The Shadow of War (14 page)

The British Cabinet has been in its fourth successive emergency session since 8 a.m. It is now nearly lunchtime. The Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, is chairing the meeting with his usual calm aplomb, but he's tired. He is almost sixty-four years old and beginning to feel the strain of the enormous task ahead of him.

‘Mr Churchill, you wanted to make a point.'

‘Indeed, Prime Minister. If I may, would Lord Kitchener confirm that he does not feel the need for mass conscription, even though our army stands at little more than one hundred thousand men? France has four million soldiers, the Russians six million. And the combined force of Germany and Austria-Hungary stands at seven and a half million men.'

Kitchener does not look irritated that he should be asked to explain himself again after making his position clear several times. He has gone public over the weekend, openly stating that he would prefer to create a new volunteer army, rather than introduce compulsory conscription.

‘Mr Churchill, I am grateful to you for giving me the opportunity to reiterate my views. May I also congratulate you once more on the preparedness of the fleet; its status is a credit to all concerned, but to you in particular. Before I state my position, Prime Minister, I should stress that it is in no sense a criticism of my predecessors. Nevertheless, it is a fact that, while our Senior Service is the mightiest fleet the world has ever seen, the British Army is a relatively small, albeit highly
trained and professional, army when compared to the hordes assembled by our neighbours on the Continent.

‘The latest figures I have suggest we are eleven thousand short of our designated strength of two hundred and sixty thousand men. Approximately half of those are on the British mainland as of today; the rest are in garrisons throughout the Empire. Obviously, our army is much more focused on the particular needs of our colonies, rather than on the strategic problems of Europe, where massed land forces are strategically vital. However, suddenly to conscript millions of men would be folly. We have none of the facilities to cope with them: we lack men to train them, barracks to accommodate them, even weapons with which to arm them.

‘Our reservists are substantial and are flocking to their muster points as I speak. But I am uneasy about putting them into combat too soon. Sadly, several battalions will be made up of at least fifty per cent reservists when they get to their Channel embarkation points.'

There is obvious consternation around the cabinet table at Kitchener's remarks. Asquith feels compelled to interrupt.

‘Are you suggesting that the reservists are not up to scratch?'

‘Well, Prime Minister, they are all experienced soldiers and many have fought in very challenging places, including, of course, South Africa. However, by definition, they are older men and not in full-time training. Secondly, this is a war in Europe against formidable modern soldiers, whose marksmanship and training are excellent and who have heavy artillery and machine guns. I am confident that our musketry is superior to any in the world, but I would prefer it if our reservists were between ten and fifteen per cent of enlisted men, not up at around forty to fifty per cent, as in many battalions.'

‘Very well, Lord Kitchener, I think we understand. Let us
pray that resolving this squabble in Europe is a brief encounter.'

As Asquith makes his comment, Eddie Grey and Winston Churchill exchange disbelieving glances. Kitchener notices the doubt on their faces and decides to speak out.

‘I fear this war may well be a protracted and bloody affair, Prime Minister. Vast numbers of men and huge volumes of materiel are about to be unleashed on a scale not seen before. If France falls, which we must pray it does not, the first phase will be over quickly. Then, God help us, we will be staring at the Kaiser's enormous army across a meagre twenty-two miles of English Channel.

‘If France holds her ground, then a stalemate will ensue, which could be very costly indeed. Whatever happens, we need to train a new army, either to stiffen French resolve in the long term, or to confront the German Army if it dares threaten our shores. Such an army will not be created in weeks; it will take months. But the process has begun, and the reaction from every corner of Britain and the Empire has been extraordinary.'

The mood in the room darkens. A few members shift uneasily in their chairs; one or two cough nervously.

‘So, my immediate plan is in two parts. First, to get an expeditionary force of the best of our men across to France as quickly as possible, where they will hold the left flank of the French border, which, as you know, is highly vulnerable to a German attack through neutral Belgium. Secondly, beginning this very day, a long-term recruitment, mobilization and training strategy will start to build the foundations of a new citizen army for the eventual defence of Britain and for victory in Europe.'

