CROSSFIRES, a Croix de Feu France that might have been
What do the Croix de Feu want, what can they accomplish ? A question that many Frenchmen ask in 1934
FOREWORD
The 1930s are for France a time of great peril. The country has bled white for four years in a senseless war that began with an assassin's single shot in Sarajevo and ended up in the mass killing of European soldiers. One million and a half Frenchmen have died in the trenches, the youngest and quite often the brightest France had. Five million more have been wounded, having lost limbs, been disfigured, or suffered in their flesh in these 4 years of mindless war. For a nation of 39 million inhabitants, the sacrifice has been horrendous, almost unbearable, and the survivors now want assurances their sacrifice has served some purpose.
The 1930s are a time of great peril. After organizing a few victory parades and establishing a sanitary cordon of friendly states around Germany, the French government has gone back to its pre-1914 games of toppling Cabinets over the flimsiest of excuses. The burden of taking care of the country has largely been left to a dedicated but old-fashioned corps of civil servants and officers, and the French people's questions are left unanswered. As for foreign policy, the watchword changes with every new government : militarism is followed by appeasement, accommodation is preceded by collective security. As a result, European nations get wary of allying too closely with an increasingly fickle France.
The 1930s are a time of great peril. Resentment against the rapidly-crumbling governments and the institutions runs deep among the French population. The price of war has been paid in full by the French citizens, and they now want reassurances things will never be the same again. Some want reforms. Some want restorations. Some want revolutions. Communism has taken root in France, where the workers feel they had to bleed in the trenches only so they could be bled again at the workshop. Others feel the Republic is the source of all problems and evils and should be disposed of, but they quarrel about what should take Marianne's place : a strong totalitarian state, a cold and competent technocracy, or the rightful Bourbon heir to the throne, whoever that might be. Reformers from every major political party see the writing on the wall : barring some deep changes, France might once again be gripped by social unrest, violence and insurrection.
The 1930s are a time of great peril. The Great Alliance that barely defeated the Central Powers lies in shambles. Italy, once an ally, is now a rival demanding a cut of the French colonial empire in Africa. So does Japan, another ally of the last war. Russia, once France's most important ally, is now conspiring with Germany to weaken Western democracies. The United States, whose intervention was the final straw that broke the back of the Prussian camel, has now retired from the world, dealing with an economic crisis and a public opinion refusing to be embroiled in another foreign war. Great Britain still stands, but like France has paid a terrible price in the Great War, in terms of life, gold, and prestige. Its commitment to enforcing European peace remains to be seen. And Germany ? Germany is on the rise again, her 70 million inhabitants now led by a man nobody had heard of ten years ago. Nobody saw him coming, and almost nobody sees where he's leading Europe to.
Yes, the 1930s are indeed times of great peril. Immensely powerful forces are on the move. Great powers are awakening from their uneasy slumber. Time is running short, and the whole world might soon get caught in the crossfire.
Aboard the Paris-Nantes express train, January 1934
The look on the Colonel's face certainly didn't hide his growing exasperation at the papers he was trying to file and work on in spite of the train's commotion and sudden turns, an uncooperative fountain pen and, as it was clear for anybody who knew him well, his loathing of red tape. Shortly after Orléans, the exasperation had turned into irritation, and as the journey was approaching its end, so was the Colonel's already modest supply of patience. Finally, he threw his arms up in mock surrender and vented his anger.
"That's it ! That's it, no more ! I swear, Richemont, had I known that running a political movement involved so much paperwork I'd have settled for a quiet retirement in Lorient !" said the Colonel, putting away a thick bundle of papers and several newspapers clippings.
As if, Colonel. As if. thought the younger aide, who knew better than to take such comments at face value. His boss was born to lead, and now that guns had finally fell silent, politics were the battlefield he craved.
Looking away from the French countryside which was rushing by, Henri Richemont smiled at his mentor's irritation, as the Colonel stirred and streched his legs in the almost empty train compartment. Since he had been wounded in Morocco, the Colonel suffered almost constant pain in his legs, and could neither stand nor sit down too long without feeling the need to change position.
"Indeed, mon Colonel. One would say it's a small price to pay for running a very successful movement, though."
That earned him a grunt, belied by the wrily smile on the Colonel's face. Indeed Colonel de La Rocque's Croix de Feu movement was a rising star on the French political scene. His movement had grown out of veterans' associations and had taken traditional parties by surprise. Staunchly Conservative, the Croix de Feu defended traditional values, while at the same time demanding that the Third Republic be thoroughly reformed to end a decade of governmental instability, and put France back on what the press dubbed "the Right Track". In fact, many a French politician and many a Parisian pundit was now wondering where the Croix de feu would stop - and whether they would at all. Hailed as a great patriot by the Right, denounced as a French Fascist by the Left, and looked at with a mixture of hope and apprehension by Centrists of every ilk, Colonel François de La Rocque was France's man of the moment.
"Speaking of success, Richemont." said the Colonel "Now that this wretched paperwork is - almost - over, maybe we could talk about that memo you sent me recently. I must say I find the proposal it contains rather intriguing, and to be frank if it wasn't for the good work you did in organizing the Croix de Feu chapters in most of Western France I'd be inclined to dismiss it entirely as a hollow dream"
Finally, thought Richemont, casting a last glance at the setting sun. Now we'll see if it was all a waste of time. Play your cards right, Henri, and you might end up being de La Rocque's chief adviser. If you don't, then it'll be back to practicing law in Poitiers. I'd rather be a kingmaker.
"Mon Colonel, I'm glad you appreciated my work. As you know, I joined the Croix de Feu two years ago, because I wanted to serve this country even in peacetime, and couldn't stand the idea of joining any other party. My work in the movement has been mainly to resist the Jeunesses Patriotes' and the Action Française's attempts to swing our members and voters away from us, and to broaden our base so as to reach groups traditional Conservative parties usually ignore or take as granted. As such, I had to devise a regional strategy reinforcing our appeal to sympathizers and would-be members, particularly veterans, and members of the middle-class. As a result, not only have we refrained from the violence and excessive rhetoric our rivals so enjoy, we also concentrated in demonstrating the accusations of the Left regarding our supposed allegiance to Fascism were entirely unfounded. I think our results in Britanny and Poitou speak for themselves, and show this strategy is sound to win the country's Silent Majority to our cause. In fact, given the right impulsion, I humbly think it might be the key to a landslide victory in the next general elections... provided we also follow the guidelines I sent you."
Another grunt signaled the point was well taken, and that it was time to get to the heart of the matter. Richemont took a deep breath. All right, here goes nothing.
"Mon Colonel, I think it would be a wise strategy to use that same approach at the national level. I gather, from the various phone calls I received from our Parisian offices, that the Croix de Feu will participate in mass protests against the Government next month. The Action Française, the Jeunesses Patriotes, the Solidarité Française, by God, even the Communists want to organize mass demonstrations that you and I know will inevitably result in acts of violence. Mon Colonel, I fully understand that such violence might have its uses - under very specific circumstances, that is. But it also harms our cause more than the Communists' lies, as people will inevitably associate us with such outbreaks, with burnt cars, injured policemen and broken windows. What's more, the Government is bound to react to such violence sooner or later, and we all know that for all its inability to lead this country, it has at its disposal enormous means of repression which could be used against us."
"Naturally. And as you know, we have been making plans to turn the movement into an official political party to avert precisely this risk. " said de La Rocque, looking at the darkening landscape. Even though he couldn't see much, now, he felt in his bones he was almost home. Home. But who am I fooling ? I was never made to stay at home.
"Get to the point, Richemont, we'll be arriving soon and I have much to do before tomorrow"
"My point, mon Colonel, is that while we should participate to the protests that will take place in a few weeks, we should also make sure they turn out in such a way that will weaken our rivals, confuse our enemies and ensure our triumph."
As the Colonel turned away from the window, eyebrows raised, Richemont felt he was now on solid ground.
"Violence is almost certain, mon Colonel. I know for a fact many Action Française and Communists sympathizers will travel to Paris a few days before the beginning of the protests, and you can bet will be armed with truncheons, razors, knifes and quite a few handguns. And I also know, through different channels, that the Government has ordered two full regiments' worth of Gardes Mobiles to move to Paris before the end of the week, under strict orders to use "whatever force will be deemed necessary" to deal with protesters."
"Really ?" said La Rocque, his face starting to show real interest. What Richemont was describing indeed seemed a recipe for large-scale unrest, possibly even riots. That meants disorder and chaos. When he was in the colonial cavalry, Colonel de La Rocque always made sure to take advantage of the Arab tribes' complicated quarrels, and now that he was moving in France's higher political circles, he felt the issues and methods were not all that different. Maybe Richemont was right, and maybe there was an opportunity here. Didn't Field-Marshal Lyautey once said that the Chinese used the same word for crisis and oppoirtunity ? De La Rocque couldn't remember.
"So, how do you plan to ensure our "triumph", under these circumstances, Henri ?"
"Mon Colonel", said Richemont after pulling a red folder from his briefcase, "this here memorandum, which completes the proposals I've already sent you, says it all. By and large, it will be a question of positioning our forces well, acting fast, and showing some audacity. Just like in the cavalry, really. I have included a plan with potential objectives and desirable jump-off areas. If we play our cards right, mon Colonel, a very different government might be in power when spring breaks"
To be continued....
Paris, the Concorde Bridge, February the 6th, 1934
"Allo ! Allo ! Repeat what you just said ! Where are the protesters now ? Allo ! Ah, merde !"
Trembling with rage and - above all - apprehension, Captain Charles Pélissier of the French Gendarmerie hung up the police emergency phone and turned away from the lamp post it was attached to. For the fourth time in the afternoon, the communication had been lost in mid-sentence, but whether it was the consequence of some sabotage by the rioters, or the notoriously bad state of the French telephone system was unclear.
Hearing a snicker coming from behind him, he turned around to face the dozen Gardes Mobiles and the handful of armed firemen that were all that stood between protesters and the Assemblée Nationale, where congressmen had gathered for an emergency session to address the riotous situation. He mused a second or two about giving them some sort of defiant speech, but quickly decided against it. One, he sure didn't feel defiant right now. Two, the men facing him obviously knew it. The Gardes Mobiles were his subordinates and kept their comments for when he had his back turned, but Hébert, the firemen NCO, had a permanent smirk on his face whenever the trembling Pélissier gave orders.
Well, we can't be all trench heroes, now can we ?, thought Pélissier bitterly, And is it my fault if I spent the war in the Gendarmerie instead of the infantry ?
Charles Pélissier, all in all, had had a good war, with no small thanks to an uncle who had made sure his favourite nephew would not be sent to the frontlines, about which many sickening stories and horrible rumors were already circulating despite of the government's censorship. Operating in the rear, capturing stragglers or shell-shocked soldiers and turning them to the Military Justice officers under charges of looting or desertion had made sure Charles Pélissier lived through the Great War without so much as a scratch. It had also made sure he got himself quite a nice sum of money, usually taken from the "deserters", and conveniently overlooked when filling all the paperwork that followed their arrest. The only moment he had really feared for his life during these four terrible years that had left France bled white, was a few hours after the ceasefire of November, 1918. While his outfit was celebrating victory with some passable red wine confiscated from a convoy inbound for the front, he had learned that some elated Military tribunals had ordered the immediate release of a few hundred jailed soldiers, including quite a few that had made no secret about their intention to settle some grudges with a certain Gendarmerie Lieutenant. Even though none of these soldiers had appeared at the Gendarmerie station, Pélissier had found it preferable, just to be on the safe side, to call in sick for the next two weeks, pretexting the flu. And today, as he had watched the riots spread all over Paris, he had wondered how many of these veterans were now among the protesters. And whether they would recognize him. This last question made him shudder every time.
"Bloody Hell, here they come again" muttered one of the firemen, grabbing his Lebel rifle.
At the other end of the bridge, the chants and cries were indeed growing louder. Gunshot and explosions could also be also heard nearby, along with shrill orders given by either police officers or protesters and the sound of cavalry charging. There was no mistaking the fact the protesters were going this way, which made sense since the Assemblée Nationale was merely a stone's throw away. All rioters had to do to was to take the bridge. And all they had to do to take the bridge was to get rid of Pélissier's motley crew.
