Chapter 9 : The Offer

While his colleagues had been enjoying their Mediterranean cruise, it had been left to Sir Edward Grey to try to get the warring Balkan delegates to agree to a peace formula. The interminable Ambassadors’ Conference had sorely tried his patience, and it was with no little relief that he had received the cable from Lowther in Constantinople on 17 April that the suspension of hostilities had been agreed between Bulgaria and Turkey. By 5 May a draft treaty of peace had been prepared and was ready for submission to the delegates. That morning had dawned fine and sunny after a week of almost continuous rain and Sir Edward, ever anxious to see signs in nature, believed at last that he could look forward to a peaceful summer, free of further crises; a peaceful summer at Fallodon.

                The delegates had assembled that morning with a notable lifting of the tension which had been ever present at these meetings since the renewal of hostilities after the temporary winter armistice. This end of term atmosphere did not outlive the presentation of the draft treaty. The old rancour surfaced immediately: why was this line to be drawn there and not here? Why was this land being ceded to that country when ethnically the population belonged to that country? All the old debates were re-opened as Grey’s summer plans receded into the distance. Finally, by 27 May, the Foreign Secretary had had enough. The delegates from Serbia, Greece, Bulgaria, Montenegro and Turkey were peremptorily summoned to his room at the Foreign Office. One by one they were shown in, in their ill-fitting frock coats, and made to stand in a line in front of Sir Edward’s desk. The Foreign Secretary picked up the draft treaty, walked once along the line of recalcitrant delegates, paused, then turned to repeat the inspection in the other direction. Heads nervously followed this normally most even tempered of men.

                Grey’s knowledge of French was enough to allow him to read dispatches written in the language; he was less happy trying to converse in it. But desperate times required desperate measures. The Foreign Secretary raised his arm and pointed his outstretched finger in such a manner that each of the delegates believed he, and he alone, was being singled out. With his other arm Grey raised the copy of the peace treaty upon no-one could agree. ‘Ou signer,’ he shouted (which in itself was enough even to make Sir Arthur Nicolson jump), ‘ou partir!’

                The delegates eyed one another. Osman Nisami Pasha, the Turkish representative, who knew that the terms of the treaty could have been far worse for his country, spoke first. In the Sultan’s name, he would be willing to sign. The Greek and Serbian representatives, privy to their own countries’ secret dealings and ambitions, also announced their willingness to accommodate the Foreign Secretary. The delegate from Montenegro could not do anything until he had cable King Nicholas, but realized that there was little option other than to sign. This left the Bulgarian, Monsieur Danew, also his country’s foreign minister, who knew that to put his name to such a treaty, in which Bulgaria was not to be rewarded commensurate with the effort expanded militarily, would be to commit political suicide. He remained ominously silent.

                The Bulgarians, it would transpire, had plans of their own. Nevertheless, they proved incapable of calling Grey’s bluff — if bluff it were — and, three days later, having received instructions from Sofia, Monsieur Danew agreed to sign. Sir Edward entered his room late on the afternoon of 30 May and laid his leather bound copy of the signed treaty reverentially on his desk. A smile played on his face and he looked contentedly at the silver-framed photograph of Fallodon. He had achieved the impossible — peace in the Balkans.

Winston Churchill paced up and down in the First Lord’s room at the Admiralty, occasionally peering out the window across Horse Guards Parade where couples strolled leisurely. In his hand he gripped tightly the official letter he had just received from the Greek Minister of Marine requesting the renewal of the British Naval Mission, but this time to be comprised of serving officers. The First Lord’s amanuensis, Eddie Marsh, sat, notepad and pencil in hand, fondly remembering his time cruising in the Adriatic until his daydreaming was interrupted by Churchill’s command: ‘Take this down, Eddie. “To the Greek Minister of Marine. Although at the present time the rapid expansion of the British naval forces imposes a considerable strain upon our own resources in personnel, Prince Louis of Battenberg and I are anxious on grounds of general naval policy to do our best to meet your wishes. The actual numbers and rank of the officers who would be employed should not be settled until after consultation with the head of the mission. Without however going into that or any other detail in this letter, I can assure you that we are prepared to place some of the best officers on the active list of the British Navy at your disposal.” ’ Marsh stopped writing for a moment, and look quizzically at his boss.

                ‘Yes, Eddie, I know. War is almost upon us; it is for precisely this reason that we must adhere to the conditions set by our Greek friends. We need all the support we can muster in the Balkans.’

