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Chapter 4 : Whitehall
London
looked as grey as only London can. Although the middle of March, Spring seemed
as far away as ever. People scurried by, eager to spend as little time as
possible in the raw, biting wind. On the steps of the National Gallery a small
group huddled together, waiting for their guide, looked out across Trafalgar
Square, severe and uninviting, and down Whitehall. While they sheltered, the
business of Empire was conducted by frock-coated civil servants and their
political masters in dark, warm offices. In his room at the Foreign Office Sir
Edward Grey, burdened by the ever-present ghosts of former Foreign Secretaries,
paced the floor. Exhausted, careworn, he disliked the thought of the seemingly
endless Conference of Ambassadors to settle the Balkan War and longed to return
to Fallodon, his Northumbrian estate. Had he not wanted the Conference to be
held in Paris so that he could then delegate the chairmanship to Frank Bertie
from the Embassy? The one saving grace was that Easter would fall particularly
early, on 23 March, and there was one thing which was sacrosanct to Sir Edward
Grey: the proper observance of holidays.
Not that he was in any way religious. What residue of religion remained
from the inculcation of childhood had been destroyed when, seven years
previously, his wife had been catapulted from her carriage near Fallodon after
the horse, whose nervous state she had been warned about, had bolted. Sir Edward
had been at a meeting of the Defence Committee when news was brought to him
(Lady Dorothy had cared little for London society, preferring to remain at
Fallodon even when the House was sitting) and it had taken him half a day to
return. By the time he had entered the small schoolhouse in Ellingham, to which
she had been carried unconscious, the paralysis had already spread down her left
side. He longed for her to speak, even prayed for it, as he sat by her side for
two days. That prayer — the last he had ever uttered — went unanswered, as
Dorothy succumbed without regaining consciousness. With her went his faith.
A window rattling in the wind brought Sir Edward back to the present, and
to the Balkan War. Although most of the fighting had ceased, the Allies were in
the process of falling out amongst themselves over the spoils. And now this. In
addition to the report from Elliot in Athens, he held another in his hand from
Lowther in Constantinople. There were rumours at the Porte that the
assassination of the King of Greece was not solely the work of a deranged
madman, but that a conspiracy involving Austria was at the back of the deed and,
worse, that political circles in Athens had been forewarned of the attempt. If
true, and Grey fervently hoped that they were not, the conspiracy must reach to
the very top, to Premier Venizelos. Grey had little time for the Greeks in
general, but he thought he could trust Venizelos.
His great failing, recognized but tolerated by Asquith, whose own
judgment occasionally fell short of that expected of a Prime Minister, was a
too-trusting nature. Affairs of state, he believed, could be conducted on the
same basis as personal relations; not even seven years in his present post had
been sufficient completely to disabuse him of this fantastic notion although, it
is true, he had been sorely tried by the machinations of Isvolsky, Sazonov,
numerous Grand Viziers, and almost all the Balkan rulers. But not, until now,
Venizelos. He must know, one way or the other. The Foreign Secretary summoned
Sir Arthur Nicolson.
The stooped figure of the Permanent Under-Secretary eventually shuffled
in. His brilliant blue eyes still spoke eloquently of an active, alert mind;
however, crippled by arthritis and worn down by anxiety, Sir Arthur now longed
to finish his days as Ambassador in Paris once Bertie’s tenure was up.
Although his keen sense of duty kept him at his current post it was now a job
for a younger man. The Anglo-Russian rapprochement,
his crowning achievement, was firmly in place and he had lost whatever patience
he had had with the Balkans.
‘What do you make of this?’ Grey calmly inquired.
Sir Arthur cast a weary eye over the dispatch, making as if to read it,
to refresh his memory. He had known that there would be trouble as soon as the
dispatch had arrived. ‘Lowther reports every rumour that emanates from
Stamboul. He should learn to be more discriminating; doubtless he is tired.’
Nicolson knew well from his private correspondence with Lowther how much the
Ambassador, after five years at the Porte, had come to hate his posting.
‘So you place no faith in it?’ Grey inquired hopefully.