The French police orders cavalry charges to try to regain control of the streets
It had been like that all day, with marching columns of chanting men calling for the overthrow of the Government. Apparently, it had all begun because some Jewish businessman involved in some financial scandal had been found dead in some mountain log somewhere a few days before. The man had committed suicide - or rather, had had suicide committed to him - before he could finger his political protectors, and many people believed it was indeed the most convenient suicide ever. It had been a small thing, when compared to the lingering economic crisis or the latest speech from Hitler in Germany, but even small things could have great effect. Like a lit match falling on dry wood, the story had caused a fire, which had engulfed the Cabinet. Within days, the French Government had found itself under attack by Congressmen and newspapers, and had no choice but to fire two senior officials, including Jean Chiappe, the head of the Parisian police, whose acquaintances with the dead crook had been far too obvious. But instead of letting them go in disgrace, which might have satisfied public opinion, the two officials had received convenient promotions that had further enraged the population. The firestorm was now raging all over France, and in Paris particularly, with general accusations of corruption and cries for public hangings of politicians.
And now I'm going to die, all because a dead Jew embezzled money ? whined Pélissier for the umpteenth time.
The first hours of the protests had not been too harsh for the men at this barricade. In this respect, they had been much luckier than many of their colleagues, who had been assaulted, beaten up, and even fired upon, at various locations. First, Colonel Simon had been here with 50 more men, in a show of force that had kept most of the protesters at bay. Groups of veterans, wearing all their medals and including war cripples, had come to the bridge, facing the Gendarmes, and had presented their battle flags while singing the Marseillaise. Obeying to an atavistic instinct common to men who had spent a lifetime in uniform, the Gendarmes and firemen had sharply saluted the flag, and sung the national anthem with them. After the first ten "Marseillaises", though, everybody's throat had been too sore to allow more than muttering. But each time the veterans had gone away after voicing their demands, to join up the main demonstration.
But a few hours earlier Colonel Simon had gone away to protect the Elysée Palace, fed up with waiting for orders from the new Préfet de Police, who seemed only concerned with what the newspapers would say of him the following day if he ordered to disperse the protesters forcefully - or failed to do so. And now Captain Pélissier had the distinct and terrible feeling the group that was now advancing on the bridge was probably not here to do sing-alongs. For all the discipline they showed approaching purposefully the Gendarmes' makeshift barricade, they openly displayed a variety of melee weapons and even to Pélissier's horror, military rifles. And a few tens meters behind them a mob was gathering like a big storm, approaching the bridge at the cry of "Let's drown the Députés in the Seine !".
"Oh shit we are all going to die" said one of the firemen flatly, clearly voicing the general opinion. Pélissier, who had no intention of meeting a glorious death as long as he was alive, glanced around him like a hunted animal, looking for some way out.
Colonel de la Rocque during Victory Day commemorations in 1933
Colonel de La Rocque's mobile PC, near Concorde Bridge, February the 6th,1934
One thing to say for de La Rocque, he sure knows how to organize his troops, thought Henri de Limur, as he stepped into the radio-equipped truck de La Rocque used as his PC. The truck was parked next to a newspaper stand, on a small esplanade. All around, dozens of Croix de Feu militants had deployed in circles, and had even surrounded the area with barbed wire to discourage any adventurous rioter.
As La Rocque's personal bodyguard stepped aside to let the plump newcomer enter, de Limur cast a brief glance around him, trying to get used to the tobacco-filled atmosphere. A lone lightbulb hanging from the truck's roof was shedding some crude light over the crammed space. To the left, a radio operator was clearly receiving some report, as he scribbled furiously on a notepad. Next to the radioman, a red folder probably contained the latest reports or dispatches from the various columns of Croix de Feu protesters.
Turning to his right, de Limur saw somebody had pinned to the side of the habitacle a map of Paris, covered in colored pins probably showing the positions of the various columns of protesters and those of the police forces. He nodded approvingly. For all the differences of opinion that usually opposed him to the Croix de Feu, he too preferred cold efficiency to the romantic chaos that had unfortunately become the trademark of the Action Française. Under the map, a large bucket half-full of sand apparently served as the occupants' ashtray.
Stepping forward, he saw de La Rocque and was rather surprised to find him wearing his old colonel uniform instead of his usual striped suit. Taking a trip down Memory Lane, eh ? pondered de Limur as he shook hands with the Croix de Feu leader and his staff. Maybe de La Rocque was just enjoying playing soldiers again after all. De Limur shrugged. Everybody chased down a dream, and if one could find back one's dissipated youth along the way, that was perfectly fine with Henri de Limur.
"Colonel, I see you're remarkably installed here." began de Limur, who always made a point to begin a conversation by saying something polite. It was said he had complimented his adversary about his elegant white shirt during a duel - and after that, he had made sure he soaked the garment with the man's blood.
"And", de Limur added more purposefully, "remarkably positioned...out there". He gestured towards the general direction of the Seine river, where the main columns of protesters were fighting their way towards official buildings.
The Croix de Feu leader received both compliments with a modest smile and a nod, but remained silent. He and his aides were listening politely, but apparently did not desire to say much.
Oh please, Colonel, thought de Limur, irritated by the silence in which his words seem to dissolve. Do I have to court you like a young demoiselle, now ?
"Let's talk frankly, shall we ? I have been sent to you by our own leaders, who have received their instructions from le Grand Charles himself", said de Limur, referring to one of the nicknames of Charles Maurras, the charismatic figurehead and vitriolic columnist who had founded the Action Française out of a galaxy of Royalist nostalgics, local Fascists and antisemites who still hadn't gotten over the end of the Dreyfus affair.
The Action Française was always calling for the toppling of the Republican regime, and was relying on roving bands of thugs and well-off students who called themselves "Camelots du Roi" to inspire terror to Republican bourgeois, Socialists and Communists alike. What would or should happen to France after the downfall of the Republic was usually best left unspoken, for the Action Française leaders simultaneously desired to reinstall monarchy, restore Napoleonic glory, and to establish a French variant of Italian Fascism. Once the Republican Whore would be dead, they kept repeating, everything would be sorted out very easily. On such flimsy basis great political movements manage to thrive sometimes, providing they keep dodging every key issue, and Charles Maurras made sure the AF never derailed from its "blame-the-Republic" platform.
"Colonel" said de Limur, really irritated now that the mention of Charles Maurras had utterly failed to cause a stir among the Croix de Feu leadership, "your troops are best positioned to take over the Palais Bourbon, despite our Camelots' best efforts to force the police barricades. If we manage to take the Assemblée Nationale now, then we'll show these corrupt congressmen that France has had enough !"
"Indeed France has had enough" finally said de La Rocque, "And fear not, my dear Henri, we are going to pay the Assemblée Nationale a visit. I'm going to take the Palais Bourbon, Henri !"
"But" added one of de La Rocque's aides de Limur couldn't remember the name of, "neither with you, nor for you".
"What ? What do you mean ?" asked a completely confused de Limur. "I warn you, this is not the time to play riddles and stupid games, not when we are so close to our goal !". Only cold stares replied, de La Rocque merely sighing and nodding, almost regretfully, at someone at the back of the truck.
Before de Limur could understand what was happening, the Croix de Feu bodyguard rammed the heavy bucket over his head and turned the dazed Royalist around. As a blinded de Limur staggered forward, the bodyguard grabbed his collar and punched him hard in the stomach, before sending his knee in the plump man's groin. The Royalist fell down like an ox in a slaughterhouse.
"I am sorry, Henri. Really sorry" said de La Rocque to the limp body "but I feel there was no other way to do things. Jacques" he said, addressing the radio, "you may now transmit the order to all our columns. They should all be between our objectives and the mobs, so I want the column leaders to establish contact with the every roadblock in the coming hour. Everything must be ready before sunset "
Wincing as he looked at the crumpled form of de Limur the bodyguard was now gagging, he stood up and walked forward. "Well, gentlemen, there's no turning back now. It's time to remind this Republic of ours what it owes to the men who fought and died for her"
February the 6th, 1934, a day that will define the French Republic forever
"Get out of the way ! Get out of the way ! Colonel de La Rocque is coming ! "
Standing on the footboard of a requisitioned police lorry, Pélissier was shouting at the top of his voice, ordering Gendarmes to stand down and open their roadblocks, waving at any police officer raising his weapon, and making sure they saw his stripes and uniform. Behind that first vehicle, the radio truck and another lorry carried de La Rocque and a chosen group of Croix de Feu.
He still couldn't believe his luck. When the armed men had approached his hastily-made barricade - merely two police lorries parked front to front - Pélissier had been sure he was living his last moments on Earth. As much as he wanted to run away, he could not command his body to move an inch, and had just looked at the column of Croix de Feu like a rabbit caught in the lights of a rapidly approaching car. And then, just as he thought he would go mad with terror, they had stopped and opened their ranks to give way to a short and energetic middle-aged man who, after a quick appraising glance at the defenders, had addressed a shaking Pélissier.
"Captain, are you in charge of this roadblock ?"
Blinking hard, Pélissier had felt he was slowly waking up from a deep slumber.
"I, er..."
"I said, CAPTAIN, are YOU in CHARGE of this ROADBLOCK ?" had repeated the newcomer, his voice radiating impatience and authority. His tone did the trick. Pélissier had known this kind of voice since his boyhood. It was the voice of the schoolmaster. It was the voice of the priest. It was the voice of the NCOs during his military service. It was the voice of his first Captain. It was a voice that commanded immediate obedience, and immediate obedience had always been Pélissier's answer to it.
"Y-yes, I mean, yes sir, I am in charge here, sir" had stuttered Pélissier.
"I see. Now Captain, I am Major Chaumont, and I am here with these men under orders to help you defend this roadblock against rioters and looters. We wouldn't want this bridge to fall under their control, now would we ?"
"No, no sir, we don't want that sir" automatically replied Pélissier, falling back into that comfortable feeling he always had when he found himself on the side of authority. Basically, Pélissier belonged to that part of humanity who needed clear instructions to function, and it was often a wonder to him that some people would find it acceptable to disregard, or even disobey, an order given by a superior authority.
"Good. Consider your men relieved, but you and them, Captain, shall stay here. I might need you later. In fact, I'm pretty sure I will. Here's what I want you to do... " began Chaumont, his piercing eyes locked into Pélissier's.
The rest of the evening had been calm on the bridge, but explosions and gunshots could still be heard everywhere in the city, along with the shrill sound of police whistles. As the sun set over a troubled country, Pélissier and the firemen noticed thick smoke billowing from various districts. Somebody seemed to have started a fire close to the Republican Guard barracks. No sooner had Pélissier turned around to see if the Assemblée Nationale was also ablaze that a blaring horn brought his attention back to the roadblock. A large khaki truck, equipped with a diamond-shaped radio antenna, was approaching, waiting for the Croix de Feu to push the lorries out of the road.
Suddenly appearing next to Pélissier, Chaumont had taken his arm in a firm grip and motioned him forward, as the truck grinded into a stop and men began to disembark.
"Captain, now is the time I need you the most, so do not disappoint me." hissed Chaumont.
Reaching the truck, Pélissier had almost bumped into a tall man wearing a colonel uniform. Blushing, he immediately snapped into attention.
"Mon Colonel, I am Captain Pélissier of the Gendarmerie. I have been instructed by Major Chaumont here to help you reach the Assemblée Nationale. This should be easy, sir, as most men positioned over there belong to my outfit"
"Ah. Good. Good. Go gather your men, Captain, we move in 5 minutes." replied de la Rocque, looking the young officer up and down.
Hardly someone one could lean upon, and certainly not someone I could depend upon, but he'll do.
As the little motorcade had prepared to move towards the Assemblée Nationale, de La Rocque turned to Chaumont with a wry smile.
"MAJOR Chaumont ? My, what a meteoric career you had, sergeant !"
Chaumont winced apologetically "When I joined, mon Colonel, they told me every private had a Maréchal's staff in their knapsack. Surely you don't mean they lied to me ?"
The National Assembly, stage of the play which is about to begin...
Paris, the Assemblée Nationale, February the 6th 1934, 8:00 PM
More than ever, France's National Assembly was a mess - this time for a good reason. Speeches, insults, hushed conversations and rumors were swirling madly around the Hémicycle, the semi-circular room where the country's parliamentary debates took place. The Congressmen had been trapped by the protests a few hours after having convened in an emergency session about the Stavisky scandal. The death of the businessman - more like a con man, actually, albeit one with powerful protectors - had plunged France into chaos, and was now threatening to tear down the democratic fabric three generations of Republicans had patiently woven.
For most of the day it had been nothing but scathing attacks on the government, both from the Left and the Right, punctuated with vitriolic comments from the main speakers.