                ‘To the extent of denuding our own service?’

                ‘The admiral I propose to send is of an original bent of mind, Eddie. Too original, I believe, to sit happily alongside Callaghan’s more orthodox disciples in the North Sea. And once Callaghan departs, as he will when the trumpets finally sound, Jellicoe will demand absolute obedience to his own doctrine. Believe me, the best place for our candidate is Greece. And now that you have interrupted my train of thought can we continue? Where was I?’

                Marsh, still not convinced, read back the last sentence and Churchill continued: ‘ “There is, however, one indispensable condition. We cannot ask officers who have the brightest prospects for advancement in the British Service to leave the great fleets in home waters for service under the Greek Navy unless it is certain that their professional duties in the Greek Navy will be of a real and responsible character, and that they will have effective authority to discharge those responsibilities to the advantage of the Greek Navy and their own reputation. If you feel able to put me in a position to give the necessary assurances, I should propose to invite Rear-Admiral Mark Kerr to head the Naval Mission to Greece. This is one of the most gifted and brilliant officers in our service, of whom we fully expect in the future that he will rise at an early age to the most important commands. I am confident that there is no man who could more effectively aid the development of Greek naval power up to the point where it will be fully equal to the emergencies of the future.” ’ Churchill waited for Marsh to stop writing. ‘Well, Eddie?’

                ‘I don’t like it.’ Marsh’s concern was transparent.

                Churchill wished he could tell Marsh the full story; it was as much to protect his own position that he realized the secret of Kerr’s appointment should extend no further than himself and Battenberg. He smiled benignly at Marsh: ‘Have that typed up Eddie, and ask Prince Louis to call when he has a moment.’

                As soon as Marsh had left Churchill took down a current copy of the Army List and looked up the name of “Samson”. As he half expected, the entry was not illuminating. From that, and other sources, Churchill had gleaned no more than the following information, which he casually jotted down: “Born 1866. Entered Army, Lancs. Fusiliers, 1886; Captain, 1893; Major (King’s Own Regiment), 1907. Served in South African War.” He then telephoned Colonel Barnes, who, as a subaltern, had been with Churchill in Cuba in ’95, and was now serving at the War Office. Barnes promised to find out what he could about Major Samson and telephone back. As Churchill replaced the receiver, Battenberg entered.

                ‘I’ve just seen Eddie Marsh and he seems in high dudgeon. What have you been doing to upset him?’

                Churchill picked up the letter from Athens and handed in to the First Sea Lord. ‘Eddie is not convinced that our interests are being best served by sending this “gifted and brilliant” officer to Greece. Eddie can be the sole of discretion but the secret must go no further than this room. There is one thing however that does need to be done; I have not forgotten your remark regarding Kerr’s nature. We need therefore something in writing in case the Admiral does take his duties too seriously. I have just scribbled this — what do you think?’

                Battenberg read from the paper he was handed: “Memorandum. Rear-Admiral Kerr is to be warned against imparting to the Greek Government and to Greek naval officers, naval information of a specially secret character. It is not intended that the instruction and assistance we are giving to the Greek Navy should place them on the same level of naval science as the British. The refinements of our gunnery, torpedo, and submarine courses should not be disclosed but only that general information such as would be appropriate to foreign officers allowed for instructional purposes to attend certain courses. It must be continually borne in mind that information imparted to the Greek Government or the Greek Navy may be transmitted to Germany, and that we have no corresponding method of obtaining information of German developments. Admiral Mark Kerr will be held responsible that due caution and restraint is observed by him and by the officers of the Mission generally: and he should be told to ask for precise instructions on any point on which he is in doubt. Admiral Kerr’s primary duty must always be to his own service.”

                Perhaps for the first time, the full realization of what he was about to do to his friend came home to the First Sea Lord: ‘So Kerr is to be cast adrift, should the plan miscarry?’

                ‘The Admiral is dispensable, Louis. Surely you appreciated that when you proposed this scheme to me?’

                Battenberg could not deny the logic of Churchill’s position. But it was a cruel logic and, the thought crossed his mind at once, if Kerr was to be left to sink if the plan went awry, surely his own position was not safe either. ‘What do you intend to do with this memorandum?’ Battenberg asked.

