The Man who Missed the War Read online

  ‘That’s true enough,’ the Admiral nodded. ‘Look how this feller Hitler has tackled the unemployed question. There were eight million of ’em when he came to power, but he’s managed to find work for practically everyone on new roads and canals, and one thing and another.’

  ‘And in building a new Air Force to bomb Britain,’ added Philip.

  ‘He’s not building much of an Air Force, dear,’ Pin Marlow put in. ‘Mr. Baldwin said in the House not long ago that the R.A.F. is far stronger.’

  ‘Then he made a criminally misleading statement.’

  ‘That’s pretty strong language to use about the ex-Prime Minister, Philip,’ said his father.

  ‘But doesn’t it stand to reason, Dad? Hitler couldn’t employ eight million men on making roads and canals, and the German export trade is no better than it was when he took over. The only way he’s been able to find jobs for these enormous numbers is by going all out on full-scale rearmament. Nine-tenths of those eight million are hard at it turning out guns, tanks, planes and submarines. And whatever the true comparative strengths of the British and German Air Force are today, our production is limited by Parliamentary estimates, whereas Germany’s is not. That’s why they’re bound to overhaul us before long and old Baldwin’s statement was so wickedly misleading.’

  ‘Of course, Hitler is rearming to a certain extent,’ admitted the Admiral. ‘There can be no doubt about that. But why should you suppose that his intentions are necessarily hostile towards Britain?’

  ‘Hang it all, sir!’ Philip threw out his knobbly hands in a little helpless gesture. ‘It was the British Empire that defeated Germany last time, wasn’t it? The French lost so many men that they were practically out of the game by 1916, and the Americans only arrived in really big numbers towards the end. It’s Britain that bars the way to German world domination, so whatever other plans Hitler may have he’s bound to have a showdown with us sooner or later. If he doesn’t his people will sling him out. The Germans are the last people to go on piling up armaments indefinitely without any intention of using them; and, if Hitler won’t play, the Junker Generals will find another leader who will.’

  ‘Do stop him, Daddy!’ Ellen said in a bored voice. ‘Other wise, he’ll be giving us the whole of the speech he made when the debating society up at Cambridge discussed rearmament last term.’

  ‘So that’s where you got all this stuff, eh?’ smiled Captain Vaudell.

  Philip flushed slightly. ‘Not altogether. I’ve talked these things over with lots of chaps of my age—and we’ve got pretty good reason to be interested, you know. After all, if there is another war it will be we who’ll have to do most of the fighting this time.’

  ‘Do you really think there will be?’ asked the Canon.

  ‘I can’t see what’s to prevent it. My generation is absolutely powerless, and, to be frank, yours seems hypnotised with the extraordinary idea that, having fought the Germans to a stand-still in your youth, there’s nothing more you need do about it.’

  ‘What would you have us do?’

  ‘Do!’ said Philip. ‘Why, take steps to meet the sort of situation we may be called on to face in five years’ time—or less.’

  ‘What steps would you have them take?’ the Canon persisted.

  ‘Well, look at the Army. When the Scots Greys were due to be mechanised they kicked up a fuss, so the order was cancelled and they were allowed to keep their horses. That simply couldn’t happen in any other country, but here the War Office simply said what damn’ good sportsmen they were, and purely on sentimental grounds the future efficiency of one of our crack regiments was sacrificed. The higher ranks of the Army are still packed with fox-hunting squires who haven’t the faintest conception of what the next war is going to be like; yet the foreman of any factory you care to go into could give them a pretty good idea. It will be a war of machines and technicians. It will be fought with giant tanks, motorised artillery, cannon mounted in aeroplanes, television sets, and every other man in it will have to be either a motor mechanic or a wireless expert. Yet, what are we doing to prepare for such a war? Just nothing! We haven’t got a single battery of anti-aircraft guns. Those lunatics at the War Office scrapped the lot after the last war. They scrapped the camouflage units too, and most of the other new ideas that enterprising civilians had succeeded in forcing on them. They won’t hear of giving the infantry sub-machine guns, but still put their faith in the bayonet, and if it weren’t for public opinion I bet they’d have scrapped the Tank Corps too. Their attitude to it is clear enough from the fact that it’s been kept so small.’