What is keeping them, for God's sake ?
Sitting uncomfortably in the Right part of the Hémicycle, Congressman Etienne Riché looked at his watch for the thousandth time, half listening to a Congressman from Languedoc who was trying to harp on the scandal du jour to secure some subsidies for local winegrowers.The circumstances couldn't have been better : many seats were empty on the Left's benches, largely because Communists leaders had wanted to give public speeches to their partisans outside, when they hadn't been leading columns of protesters themselves. Even the Socialists and the Radicals were lacking some of their best speakers. For the first time he could remember, Riché was looking at an Assemblée Nationale which, with the right impulsion, would give a strong majority to a Conservative governmental program. Inside the red folder Riché had put on the empty seat next to him was precisely the kind of program that could wake France from her 15-year slumber and stop her continuous drifting to the left.
"Mr Congressman ?"
Riché, deep in thought and lulled into slumber by the droning and accentuated voice of his Languedocian colleague, hadn't noticed the usher that had come to his bench. The elder man, his black vest barred by a golden chain, respectfully handed him a folded note Riché barely looked at, for it was the message he'd been waiting for all afternoon. The congressman took a deep breath, casting a meaningful look at his colleagues. The moment they had hastily prepared over the last few weeks had finally come. In a few hours, France would be changed forever - or the Croix de Feu would disappear.
As soon as the Languedocian speaker sat down, and without waiting for the usual answers and comments to follow what had clearly been a purely agricultural matter with no relation whatsoever with France's most pressing issues, Riché rose.
"Monsieur le Président, I demand the right to speak"
"Order ! Order ! Let us hear Monsieur Etienne Riché, Congressman from Paris" replied the Président de la Chambre, who thought it was the best way to prevent more agricultural digressions when Paris was indeed burning.
"Monsieur le Président, dear and esteemed colleagues ! While this assembly has been debating the latest consequences of our parliamentary folly and governmental ineptitude, the French nation itself has taken to the streets of Paris. For those who want to listen, our citizens are telling us clearly : no more ! No more governments falling because some congressman - no disrespect to the esteemed colleagues who addressed this assembly earlier today - couldn't secure some undue advantage for whatever lobbying group actioned him. No more ex-Prime Ministers selling their name, their fame, and often their honour, to help some expert "traders" whose main trade is usually taught in our prisons instead of our schools or banks ! No more politicians using their honorability to help some embezzlers who lure citizens into investing a lifetime's savings before closing shop and heading for the Riviera ! No more police officials looking the other way when a mayor, a Congressman, or a Senator, are caught the hand in the proverbial cookie jar !"
Approving comments rose from both wings of the Hémicycle, giving Riché more momentum.
"Yes, my dear and esteemed colleagues, France is exasperated ! France is through with the little games that have marred the work of this Assembly since the end of the Great War ! France is tired of seeing its elite undoing what was accomplished by a million and a half dead soldiers ! And, as is always the case when a large and hitherto silent majority finally reaches the point where it can bear no more outrage, there are people, shrewd people, ambitious people, who think they can use it to their advantage. There are those who, enjoying the comfort and safety of their own position, think they can push the poor, the destitute, the suffering, into rejecting the institutions, into rejecting morality, and finally into embracing blind sectarian violence. I swear, gentlemen, now is the time to tell these self-serving Rastignacs : no more ! It is our duty to tell them : no more !"
Again, congressmen smelling governmental blood shouted their approval. If nothing else, this was good political show, and Riché was expressing feelings that many harbored in the secret of their conscience. His scathing attack gave voice to the never-formulated question in parliamentary politics : "what if we went too far this time ?"
"And " added Riché, in a softer but venomous tone, "indeed we could address these people, in this here assembly, in this very room, if the worst offenders like Mr Thorez or Mr Duclos hadn't seen it fit to be absent today, if they hadn't seen it fit to ignore their democratic duties so they could preach violence to the workers, violence to the employees, violence to the jobless !"
A concert of shocked protests rose from the Communist benches, but soon petered out in face of taunts and heckling rising from Conservative congressmen. The Communists particularly were in deep trouble. Their most prominent leaders had gone away without giving clear instructions, and they hadn't expected today's debate to take that kind of direction. To their immediate right, they could see by their closed faces the Socialists weren't in the mood of helping them out. As for storming off the building in a huff, another of their favorite tactics, it lacked considerable appeal since there were armed Camelots du Roy out there who would like nothing more than catch Communist congressmen and test their underwater capacities in the Seine river.
"My dear colleagues, as we spoke today, me and my colleagues received report after report showing that every city and town in France is, by and large, experiencing some unrest. Lyon and Marseilles, Nantes and Bordeaux, Lille and Clermont-Ferrand, all of France has taken to the streets. All of France is watching us closely. All of France has heard of the murderous mobs that now roam Paris. All of France has heard of our feeble attempts to pass laws while the country is burning. But there is also hope, for all of France has also heard this very building would have been taken by storm an hour ago, and put to the torch with this here Assembly, if it hadn't been for the bravery and dedication of a particular group of citizens. I say brave, because these veterans of 4 long years of conflict, despite their greying hair and the often grievous wounds they received in the trenches, haven't feared to face armed mobs many times their numbers. I say dedicated, because these men, who have already done their duty and beyond for France , have once again come to the rescue of the Republic".
Mumbled protests began to rise to the Left. It was no secret, after all, that Riché was a Croix de Feu, and so the identity of the "brave and dedicated men" he was talking about was quite obvious.
"My dear colleagues ! My dear colleagues !" bellowed Riché, his voice rising to cover the ruckus. "We have heard an hour ago our distinguished and eloquent colleague Léon Blum, speaking for the Socialist group, who told us how dangerous and undemocratic the Croix de Feu were ! We have been told in no uncertain terms by Monsieur Blum how the Croix de feu were fanatical Fascists, ready to hop in Hitler's or Mussolini's bed ! We have been told by Monsieur Blum, who admires Lenin and often finds his inspiration in Josef Stalin's Soviet Russia, that the Croix de Feu - men who have fought for France in 4 years of trench warfare - were petty criminals, the scum of the earth, a stain on France's honour ! Well, Monsieur Blum, my most esteemed colleague, please know that while you were busy tarnishing their honour these men were, along with the police, protecting you and this very building - just like they did in 1914 ! While you were busy telling us what threat they posed to the Republic, these men were protecting the Elysée Palace along with the Republican Guard and police forces ! While you were busy telling us what criminals they were, these men were protecting the public's property and the public's life !"
A confident Léon Blum arrives at the Assemblée Nationale on the morning of 2/6...
"Mr Blum," concluded Riché, finally winding down as the distinguished Socialist leader was white with rage, "please do not tell us who the Croix de Feu are. These men are close personal friends of mine, the kind of friends you can only make on the frontline, in life-and-death situations. You, Léon Blum, do not know these men. And to tell you the truth it doesn't surprise me you don't know them, Léon Blum, for I sure don't remember seeing you in the trenches. My dear colleagues, I must now appeal to your sense of honour, to your sense of justice, to your common sense actually ! Regardless of what misguided commentators might say, blinded by their own prejudice and oftentimes by their own selfish ambitions, we have all seen today who were the real enemies of the Republic, and who were those who put their life on the line to defend it. I say : let us hear those men, dear colleagues. Let us hear how men who fought for France yesterday, who fought for France today, now propose to fight for France tomorrow".
When he sat down amidst applause and insults, Riché knew he had won the day, regardless of what arguments a clearly shaken Blum could muster. When they arrived this morning, most Conservative and Centrist congressmen had only been ready to topple the government over the Stavisky affair. Small potatoes. Now he had raised the stakes considerably higher, and he was sure they would follow his lead as soon as they realized they were enjoying an overwhelming majority.
Just like Richemont promised, mused Riché, still intrigued at why so many opponents hadn’t showed up that morning. That’s not important. Focus, Etienne. Focus.
In a few minutes, Colonel de La Rocque would appear in front of the Congressmen - at their own request of course. Along with whatever police officer he'd have recruited on his way, he'd describe today's events and describe the Croix de Feu's efforts to maintain civil peace.
The government falling, the Conservatives would call for general elections, and the Croix de Feu - under the name of the Parti Social Français, its political wing - would most probably win big, as every sign showed this time it had been a close call for the French Republic. The PSF program, a mix of much-needed social programs and of even more crucial institutional reforms, under a firmly Republican basis, would be next to irresistible to the French middle-class. In a few months, a wholly new State would emerge.
Let's hope it emerges in time thought Riché, thinking about the somber intelligence reports the Assemblée Nationale's Defense Commitee had been given the previous week.
The Hôtel Matignon, new seat of the French Government, January the 1st, 1936
"Gentlemen," said de La Rocque, sitting at the high end of the table, "I raise my glass to salute the work accomplished by the Patriotic Front government over the past two years. I know it has been two challenging years. I know it has been two dangerous years. But I also know that, thanks to your dedication, it has been two years of progress, two years of success. Thank you, gentlemen, thanks to every one of you. May 1936 see even greater success for us, and above all for France !"
Raising their glasses with muttered thanks or polite nods, the ministers of what the nation's newspapers now called the "Patriotic Front" government allowed themselves a little pause. As the ushers brought some canapés and some more champagne, each of them took a moment to reminisce.
For Roger Salengro, it had been two very surprising years. Born and raised as a Socialist, he had quickly gone away from the utopic Communism of his college years, preferring a more pragmatic approach of reformist Socialism that seemed not only more attainable, but more desirable. His professional experience as a journalist, and four years of war and captivity definitely convinced him neither French workers nor French farmers would ever have much truck with collectivism or a Soviet-style society, and his election as Mayor of Lille in 1925 had done little to unseat that newfound conviction. Like Blum, he now thought one had to take what was best in both socialist and capitalist utopias, and adapt it to the many specificities of France, however difficult that last part might be in a country that loved today what it had loathed the day before, and would loathe tomorrow what it adored today.
His rallying to the Croix de Feu-led government had been a result of Royalist intrigue, of all things. Furious at the way they had been "had" by de La Rocque's partisans, and seeing bitter in-fighting engulfing the ever-fragmented Action Française political base, Maurras, Daudet and the other Royalist leaders had tried in April 1934 to unite their feuding sympathizers by launching a series of vitriolic attacks against Jews, Socialists and Communists in their newspapers. Discovering that Salengro hadn't been allowed to join the Army in July 1914 because of his Communist views, Charles Maurras, the most prolific columnist of the Royalist cause, had launched scathing attacks against "Salengro the traitor" and "Salengro the deserter".
Roger Salengro, the first French neo-Conservative ?
Even though Salengro had joined the Army later in 1914, fought with distinction, and suffered several years of captivity, he found himself deeply affected by the defamation. Especially distressing was the fact some of his Socialist colleagues, afraid that their party, already weakened after the 1934 elections, would suffer from the Royalist press campaign, had put as much distance as possible between them and Salengro, who began sinking into a deep depression. He had thus been extremely surprised when Etienne Riché, the Croix de Feu congressman who to many Socialists was now the arch-enemy, had turned up at his mayoral office in Lille. Riché had been short and to the point : "M. Salengro, you know we Croix de Feu give a particular importance to how a man behaved in the Great War, and also to how war veterans are treated. The fact is, we are profoundly disgusted by the repugnant way the Royalist resort to mud-slinging, innuendo, and outright lies to bring you down. I am here to tell you Colonel de La Rocque shares this feeling, and condemns the vicious attacks you find yourself under. He also wants you to consider, very seriously, becoming his Work and Industry minister. Colonel de La Rocque feels like social reforms are very urgently needed if France is to make a rapid transition to a fully industrialized economy, and he'd like you to help him prepare them, no strings attached. We'll understand if you turn our offer down, of course."
Three weeks after Riché's surprise visit, Roger Salengro had arrived in Paris, where he had divided his time between supervising the building of the new Work and Industry Ministry, near the Invalides, and blackening reams of paper to devise the most ambitious reforms of France's social laws ever to be written. On March the 5th, 1935, after strenuous negotiations, he and the country's major unions signed the Triple Agreement which established the rights and responsibilities of workers, employers, and government in the application of new work regulations that, among other things, granted three weeks of paid leave to every employee.
Four months later, as millions of Frenchmen and women boarded trains, drove cars, or rode bicycles to sunny beaches, Salengro told Riché his biggest worry was now to find out how one could run a Ministry with only half its staff present.
