Letterstime - Ein Geleitzug: Homeward Bound? Part XXIII
July 6,
1915
----
Washington, DC
They had
already knocked. Now they were
fidgeting.
“Well,” the
lanky reporter began, “I guess that answers THAT question.” They were staring up at the upper floor
railings where black cloth could be seen to be wound through the ornate
railings. “They’ve read the papers,
alright.”
They were
from the Washington Evening Star; the Frenchies hadn’t taken any phone calls
from them and they were desperate. So
their editor threw them out onto the street to go down there personally. And now no one seemed to be coming to the
door.
“Pro’ly
right, Mack,” another said. “Still,
maybe it’s some dead Frenchy day.
Hey! When did that Napoleon guy
die?”
“Hellifiknow. (NOTE 1)
But, whatthehell, get some shots of it.”
They were REALLY desperate.
“Like
that’ll do any good. And the
captions? Battleships, or cavalry?” And they knew it.
“Wiseguy.” And they hated it.
And still
the French had not answered the door. No
doubt, they had looked out the windows and no one inside had anything he or she
wanted to get quoted saying. Or NOT
saying. They were all experienced
reporters, so it was not like they had never faced a shut door before. But an embassy? Hell, these guys’ JOBS were to open doors,
smile, and talk. (NOTE 2)
“Up
yours.” And they STILL had nothing.
“Damn-damn-damn.” The boss was gonna’ kill them.
---- London
“Why,
they’ve ... given ... us the Americans, haven’t they?” The speaker’s eyes were blinking rapidly, his
voice hopeful. For a long couple
moments, no one replied.
The scene
was playing out in what was not quite officially known as “The Teak Room,” dominated
as it was by lustrous golden brown paneling of that Asian wood. Similar scenes were playing out in several of
the ministries. Here, as the pause
lengthened, most of the aides tried their bureaucratic best to burrow into
exquisite upholstery.
“How so,
m’lord?” The responder was deferent, but
neutral. By his tone, it was clear that
he hoped the other to be correct, but could just not yet see the “how” of it. A couple juniors perked up; had their
panjandrum really seen something they’d missed?
“Atrocities
right in sight of their coast and they’re not going to care? Nursing infants, abuse of women, and all
that?”
The
minister scowled at the others’ apparent skepticism. What was the matter with them?
“Let the
Germans deny it, I say,” he continued after the pause. “After all, who’ll listen to them? After Belgium and all the rest?”
The junior
aides settled back, squirming as unobtrusively as they could as they did
so. The full grain leather had already
trapped the heat of their rumps, legs, and backs such that all of touching body
surfaces had begun to adhere to the chairs themselves. A couple exchanged quick glances at the last
of the minister’s words, but those in plain view of the principals dared no
such thing.
“That may
not work this time, I fear ....”
“And why
not? We, or the Canadians, hell maybe
the French, it’s their islands after all, dispatch representatives - known men
with solid titles, dammit - to document just what mischief the Huns were up to
while ....”
He broke
off as another minister cleared his throat.
“The Huns
saw ahead to this, I fear. They must
have realized just how badly Belgium’s hurt them with the Neutrals. (NOTE 3)
It’s the only reason I can imagine for them taking Yank reporters along
with them. And not just any reporters,
m’lord, but ones from the two largest newspapers in the entire US.”
“But surely
...?”
“The latest
cables are quite clear, m’lord. Both
their papers, ten-penny nail headlines and photographs on every page. No mention of atrocities, I’m told. And both reporters swearing they had free
rein to come and go as they pleased.”
The speaker sighed. “The papers
even printed their interviews with prisoners.
Nothing.”
“That’s
impossible! The reporters ... surely
.... But ....” The speaker fell silent at a senior aide’s
lifted finger, a younger son of titled family.
“Millions
of copies, m’lord. New York,
Philadelphia. Millions. I’m told they’ll be putting out Extras. By now all the rest of that lot will be
struggling to catch up.”
The aides
looked at each other. It wasn’t going to
matter what the truth really was. By now
the story would have set like concrete over there. They might be able to delay the news breaking
here or even to recharacterize it, but any such respite they engineered on this
side of the Atlantic could never last long.
The Entente governments might control the Trans-Atlantic cables, but not
the American printing presses. Even the
most draconian measures would be unable to stop a very great many copies of
those Yank papers from casting up on their shores before the month was out.
The door
opened and another aide edged into the room.
The minister pinned him with a glance.
He and two others had been dispatched to learn the French reaction.
“Nothing,
m’lord. Nothing of substance.” The minister’s stare sharpened. “NO one seems to know. The PM might, m’lord, but his aides don’t,
least the ones I found don’t. Not yet,
anyway. The others stayed behind, still
there, trying.”
The
minister, who had opened his mouth, closed it and nodded instead.