  The Admiral had gone a shade pinker, and his voice was a little gruff as he said: ‘That’s all very well, but there’s one thing you seem to forget—money. The Services have to cut their coats according to the cloth they are given. Essentials must come first—barracks, rations, pay, uniforms and so on. Then they have to keep up the equipment they’ve already got. The income-tax payer would have to ante-up quite a bit more in the pound before we could afford to go in for the sort of luxuries you suggest?’

  ‘Yes, to some extent, sir, but not altogether. Doesn’t it depend on what are considered as essentials? For example, what about the six hundred horses of the Scots Greys that are still eating their heads off? Are they essential? And surely it’s better to have one thousand troops equipped with, and trained in the use of, the latest scientific devices for destroying the enemy than two battalions of footsloggers with obsolete weapons?’

  The Admiral passed a pink hand over his bald pate. ‘I’m no soldier, so I can’t answer that one. But tell me, you young fire-eater, just as a matter of interest, what do you consider should be regarded as the first essential by the Royal Navy in preparing for any future war?’

  Philip smiled. ‘That’s easy. There was only one time when Britain stood in real danger of defeat in the last war. That was after the Germans launched their unrestricted U-boat campaign. You’ll know much more about that than I do, sir, but I gather it was absolutely touch and go in 1917. We were losing far more shipping than we could possibly build, and if that had gone on for another few months our war industries would have dried up through lack of raw materials from America, until finally we should have been faced with starvation and compelled to surrender.’

  ‘Yes, that was a grim time. But we got the menace under control by the convoy system.’

  ‘I know, and maybe the convoy system would do the trick again—or maybe it wouldn’t if our enemies happen to have thought up some new device to counter it. Torpedo-carrying aircraft, perhaps, or something like that. Anyhow, sir, if I were their Lordships at the Admiralty I should have only one concern: the absolute paramount and vital necessity of being one hundred per cent secure in what was found to be our weak spot last time. I would take risks anywhere else and yet face a war with confidence if I could only be certain of keeping our Atlantic lifeline open.’

  The Admiral shrugged. ‘The protection of our trade routes has always been a first principle of British Naval strategy, and you need have no fears as to the efficiency of the convoy system; particularly as we too shall have aircraft to assist us in convoy protection next time. But their Lordships certainly don’t share your views about taking risks in other spheres. It’s no secret that under the last Naval treaty we are entitled to build three new battleships for delivery in 1939, and every Ministry of Marine in Europe must know by now that King George V, Prince of Wales and Duke of York are on the stocks.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Philip. ‘But that’s sheer madness!’

  ‘Philip!’ said his father in a sharp warning voice.

  ‘But Dad!’ He stood up and once again threw out his large-jointed hands. ‘Think of the money those great ships will cost! At the very least twenty million pounds! And the Atlantic won’t be safe for shipping if they’re going to rely on the old convoy system of two or three escorts for forty or fifty cargo vessels. The Germans are not like us. They don’t neglect the lessons of past wars. D�
�you think they’ll enter the next one with only fifty or sixty U-boats? Not likely! Submarines can be built in parts, and stored in secret. Within two or three months of the outbreak of a new war the Germans may have two, three, perhaps five, hundred U-boats at sea. They’ll hunt in flotillas, and the convoy escorts will be helpless against such numbers. We’ll need hundreds of small, fast submarine chasers and spotting aircraft to co-operate with them. With all these millions we could build them; yet the money’s to be squandered on these absurd outmoded monsters that can be blown up in five minutes by half a score of big armour-piercing bombs. I tell you their Lordships are stark staring crazy!’

  ‘Philip!’ rapped out his father. ‘Whatever your opinions may be, to air them with such lack of restraint is positively disgraceful. You will apologise to Admiral Jolly at once!’

  For a moment Philip stood there as though he had not heard. His face was flushed, his blue eyes seemed to glitter with the strength of his emotions, and he was trembling slightly. Suddenly he said in a fierce, low whisper:

  ‘I won’t! It’s the weakness and stupidity of the politicians that your generation has placed in power which is making it possible for the Germans to fight us again. But at least you might see to it that my generation is given decent weapons to fight with when the time comes. No! I’m damned if I’ll apologise!’ And turning on his heel he marched out of the room.