"You too ? Hah ! Serves you right, Roger, serves you right !" had chuckled Riché, who faced similar problems leading the Information Ministry. "Remember, a good deed never goes unpunished !"
Since then, Salengro had tackled the problem of trying to boost France's industry on a very tight budget, working in close association with Jean Fabry, France's War Minister and as such one of the major customers of French industries. Their first decision had been to scrap all the projects of extension of the Maginot Line to the North Sea, which threatened to make France's national debt grow tenfold. This move had only been moderately well received both by Army generals, of course, but also by local officials and businesses who had hoped to be able to reap some benefits from the construction program. Their second decision had earned Salengro a stormy meeting with Admiral Darlan, as it concerned canceling the planned construction of the Dunkerque-class of battleships. Fuming, screaming, trembling with rage, Darlan had made so much noise an aide had discreetly opened the door to Salengro's office to see if his boss was still alive. In the end, however, Salengro had held his ground. It was either new battleships or new factories, and the factories would both employ more people and prove more essential to the security of France in the long run. As some kind of compensation, and because the last thing the government wanted was a general strike beginning at the shipyards, Salengro had promised Darlan he would meet with the War Minister to see if some other fleet modernization program could be put together, and if new Navy facilities could be developed on the Atlantic coast.
********
At the mention of "even greater success", Pierre Laval couldn't help but wince.
Bon Dieu, please spare me "greater success", he thought. I have trouble enough with the situation as it is.
Contrary to Salengro, Laval had had no trouble joining the Croix de Feu as soon as Riché had finished his scathing attack on Blum. Used to political manoeuvers, and actually deeply enjoying it, Laval had quickly assessed the situation at the Assemblée Nationale. Outside, without even knowing it, Frenchmen had moved from a mass demonstration to a full-fledged revolution, or at least had paved the way for such a move. Now power hung in the balance, along with the future of the Republic. If enough politicians fought the flow, then the Republic would stagger, but recover. If on the contrary the same politicians moved with the flow, then the regime was doomed to collapse and a new order would rise from its ruins. Laval was no Fascist, and he was confident Riché and his comrades weren't either. That meant some form of status quo would remain, while most of the power would be redistributed amongst those quick enough to ride the powerful wave of discontent that rocked the country.
Never one to miss the bus, particularly when said bus led to Matignon, Laval had struck a deal with Riché almost as soon as the Croix de Feu congressman had sat down, securing the Foreign Affairs for himself.
Still, the last two years had required all his diplomatic skills, and that had barely been sufficient to preserve the country's most vital interests. To France's east, Germany had once again grown into a monster. The war reparations had completely failed to slow down Germany's economic recovery, largely thanks to American investors sensing their dollars could quickly multiply with German exports, and the Reich's government was now using a seizable chunk of the Reichsmarks thus generated to modernize the Wehrmacht way beyond what the Versailles Treaty authorized. That treaty was, as far as Laval was concerned, dead as a dodo, and twice as stinky. Keeping Germany at bay had thus been the logical strategy recommended by Colonel de La Rocque as soon as he was made head of the French government.
Strangely enough, Germany didn't seem to mind too much, and the French government was regularly informed of German openings to strengthen the economic ties between the two countries. France's "reindustrialization program" initiated by Salengro may be a long-term threat to German exporters, but it also was a short-term boon for German firms as it required tools, machines, electricity France had trouble providing on her own.
Instead, danger had raised its ugly head from a totally unexpected direction. In the spring of 1934, a series of incidents pitting French and Italian fishermen had resulted in growing violence at sea, each side accusing the other of disregarding territorial waters and sabotaging each other's boats or nets. Both countries, wanting to flex some muscles, had dispatched Navy vessels to make their presence felt, but that had accomplished nothing except emboldening some fishermen hotheads to raise the stakes even further. On June the 24th, a group of French fishermen numbering more than 20 boats had surrounded a small flotilla of Italian trawlers operating beyond French national waters, and proceeded to board them, their leaders wanting to capture the boats and take them to Marseille as some sort of spoil of war. The action was under way when an Italian seaplane had shown up, and had signaled the act of piracy to a nearby light cruiser. The Italian cruiser had sped up to the hot spot, dispersing the French fishermen with a few warning shots. Things would eventually have died down if a small French squadron, which had left Toulon for Indochina, hadn't stumbled upon what looked like an Italian ship trying to sink French trawlers. The impromptu naval engagement that followed had, fortunately, failed to cause any death, but had driven yet another wedge between Italy and France who were already at odds over colonial matters.
Pierre Laval, professional cat herder...
To make things worse, Great Britain had struck a deal with Italy over the Ethiopian affair, reassuring the Duce that Italian conquest of the Abyssinian kingdom would be seen by Whitehall as a very trivial affair. That had left France isolated, both on the diplomatic stage and the colonial scene, with a Horn of Africa that was next to undefendable should the country ever be at war with Italy. In a quiet meeting at Matignon, it had then been decided to discreetly evacuate the bulk of the French forces stationed in Djibouti, and to relocate them in Indochina where tensions were also mounting between France, Siam and the warlords of Yunnan. Italy had yet to move or even make threats against Djibouti, but the whole affair had left a lot of bad blood between Great Britain and France, and the relations between the two countries had considerably cooled off as a result.
Belgium, which had been approached with a proposal of reinforcing military ties with France, had also been particularly cool to French overtures. Its most senior officer, General van Overstraeten, was know to be extremely hostile to France for a variety of reasons. While some of them were entirely unrational, some were all too understandable. Van Overstraeten suspected, with a considerable degree of reason, that the French war plans would be to fight Germany in the Belgian plains, so as to spare France's industrialized eastern regions the devastation that usually followed extensive military operations. As Laval knew, van Overstraeten was now trying to convince his monarch that Belgian troops - and Flemish ones if possible - should be deployed on France's border to prevent French troops from entering the country.
To Belgium's south, the situation was simpler - and much friendlier. The Grand Duchy of Luxembourg had reacted very favorably to French proposals of alliance, and had also agreed both countries should coordinate coal and steel production in such a way that would benefit both their industries. The Grand Duchy had also told the French government, albeit in a very discreet way, that should the need for such drastic measures ever arise, French troops would be welcome to take position within Luxembourg and conduct operations from here as long as the Grand Ducal government was kept informed. In the meantime, the French and Luxemburger amies would establish liaison officers and organize some common training at the regiment and division level.
Finally, there was Spain. Laval had great hopes for Spain, as he thought traditional Catholicism would more than compensate for the young Spanish Republic's most leftist partisans and allow the consolidation of a regime that would, in many ways, resemble France's. Sure, there were militants from the Left, and some from the Right, that were equally unsatisfied by the current Republic and ready to act against it, but Laval hoped they would neutralize themselves until the moment the Spanish government would be strong enough to dispose of them both. What was needed there was a little prodding, a little time, and a little luck. The prodding Laval was eager to deliver himself, and the time could be bought in some degree.
As for the luck, I sure am entitled to some after two years of eating shit, thought Laval as La Rocque ended his New Year speech.
The Hôtel Matignon, seat of the French Government, February the 17th, 1936
Facing de La Rocque, sitting in a comfortable Louis XV armchair in the Prime Minister's office, René Nicolau, head of the French Intelligence service, was listening to War Minister Jean Fabry.
"Considering all these elements, it is my recommendation, Mr Prime Minister, that we reorganize the fortress troops that are deployed along the Maginot Line. Every Army corps there has a cavalry division which was initially supposed to act both as a reconnaissance unit and as an operational reserve should the enemy get too close to the forts. I believe, and General Le Gentilhomme concurs, that these units now contribute next to nothing to the security of the fortifications, as reconnaissance can be more easily and more efficiently done with small planes and armored cars."
"I see" said de la Rocque, making a face. He had spent his best years, after all, as a cavalry officer in Morocco. "Do you think we should disband them, then, Fabry ?"
"No sir." smiled the minister, who hadn't been surprised by de la Rocque's lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of throwing cavalry in the dustbin of military history. "I do think, though, that we should adapt these units to an offensive role, as even the defensive battles we are currently preparing for will require counter-attacks. Over the last few weeks, I've had several meetings with this persistent colonel de Gaulle, who keeps asking for the creation of armored divisions, and..."
"So you've met 'Colonel Motors', as his fellow officers call him ?" chuckled Nicolau, interrupting him."The man has been pestering every Minister for the last five years or so with his project of 'mechanized force' or whatever he calls it"
"Well", said Fabry, "he is certainly not the easiest man to deal with, I'll grant you that. But I must say I think he's onto something, René. The Maginot Line will make sure we are not defeated, granted. But what kind of force will enter German territory and defeat Germany there ? And how are we supposed to deal with Italy, which has been making threatening comments about our unfortified colonial possessions ? So, with your permission, Mr Prime Minister, I'd like to detach the tank battalions that are currently part of our infantry divisions in Reims and form two mechanized divisions, which could be used as a testbed for de Gaulle's theories and also for the various tank models we currently field. For logistical purposes and sheer practicality, I feel we need to narrow it to two or three types, ideally two."
"Well, that seems reasonable" said de La Rocque, fiddling with his glass of Cognac. "If that colonel de Gaulle's right, put him on the list for a rapid promotion. If he's not, revert tank battalions to infantry support roles and make sure he doesn't bother the government anymore. Speaking of insufferable officers, I had Admiral Darlan breathing on my neck all day about his goddamn battleship program. I understand the needs of the Navy, but there's only so much we can do for everyone ! Please, Jean, tell him I gave the green light for the accelerated replacement of all Chacal-class destroyers, not to mention the few remaining Bourrasques which I want scrapped or better, sold, as soon as possible. I want all our destroyer fleet upgraded to the Guépard standard as soon as possible, for I am not sure we could still depend on the British for convoy protection should a conflict arise with Germany and/or Italy. Now Gentlemen, I think it's time to make a little overview of our strategy for the two coming years."
De La Rocque stood up, leaning on his cane as he walked to his desk.
"We have now begun a large process of re-industrialization of the country, and notably of the parts of it that had been, by and large, left untouched by the 20th century. All that romantic stuff about farmers tending crops and tilling fields is good, but these days a country's real power is its industrial output. Salengro and I think we should encourage demand for practically any kind of good or services, through modernization of our banking laws - easier loans mean an expanding demand - and through a growth in our exports. René, I want you to recruit ex-bankers, diplomats, businessmen, and develop an economic intelligence network. Wherever a country needs something, from light bulbs to cars, I want French companies to be given an edge"
René Nicolau, enigmatic director of France's intelligence services
As Nicolau nodded slowly, digesting the news, de La Rocque went on :
"Right now, there is one commodity that various countries need. Italy needs it. Ethiopia needs it. China needs it. It's ammunition. Ordnance. Spare parts. Fuel. Gentlemen, I'm talking military supplies here. I want our military attachés to open discreet talks with officials in every country that is currently at war, plans to be at war at some point, or fears to be at war soon. If necessary, we can sell up to one third of the supplies currently kept for the French Army, Navy, and Air Force, and up to half of that for calibers about to be replaced under Fabry's standardization program. René, it's a huge gamble I'm taking here, and I want you to know I am only taking it because your service feels there's no risk of immediate war with any of our neighbors."
"I understand, mon colonel" said Nicolau, struggling to radiate an unfazed serenity he was not completely sure to feel.
"Our military attachés will also begin establishing contacts with oil producing companies, particularly in the United States. I'm ready to help American firms secure big contracts with France if they lobby their government into finding some suitable arrangement for the payment of the Great War debts. And see if we can make some kind of deal with the new Left-leaning Spanish government"
After a short pause, de La Rocque sighed "I can already hear Blum and Thorez sing me a full opera aria at the Assemblée Nationale about this Frente Popular all day long"
-------------------------
Madrid, the French Embassy, July the 23rd, 1936
"Allo ! Allo ! Quisiera Paris, senora. Si, Paris ! Quisiera hablar con el Hôtel Matignon, el Primer Ministro frances ! Gracias, estoy esperando" said Daniel de Villecourt, French ambassador in Madrid.
Hanging up, he turned around to face his guest, Niceto Alcala-Zamora, special envoy of Présidente Azana. The heat of this Spanish summer was next to unbearable, even more so since the embassy got news of the ongoing rebellion that had started in Spanish Morocco and now threatened to topple the Republican regime.
