…’
There was a silence as they waited for his next comment. There was a vague feeling of discomfort in the room – as though, the Foreign Secretary said later, someone had turned up a severed hand in the green salad at a city banquet.
‘…however, the trouble in Pepul and with the force now at sea is not entirely due to cuts in pay. There are too many of the wrong sort of men in this operation. Due to the running down over the years of Service establishments, we had no alternative but to call for men wherever we could get them. Inevitably, we got the wrong ones. It would be better – and I’ve always advocated this – to have less regiments and make them good ones. A large number of regiments looks reassuring on paper but it’s meaningless if they’re not up to strength and if the quality of the men serving in them isn’t what we want.’
The Prime Minister was frowning heavily now. He had always disliked the Chief of Defence Staff’s habit of using every opportunity he could to air his grievances, and he wished now, as he had often wished, that Burnaston either wasn’t so brilliant as to be indispensable or less wealthy so that he couldn’t afford to be so forthright.
‘It could be’ – the Chief of Defence Staff moved his papers restlessly – ‘that the trouble with Hodgeforce is caused by the knowledge of what’s ahead. I’ve had a very disturbing signal from Hodges about what opposition to expect at King Boffa Port. It seems his Chief-of-Staff picked up certain figures – and they don’t match ours.’
‘I suppose we have to thank Intelligence for letting us down over that,’ the Prime Minister said tartly.
The Chief of Defence Staff smiled grimly. ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘Military Intelligence can’t ever hope to function effectively as a civilian civil service department.’
The Prime Minister kept his eyes down as Burnaston trumped his ace with the reminder that he personally had removed Intelligence from the sphere of the military three years before on the grounds that it had become too secretive.
‘Nevertheless’ – the Chief of Defence Staff gestured – ‘it isn’t in my opinion the opposition to be expected that has caused the trouble with General Hodges’ force. I had my own ideas about that and I sent him a signal. His signal in reply confirms what I thought.’
All eyes in the room turned towards him and, for a moment, there was silence.
‘The slogan of the disaffected men,’ Burnaston went on quietly, ‘seems to be “Right of Reply”, and that phrase, Prime Minister, was used only a few days ago in a party television and radio broadcast made by the Leader of the Opposition.’
The Prime Minister frowned. He’d fought hard to prevent Carey going on the air, but it had been difficult to claim the country was at war when all the time he was trying to say in Parliament that she wasn’t. And so long as she wasn’t at war, any political party had the right of reply to the Government in the form of a party political broadcast. It seemed now that the troops felt that right was theirs, too.
‘What do you suggest, then?’ the Prime Minister asked angrily. ‘That we should ask the Leader of the Opposition to retract what he said in that broadcast?’
The Chief of Defence Staff nodded immediately. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said bluntly. ‘I do.’
The Prime Minister stared. ‘I can’t do that,’ he snapped.
The Chief of Defence Staff laid his hands on the table in front of him, palms down, as though he had come to the end of the argument. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘if you don’t want a disaster on your hands, you’ll have to.’
Six
The Leader of the Opposition had had a house near Brighton for years. Originally, it had been his parents’ home, but on his marriage and their retirement, they had exchanged dwellings and his family had grown up in it. On his election to Parliament, he had considered selling it, although it had always been a useful retreat when London became too much for him, and he had so quickly made his mark in his party that he had soon found the need for something big enough to be used to meet his colleagues and the foreign diplomats who had done him the courtesy of meeting him.
It was a Georgian house, as gracious as only Georgian houses can be, set a little back off the main road from London, and sufficiently hidden by trees to be out of sight of snoopers. Its interior was graced by family portraits dating back through several generations and its exterior by a garden that had lasted almost as long.
It was to this house that George Greenaway, a member of the party in office, discreetly rang with a request to see the Leader of the Opposition.
Greenaway was one of the elders of the party in power. He had held office, but not for some years, and he was now on the verge of retirement from politics altogether. The Prime Minister had chosen him to contact the Opposition because he was a respected Member of the House and his name had never at any time been linked with anything even remotely underhand. Indeed, at the time of the trouble over Aden, he had resigned his office rather than lend his support to something of which he couldn’t approve. He had the respect, not only of his own party, but also of the Opposition; and Carey always got on well with him, despite their differing views.
As he put down the telephone, he turned to Moffat who was sitting in the deep armchair opposite him, waiting for him to finish.
‘Greenaway,’ Carey explained. ‘He wants to see me. I wonder if it’s anything to do with that.’