                Churchill noticed the First Sea Lord’s discomfiture, which caused him also to question the wisdom of what they were intending to do. However the plan, having been set in motion, had now developed a morbid momentum of its own. ‘For the time being, it will be deposited in my safe. If needs be, it can then be produced whenever the situation calls for its publication.’ As Battenberg stood there, consumed by his own private thoughts, the telephone rang; Churchill put his hand to the receiver, looked up at Battenberg, who took the hint, turned smartly and left the room.

                ‘Winston? It’s Regy Barnes about your Major Samson. Nothing to do with us old boy — he’s on secondment to the Foreign Office at the moment. Suggest you try them. What’s it all about?’

                Churchill muttered something about meeting him in Athens and rang off. He leaned back in his chair, trying to recall how Samson had been introduced to him at the Legation dinner. Surely he had been styled ‘Assistant Military Attaché’? Then, suddenly, it came to him: where he had heard the name before. Samson had been the official observer Admiral Burney had mentioned when Churchill attempted to accompany the international relief force to Scutari. Then the mysterious Major Samson turns up at the Legation in Athens. Why, he asked himself, should the Foreign Office second an army officer? Churchill knew that a direct approach to the F.O. would get him nowhere; they were as secretive in their dealings as his own department. Perhaps a friendly word with Grey? No, reasoned Churchill, the decision to second Samson was probably taken at a lower level. Grey was renowned for the latitude he gave his under-secretaries.

                Emerging from behind a tracery of clouds, the sun streamed into his office. In the stuffy atmosphere his thoughts ran away with him: was the Foreign Office pursuing its own agenda in Greece? If so, how could he ascertain their game? A request to the British Minister was out of the question and there was no use putting the Naval Attaché to work as Captain Boyle already had too much on his hands surreptitiously surveying the Turkish defences at the Dardanelles in addition to his duties as the Attaché to Italy, Greece and Turkey. Churchill leaned forward again, and idly picked up the letter from the Greek Minister of Marine and his own reply: “I should propose to invite Rear-Admiral Mark Kerr to head the Naval Mission to Greece … ” Of course — there was the answer! Kerr could be detailed to investigate Samson. There was naturally the problem that Kerr would not travel out to Athens to commence his duties until the late summer, but, with the signing only days before of the Treaty of London, peace had been restored to the Balkans and there seemed little prospect of anything untoward happening in the months before Kerr’s arrival.

Sir Francis Elliot should have been contented. After the upheaval of the Balkan War and the assassination of the King, order appeared slowly to be returning to Greece. The new King was still settling in and, as such, was determined not to favour one side or the other. And the London Peace Treaty had been signed even if, from what he had heard, Sir Edward Grey had had to knock some recalcitrant heads together to accomplish this overdue conclusion to his wearisome task. But Sir Francis was not content; not if the latest report from Sofia was true. Henry Bax-Ironside, Sir Francis knew, had excellent sources and was a first rate man not given to seeing spectres. Elliot called in his First Secretary. Henry Beaumont emerged from his den pleased to be able to break off the compilation of the annual trade report which bored him. Without acknowledging his entrance, Sir Francis passed the decode to Beaumont: ‘What do you make of this?’

                Beaumont read the latest report from the Bulgarian capital: “Bax-Ironside to Grey. No. 139 Secret. Owing to fears entertained of the exaggerated territorial pretensions of Bulgaria in the direction both of Monastir and Salonica, I learn on good authority that the Greek and Serbian Governments are contemplating a more formal agreement than the entente reported in my telegram no. 62 of 10th October last, and that negotiations are proceeding at Athens for the settlement of the frontier between the future Greek and Serbian possessions in Macedonia, and for a secret defensive treaty between the two countries.”

                Beaumont knew at once what his boss was getting at. ‘As usual, Minister, Sir Henry’s sources of information are excellent.’

                ‘Precisely, Beaumont, precisely! How do you think it looks in the Foreign Office when the most up-to-date information regarding Greek intentions is cabled not from Athens but from Sofia? Why do we not have access to the same information?’