"Paris will call us back in a minute or so. Senor Alcala-Zamora, I feel confident that upon hearing your plea, the French government will find a way to help President Azana, if you and I manage to present a good case"
"Do you think the presence of Communist Ministers in the Spanish cabinet will be an obstacle to a French intervention, Mr Ambassador ? My sources in Paris say that since the Communists called for a general strike late March, and since the French Communist Party was subsequently outlawed in April, there isn't much affection for Left-leaning governments in the French Cabinet"
"I can assure you the interdiction of the Communist Party was seen as a last-ditch measure after it was discovered clandestine cells were preparing for armed action against the legitimate government. The Interior Ministry has explained at great lengths that such an interdiction was both limited to French territory and to the present situation, and that France did not want to outstage Fascist regimes in their anti-Communist diatribe. There's no crusade there, believe me."
As Alcala-Zamora nodded gravely, visibly unconvinced, the shrill ring of the phone brought him to more urgent matters. After having exchanged a few words with whoever was on the other end of the line, the French ambassador gave the phone to him.
Niceto Alcala-Zamora, former President of the Spanish Republic and a man desperate for allies...
"Mr Foreign Minister. Si, I and the rest of the Spanish government are safe, thank you very much. Yes, so are our families. Indeed. Mr Foreign Minister, I have been instructed by President Azana to ask your government for support and assistance, for it is our belief the Spanish Republic is now in mortal danger"
Alcala nodded approvingly, clearly preparing to make his pitch.
"Yes, and I am glad the French government thinks so, Mr Foreign Minister. We know that the rebellious officers have taken almost complete control over El Rif, Canarias and Baleares. We also know several commanders from Southern and Northern Spain have sworn allegiance to them, and are gathering forces to attack loyalist forces in Central Spain. Yes, we think they'll head to Madrid afterwards, just as the Italians Fascists marched to Rome. And speaking of Rome....yes. Yes. We are on the same page here, I think."
Next to Alcala, de Villecourt was scribbling feverishly on a notepad.
"I see. We thought the rebels would contact Italy, but what you tell me is that Germany might join the fray. Yes, we have talked to the British ambassador, our Foreign Minister is at their embassy as we speak. No offense, Mr Foreign Minister, but we thought they might be swayed by an official plea by a Cabinet member, while your government... I agree, I agree, we're way past that now. I am here to ask you that simple question, Mr Foreign Minister : what will France do in our hour of need ?"
Alcala looked grave.
"I see. I see. That would certainly help. That would mean a lot to us, Mr Foreign Minister. A lot. I understand. Still, maybe we could arrange some military mission. Ah, I understand......yes. Do I have your word for it ? Do I have the word of the French government ? Then please extend President's Azana sincere thanks to President Lebrun and Prime Minister de La Rocque. And my personal thanks, too. Of course. Of course. Yes, I understand, we both have important work to do, Mr Foreign Minister. Thank you." said Alcala as he hung up.
Looking at his Spanish guest's pensive face, de Villecourt coughed politely.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr Ambassador. I am pleased to tell you that the French government has heard our plea, and that your Foreign Minister just told me transportation would be arranged for supplies, which will be taken from the French Army's own warehouses, and "volunteers", who I am told will have a unusually high number of men of military experience among them. Also, the French Navy and Air Force are about to begin various exercises whose main practical effect will be to monitor rebel movements, and particularly any kind of large-scale troop ferrying from Morocco."
-------------------------
"Is that wise, Pierre ?" asked Richemont as Laval hung up the phone.
"Well," said Laval, adressing the little group gathered around hid desk, "de La Rocque's decision was quite clear. It was also quite final, gentlemen. No official support, no expeditionary force, but barring that we must do everything we can to support the Spanish Republic as if it was the French one."
"These decisions will leave our forces with barely a few weeks of ammunition " said General Le Gentilhomme "May God have mercy on us if war breaks out with either Germany or Italy."
"Germany isn't ready for war with us yet - its eyes are set on easier pickings right now." said René Nicolau, getting an approving nod from the Foreign Minster.
"As for Italy," said Laval, "the Prime Minister and I think it's a risk worth taking. I don't have to remind you having a third hostile power threatening our borders or colonies would be the kind of straw that break a lot of French camels. And" he added in a meaningful way "I doubt anyone in this government would survive it. Gentlemen, the decision has been made, we all have to live with it - and make it work. René, I think you wanted to make a few suggestions ?"
"Well, yes, some unconventional ones, of course" said Nicolau, as the others rolled their eyes. Nicolau always enjoyed playing the enigmatic know-it-all. "My suggestions involve American oil, Spanish rebel General Mola, and a healkthy dose of French duplicity..."
A small hamlet near Valencia, September the 25th, 1936
As often before combat, Manuel Itubarri was having a fit of "trench jitters". He admired those of his men who just sat and waited for the enemy artillery to finally shut up, seemingly unconcerned. That was a skill he never could master. But Itubarri had quickly learned to master the next soldier's trick when enemy shells rain down on you and you know the end of it will mean an enemy assault of your position : anger. Wherever there was action, Itubarri could be seen muttering insults between clenched teeth.
"Goddamn it, how many more guns and ammo do you have ? Stop shelling me, you yellow bastards, and come up close if you dare, come and get it, come and get it, and I swear I'll have your guts for supper..."
The outbreak of the civil war had surprised Itubarri in France, where he worked in an assembly line for car-making firm Renault. Upon learning of the Fascist coup taking place in Spain, Itubarri had immediately volunteered to be part of the International Brigades Republican Spain was forming. Half of the "Brigadistas" volunteers were drawn to the fight by sheer romanticism, and half for political reasons. For Itubarri, proud member of the now clandestine French Communist Party, it had been a mixture of both, and also a way of taking a powder before the French police could come ask tough questions about an attack on the Saint Etienne weapon factory to steal rifles last May.
Itubarri's military service in the Spanish army, and his mastering of the French language, had allowed him to to take command of a "battalion" of the International Brigades, which really meant he more or less had a company. This company, he called "Joseph Staline" out of spite for Nationalist troops, was composed of Spaniards, Frenchmen and Walloons with various degree of military experience. They had been engaged in various operations, generally defending hastily made positions against Réquétés, the Nationalist light infantry.
Things had been pretty hairy at first, as regular Republican forces, already weakened by lack of credits before the war, had been severely disorganized by the departure of many officers who switched sides. At first, pay had been almost non-existent and irregular, food had depended on how many chicken his men could steal on neighboring farms, and tobacco had been so scarce men tried to make some substitute for it with hay and various plants.
Now things were slowly getting better, to the point where Itubarri actually had to look for things to grumble about. For one thing, more volunteers came from all over the world, driven by Republican and Soviet propaganda. After some pretty close calls, Republicans had held their ground in the Pyrenees, meaning supplies from friendly countries could come through France and reach the frontlines much more regularly. People were also sending money that served to pay the soldiers, their food or their equipment.
The problem was, things were also getting better for the enemy. In various occasions, tanks and modern planes had been engaged by the Nationalists, and it was widely known that Italy had sent thousands of regular soldiers under the guise of "volunteers". Itubarri's company had been bombed by Nationalist planes two weeks before, as they were deployed to plug a hole in Republican lines, and since then he had decided he hated aviators more than artillery crews. At least you could hope to break through and rout enemy artillery, while the bombers' crews were killing civilians in complete impunity. Sodding cowards, the lot of them thought Itubarri.
Both sides were now heavily depending on foreign supplies, volunteers and weapons to win the civil war. As these required the control of Spain's major ports, both the Republicans and the Nationalists were mounting offensives to take control of the Spanish coastline. Republicans were currently attacking Séville, trying to cut Franco's forces in mainland Spain from those in Morocco, Canarias and Baleares. And Nationalists were now attacking Valencia, to control Spain's biggest Mediterranean port and strangle Republican trade with allies and neutral nations.
"You call yourself Nationalists ? Ha ! Fascists, that's what you really are", scowled Itubarri as he trying to cover the sound of the surrounding explosions.
Republicans launch a counterattack in central Spain
Muttering under his breath, Itubarri suddenly realized the Nationalist artillery had fallen silent. Still dazed by the shelling, he looked around him to assess the damage. The hamlet and the trenches built around it had taken quite a beating. Turning to the old fortified farm at the outskirts of the hamlet, he could see the top storeys had collapsed, burying under tons of debris two of his machine-gun crews. Trench A was cut by artillery craters in at least two locations. Several houses had also been hit. Now that his sense of hearing came back to him, he could hear wounded men screaming somewhere behind him.
It could be much, much worse thought Itubarri. At that moment he heard a concert of bugles and whistles erupting from the enemy lines. The Réquétés were on the move.
A classy restaurant in Madrid, February the 24th, 1937
As he entered the dimly-lit dinig room, Alfonzo caught the last part of Azana "Victory's speech" radio stations kept broadcasting since the Nationalists had surrendered 24 hours ago.
"....and like the Phoenix Espana, eternal Espana, has once again risen from its ashed with renewed strength, renewed confidence, and renewed vigor. Today, as President of the Spanish Republic, I say to all Spaniards : you showed great resolve fighting this war, now show even greater resolve winning the peace. The guns have finally fell silent, but our wounds are still open, our country is still bleeding. We must rebuild our nation, rebuild our cities, and rebuild ourselves as a united people. Yesterday was a time for strife, today is for relief, and, my fellow countrymen, let us make tomorrow a time for pity, pardon, and prosperity !"
Presidente Manual Azana, compassionate leader of a triumphant Republic.
The Devil's mother with his pardon and prosperity, fumed Alfonzo, looking for the men he was supposed to meet there. Spotting them sitting at a table in a corner, he walked to them slowly. Always go slowly to a meeting, he had been taught, for it gives you a little extra time to get into character - and also to detect a potential set-up. That was lesson Alfonzo had taken to heart long ago, before he became Alfonzo.
"Caballeros" he said, reaching the small group and shaking their hands in the congenial way he had invented for his character. Some friendly banter never hurts, for most people, even powerful ones, want to be liked was another important lesson. And on countless occasions he had seen how true that was. Even those who took pride in not trusting anyone usually let their guard down at some point, because, when all's said and done, almost every man is a social animal.
Sitting at their table, he saw no sign of duplicity on their faces. They seemed elated - no doubt by the Republicans' victory - and relieved to see him. Not that he could blame them, for their heads would roll if they were caught doing business with him.
"So, caballeros, here's to a great victory against Fascism " said Alfonzo, raising his glass, quickly imitated by the others. As soon as the waiters brought the food, he cut the friendly banter and turned serious.
"Now" he continued in a lower voice, "we still have a lot of work to do, to score an even greater victory. Antonio, what are the news from the Presidency ?"
"Azana gets many calls from Paris, and also some from London." said a man who looked and behaved like an anxious ferret. "I listened to some of the conversations he had with the French Foreign Minister, and it's clear France wants to conclude a military alliance with the Republic."
That is something my grandmother, may she rest in peace, could have told me, you pompous fool, thought Alfonzo, who nevertheless smiled amiably, encouraging the anxious clerk to go on.
"The Foreign Minister has stalled Azana and Laval as much as he could, saying we should assess our economic and military situation vis à vis France before organizing an official meeting, and Azana has reluctantly agreed, but I don't think we'll be able to delay the talks beyond next spring."
Alfonzo nodded. He'll have to pass that information, for, agitated as Antonio may be, he usually had a good feeling about what was going on at the Palace. His being one of Azana's aides kept Alfonzo supplied with accurate and confidential information, which kept everyone happy in the upper echelons.
"The biggest problem I foresee" said a plump man in his sixties, "is how the various armed groups will react. Despite our best efforts, the irregular troops are mostly controlled by Anarchists and Trostkyists. As for the youth movements, the Socialists have appointed Solares to reorganize them under their control".
"Do not worry about Solares. This is a different matter, one that will be taken care of in due time" said Alfonzo. As usual, trying to keep everything separated required more work in Latin countries. Spaniards, like Italians and Frenchmen, had this tiresome habit of mixing everything together - this certainly made for livelier politics, and sometimes for pertinent analysis, but for a man like Alfonzo what it meant was it took more work, more stress, more energy to keep his various informers on the right rails.
"If you say so" replied the plump man in a tone that conveyed complete incredulity. "But what of the regular forces, then ? They too are a problem. They wiped out the Fascists - and yet the Fascists began the war with better troops, more planes, and more tanks."