‘Oh, there may be something in it. It makes such little sense
otherwise. We have grown used to anarchist outrages in oppressed states, but
from all accounts King George was a popular Monarch, especially so following the
recent military success. Had the King been struck down by a Bulgarian or a Turk
the motive would have been clear and obvious. That it was, apparently, a Greek
causes me some unease. As for the supposed warning, Venizelos is a true Cretan
in that scheming is second nature to him; but to connive in regicide is to
impute such base motives that I cannot accept the Premier’s guilt. Certainly
not on the evidence contained in Lowther’s wire.’
Grey looked anew at Nicolson: ‘Have you heard anything privately?’
‘What do you mean?’ Nicolson attempted, without great success, to
avoid Grey’s gaze.
‘My dear Arthur, I am well aware that Fitzmaurice supplies you with
snippets of information. He appears to me to wield far too much power for an
Embassy Dragoman. Lowther relies on him too much. I have cautioned him before on
the subject. But he does have sources of intelligence denied the remainder of
the Embassy staff. Has Fitzmaurice reported on anything which would lend
credence to Lowther’s “rumours”?’
‘Nothing I am aware of,’ Nicolson lied, none too convincingly.
Grey picked up the copy of the Ambassador’s cable and read it through
again, while Nicolson focussed on the delicate painting of a Moghul prince on
the wall behind the Foreign Secretary. How much simpler life was then, he
thought; how complicated and tedious now. To have been present at the Court of
the Imperial …
Grey pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked slowly. ‘I am, as you
are aware, not at all satisfied with Lowther’s performance. He appears to
alternate between lassitude and bouts of hysteria to an excessive degree; it is
an unhealthy combination. I cannot say that his five years’ tenure at the
Porte has been an unqualified success.’
Nicolson realized at once where the conversation was heading, his moist
blue eyes now staring intently at Grey: ‘You have thought about a
successor?’
‘I think it is important to show the Turks that we still value their
friendship. Naturally, it was impossible to accede to any of Tewfik’s requests
for an alliance; however, an appointment from within the Office, rather than
from the diplomatic corps, would, I believe, send a tangible signal to the Grand
Vizier that we mean to embark on a new course. And, if the new Ambassador was of
a suitable standing, it may help to counter the German influence at the
Porte.’ Sir Edward then stood silently in front of the large wall map and
stared impassively at the coloured area denoting the Ottoman Empire. Putting his
finger on the Persian Gulf, the Foreign Secretary traced the route of the Berlin
to Baghdad Railway back from its terminus in Basra to Haidar Pasha in
Constantinople, then, from across the Bosphorus, the line snaked up through the
Balkans. He looked at Germany, coloured green on the map, and imagined for a
moment the green ink spilling out over the German border through Austria-Hungary
to Roumania, then Bulgaria, then Turkey-in-Europe, until it finally flooded out
across Asia Minor and lapped at the very border with India. If that happened,
the only means of launching an attack to safeguard India would be via Greece or
Serbia. But Serbia was landlocked; Britain’s naval might would be impotent.
Greece was the key to the situation. It was obvious, even to someone as
unschooled in military matters as Grey: from Greece, a combined attack could be
launched through the Dardanelles, to sever the enemy’s supply line. Once the
flow of reinforcements had thereby been halted, the Indian Army could go on the
offensive. There were times when Grey wondered why more heed was not paid to his
opinions in debate at the Committee of Imperial Defence.
During Grey’s meditation, Nicolson had also been immersed in his own
thoughts. Grey turned to face him: ‘Upon your retirement Arthur, and we have
to consider such matters now, in ample time, one name will go forward for your
post. I would prefer that name to be Crowe’s.’
Nicolson was both shocked and relieved: ‘So Mallet is to go to
Constantinople?’
‘Yes, Mallet has become too set in his ways here. His recent minutes
have not been edifying. If a certain lethargy has overcome him perhaps a sojourn
at the Porte might be the stimulation he requires. I have given the matter
considerable thought: nothing must stand in Crowe’s way. When Lowther’s post
becomes vacant this summer I intend that Mallet should go out to replace him.’