There is a peculiar stillness in the room after Kitchener finishes his eloquent summary. It is as if the enormity of what Britain is facing has suddenly become real. The Cabinet table is surrounded by men not averse to airing their views.
Meetings are usually typified by strident debate, where men vie with one another to speak, and silence is a rare occurrence.

The Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, looks out across Horse Guards, lost in thought. The Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, stares at Kitchener, as if stunned by what he has heard. Then, suddenly, he speaks.

‘Prime Minister, I think I should like to put on record that we have many things to be thankful for, but one of them surely is that, in Mr Churchill and Lord Kitchener, we have two men at the heart of the defence of our country in whom we can have the utmost confidence.'

As cries of ‘Hear, hear!' ring around the room, the Prime Minister adjourns the meeting for lunch.

‘We will reconvene at two o'clock sharp, gentlemen, please. This afternoon, Lord Lucas will introduce to us the new, long-term provisions being made for emergency food production by the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries.'

While the majority of the Cabinet eats in Downing Street's small dining room, Winston Churchill persuades Kitchener to join him alone for an al fresco lunch in the garden.

‘I hope you weren't too dismayed by my question. I know that you've already said what you intend to do, but I wanted the full Cabinet to hear your very persuasive thoughts in detail, especially those who go straight to Fleet Street with their tittle-tattle.'

‘Quite so, Winston. The sooner everyone understands what we're facing, the better. We've relied on the navy for far too long. Our land forces are minuscule, and most of our reservists have only signed up for domestic duties.'

‘I wholeheartedly agree with you, K. We also need air power and armoured vehicles.'

‘I'm not as convinced as you about the immediate efficacy of these new devices, but they will, I'm sure, be of importance in the long run. I have more immediate issues. I'm
having all sorts of rows with John French. Pressured by the French High Command, he wants to commit to an immediate landing of the entire army, with as many reservists as can be got ready. But I'm only going to commit four infantry divisions and one of cavalry. I intend to hold back the other two here on the south coast.'

Winston nods knowingly.

‘You fear the worst in France?'

‘I do; we could be cut off from the sea or, worse still, suffer drastic casualties. I know your dreadnoughts are our greatest bulwark but, should doomsday come to pass, I want sufficient men to remain here to defend the south coast.'

‘I understand. But “doomsday”? Surely not!'

‘I know you're a warrior at heart, Winston – it's in your blood – and that the possibility of defeat never enters your head, but it's an ever-present thought in mine. The French will fight bravely, their officers will conduct themselves with their usual elan and their tough little poilus, full of national pride, will fight for the honour of the Republic. But their generals are thirty years behind the times, as are their weapons and tactics. The Germans, on the other hand, are cunning, well-equipped and hungry for conquest.'

‘You paint a depressing picture, my Lord K.'

‘Don't misunderstand me, Winston, we can win. We have the navy and we have the Channel. But if we are to have an army to win this war, we're going to need time to build it. What the Romans took two hundred years to create, we're going to have to do in eighteen months.'

‘How many men?'

‘One million, perhaps closer to two.'

‘Bugger me! Can it be done?'

‘Of course, but I'm going to have to break a few eggs and crack a few skulls to do it.'

‘You can count on my full support, both within government and in the country.'

‘I
am grateful to you, Winston.'

‘Not at all! Quite apart from the kindnesses you showed to me in the Sudan, all those years ago, for which I will always be grateful, all of us need to support you in your noble efforts.'

‘You're very kind. You and I go back a long way, do we not? Now this great responsibility has fallen to us. May God give us the wisdom and the strength to carry it through.'

Later that day, Winston telephones Clemmie, who is waiting for the call at the post office in Overstrand, where she is staying with their children at Pear Tree Cottage.

‘What a day it has been, Clemmie. Lord Kitchener gave an admirable account of his intentions; very impressive it was too. We had a private lunch together, and I think we are going to cooperate very agreeably. Mind you, I made something of a faux pas when I exclaimed at one point, “Bugger me!” '

‘What do you mean, Pug?'