"The regular army" interrupted the third man in a crisp voice "will follow its leaders. Which means if General Lister orders it to crush us, or the Anarchists, we'll have a dozen regiments pointing their guns at us before we even move. And that", he told Alfonzo with a humorless grin "I tend to think is a matter that needs to be taken care of now, or else it's useless to go any further".
Alfonzo winced apologetically.
"Please excuse me, caballeros, for I spoke too harshly. Every one of you has done a lot for the Cause, and I can tell you such risks and sacrifices will not be forgotten. I said Solares is a problem that will be taken care of, and so it will be, but not by us. We have...let's say, we have other friends, who will ensure Solares won't be a problem anymore"
That earned him just the kind of self-important nods he had expected. Always tell your informers they're in the know...
"Now", continued Alfonzo, "Juan is right, and very much so. The attitude of the Army is of the utmost importance, and we all know the devotion officers have for their wartimes leaders, above all General Lister, after so many successful battles. So yes, Juan, General Lister IS a problem I have to solve - with your help. And here's how you can help me solve that problem. Juan, I need a complete file on General Lister and the security measures that surround him. Julio, I'll need information about the troops who are stationed at the Presidential Palaca. What unit do they come from, when are they rotated, everything. Antonio, please keep me informed about the Spanish Cabinet's schedules. When will it meet in the next months, will Lister attend, that's what I need you to tell me. Before I forget : you'll find three envelopes in the usual letterbox. They contain funds to cover your various expenses, in pesetas and French francs."
Finishing his coffee, Alfonzo stood up and left, as it was always best to leave before your informers. At every step, he could feel "Alfonzo" slowly recede, like a wave revealing the sand that had lied beneath. When he stepped out of the restaurant, he was once again Victor Dimitrievitch Bodenko, NKVD colonel in charge of Operation Castillo for the all-important Madrid area.
Somewhere in the NKVD headquarters, some people have made plans for the Spanish Republic...
"Would you look at that damn fog" said Captain Guajardo, as the powerful Duisenberg was making its way through desert streets. The fog reverberated the streetlights, giving the impression a big, yellowish toxic cloud was hanging over the city. It had started the previous evening and showed no sign of getting thinner with the coming dawn.
"A soldier should always love fog, Captain" chided Lister "It hides your forces, quietens your approach, and keeps your enemy's air force pinned to the ground.". Lister's face broke into a ferocious grin. "There was a lot of fog the day I won the Battle of Madrid, you know".
"The battle of Madrid, sir" ? said Guajardo. While he only had been assigned to Lister a few weeks before, he immediately recognized one of the General's little routines. Trying his best to look intrigued and eager to learn, he gave the expected answer "But I thought there was no battle within Madrid, sir ?"
"Of course they wasn't, Guajardo ! And the reason there wasn't is that I won the Battle of Madrid on the Guadalajara ! Ha !".
General Enrique Lister, a much too popular general ?
Guajardo joined Lister's guffaw, just as the corporal who was driving the powerful car through Madrid's foggy streets. When he was not in a particularly foul mood, Lister, as Guajardo had soon learned, was not a difficult officer to serve under, and that's one of the reasons he had grown very popular with junior officers and soldiers of the Spanish Republican army. And that was why Captain Guajardo had been discreetly approached a few weeks before by some men in suits. Men who had a special interest in General Lister, and who needed a man of many talents to keep an eye on him. For the time being, that was.
As the Duisenberg entered the Honor Yard of the Presidential Palace, where Lister was due for a briefing about the difficulties in disbanding of irregular forces, and about the British deployment of forces in Gibraltar, Lister suddenly noticed a line of parked military trucks surging out of the fog.
What the hell does that unit's commanding officer think he's doing ? thought Lister. As the driver stopped the Duisenberg at the Palatial Gates, a young aspirant came to Guajardo's side and tapped gently on the window.
"Yes, Lieutenant, Good morning" said Guajardo without even looking, lowering the window. "General Lister here is expected for a meeting in 45 minutes with President Azana, so you'd better let us in quick"
"I'm sorry, Captain" said the young officer who didn't seem sorry at all "But security has been reinforced throughout the Palace. Nobody is supposed to be let in today without a special pass issued by the Presidential Guard, sir"
"A special pass ? A special pass ? What the hell are you talking about, Lieutenant ?" bellowed Lister, irritated by the delay, the gust of cold damp air and the fact he had to bend over Guajardo's side to answer whoever was challenging him.
"I'm really sorry General", said the Lieutenant, now visibly nervous, but "I've been given strict orders, you see, and I can't let you enter the Palace without that document, sir. We have been told special courriers had brought the passes yesterday to everybody who had official business here today."
"OFFICIAL BUSINESS ?" bellowed Lister, storming off the car "Now that does it ! What do you think brings me here, Lieutenant ? Do I look like I'm delivering tapas for the Palace kitchens ? Do you think I'm here to trade fish recipes with your goddamn grandmother ?". As the pale young Lieutenant took a step back Lister turned to Guajardo "Captain, do you know what is going on here ? Have we received a special pass you didn't tell me about ? Or has the world just gone mad ?"
"No, sir. Only the usual despatches and reports" said Guajardo, frowning. "We'd better check up with the Palace Guard commander, General"
"And so we will, Captain, so we will ! Lieutenant, we are going to leave this car here and you will take me and Captain Guajardo to your commanding officer this very minute. I want to get to the bottom of this circus act ! I didn't win this Republic's battles to be made fun of by some two-bit parading square officer who thinks light shines from his fat ass because he spends all day sitting in the oh so Presidential Palace ! Come Guajardo - we are going to take names, and then I swear on my first officer's stripe that I am going to kick asses all the way to Equatorial Guinea !"
Or the People's general ?
Where the hell are they going ? thought Corporal Diaz, Lister's driver, as he watched the three men cross the Honor Yard. Corporal Diaz was a born Madrileno, who spent most of his time at the palace driving officials and seducing secretaries. He had expected the three men to turn left, to the Presidential Guard's command post. Instead, the young Lieutenant took Lister to the old stables, that had lonce since been turned into an armory. Oh well, thought Diaz, that's officer business, not mine. I wonder if that cute phone operator still works at the Palace, what was her name again ? Mercedes ? No, Dolores, that's it. Dolores, sweet little doll, I think we'll become good friends, very good friends indeed...
Diaz heard the shots only a few seconds after the three officers had entered the old stables. Startled, he opened his door and turned to the sentries.
Good Lord don't receptions have an end anymore ? thought Albert Lebrun, President of the Third French Republic, as he took another glass of chmapgne from a passing waiter while a Congressman was trying to explain him something. Around him, a hundred people were swirling, all with a glass and some canapés in hand, chatting, negociating, doing business...
Président Albert Lebrun - a honest man, but will that be enough ?
The tout-Paris was there : busy ambassadors and their charming wives, politicians, some visiting dignitaries, leading industrialists looking for contracts, officers... Realizing he hadn't listened to a single word the other man had said, and feeling a sudden pang of guilt about it, he focused on the man.
"I'm sorry, congressman Tardieu, it's late and I'm afraid I wasn't paying you the attention our positions deserve. What was it you were telling me about further reforms ?"
"Don't apologize, Monsieur le Président. I must say that in my old age I'm not as keen on late-night parties anymore myself " said André Tardieu, who by and large was considered the author of the vast reforms that had engulfed France over the past three years.
"I was talking about the next Presidential election, Monsieur le Président. Your successor - or maybe yourself - will now be elected directly by the French electoral body, and not by Congressmen. That, I hope, will restore to your office some of the grandeur it was deprived of in 1875"
"Did you know, Tardieu, that when Colonel de La Rocque first proposed this reform I was his most vocal opponent ?" said Lebrun with a sad smile.
"Yes, Mr President" replied André Tardieu, "History will say that you resisted the very people who wanted to give you greater power - but I also know historians will say you did it out of respect for the institutions you had sworn to protect"
Congressman André Tardieu, the mind behind the sweeping reforms of 1935
"Indeed" said Lebrun, turning around to see Colonel de La Rocque speaking with Samuel Hoare, the British Foreign Minister, "but still I'm confident historians will just say that I was a fool to do so, as the January 1935 referendum gave crushing support to the reforms you proposed. I have thought a lot about that since, you know, Tardieu. And I've come to that conclusions that at some point in a democracy, if one is not careful enough, the institutions stop living for the country and start living for themselves. January 1935 was a deafening stroke of thunder in what we thought to be a clear blue sky - if only for that, I think History will be kinder to you"
"Do you really think so, Monsieur le Président ?" mused Tardieu "What will Historians say when they learn that a few months before writing that vast reform program I was thinking of abandoning the political scene for good"
"Then, André, History will say we were both lucky the 1934 riots were such a close call. In the end, it's the rioters who will have done the most for modernizing this country. In fact - "
Lebrun stopped, catching some commotion at the entrance of the vast dancing room. A motorcycle courrier had entered, his leather uniform soaked wet by the battering rain outside. Having stopped in the middle of the room, and visibly embarassed at being the center of the attention, he anxiously scouted the room for someone. Following his gaze, Lebrun saw the courrier look at Colonel de La Rocque, stride to him, and give him a message. De La Rocque was clearly taken aback by what he read, and looked around. When his eyes met Lebrun's, he limped toward the President of the French Republic with such a dark and gloomy look on his face that Lebrun felt his heart stop.
Oh my God, thought Lebrun, it's war. The Germans must have attacked.
***********
A few minutes later, Lebrun was sitting in his office with as many key Ministers ushers had been able to locate. With them was a worried Alcala-Zamora, who had been sent to Paris as Presidente Azana's special envoy.
"Gentlemen" said de La Rocque "I have been given grave news about Spain by our embassy in Madrid. Senor Alcala, I am afraid there has been a coup, and also that President Azana has been killed".
Lebrun stirred in his chair. Now that he needed to think clearly, he regretted having taken a fourth glass of champagne.
"A coup ? In Spain ? Colonel, I thought the Nationalists had been completely defeated ?"
"They have, Monsieur le Président. Our ambassador says that the coup has been organized by Spanish Communists, and he suspects they enjoyed active support from Russia. René" he said, turning to Nicolau, "please tell us what you know, and also what you suspect"
Nicolau, unshaven and hastily dressed, began in an unusually excited tone :
"Please understand that reports are still sketchy, and also that our embassy is now basically under siege, but here's what de Villecourt and my agents could gather. We know that this morning, General Lister, Spain's most prestigious general, arrived at the Presidential Palace for a cabinet meeting. We know military units still unidentified had been deployed near the Palace, and we suspect these units belong to the army corps he commanded in his battles for Central Spain and Tarragona. We suspect that the Spanish government had some suspicions about Lister's possible ambitions"
Nicolau cast an interrogative glance to Alcala, who, still shocked, nodded slowly.
"They planted an informer on Lister's headquarters, but way too late. Apparently this morning Lister killed the informer, and let his troops enter the Palace with inside help from the Presidential Guard. The troops then crashed into the meeting romm where the cabinet had gathered and proceeded to arrest the Ministers. Shots were heard, and while some of our informers saw various Republican Ministers taken to prison, nobody saw President Azana after the first shots. As we speak, Monsieur le Président, Monsieur le Premier Ministre, Spain is becoming a Soviet Socialist Republic. As such, it will be a thorn on our side, and a mortal danger for democracy in France as French Communists are bound to join forces with Madrid's new regime to try to pull a similar coup this side of the Pyrénées".
"This, Monsieur le Président de la République" said de La Rocque, "is an unmitigated disaster, for which I have to assume full responsibility. We now have another hostile nation threatening us both on land and at sea, both in Metropolitan France and in the colonies."
"Good grief" said Lebrun, fiddling nervously with his moustache "Good grief. Still no ally, and so many enemies..."
The Ecole Supérieure de Guerre, about to do business as usual
Paris, a conference room inside the Ecole de Guerre, March the 30th, 1937
As his aides hanged the last batch of maps to the blackboard and distributed various documents, General Le Gentilhomme mentally reviewed his briefing. Since he had been woken up in the middle of the night a week ago with news of a Communist Coup in Spain, he had been feverishly working on operations plans to deal with what the government had deemed a grave menace.
Gosh, now I know how Foch must have felt in the Great War, he thought, looking at the most powerful men of the country assembled for an extraordinary crisis meeting. Le Gentilhomme had never been a good public speaker, his speeches to his troops generally being a gruff "Go kill them, now lads, and don't embarrass me or I'll tan your hides". Briefing a whole government - plus a member of the Spanish government-in-exile - was a new and uncomfortable experience.