That was the highly secret arrival of another message – from certain back-benchers of the party in office, who had expressed themselves as being so concerned with the trend of events that they were prepared if necessary to cross the floor and vote with the Opposition.
Moffat gest
ured. He didn’t place much reliance on the back-benchers’ message, and was even inclined to doubt its good faith.
‘It could,’ he said. ‘But so what, Spencer? Greenaway makes only one more and we’ve known for years that he didn’t entirely agree. As for the others, they won’t make much difference to the situation. Starke’s got a sound majority and there aren’t enough of them to affect it much.’
Carey considered for a moment before speaking. ‘It’s a sign, all the same,’ he said. ‘Think they could gather a few more into the fold?’
‘I don’t give them much of a chance.’
‘Neither do I, quite honestly,’ Carey agreed. ‘There aren’t many MPs these days who’re prepared to risk withdrawal of Party support on a matter of principle. Nevertheless, it’s there, Derek, and it’s a trend in our direction. You know what set it off, of course?’
‘Yes.’ Moffat smiled. ‘Marchmant and Harding. I don’t suppose they ever expected when they were demobbed that they’d ever be called up again. It was unfortunate for Starke that when they were, they were involved in Stabledoor and able to give tongue about all the inadequacies.’
‘To me, Derek,’ Carey said in a quiet voice.
‘To you?’ Moffat’s jaw dropped.
‘To me. They came to me first. That’s where I got all my information and that’s why I believe this little rebellion might be more than it seems. They insisted that I mustn’t quote them, but it was quite clear they didn’t expect to get any change out of Starke.’
Moffat leaned forward. ‘Does Starke know about it?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’d spoil his meals for a day or two if he did.’
‘That, and the by-election at Rudkin and Hale. I gather our people are delighted with the way it’s going.’ Carey jabbed a finger abruptly at the newspaper that lay open on his desk. ‘I just hope,’ he said, ‘that the Chinese in Korea don’t save him. They could just turn everybody’s attention away from him if they did something outrageous. That’s why he keeps trying to make so much of it, of course.’
‘What’s our move then?’
‘There are a few,’ Carey said slowly, ‘who still feel the situation can be saved with a coalition. Obviously no one wants an election just now, and they feel that with a few ex-Ministers from our side in with him, it might suit the country’s mood. I know Starke’s considered it, too, as a way out of his problems.’
‘Would you agree?’
‘Not under Starke. There are men I could accept – for a limited period, until the crisis is over.’
‘Do you think that’s why Greenaway’s coming?’
‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’
Carey met Greenaway as he came through the door, appearing down the long curving staircase at the back of the hall rather like an actor making an entrance. Greenaway smiled at him as he handed over his hat and coat, and looked round at the hall with its white-painted balustrade and the sombre old pictures.
‘I always did like this place,’ he commented as they moved towards the study.
‘It’s a pity we don’t agree more,’ Carey said. ‘You could then come here more often.’
In the study, they sat at opposite sides of the fireplace.
‘You know why I’m here, Spencer, of course?’ Greenaway asked.
Carey inclined his head. ‘I’ve made a guess,’ he said.
Greenaway nodded. ‘It had to be done,’ he pointed out. ‘They chose me, because I’m the safest. If what I’ve come to do doesn’t come off and the story leaks out, they can disclaim me and say I acted without instructions. On the other hand, if it does come off, then they can claim all the credit. I’m too old to care much either way now, and they know it.’
The Leader of the Opposition made no comment. He knew as well as Greenaway that what had been said was true.
‘It’s a very worrying situation,’ Greenaway went on.
‘More for your side than mine,’ Carey said. ‘Much as I deplore it, I have to admit to myself that my party can do nothing but profit by it. It’s a long time since we were in office.’
Greenaway sipped his drink and didn’t reply, and Carey went on quietly.
‘I feel the country’s ready for a change,’ he said, as Greenaway raised his eyebrows. ‘Rudkin and Hale’s going against you, George.’
Greenaway’s mouth twisted. ‘Can you be certain?’ he asked.
‘As certain as I can be of anything.’
‘It was always our seat.’
‘It won’t be this time.’
Greenaway drew a deep breath. ‘I hope that won’t make it any harder for me to say what I have to say,’ he observed.
Carey smiled. ‘Try it,’ he suggested, ‘and see.’
Greenaway gestured. ‘It all seems a bit pointless when you know why I’ve come,’ he said.
Carey smiled again. ‘We have to do it properly,’ he pointed out. ‘We have to follow protocol – even in this – and it has to be said, so that it’s on the record for the future.’
‘In fact,’ Greenaway said quietly, ‘this is off the record.’