  The embarrassing silence which followed his exit was broken at length by a most unexpected remark from the Canon.

  ‘What a splendid young man! You know, I envy you, Vaudell, having such a son. I’m sure our friend here’—he waved a beautifully proportioned hand towards the Admiral—’is far too much a man of the world to resent honest criticism of his Service, even when delivered with a lack of finesse—which, after all, is a common failing in the young. And as a fighting man he will appreciate the courage which is required to make such a stand for one’s beliefs.’

  ‘Oh—er—quite!’ the Admiral muttered, somewhat at a loss now that the Canon had so urbanely excused Philip’s extreme rudeness.

  ‘That’s all very well, Canon,’ growled Captain Vaudell. ‘But the boy was downright insolent, and he’ll hear more of this from me before he’s much older!’

  ‘No, no!’ the Admiral protested. ‘Please, Ralph. Of course, the boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but, as the Canon says, we must give it to him he has the courage of his convictions. So I’ll take it as a personal favour if you’ll let the matter be.’

  ‘Well, if you really wish it,’ the outraged parent agreed somewhat reluctantly. ‘Anyhow, I apologise on his behalf, sir. Er—now, what about a whisky-and-soda?’

  ‘I accept both with alacrity,’ declared the Admiral, rubbing his hands.

  When his host had mixed the drinks and Ellen had carried them round, the little party settled down again; but not for long. None of them could readily forget the charges of incompetence against the War Office and Admiralty that Philip had made with such bitterness, and half an hour after he had left the room the Admiral and the Canon announced almost simultaneously that they must be getting home.

  On going out into the hall they found Philip standing near the stairs, wearing a rather sheepish look. He pulled himself together, and approached the Admiral.

  ‘I’m afraid I was very rude, sir. I—er—feel rather strongly about these things, but I should never have spoken to you as I did while you were a guest in my father’s house.’

  The Admiral’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘Does that mean you would have outside it?’

  ‘Well—yes, sir. To be honest, I think I would.’

  ‘Good for you!’ the Admiral gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘But if you really feel so strongly about the menace to our Atlantic life-line in a future war, why don’t you do something about it?’

  ‘Hang it all, sir!’ Philip smiled. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘If the menace is as grave as you may think, a new weapon or an entirely revolutionary procedure may be the only answer to it. At the Admiralty we may have little originality in our strategic concepts, but we’re always open to new ideas. You are training as an engineer and you are going into an armaments firm. If you think about the problem long enough and hard enough, we may owe to you the measures which will keep our life-line open, and so save Britain in her darkest hour. Why not see what you can do?’

  2

  The Great Idea

  Three days later, somewhat to Philip’s surprise, he received an invitation to dine with Canon Beal-Brookman. As he knew the Canon only as a distant relative and had never even been to his house, he could only imagine that the dynamic little priest was either giving a party for young people or, with their last meeting in mind, wished to talk further about rearmament questions.

  Neither proved to be the case. When Philip arrived at the big, rambling Rectory, which resembled one vast library, as it had books even in the passages and on the stairs, he found the Canon alone; and during the evening the word ‘war’ was not so much as mentioned; yet, when Philip looked back afterwards, he was amazed at the number of subjects on which they had touched.

  Wine was the first, when Philip said on being offered a glass of Amontillado, ‘D’you mind if I don’t: I’m more or less a teetotaller.’

  ‘Well,’ said his host, ‘if you keep it up you’ll save yourself a lot of money; on the other hand, you’ll be depriving yourself of a lot of pleasure. Books’—he waved a hand at the packed shelves that lined the walls of his principal living-room—‘and wine are the two greatest civilising influences in the world. If I had my time over again I think I’d be a wine-merchant-bookseller, so that I could spread both gospels simultaneously! But perhaps you’re one of those who regard alcohol as the “devil’s milk”—eh?’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ laughed Philip. ‘It’s simply that I don’t like the taste of gin, whisky or brandy, and, to me, beer is bitter and claret sour. I often drink cider, though.’

  ‘I see. It sounds like a case of a sweet palate. Here’—the Canon pulled the stopper out of a second decanter—‘try half a glass of this rich old Madeira. Leave it if you don’t like it.’