                Beaumont knew that the reason was Elliot himself: the Minister had made his feelings about this side of diplomatic activity only too well known in London. Their only “agent” (a grandiose title which would have embarrassed its owner) was a friendly-disposed Greek naval officer, who had been educated in England, and who supplied snippets of interesting, if hardly revelatory, information, much of it gleaned from technical journals. ‘Sir Henry,’ Beaumont explained patiently, ‘is not as scrupulous when it comes to employing agents, and I have heard it said that he is in receipt of secret funds for the purpose. In the scheme of things, Bulgaria is more important to both sides than is Greece. Besides, one must assume that Greece and Serbia still lean towards the Entente while Bulgaria and Turkey lean in the opposite direction. If that is so, then it is only natural that spies will gravitate towards one’s enemies in an attempt to learn their intentions. As a result, Greek intentions are avidly studied in Sofia. And as most of the Bulgarian agents would happily sell on whatever information that comes into their possession to whoever is prepared to pay, it becomes a simple task for Sir Henry to indulge in such speculation.’

                ‘There is a danger, is there not, in relying too much upon the word of a man who is prepared to betray his country’s secrets?’

                ‘The only alternative, Sir Francis, would be to have our own agents. However, so long as Ferdinand continues to make warlike noises in Sofia while the supposedly pacific Monsieur Venizelos holds sway here, Athens will not become the focus for any concerted effort by the Foreign Office to infiltrate agents, either with, or without, our connivance.’

                ‘Then what do you make of Major Samson’s presence?’ Elliot countered.

                Beaumont was waiting for this. Since his arrival, the subject of the Major’s supposed mission had occupied a good deal of the time of the junior members of the Legation. Montgomery-Cuninghame’s duties were light enough as it was without needing the benefit of an assistant Military Attaché. And, although he had been tight-lipped about his recent activities, it was known that Samson had been present at the sieges of Adrianople and Scutari (the tone of annoyance in Admiral Burney’s letter to Elliot had been unmistakable). So much speculation had followed that Beaumont was becoming annoyed by the subject: ‘Checking up on us?’ he ventured.

                Elliot produced a white silk handkerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose. ‘Perhaps. For the time being, until I can ascertain the precise nature of his mission, I do not want him to be shown any confidential dispatches. He is to be treated with civility, mind you, but all due caution.’

                At that moment, it would have been difficult to treat Major Samson with anything other than civility. As a temporary expedient, Samson had been billeted with Tommy Montgomery-Cuninghame, the Military Attaché, whose private means allowed him the luxury of a suite at the Hotel d’Angleterre. However, no sooner had Samson settled in, than he had been struck down with a mild recurrence of the dysentery that had first afflicted him in Adrianople. With no reserves available to fight it, Samson’s condition deteriorated until, upon Beaumont’s urgent recommendation, he was placed in the clinic of Dr Aravantinos in Asclepius Street. Weakened by the exertion of his recent travels, Samson’s case caused great concern; by the fifth day hope was almost lost. The Major became delirious. The cool, sterile whiteness of his room mocked him. He became convinced that Dr Aravantinos was actually Professor Karo in disguise; that it was all a plot to do away with him. Karo’s face leered out of the walls at him. Such was the intensity of his visions that, whenever Dr Aravantinos was summoned, Samson thrashed more wildly than ever.

                The doctor interpreted this as a sign that the end was near and a priest was sent for. When the priest entered the room, Samson reacted more violently than before: were they all blind? This was no priest, it was Hans Humann in disguise. Could they not see it? Were they all involved in the plot? In desperation, having escorted the terrified priest from the room, the doctor bade one of the nurses to sit through the night with Samson. Only her presence seemed to calm him. The nurse spoke to Samson in Greek of her family, and, though Samson could not understand her, it was oddly soothing. That night, he listened without comprehension to her stories of her younger brothers, of her mother’s struggle after the premature death of her father, and of the love of her life, the young man about to sit his law exams and who hoped eventually to enter politics.

                At dawn the fever broke. Having slept fitfully, Samson awoke with a massive headache and an equally massive hunger. To satisfy the latter he was brought his usual meal: boiled rice and a cup of boiled water. After a week of this regimen Samson’s complaints became so vociferous that, as a concession, a few vegetables were added to the rice. It was not until the middle of June that he felt able to resume his long-delayed mission. Still unsteady on his feet, the Major spent a few days idly sightseeing once he had left the clinic; then, feeling the need for some sea air, he spent a further two days exploring the Piraeus until, finally, the moment had come to present himself back at the Legation. His hollowed cheeks accentuated the large, domed forehead; the effect was such that the head did not appear to belong to the body. Elliot and Beaumont both welcomed him warmly, although shocked at the physical transformation. His old clothes, which had been a reasonably tight fit, now hung loosely; but it was more than that. It was not until he was closer that Beaumont noted that it was also his very flesh which now appeared to hang limply from the Major’s body.