Général Paul Legentilhomme, planning the invasion of Spain.
"Monsieur le Président de la République, Monsieur le Premier Ministre, Messieurs, here's the evaluation of the Spanish situation that analysts from the General Headquarters, with help from the Deuxième Bureau and the Ministère des Affaires Etrangères" began Le Gentilhomme as soon as the aides closed the room's door behind them.
"Let's begin with deployment of the Spanish units. Our border with Spain has been closed for a week now, but remains lightly guarded by Spanish troops. We have identified a Spanish infantry corps in Catalonia, whose strength we estimate at three to four divisions. To the West, two more divisions have been deployed in Bilbao. The Deuxième Bureau thinks these five divisions' main mission is to quell possible unrest from Anarchists and Autonomists who always enjoyed large support in these two regions."
Pointing his cavalry stick at the map, Le Gentilhomme continued, feeling more confident now that he could see his audience was drinking every word.
"The province of Huesca is, as far as we know, completely devoid of troops. The main Spanish forces are currently redeploying from Madrid, where they were used to stage the coup and suppress dissent, but they seem to be heading for the main ports of Seville, Valencia, La Coruna, and Tarragona. A few divisions also are in El Rif, the Canarias and Equatorial Guinea - where they spent the whole civil war, as a matter of fact. That, gentlemen, clearly indicates the Spanish Soviets are not planning any move this side of the Pyrénées." Grabbing a chair, Le Gentilhomme sat down "Admiral Darlan, please take over for the naval briefing"
Darlan, the suave architect of the French navy, had been the main proponent of the building of a strong Naval Infantry Corps, and clearly had plans to use them in the near future.
The byzantine Admiral Darlan, about to lead the French Navy to war...
"Last year's Spanish Civil War has left the Spanish Republic with nothing more than a fleet-in-being. I say they won't be able to put more than 8 capital ships, most of them pre-1914 cruisers, and a slightly lower number of destroyers and torpedo boats, which are also of old designs - all of this is discussed in the documents you received, pages 10 to 24, so I won't go into details right now. What is important is that, as of yesterday, these ships were still disseminated throughout Mediterranean ports. I thus have to concur that Communist Spain is not planning any hostile move, and that we'll enjoy both the initiative and numerical superiority wherever anbd whenever we engage the Spanish navy. General Vuillemiin, if you may please ?" concluded Darlan, adressing a grave-looking Air Force officer before sitting down.
Air Force General Vuillemin as he tries to find a way to stop Spanish bombers.
"The current Spanish Air Force numbers four wings of Polikarpov I-16 fighters that are still in Madrid - not much of a threat for Metropolitan France, but we'll have to take them into account if we choose to cross the border. The main threat comes from four wings of Tupolev tactical bombers, probably flown by a mix of Russian and Spanish pilots. These planes have been moved to airfields near Tarragona as soon as the fighting died down in Madrid, and I have little doubt that these will be used offensively against French troops, ships, and factories. Flying from Tarragona itself, they could reach a La Rochelle to Lyon line, maybe beyond of they fly with a lighter bomb load. The Armée de l'Air thus recommends webtake every measure to first contain, and then destroy, these bomber wings".
"Thank you, Vuillemin" said General Le Gentilhomme, standing up."I'll now present you the forces at our disposal for possible operations against Spain. Two tank divisions are now in Pau. Admiral Boncour's Naval Infantry Corps, totalling three divisions, are in Dax along with two infantry divisions that have been redeployed from the Italian border. Two army corps, totalling 10 infantry divisions, are coming from the Belgian borders. These two corps are placed under General Weygand's command, and are in the process of being modernized. They are in fighting shape, though, but if we wait till next summer we'll have two powerful corps there. General Gamelin's cavalry is ready to strike in Spanish Morrocco. Admiral Darlan has ordered the Atlantic and Mediterranean Squadrons to prepare for immediate operations, and we have transports in Bordeaux waiting to pick up our Naval Infantry for an amphibious landing on the Spanish Atlantic coast. As for the Air Force, interceptors have been moved to Bordeaux to cover Southwestern France, and our main bombing force is now in Nice ready to strike. Our close support aircraft are in the process of being deployed in Bordeaux for offensive operations."
"Thank you General Le Gentilhomme. Admiral Darlan, General Vuillemin, thanks to you too" said de La Rocque, turning to Albert Lebrun.
"Monsieur le Président de la République, France now has but one choice to make, and that choice is yours. It's either war or peace now. You have had my government's recommendations, so you know where we stand, but as per the 1935 Constitutional Laws you have full authority over these decisions."
As if I didn't know these constitutional laws were written for the next election, when you run for Presidency thought Lebrun. Still, he chided himself, I am in charge here and now, and he's right, I have to take a decision.
"War or peace..." said Lebrun, twisting his moustache "Gentlemen, I have always been a man of peace. I wanted France to be at peace with its neighbors, and at peace with itself. But as recents events have made it all too clear, wanting peace is not making peace. I understand we have helped Republican Spain last year because we couldn't stand the thought of this old nation under Fascist chains. What I now see is that other hands have picked up the same chain and once again want to enslave our neighbor. It was just and fitting that France helped in 1936, and it's just and fitting that France should help now."
Seeming relieved by his own decision, Lebrun stood up and walked to Le Gentilhomme.
"General, I want you to know that as soon as Weygand's two corps will be fully modernized, I shall declare a state of war exists against France and this Soviet Spain. Gentlemen, please take all necessary measures to ensure the safety of French citizens here and abroad in the troubled times we are about to live. Colonel, I also agree we should recognize Mr Alcala-Zamora head of the Spanish Republican government-in-exile, and give him our complete support."
"Very well, Monsieur le Président de la République. I think we should let General Le Gentilhomme work now - and we too have work to do, for there'll be Hell to pay at the Assemblée Nationale when we announce them what we did today."
A French Guépard-class destroyer starts its patrol off La Rochelle
Some distance off the French port of La Rochelle, 2:00 AM, June the 23th, 1937
"Hydrophones, report" whispered Captain Bosworth as quietly as he could. Even though it had been a barely audible murmur, he felt like he had been hollering the order.
Isn't that amazing what a pair of hostile destroyers can do to acoustics ? The Royal Philarmonic Orchestra should have one or two suspended in the rafters he mused, as the hydrophone operator was listening intently to the sound of screws a few hundred feet above.
"Gaining speed, sir" the operator finally said "Turning away from us, bearing west-southwest. They sound like Guépard-class, sir, heading for the open sea"
"All right. Rise to periscope depth. We'll surface as soon as I'm sure these tin cans are gone for good. Peter, inform our guests to get ready to disembark"
Nodding obediently, Lieutenant Peter Billingsley made his way through the boat's crowded corridors, chiding idle sailors as he progressed through the small labyrinth that was HMS Torque, one of His Royal Majesty's most recent submarines. Reaching the cabin he usually shared with two other officers, and which had been turned over to their special guests, he knocked gently.
“Lieutenant Drake ?” he said without entering “We are in position, about to surface. Captain Bosworth’s waiting for your team”
“Thanks, we’re coming” replied Lieutenant Gordon Drake. He, like Billingsley, was an officer of the Royal Navy, but tonight he had taken great pains to make sure it didn’t show. With his woolen black sweater, his black pants, and his black wool cap, he and his companions looked more something out of a “penny dreadful”.
As his two companions gathered their equipment, Drake gave them a critical look. Of the three, only he was truly an active officer, as Frank Landers and Nigel Robertson were respectively the mission’s camera operator and the specialist in naval architecture. Bringing them and their findings back to England was his responsibility, and one he took very seriously. The ties between France and the United Kingdom were friendly enough for the group to be spared a firing squad if caught, but one could never be sure of these things.
Their mission had really started in London over a year before, when evidence began accumulating that the French government was completing a new naval base just north of La Rochelle, in a place the locals called Chef de Baie, a few hundred meters away from its commercial terminal in La Pallice. That information had been filed as interesting, but not warranting any kind of action or enquiry. When the naval base had been completed, it had been photographed by a modified passenger plane, and the resulting pictures had been added to the file. Now, as France was clearly preparing for what had to be some form of action against Communist Spain, somebody in London felt it was necessary to get a much closer look at that base, as ships passing through La Rochelle would eventually cruise off the Spanish coast, and hence would have an impact on British commerce and British security. Discreet contacts had been made with the MI-6 and with the Royal Navy and HMS Torque, who was supposed to rally Gibraltar, had been turned around for a quick run into French waters. And it had embarked three discreet guests who, oblivious to the rumors their presence provoked among the submarine crew, had spent most of the trip studying maps, checking equipment, and working on some useful French phrases.
Rising from the sea like some antique sea serpent, Torque surfaced in what had been deemed a safe spot, away from the commercial sea lanes radiating from La Pallice. As he reached the deck of the conning tower, Drake could see the weather, at least, was perfect. An unexpected summer storm had pushed thick black clouds over La Rochelle, hiding the moon – and hopefully hiding Torque. In many ways, the submarine crew was taking the biggest chances in this mission, for while the French naval troops guarding the base would probably try to capture Drake’s three-men group, the discovery of an unknown submarine close to a French base, in times of high tension with Spain, would probably mean the boat would be engaged with deadly force if detected.
HMS Torque shortly before embarking for its clandestine mission in French waters...
Without a word, Drake shook Captain Bosworth’s hand, and climbed down the ladder to reach the point where Torque’s sailors had prepared a small rowing lifeboat, also painted in black. As every item usually found in lifeboats bore the mark of the Royal Navy, Drake’s boat had been stripped of everything but its oars. If they ran into trouble, his group would have to fend for itself with whatever they would carry with them in their dark rucksacks.
Rowing towards the French coast, Drake saw Torque silently diving back into safety. If things went well, the submarine would rendezvous with his group in 3 hours, at the same point. Two other rendezvous points had been memorized in case of unexpected hostile activity.
Who would expect an intelligence operation to be met with hostility indeed ? thought Drake sarcastically. Well, Gordon me lad, now you really are on your own.
Twenty minutes later, the three men moored the boat near a small patch of marshland, hidden from the naval base by some temporary warehouses and sheds that had been erected to protect materiel used in its construction. These buildings would offer good visual protection from French sentries, or so the three men hoped. Now that no splashing sound reached them, they could hear a lot of activity was going on in the nearby base.
“Do you think they spotted us or the Torque ?” asked Landers, who did not exactly look forward to a hot pursuit in marshlands.
“There’s no way they could have spotted us this early – as for the sub, it would be damn unlucky” said Drake, who nevertheless opened the flap of his hip holster. Noticing some workers had left a ladder leaning against the wall of the next warehouse, he signaled his two companions to stay where they were. Waiting for any sign a sentry had been posted to guard the warehouses, Drake crouched and ran to the next building. The only noise he could hear was coming from the base – no noise, no cigarette smell, the coast seemed clear. Drawing his gun to cover them, he waved to the two technicians who ran to the base of the ladder.
“I’m going to see what this racket is all about. You two stay here – Frank, take the camera from your rucksack - but nothing else, you hear me, because we still might have to make a run for it. Nigel, be ready to run like hell towards those fields behind us if I tell you to. As for me” said Drake, “I’m going on the roof of the warehouse to see what’s happening. Frank, wait for my signal, and then follow me with the camera. Be careful.”
On this final advice, Drake climbed the wooden ladder slowly. A minute or so later, he whispered : “Frank. Your turn.”
When Landers reached the spot where Drake was lying down, he almost stopped dead on his tracks.
“Bloody Hell” he whispered as an irritated Drake pushed him down on the roof.
“Bloody Hell indeed” said Drake, his face expressing an exasperation that was belied by the excitement in his voice.
Their task had been to infiltrate the base in depth, to get close pictures of the dry-docks, of the armory, of the supply depots along the nearby railroad, and of the huge oil tanks that had been completed a week before. All this was supposed to help the Admiralty ascertain what kind of fleet the French Navy could supply through La Rochelle – and what France’s plans were for its navy. As Gordon Drake could now clearly see his mission profile had changed entirely.
“Nigel, you’d better come too. And keep a low profile” said Drake, without looking away from the brightly-lit base.