The aide
hid his relief with a skill born from long practice. He had thrown in the PM bit as a distractor
and it seemed to have worked. What he
had not wanted to report was that two junior French aides had learned of the
events, including the massive publication of them, in his presence. One had staggered and put his hand to his
heart as though he might expire right on the spot. The few words he uttered were French and not
in the British aide’s limited vocabulary.
The other Frenchman had gasped for air and fled into the loo. Though the anecdotes might be tempting fare
for his peers later, neither was something he wanted to recount here and now,.
The
minister swept his eyes around the room, perhaps seeking inspiration but, if
such were his hope, the scowl that bloomed on his face made clear the
results. He stepped to the window and
looked out.
----
London, House of Commons
“Who’s
speaking?”
The
arriving Member addressed his query to an aide of his who awaited him near the
doors to the chambers.
“Badbor,
sir, of ....”
“Yes,
yes. Has he said anything new?”
“Well, I
can’t be perfectly certain, but ....”
“But you
don’t think so. Oh, very well.”
He paused
again as he entered. The historic space
soothed his eyes, less with its rich and storied appointments than with its
sameness. The Empire endured. Even the pulses of rhetoric and hum of
reaction evoked feelings of normalcy in his ears. He began to follow the words as he took his
seat.
“... tried
to dismiss the risk. Well, my honorable
colleague can’t wave away the fact that the Huns have hundreds of thousands,
many hundreds of thousands, of men under arms ....”
“And how
they’re gonna’ get here? Fly?!” The voice was low, but not very.
“.... can scoff,
he can jeer, but he can’t deny that they’ve got boats by the thousand score
over on their shores, or shores they’ve taken, just waiting to make the trip
over to our sacred soil ....”
“In open
boats? Just send the Bobbies down to
arrest the lot of them.” Louder this
time.
“... like
many other things,” Badbor ignored the swirls of merriment and continued with
no discernable break for breath, “we need to look at this backwards ....”
“W’ot in
God’s name does THAT mean?” The sotto
voce was quite audible. The reply was
almost as loud. “Pay’m no mind. He’s always sayin’ such.”
“... an
invasion is the only way they can ever hope to win this war. Is it not folly to assume they’re ignorant of
that fact? Just three days ago they
attacked scenic Southwold. The Huns
sailed right up to point blank range.
Remember the great pier there?
Well, that’s all that’s left to us.
It is ONLY a memory now. They
could have waded ashore that morn at Southwold.
What’s to stop them from doing just that the next time?”
Another
stood to reply.
“My right
honorable friend seems to want us to believe that mounting a full scale
invasion of our islands is no more difficult than running a few cruisers across
the North Sea in the dead of night to make a surprise dawn attack on a pier
with long range guns. My friends, the
Huns did indeed shell Southwold - a pearl of a harbor - and our hearts go out
to the families there. But what my right
honorable colleague did not tell you is that as soon as the Huns had finished
firing their shells, they turned right around and ran all the way back to
Germany!”
“Hear-hear!”
“Now that
doesn’t sound too much to me like a navy ready and eager to invade us, though
perhaps it does to my right honorable friend.”
The resulting hum had some titters in it.
“But I
think the honorable gentleman is quite correct in one sense. The Huns know right well that they would win
this war by successfully invading us.
Yes, I quite agree with that. But
that begs the question - does it not? - of just why haven’t they done so? Or even made an attempt? My honorable colleagues, they haven’t tried
because they know full well they CANNOT!
The inescapable conclusion is that, while the right honorable gentleman
might not know it, the Huns most certainly DO!”
“Hear-hear!”
It had
seemed to have concluded well enough, but the senior members of HMG were
nonetheless quite relieved when the House turned to other matters. This was a very delicate moment. The events of St. Pierre and Miquelon and the
American headlines had yet to become public, the cable traffic having been
intercepted and kept very closely held by HMG.
The missing battlecruisers were still just that: missing. And the German fleet was again at sea.
----
Warspite, course 030, speed 15 knots
“Steady on
030, answering 15 knots, sir.”
De Robeck
calmly regarded the plotted positions.
The force had been at 12 knots on a south-westerly heading when the
wireless report had been received from Room 40.
Though, if the admiral had been greatly surprised, Captain Swafford had
been unable to detect it.
“Comments,
Captain?”
“If I may,
sir.” De Robeck inclined his head and
Swafford bent over and marched a protractor up from the Wilhelmshaven outfall
to the plotted point from the message slip.
The Warspite CO paused, then repeated the exercise using the position
report from the submarine earlier in the day.
Meanwhile, acknowledgments were reported from the other flag officers on
the new course and speed.
“Not
impossible, sir.” Swafford
hesitated. “They’d’ve had to keep 16
knots, though, once they were spotted.”
“Yes,” De
Robeck replied. “Hoist 20 knots.” This announced the Grand Fleet Commander’s
intentions, with the execution delayed to allow the various screen units to
reach their proper new positions.