Chapter II: Part VII
Chapter II: The Gambit of the West
Part VII
March 7, 1936
The wind whipped over the steel gray waters of the Channel, biting Walter Friedmann’s face as he leaned over the railing of the HMS
Exeter. He had been sent back to England, this time to assess and influence the political situation in Westminster. It had immediately become clear that the Führer’s speech of February fourth had deeply divided sentiment in Britain.
The Times had termed it “An undeniably reasonable appeal … which the world must accept in good faith, leaving the bitterness of 1914 behind.”
The New York Times had declared: “Mr. Hitler has extended a clear and sensible olive branch, in which lies the best hope for continued peace.” Where at the beginning of February there had been growing consensus in favor of war, now parliament was overwhelmingly against preemptive action against Germany.
The day after Hitler’s speech, Baldwin’s government had issued a statement denouncing German aggression in Belgium. Lord Addison had fired back the following week in the
Daily Telegraph, calling the statement “The basest form of warmongering and political theater.” Even the Conservative Party itself was riven by indecision -- two Tory members of parliament had scathingly excoriated the Prime Minister in the Commons on the day of Friedmann’s arrival alone.
Friedmann had spent three days meeting with members of the Opposition -- arguing in favor of British nonintervention. Today, he had obtained a meeting -- ostensibly about German exports to his constituency of Limehouse -- with the Leader of His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition, Clement Attlee, who was onboard the
Exeter to observe the condition of the Fleet. They had met on the
York class cruiser’s launch, exchanging pleasantries rather formally while the Opposition Leader conversed with a naval officer.
The HMS Exeter
, assigned to the Mediterranean Fleet, sailed with the fleet back to England following the Belgian Crisis.
A siren sounded above and behind Friedmann. He turned to see one of the heavy cruiser’s three 8-inch turrets traversing to port. He followed the line of the line of the barrels. Far out over the water, he made out a small boat bobbing in the sea. The turret’s two guns elevated. The siren sounded again.
The twin blasts threw the German diplomat to his knees. Ears ringing, he turned to port in time to see two white plumes of water fountain up a short distance in front of the boat. Friedmann saw Attlee standing near the bridge with the
Exeter’s officers. He seemed to be watching the exercise with sincere interest.
After some time, the siren sounded again. This time, Friedmann’s fingers plugged his ears as the
Exeter fired its salvo. One of the shells struck the little vessel, shattering it in a geyser of darkened water. Friedmann could hear cheering from the sailors gathered at the stern.
He glanced back to Attlee, and quickly made his way up to intercept him. He passed several of the seamen on the steep stairway, noting their sallow skin and unhealthy appearance. The contrast against the tanned, fit men of the Kriegsmarine was pronounced.
Clement Attlee, Leader of His Majesty’s Most Loyal Opposition, 1936.
As Friedmann trotted up beside Attlee, the dapper little politician turned to greet him. “Herr Friedmann. I trust you are impressed with the Royal Navy’s gunnery, no?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Attlee.” Friedmann did not mention having observed gunnery trials for the
Admiral Graf Spee in which the pocket battleship had used its six 11-inch guns to sink five target vessels in ten minutes.
“And I will be very frank with you, sir -- there are many in Britain who would like to see those guns used against Germany.”
“I understand. Are you one of them?”
“I would hope not.”
“Good! I am pleased to have your support in pursuit of lasting peace.”
“Do not mistake me, though, Herr Friedmann. I will come out straight away and say that I oppose Nazism, and politically disagree with it. All I am saying is that I hope -- as every sensible person does -- that all this does not come to war.”
The siren sounded again. Friedmann and Attlee passed through an armored door and into an officers’ room just as the
Exeter rumbled with another salvo.
A lieutenant arranged chairs and a small table for the two men and excused himself.
“Mr. Attlee,” Friedmann began when they were seated, “I am pleased see that you and I are of like mind. From the perspective of my country, war must be averted at all costs. Unfortunately, the French are dragging the world headlong down that very path.”
“They are understandably distressed by the war in Belgium. If Germany were to invade Ireland, how do you think we would react?”
Friedmann cracked his knuckles. “In abstract, that would be entirely justified. However, if Ireland perpetrated acts of war and terrorism against Britain, I would speculate that under such hypothesis Britain might theoretically take at least some small action against Ireland.”
“Well, the only --”
“Aha! If I recall my history correctly, Britain has in fact done this at least six times -- most recently in the Anglo-Irish War.”
“Well, I --”
“And have gone to war for far more trifling reasons in India, South Africa and other places across the globe.”
Attlee tugged at his moustache. “I do not deny that there is some truth in that. Nonetheless, in the face of any further German aggression, I will no longer be able to oppose war.”
“I am fully concordant with your concern.” Friedmann paused, judging how best to phrase his offer. “If the Opposition remains steadfast in its, well,
opposition --” Attlee seemingly did not find the attempt at second-language humor very successful “-- to war, I can assure you that no war will come from Germany.”
“Nor will it come from Britain.”
A muffled salvo rattled the table.
“I hope that you will inform His Majesty of the content of our discussion. Prime Minister Baldwin must not be the only voice heard on this issue. All I ask is that Britain does not make itself party to any preemptive war in Europe.”
“I shall.”
“It comforts me that there are men in Britain like you, Mr. Attlee.”
“I have a question for
you now, Herr Friedmann.”
“Of course.”
“Are you yourself a Nazi?”
“I am not.” It was the truth, whether or not the Opposition Leader believed it.
Attlee pursed his lips. Friedmann decided not to let him dwell on that question. “Here are the export reports, Mr. Attlee. Peruse them at your leisure.”
He tucked the folder into his jacket without looking at it. “Thank you for speaking with me, Herr Friedmann, and good day.”
Friedmann shook the Briton’s hand and followed him back out onto the gangway just as another salvo split the air. From the cheers of the men on the other side of the ship, it was a hit.
Sitting in the launch puttering back to shore, Friedmann counted four wrecked target boats. The Lion, he saw, may have been sickly, but was not yet toothless. He would cable von Neurath as soon as possible to request more time to try to keep it out of the war.