‘Who will then take over the Eastern Department?’
‘That will become Crowe’s responsibility as well.’
‘No-one is better qualified than Crowe to shoulder such a burden. In
fact, his work in the Eastern Department will commence immediately, though, for
the present, this will be known only to you and I. You should also know that I
have asked Crowe to attend this meeting as I have a task — a test if you like
— for him. It is a task involving judgment and some delicacy. If he succeeds
there will be no barrier left to prevent his advancement to Permanent
Under-Secretary.’
‘And if he fails?’ The question had to be asked for, with Mallet
dispatched to Constantinople, there would be now no other logical successor.
Grey looked at the map again. ‘If he fails, war becomes inevitable.’
The silence which followed was finally punctuated by a sharp rap at the door.
The upright figure of the Assistant Under-Secretary strode into the room. Crowe
was one of those people who look
efficient. He had devoted his life to the Office and already the strain was
beginning to tell, the lines etched deeply on his face making him look
distinctly older than his thirty-nine years. His whole air was one of briskness
and intelligence, a product of his Teutonic upbringing, but which tended to mask
an innate kindliness. This last quality was all but successfully disguised from
his peers but could not be hidden from the younger members of the staff amongst
whom Crowe was renowned for his thoughtfulness.
While Sir Arthur sat with head bowed, Grey repeated his fears about the
Balkan situation and of the rumour contained in Lowther’s cable.
‘Well Crowe — what is your opinion?’
Crowe had had a shrewd idea as to why he was being summoned and had
prepared for the meeting by reading all of Elliot’s dispatches from Athens for
the past month. Without pausing, he began to answer Sir Edward: ‘For the
moment, it would be impossible to consider what motive Venizelos might have for
conspiring or failing to act on any warnings. As far as I am aware, the King and
Premier generally saw eye to eye, yet, as the result of this assassination,
Crown Prince Constantine is now elevated to the throne. One must assume that he
would lean towards Germany and that, therefore, a gulf may appear between him
and Venizelos. On a purely hypothetical level, Venizelos might welcome such a
gulf if his ultimate aim is to move towards a republic … ’
‘Surely that is being too cynical?’ Grey interrupted.
‘I am afraid, Sir Edward, that when it comes to the Balkans, it is
impossible to be too cynical.’
Grey moved across to his chair and sat down; leaning forward he picked up
a large, silver-mounted ivory paperknife and gripped it so tightly that his
knuckles turned white. ‘I must know if there is something behind this dreadful
act. Did Austria have a hand in the assassination? Was Venizelos aware of the
plot, if plot there were? Who stands to gain?’ He relaxed his grip on the
paperknife slightly. ‘Do we have anyone who could report privately from
Athens? I do not want to involve Elliot; in any case, I know that he rather
abhors this side of his duties.’
Crowe and Nicolson looked at each other, waiting for one to speak. If
anything, Nicolson shared Elliot’s misgivings as to this side of foreign
affairs. “Spying” had such unfortunate connotations. Crowe, perhaps sensing
his reticence, spoke up: ‘Our best man in the Balkans is Samson, Major Samson.
He is currently working incognito as vice-consul in Adrianople, reporting on the
siege.’
‘He could conduct inquiries with absolute discretion?’ Grey inquired
tentatively.
‘I am convinced of it,’ replied Crowe, who valued Samson’s work
more highly than that of any of the military consuls whose reports crossed his
desk.
‘Very well. I entrust the matter to you. Re-assign Samson to Athens.
Instruct him to instigate confidential inquiries into the assassination. I want
to know upon whom I may rely in the Balkans. Above all, is Venizelos to be
trusted?’ Almost as an afterthought, Grey added: ‘Liaise with the War
Office, of course.’
Crowe allowed himself a sly look at Nicolson as they took their leave.
There was only one Government Department with which, in their dealings, they
experienced more trials than the War Office, and that was the Admiralty. The
great departments of War held such ossified ideas as to the conduct of
diplomacy. This was the twentieth century, after all. Of what use were
battleships when every navy possessed battleships; of what use were machine guns
and howitzers when every army possessed such weapons?