The Leader of the Opposition nodded. ‘I thought it might be,’ he said.
‘The Prime Minister’s worried.’
‘So he should be.’
‘You don’t like him very much, do you, Spencer?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t really trust him.’
Greenaway tried a new tack. ‘If this thing against King Boffa Port fails,’ he said, ‘not only would we stand condemned in the eyes of the rest of the world, we’d also be humiliated, too.’
‘That’s Starke’s fault,’ Carey said. ‘His alone.’
Greenaway’s gesture was suddenly faintly irritable. ‘We accepted the role of aggressors,’ he said quickly. ‘Having done so, we shouldn’t be asked to renounce the essential benefits we could derive from that aggression. If this thing succeeded, Scepwe’d be finished and his regime would collapse. It’d be a capital political error not to go ahead with it now. We’re within two or three days of pulling it off.’
The Leader of the Opposition’s eyebrows rose. ‘Are we?’ he asked. ‘My information’s rather different. I understand we have a very high incidence of mechanical failure in all three Services, so high, in fact, that there’s a danger that the thing will fall apart when it has to take the strain.’
Greenaway nodded. ‘I’ve heard that, too,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s not the mechanical failure that’s worrying the Prime Minister and the Chief of Defence Staff. It’s something else. It seems the operation’s more likely to fall apart through disaffection among the troops.’
Carey’s face changed subtly and he eyed Greenaway warily. ‘Perhaps I don’t know why you’ve come, George,’ he said. ‘I’d heard it was to make an appeal for us to support him. I can’t do that, George.’
Greenaway brushed aside the suggestion. ‘That’s not why I’ve come,’ he said. ‘It’s suspected that this disaffection among the troops sprang from that speech you made the other day.’
Carey was looking puzzled now and Greenaway pressed on.
‘You said you’d claimed from the BBC the right of reply, and you said that every man had this right. That’s the crux of the matter.’
Carey leaned forward. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged.
‘Someone in Hodgeforce,’ Greenaway continued, ‘–and we don’t know who, perhaps several people – seized on this point and it spread like wildfire. No one seems to know where it started, but the phrase seems to have become some sort of rallying call. There are a great many men with Hodges who don’t agree with this operation…’
‘There are a great many at home, too,’ Carey snapped.
‘This is war,’ Greenaway said quickly. ‘They can’t disagree.’
Carey jerked a hand. ‘The Prime Minister insists it isn’t war,’ he pointed out.
Greenaway shrugged. ‘That’s politics,’ he said.
Carey frowned. ‘So’s my speech,’ he said
quickly.
Greenaway looked at him, his eyes challenging. ‘Were you after office?’ he asked. ‘Was that why you made it?’
Carey’s hesitation was only momentary but Greenaway noticed it.
‘Whether it was or not,’ Carey said, ‘I still believed every word I said. With the world in two great camps, and the threat of the Bomb over us, no one has a right to go to war over a piffling little base. Good God, we can get another base. There are enough African states who’re sufficiently short of money to be prepared to turn over some of their territory to us in return for financial help.’
Greenaway realised he was getting into the deep water of a political argument, and that he wasn’t doing the job he’d come to do. He drew a deep breath and took the plunge.
‘He wants you to withdraw,’ he said abruptly.
The Leader of the Opposition had sat back, faintly shocked.
‘Withdraw?’
‘That’s what he wants. Your speech couldn’t have come at a worse time and, unfortunately, it’s given the impression that you’re being meddlesome, awkward and dangerous.’
Carey was staring at him, annoyed. He’d been fully aware how dangerous politically his speech could seem, but he’d put his doubts aside, and the thought that crossed his mind now was how much damage it might have done – not only to Hodgeforce, as Greenaway suggested, but also to himself and his party.
Greenaway interrupted his uneasy musings. ‘He wants you to speak again,’ he said. ‘If you can’t go that far, he wants you at least to withdraw your remarks.’
The Leader of the Opposition sat for a moment in silence, then he got to his feet and moved to the window.
‘He says England’s committed,’ Greenaway went on, ‘and that at this stage it’s impossible to call Hodgeforce off.’
‘It’s never impossible!’ Carey swung round and snapped the words.
‘From the information he has,’ Greenaway insisted, ‘together with what you said, there could be failure.’
‘Then let him call it off!’
Greenaway turned in his chair. ‘He’s not prepared to,’ he said. ‘He claims – and I think he believes it – that we’ve too much to lose, and that our prestige would be lower if we called it off than if we took a chance and succeeded.’