‘Well, let's put it this way, he's not married and surrounds himself with a coterie of handsome young officers.'

‘I had no idea … such a handsome, strapping chap as well.'

‘I know, but, as it's often said, anyone who has served in Egypt comes back with a penchant for sodomy –'

‘Oh, Pug, really! Not over the telephone, darling.'

‘Don't worry, dearest one, this is a secure line.'

‘I'm not concerned about security, I just don't want to hear about men buggering one another over the telephone.'

‘Oh, dearest Cat, buggery doesn't happen over the telephone …' He pauses, but there is no response to his crass humour. ‘Sorry, Cat. Let's change the subject. How are the kittens?'

‘Well, but Chumbolly is being difficult, as usual. I know you are trying to change the subject, Winston, but I've been hearing the most dreadful stories about how the Germans are behaving towards the Belgians.'

‘I
don't want to distress you any more than is necessary, but the reports suggest they are being absolutely bestial. There have been mass
executions
, dreadful reprisals against soldiers and civilians alike, it seems they've gone mad; it's bloodlust.'

‘Oh, my darling, how awful! Those poor people –'

‘Lord K's organizing our Expeditionary Force; the first battalions have already left. The rest will be on their way soon.'

‘Oh, I do hope so.'

‘I must go, darling Cat. Lord Louis is coming to dinner. The
Goeben
, one of Germany's biggest battlecruisers, has evaded our entire Mediterranean Fleet and got through to Constantinople. The poor chap is coming to explain how it happened.'

‘All right, Big Pig, many kisses from me and the kittens.'

‘And from me to all of you. Make sure those marines keep their eyes peeled. Love you, Cat.'

Philip Davies, professional auctioneer and reservist captain in the Royal
Welch
Fusiliers, has had a frantic time. Within three days, he has had to make provision for his mentally ill wife to be cared for in his absence, arrange for his household and businesses in Presteigne to be run while he is away and rush to join the fusiliers who are already billeted in Dorchester Town Hall. And he has done all of this while in the throes of an intense affair with an eighteen-year-old cleaning girl who has become obsessed with him, and he with her.

He has vowed to write to Bronwyn every day, using the post office box he has arranged in Presteigne. But he has been too busy, so far, to send anything more than one short, scribbled note. He knows how smitten she has become by him, but his first few days away from her have allowed him
to think more deeply about his feelings for her. Does he love her? He has repeatedly asked himself this question. He knows how totally infatuated he has become, but is it love? He is not sure.

At Dorchester, he was given a precautionary medical and granted command of two platoons in A Company, most of whose men are seasoned veterans – not the easiest baptism for a reserve officer with only a modicum of real military experience. Philip's top hat and tailcoat have been put away, to be replaced by British khaki. His auctioneer's gavel has been exchanged for a
Webley
Mk IV revolver.

The Royal Welch Fusiliers sailed from Southampton at 2 a.m. this morning and arrived in Rouen in the middle of the afternoon. They are the first British troops to arrive in Normandy and are given a rapturous welcome. As they march through the streets, they are cheered, kissed and embraced by men, women and children alike. They are given flowers, wine, food and cigarettes and hailed as saviours of a land about to be overrun by a horde of barbarian Huns.

The fusiliers are given a temporary billet in a local convent, only just vacated by nuns who have gone south to their sister house in Bordeaux. When his men are settled in, Philip calls them together.

‘Stand at ease, men. Welcome to France, land of wine, women and song, at least two of which delights are only to be enjoyed in very small doses and one of which is likely to give you a dose!'

Their new officer's towering presence and blunt humour make an immediate impression on the forty-eight men in the room. They had expected a ‘chinless wonder', probably an English one – or at the very least one with a cut-glass English accent – but Philip speaks like they do, or like the schoolteachers they remember from childhood. He fills his address with humour and detailed information not usually given to private soldiers. He finishes with a final flourish.