Once they were outside the Foreign Secretary’s room, Nicolson beckoned
to Crowe. The Permanent Under-Secretary removed an envelope from an inside
pocket and handed it to his protégé: ‘Here, read this, note the contents,
and return it to me at your earliest convenience.’
Crowe looked at the envelope with its unmistakable handwriting and saw at
once that it was a private letter from Fitzmaurice in Constantinople. He
returned Nicolson’s frown: ‘But surely, Sir Arthur, this is a private
correspondence?’
‘Read it,’ Nicolson replied emphatically, ‘you need to be aware of
what is going on. Do not fail me, Crowe; there is too much at stake.’
Crowe, who had never before seen Nicolson so rattled, returned to his
office to study the letter:
“British
Embassy,
Constantinople,
15
March 1913.
My
dear Sir Arthur,
As I once told you, a dragoman is merged in his chief and as I have only
politics to write about, one is afraid of saying something which may not fit in
with one’s chief’s views. I must however revert to the recent dispatch of
Sir Gerard, in which mention is made of the plot against the life of King George
of the Hellenes. As this intelligence was obtained by myself, I feel able
therefore, to inform you, very privately, of the circumstances in which it was
obtained, as they are somewhat more involved than those alluded to by Sir
Gerard.
Some weeks ago, I was visited by the Greek Minister, Kallerges, who
proceeded to tell me that he had just been informed by Wangenheim of a plot
against the King with the connivance of Austria. I at once doubted this as I
could see no reason — other than feelings of personal friendship towards
Kallerges — as to why the German Ambassador should implicate his Austrian
ally. Yet Kallerges laid such great emphasis on the probity of the Ambassador
that I began to suspect that a plot had been hatched, but which ran
counter to German ambitions for the region. From other information I have been
able to gather, I now believe that Vienna hoped to take advantage of the
confusion to make a grab for territory, particularly at the expense of Serbia.
If the crime could be laid at the door of the Serbs or Bulgarians, Vienna hoped
by such means to set one Balkan ally against the other. To restore order, the
Austrians planned to march into Salonica.
Such a scheme would have been, as you are doubtless aware, fraught with
danger. And the greatest danger for Germany would have been to have been dragged
into such an imbroglio by the rashness of her ally. A war now would come too
early for Wilhelm — better to give diplomacy a chance. The Turks and
Bulgarians are almost won over to the German cause; Greece will be next. By
informing the Greeks therefore, through Wangenheim, that an assassination is
planned, Wilhelm accomplishes two things — first, the Austrian scheme, with
all its attendant dangers, is nullified; second, he portrays himself as the
champion of the Greeks (even if this does prevent his brother-in-law from
gaining the throne!). For these reasons, I believe that Wangenheim was not dissembling and that the warning was accurate. Kallerges certainly was of opinion that the attempt
would be made, and has duly warned Athens.”
Crowe folded the letter, tapped it on the desk a few times, and then
slowly pushed back his chair. He made to stand, then resumed his position,
pulled the chair to the desk and reached for pen and paper. The Assistant
Under-Secretary quickly made a copy of the letter.
As
another shower scudded in from the east, in the warmth of the Admiralty building
Prince Louis of Battenberg, the First Sea Lord, burst in on his chief, Winston
Churchill. It seemed difficult to appreciate that the pink cherubic figure
seated behind the enormous desk could arouse such divided feelings. He could be
infuriating; he could be brilliant; he could be petulant and childish. Prince
Louis was prepared to forgive him his faults however, as Winston clearly had the
best interests of the Navy at heart. If only he would refrain from needlessly
upsetting the older Admirals on the list. Beresford, for example, was an
opinionated, crushing bore; but he still had powerful allies and needed to be
cultivated, not alienated. However, so long as Winston maintained his supposedly
discreet association with Fisher (while Winston took great pains to keep all
their meetings secret, Fisher delighted in telling all and sundry that he had
the private ear of the First Lord of the Admiralty), he would never get anywhere
with Beresford.
‘First Lord, this F.O. wire has just come through. King George has just
been mortally wounded in Salonica.’