  He gave a deep laugh as Philip first sipped the wine, then nodded and drank it down. ‘Heaven knows what some of my more austere brethren would say if they could see me leading a young teetotaller into the arms of “the demon Drink”! Still, most of the Blue Ribbon clergy know my views already. True temperance is not the churlish rejection of one of God’s greatest gifts to Man, but a reasonable moderation in its use!’

  It was hours later when Philip, filled with the well-being which follows an admirable dinner and a mental content begotten of the intimate atmosphere of the great book-lined room, said, feeling confident that he could not give offence: ‘You know, somehow, when I’m talking to you, I don’t feel as if I’m talking to a clergyman at all.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising,’ was the prompt reply. ‘You see, with people like you, Philip, I put aside my workaday mask and say what I really think, instead of the sort of thing that Christian convention compels me to say when I meet the people I bully from my pulpit each Sunday.’

  ‘Do you mean that you don’t really subscribe to the Christian convention, then?’

  The Canon’s face broke into a smile. ‘Only a fool would seek to belittle Christ’s greatness or to deny the immense value which the example He set has proved to mankind. On the other hand, only a fool could believe in eternal damnation or many other heathenish conceptions that the Christian Churches inherited from the Jews.’

  ‘True enough,’ Philip nodded, ‘but if you feel that don’t you find it a bit of a strain to carry on as a Christian priest?’

  ‘Not at all. When I was quite a young man I realised that my work was priestcraft—the spreading of the true knowledge of Good and Evil among those ready to receive it, and a life-long fight against lies, meanness, hypocrisy, tyranny, dirt and disease. Ordination in the Church of England was simply the best way in which I
could fulfil my priesthood.’

  The Canon paused, pulled at the lobe of his left ear and went on: ‘You see, Philip, the thing the majority of people fail to realise is that there are only two basic religions. One is the belief in a beneficent Creator, who imbues each of us with a part of himself which, acting as an inner voice, gives us unfailing counsel at all stages of our journey on the upward path. The other is Satanism, which offers its votaries short cuts to wealth and power if they will ignore the voice and become the servants of destruction, brutality and uncleanness. All the great religions are a mixture of these two. Each holds the hidden core of truth buried under the often meaningless or distorted ceremonies with which many generations of false priests have overlaid it. Or, as in our own religion, entirely Satanic conceptions such as that incredible old brute Jehovah, who revelled in the smell of burnt offerings and blood sacrifices, have become hopelessly mixed up with God the Father, to whom we owe the Creation of all things beautiful. The two original religions existed in all their purity side by side, but as warring entities, in the great Island Kingdom of Atlantis. The confusion arose when that remarkable civilisation was almost entirely wiped out by the Flood, nearly eleven thousand years ago.’

  Philip smiled. ‘How strange that you, who have just inferred that you consider most of the Old Testament as nonsense, should believe the Flood to have been an actual fact.’

  ‘Oh, but it was. There’s not a doubt about that. Geology, botany, ethnology and lexicology, as well as the traditions and folklore of every race in Western Europe and North and Central America, provide abundant evidence to prove it. But it was not universal, as the author of Genesis no doubt believed, and Noah’s party was by no means the only one to escape. There are practically no Flood legends among the peoples of Asia, and none at all in the folklore of the Pacific. Everything points to the catastrophe having been caused by the subsidence of a great island continent in the North Central Atlantic. Plato has left us a most realistic description of the marvellous civilisation which flourished in Atlantis, as it was given to him by an Egyptian priest. Egypt, Chaldea, Mexico and Peru all derived their civilisations from Atlantis and were, perhaps, colonies of the Atlantean Empire before the Deluge. Or it may have been that little parties of cultured survivors landed and settled in these places soon after the disaster. In any case, from Plato’s description of the great circular harbour in the Atlantean capital, it is clear that they must have had ships of considerable size, and no doubt many of these were on distant voyages at the time of the crisis. Some must have escaped and, like Noah, landed in distant countries; but many of the ships were probably manned only by rough sailors who would have been absorbed into the local semi-barbaric populations, leaving no permanent civilising influence behind them—only a legend of the disaster which had overtaken their country and a garbled version of one or other of the two original religions. Hence the ensuing confusion.’