The news did not seem to take Churchill by surprise; but this was simply
his method of appearing at all times to be in control. ‘Do we have a
motive?’
‘None has yet surfaced. It seems odd that, by all accounts, a Greek has
pulled the trigger.’
‘The King was our man, wasn’t he?’ Churchill then casually
inquired.
‘Yes. The Balkan position was as secure in our favour as ever it could
be while George remained on the throne. Of his heir, I am not so sure. By all
accounts Constantine is his own man but he is also, as you know, the Kaiser’s
brother-in-law. I believe it to be inconceivable that he will not come under
intense pressure from that quarter.’
While Prince Louis talked, Churchill tried to recall the myriad strands
of European royalty. Why was there so much intermingling? It did not, he
silently assured himself, contribute to keeping the peace; in fact, almost the
reverse. Who doubted that the German Kaiser’s almost pathological envy of
Britain did not stem from having Queen Victoria as his grandmother? And the
Glücksburgs,
the Danish royal family imported into Greece in 1863, had been as calculating as
any in their choice of partners: George’s sister was Queen Alexandra of
Britain; George’s son Constantine had married Sophie, the Kaiser’s sister.
However, there was one liaison which might now work in their favour:
Constantine’s younger brother Andrew had married Battenberg’s own daughter,
Alice. Churchill looked up at the dignified, erect, blue-bearded figure before
him, the very model of an admiral (for he could have been nothing else), and, as
insouciantly as possible, as he perhaps knew what the answer would be, inquired:
‘Have we any method of countering such pressure? Your daughter, perhaps?’
Although he had been expecting the question to be put, Battenberg still
frowned at the proposition: ‘No, First Lord, I would prefer to leave her out
of this. If Constantine is to be influenced it will have to be by some other
means.’
‘Do you have any suggestions?’ At that, the flicker of a smile
flashed across the face of Prince Louis. A less observant onlooker might have
mistaken it for a twitch, but such things did not escape the attention of the
First Lord. ‘You clearly have some devious plan hatching,’ Churchill
continued. ‘Should I know about it?’
‘Not a plan, First Lord, and hardly devious. Call it, instead, an
“opportunity”. The Greeks, as you know, employ a British Naval Mission for
training and other purposes. Although the current Balkan War will soon end, at
some future time the Greeks will again fight the Turks, of that I am sure. We
also have a Naval Mission in place in Constantinople … ’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Churchill. ‘A curious state of affairs when we
are training both sides to slaughter each other.’ He recalled the feeling of
revulsion he had experienced when news had first come through of the massacres
perpetrated upon the indigenous population of Libya by the so-called civilized
Italians, whom he, initially, fully supported. He was as upset as anyone — it
was simply not true that he was a war monger.
Ignoring the First Lord’s momentary fit of scruples, Prince Louis
continued: ‘The Greeks are a jealous peoples. They feel, rightly or wrongly,
that, as the maintenance of the Ottoman Empire is of more importance to us than
a strong, independent Greece, we have placed officers of a better calibre in
Constantinople. I understand that they refer to our men in Athens as “Naval
Pensioners” and have refused to renew the contract of Admiral Tufnell, which
has just expired. Personally, I believe there is some substance in this
allegation. I would not be unhappy to secure for them an officer who viewed his
tenure there as an opportunity to be seized, rather than as a comfortable
sinecure in preparation for retirement. Now … ’ And here there was a very
deliberate, measured pause, ‘ … if we could also ensure that that officer
followed our instructions to the letter and was known personally to Constantine
there might be some chance that the new King could be steered towards at least
tacitly supporting our Balkan policy.’
Churchill leaned back: ‘Do we
have a Balkan policy? If so, I would be grateful if you could explain it to
me.’ Prince Louis did not rise to the bait, leaving Churchill petulantly to
inquire: ‘Do we possess such an officer?’
‘Yes, First Lord, we do. Mark Kerr. He is known to me personally. Not
only is he an able officer but more important he has known the Greek Royal
family for twenty-five years. As a matter of fact he was with me in Athens in
’89 for the wedding of Constantine and, I believe, he has kept in touch with
the Prince ever since.’
‘Kerr?’, mused Churchill carefully as he obviously tried to recall
something. ‘Kerr? I know the name. A member of your own secret coterie,
isn’t he? Did not Jacky Fisher try to foist him on me when I first came to the
Admiralty?’ For all his childlike enthusiasm upon entering the Admiralty,
Churchill had been careful not to be overly swayed by Fisher’s relentless
“suggestions”. Indeed, he had taken great delight in rejecting all the names
Fisher had put forward; he was to be his own man.
If Battenberg was affronted by this reference to his close friend he did
not show it: ‘ “Foist” is hardly the right word, First Lord. But you are
correct: Kerr has been, in addition to his usual duties, operating in a secret
capacity for some years.’
Though he would not admit it, this aspect of Admiralty work fascinated
Churchill, a fact on which Battenberg was counting. The First Lord sat upright,
his eyes fixed firmly on Prince Louis: ‘Pray, enlighten me.’
‘In the course of his duties, Kerr has, at various times, come into
close contact with our friend in Berlin. The Kaiser is, in fact, godfather to
Kerr’s daughter. It seemed a pity to waste such an opportunity, so we decided
to use Kerr as a conduit through which we could channel information that we knew
Wilhelm wished to hear, but which, at the same time, was somewhat less than
accurate.’
‘We?’ growled Churchill.
‘So Fisher was involved?’
‘Sir John never set great store in an organized and politically
controlled Secret Service. He much prefers, as you know, to be in complete
command himself. He liked to boast when here that, when necessary, he could have
information, as he put it, ‘whispered in the German Emperor’s ear’. When I
was D.N.I.*
during Sir John’s tenure he soon decided that, Tirpitz apart, the German navy
owed its being to the Kaiser. He was confident upon assuming office that with
our preponderance in older vessels and our ability to outbuild Germany on a ship
for ship basis our supremacy would remain unchallenged. Until, that is, the
advent of Dreadnought and
Invincible. Such vessels, naturally, rendering all other line of battle
ships obsolete at a stroke, meant that we would both be starting from the same
line whereas Sir John always favoured the handicap system.’ Battenberg broke
off momentarily and fixed his gaze on the painting of Dreadnought
which graced the far wall of the First Lord’s room. ‘He determined to do
something, but soon came to realize that there was little opportunity to
disguise our intentions with Dreadnought;
Invincible, however, was another
matter. The battle cruiser class always was closer to Sir John’s heart. He
told me privately at the time that he only agreed to the laying down of Dreadnought
on the condition that he could have his three Invincibles.
Yet, as far as the Germans were aware, Invincible
was simply another large cruiser, a natural progression from the previous class;
they had, we were convinced, no idea as to her true firepower and speed. We
therefore determined to confirm their belief.’
The First Lord shifted in his seat and began to fidget with a pen. ‘I
am not sure I want to hear this.’
Battenberg ignored this plaintive request: ‘It was quite simple really.
We had two sets of plans made; one for us and one for them. Ours were, of
course, accurate in every detail. Theirs rather underestimated the calibre of
the main weapons and the speed.’
‘And where did Kerr fit in all this? Why was this not brought before
the Defence Committee?’
Battenberg ignored the latter question. ‘Kerr, at the time Captain of a
small cruiser, struck up an acquaintance with a person we knew to be one of
their agents. It had to be done carefully. At first Kerr was of little interest
to the agent. Then, as part of the plot, he was assigned to the Admiralty in an
unofficial capacity to acquaint himself with the details of the new ship, as it
was proposed to name him as the first captain of Invincible.
This meant he was allowed legitimate access to the plans. As time was pressing,
he was even encouraged to study them at home, though only one section at a time.
We anticipated that, if the agent, who was in receipt of invitations to Kerr’s
home, chanced upon a complete set of plans, even he might wonder at his good fortune and wonderment would turn to
suspicion. But if he could view the faked plans, piecemeal, all the while
thinking himself clever to have infiltrated the Admiralty, then, we reasoned,
there was all the more chance that the ruse would work and they would be
accepted as genuine.’
‘And the result was Blücher.’
‘Precisely, First Lord. Inferior in every way to Invincible.’
Churchill pounced at once upon the obvious objection: ‘Surely, however,
upon discovering the ruse, Kerr’s value for such future escapades would be
instantly compromised.’
‘We also thought of that. Kerr, with his connections in Berlin, was too
valuable to waste. We …’ Battenberg paused, as the memory of the episode
returned and, with it, his delight at the outcome of the operation. ‘We let it
be known in the right circles, through our own
agent in the German Admiralty, that their
man had double-crossed them. He had, so our agent maintained, stolen the real
plans and sold them to the Russians, but not before making a fake set, which he
then sold to the Germans.’
‘That is despicable,’ Churchill declared not very convincingly, while
sharing in Battenberg’s delight. ‘I assume the German agent found his
working days at an end?’
‘He disappeared while travelling on the steamer from Ostend to Harwich.
His body never was found.’
‘So Kerr remains untainted?’
‘Yes; if anything, his value to us has increased. The Germans, who
never suspected his involvement, recognized that, having been supposedly duped
once, the same operation might be undertaken once more, using a more reliable
agent. And, since the Invincible
episode, Kerr has taken pains to cultivate the Kaiser. We made sure he was in
Corfu in ’08 for Willy’s visit and, at our prompting, he suggested to the
Emperor that it would be a useful exercise if they corresponded. You know how
fascinated Willy is by all things nautical. This gave Kerr the excuse to write a
series of, how shall I put it, rather indiscreet letters reporting on so-called
advances in the engineering field and mentioning, I am afraid, the opinions of
certain Cabinet Ministers with whom he had spoken.’
‘Precisely what sentiments have you been putting into my colleagues’
mouths?’
‘Oh, dropping the “Two Power Standard”; that sort of thing.’
The First Lord spluttered involuntarily. ‘I trust, Louis, that you have
this firmly under control?’ Battenberg shifted uneasily, clearly intent on
framing his answer. ‘First Sea Lord?’ Churchill demanded in a menacing tone.
The First Sea Lord looked Churchill directly in the eye: ‘Kerr has, at
times, been a little inclined to take his duties too seriously.’
‘How inclined?’
‘He has, for example, on occasion reported your own opinions to the
Kaiser. Or what, I should say, he believes the Kaiser wishes to think is your
opinion.’
Churchill leaned back. His restless eyes wandered along the walls of the
First Lord’s office. There, set out before him, was a painted history of
British naval mastery. Once more, the navy, his
navy, was engaged in a life or death struggle with an adversary who, on current
estimates, would match the Royal Navy ship-for-ship in a matter of years. The
situation was too serious to accommodate such amateur fumblings. He must put a
stop to this. ‘If — and it remains for the time being, an ‘if’ — Kerr
does go to Athens, to head your Naval Mission, what guarantee is there that he
will not, similarly, become carried away? His allegiance must be to us and to us
alone; is there not a danger that he might become too closely associated with
the Greeks in such a post?’
Battenberg breathed more easily; he had known all along that Churchill
could not resist such a scheme. ‘I think I can give that assurance, First
Lord. I myself will tutor Kerr on his responsibilities. Nothing will go wrong.
If it works, we can, at best, count on Greece siding with us in any future
Balkan difficulty. At worst, their neutrality is assured.’
‘And if it doesn’t work, you, Louis, will pay the penalty.’
Battenberg started; he had not counted on this; he knew, better than anyone,
Kerr’s overabundant romantic streak. If they fell, they would fall together.
‘Returning to the issue at hand,’ Churchill continued, ‘how do you propose
that we elicit from the Greeks an offer to renew the Naval Mission?’
‘I have made some preliminary inquiries, and I am convinced that
Stratos, their Minister of Marine, is sound. He is on our side. I believe a
personal approach from you, First Lord, would have the best chance of
succeeding.’
‘And when do you suggest would be the proper moment at which to make
this personal approach?’
‘When are we scheduled to embark on Enchantress,
First Lord?’
Churchill grinned: ‘I suspected as much.’
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