Along three long quays that were flooded in electric light, more than twenty warships were moored, and many smaller ones had just dropped anchor near the lighthouse that had been built at the entrance of the base. While Drake had never seen anything as impressive nor exciting as the Royal Navy’s naval reviews, this came to a respectable second. A few hundred feet away, he could see through his binoculars the French carrier Béarn, her decks full of planes wrapped under tarpaulins, in the process of being resupplied. That ship wasn’t supposed to be on par with the Royal Navy’s Glorious or Ark Royal, of course, but it was the only non-British carrier operated by a European navy and that made it worth taking a good look at. Moored behind him like massive bodyguards, he could make the hulks of three heavy cruisers and an elderly battleship that had to be Courbet, if he remembered his briefing correctly. More than a dozen transports were moored farther away, and the quays were crammed full of soldiers embarking and loading crates of food and ammunition. A crane was loading some Panhard armored cars in a large freighter a few feet away. From four light cruisers, moored to its right, came flashes of bluish light, as naval workers seemed to be installing armored plates in AA positions.
“Frank, Nigel, there’s just no way we can go on with the plan” whispered Drake as the naval engineer joined them on the roof. “This port is so packed with Frog sailors we’d have to rub shoulders with them just to reach the dry-docks”.
“So what do we do ?” asked Robertson anxiously.
“We stay here – and yet we complete our mission. The wanted to know what the French were up to, and how much of their navy this Chef de Baie base could supply ? I think we can work out the answers from this very roof. Frank, take as many long-distance pictures as you can. Nigel, take a good look at their ships, their base, and the way they work, we’ll piece all that information together on our way home. Would you look at that, gentlemen ? It’s like they put everything on display for us”.
War. Thought Drake. That’s what they are up to. They are going to war over there, and no mistake.
Flying in formation over Provence, July the 5th, 1937
"Dammit, Jorge, you just have to tell him ! We can't fly like that three days in a row, that's pure madness !". Julio Rodriguez, navigator and co-pilot, had to scream to cover the grave rumble of his SB-2 bomber's motors. His pilot and commanding officer, Jorge Munoz, gave him a blank and tired look. He tried, thought Rodriguez, he really tried. The devil takes that damn Russian fool and his pride !
Since hostilities had broken out between Republican - even Rodriguez, though a dedicated Communist, had trouble saying "Soviet" - Spain and the French Republic, the Spanish Air Force had enjoyed notable successes. While the French High Command had tried to protect all its industries, ports and jump-off areas with fighter wings, there just wasn't enough MB-152s to cover every potential objective. Local intelligence - essentially members of the now illegal French Communist party - had revealed the Italian border, notably, was practically devoid of any planes, and the Spanish SB-2 delivered only a year before by the Soviet Union had immediately been used to attack factories and railroads at night. While the physical damage had been limited, there was no doubt the French had been appaled at how easily the Spanish bombers had been able to strike almost wherever and whenever they wanted.
At first, the surprise had been complete indeed. The French AA crews, equipped with antiquated listening devices dating back to the Great War, and makeshift AA batteries made of old 75mm artillery guns, hadn't been able to even distract the Spanish crews, which had been honed into a fine instrument of war after a year of operations against Fascists in their own country. After one week of operations, the Spanish aviators had been feted as heroes by their countrymen, and Madrid's Propaganda Ministry never missed an opportunity to show them rushing towards their planes and discussing operations with their Soviet brothers-in-arms and advisors.
And here, as Rodriguez soon found out, lied the core of the problem. The Soviet advisors that had been sent at the time of the Civil War to reinforce the youg Republic's Air Force had now grown used to authority, to the point where they considered their Spanish counterparts as junior partners unable to grasp the subtlety of modern war. Even seasoned Spanish officers found it difficult to make their point heard when it was not what their Soviet counterparts wanted to hear. What was worse, the Russians were particularly wary of Spanish aviators who had flown mission with French pilots during the Civil War or had been trained in France. If what these officers said did not fit the picture the Russians had of the situation, there was always a political officer beginning to snoop around to see if the Spanish veterans hadn't been "infected" somehow by bourgeois social-democracy, anarchism, or worse. Rodriguez knew at least three competent officers whose career had been wrecked because they had pointed out the Polikarpov I-16s were no longer on par with French monoplan fighters.
That patronizing attitude, alas, was typical of Air Force Colonel Arkady Shermetyev, which in all but name had risen as the absolute commander of the Spanish bomber command. The man certainly wasn't a fool, and he also was pretty brave, bordering on reckless, when it came to leading a bombing raid. Always keeping his ears on the ground, Shermetyev had very skillfully used the information given about the weak French AA and Air Force defense, managing to circumvent the French defense netweork and to bring back every plane. For that reason alone, he was appreciated by the Spanish crews, even by those who thought him way too heavy-handed in running their air force.
But things had begun to change, something the Russian officers had first been slowed to realize, and now were dismissing as a simple fluke. Two days ago, two SB-2s on a simple Burgos-to-Tarragona ferry mission had failed to show up, and their charred remnants which had been found the following day left little doubt as to whether it was an accident or an encounter with enemy fighters. The French AA batteries had clearly been reorganized, as a few SB-2 hulls could attest. Passive defense had also improved dramatically, and the crews now had to triple-check their bearings because the French air defense crews had set up fake railways and had camouflaged construction sites to look like factories.
And today, as more than 30 Spanish bombers plodded their way towards Marseille and its industrial suburbs, Rodriguez was beginning to be extremely worried. The bomber force was taking the exact same route as they had since the beginning of the week. That route allowed them to radiate to various objectives, but Rodriguez didn't like that anyway, he didn't like that one single bit as he too had flown with French pilots during the civil war and knew they would soon notice any such pattern and act accordingly. To make things worse, their Polikarpov fighter escorts had left them 30 minutes ago over Perpignan, which meant they would have to complete almost two thirds of the trip without their protection. Finally, none of the two scout planes that had been sent an hour in advance of the raid to test the AA positions and find opportunity targets had radioed anything - nothing, not one word in fact since they had reached the outskirts of Marseille. While it might be because of faulty radio equipment or of a possible thunderstorm, Rodriguez was feeling an icy hand slowly squeeze his stomach. And despite of these ominous signs, despite of Captain Munoz's objections, Colonel Shermetyev, who was flying in the first wave ten minutes ahead of them, had flatly refused to alter course or change plans, telling Rodriguez he was just having a base case of the jitters.
Looking at the evening sky, Rodriguez began to wonder if if he would see the sun rise the following day.
*********
A deadly carrousel about to begin
Flying over a layer of clouds, Captain Pierre Pouyade made sure all his wingmen had rendez-voused according to plan. He sure didn't want to tell General Vuillemin that enemy bombers had been once again allowed to proceed to their objectives because he wasn't careful enough - not after Vuillemin had popped up a week ago to court-martial the officers in charge of the Air Defense Area. Pouyade knew for a fact that at least one firing squad had been assembled that day, to execute the sentence pronounced against a Colonel who had been found guilty of criminal incompetence, and gross dereliction of duty. Vuillemin, himself an ex-pilot, would not execute a young Captain for some navigational error, but he sure could take his freshly-gained third stripe back if he felt Pouyade had in any way endangered his mission. And anyway, Pouyade and all the other fighter pilots wanted some action - everyone smelled blood in the air during that afternoon's briefing, and even the mechanics had been noticeably gung-ho as they prepared the Bloch crates for their mission.
The MB-152 interceptors - now more than two dozens of them, as Pouyade could see with a mix of relief and exhilaration - began to assemble into three circles, reminding him of sharks or jackals waiting for their prey.
How did that chap Clostermann call that at the base ? thought Pouyade, Oh, yes he "Great Roundabout". Or was it "The Great Circus" ? I'll have to ask him..
Aboard Spanish Soviet Republic's Navy cruiser Guerrero, July the 22nd, 1937, 18h00
The SSR Guerrero, flagship of Admiral Diaz's flotilla.
The bridge door opened almost as the last explosion died out, creating a man-made geyser for a few seconds.
"Sir, si-signal from the Guadalajara !" stuttered the young naval officer as soon as he stepped into the bridge of the cruiser. Turning around, Almirante Ernesto Diaz looked at the wide-eyed boy for a second before taking the message.
Christ, he's so young. And afraid. His first battle, of course. And possibly his last. Still, can't have frightened officers running around aboard this ship. Not when a group of French cruisers just tried to zero in on us. Time to play gruff old sea dog again.
Conjuring up a half-hearted anger, Admiral Diaz snatched the despatch from the young man's hand.
"Good, ensign Hernandez. Now collect yourself, and return to your battle station on the double. You are an officer of the Spanish navy, mister. Try to remember it, or I swear you'll soon discover that French shells are a cinch when compared to the wrath of a Spanish Admiral. Dismissed".
Ah, better thought Diaz as he saw the ensign's face radiating a mix of shame and anger as the young officers snapped into a crisp salute and left. Better than fear, my lad, and far more useful in battle.
Quickly, Diaz glanced at the signal despatch, trying to focus on it in spite of the exploding shells that hit the water behind them.
Hrm. Pretty haphazard shelling. We must be outdistancing them noted Diaz as he rapidly read the message.
The cruiser Guadalajara, on the Guerrero's starboard, was reporting light damage due to a near-miss. A destroyer operating further west had signaled a sub sighting, but there had not been any torpedo action.
Looking west, Diaz could see the Guadalajara steaming away at full speed, in the general direction of Barcelona which was under siege by French forces operating in Catalunya. Though himself a Madrileno, Diaz had many fond memories of Barcelona in his younger years as an officer of the then Republican Spanish Navy, and wondered what state the city was in. It still infuriated him how easy it had been for the French to invade.
In July, the French Deuxième Bureau had struck a deal with the Anarchists who still had numerous underground networks in all of Catalunya, and enjoyed serious popular support. The Soviet Government's efforts to eradicate the Anarchist rabble had led to far too many private vendettas, and the Ministry of Interior forces that had been sent there had comprised far too many petty criminals, all too happy to use their police powers to carve out their own little kingdoms. Too many summary executions, too many rapes, to much looting had led the population to hate the new government in Madrid with a renewed passion. And of course it had been very easy for the French to play on this sentiment. With the help of the Anarchists of the Partido Obrero de Unificacion Marxista, who knew all kinds of secret mountains paths for having used them for years smuggling weapons into and out of Spain, the French Army had had no trouble crossing the Pyrenees.
To try t encourage resistance among the population, the government had launched a propaganda campaign aimed at presenting the French soldiers as invaders reminiscent of the Napoleonic invasions, but it seemed the people in Catalunya had decided a long-deceased Napoleon was preferable to a living and breathing Lister. That the hero of the Civil War could now be reviled by the same people he fought for left Diaz confused and pained.
"Alert ! Bombers ! Bombers !"
A Bréguet bomber from the French Aéronavale begins a bombing run
Damn. Snapping out of his reverie, Diaz looked up from the despatch. Flying low, three light bombers were doing a run over his task force, and air raid sirens were now blaring aboard every ship.
"Flank speed ! Come to the 270 !" shouted Captain Ubalde to the helmsman, his voice barely audible over the rumble of the three Bréguet bombers who passed over the Guerrero, pursued by gunfire from the AA batteries. As the cruiser, which was already steaming at high speed, began to list in its sharp turn, Diaz grabbed the copper rail on the wall and made some quick calculations.
The group of Spanish cruisers were part of a plan to lure a French surface group into a deadly trap close to the Baleares islands. Diaz's little flottila was the bait, hopefully made irresistible by the presence of a few freighters and above all of a converted liner which was supposed to give the French navy the impression Diaz' mission was to either resupply or reinforce Spanich forces in Barcelona. He was expected to keep the French in hot pursuit until they'd approach the Baleares, where the Soviet Spanish Navy had sent its two venerable battlewagons, the Jaime and Espana. Only their new and more acceptable names were respectively Revolucion and Espana Sovietica now, of course. Though these battleships were of the old dreadnought kind, there was little doubt they and Diaz's ships would sink the French cruiser squadron, with the help of half a dozen SB-2 bombers based in Majorca. With just a little luck, the SSR would trade a few rusty freighters for twice as many French cruisers.
So yes, that should do the trick thought Diaz. We'll need some time to regroup once the air raid is over, but that should allow the French cruiser squadron to catch up without putting us in real peril. That is, if the damn bombers don't score a direct hit.
As the bridge officers broke into a cheer, Diaz noted one of the Bréguet was trailing a large tail of black smoke, while the other two reached higher altitude, chased by a series of AA shells. Like a bull in the arena, the bombers had had their chance, and had wasted it. The Spanish squadron, once caught by surprise, was now reforming a solid defensive perimeter. Thick, black smoke was billowing over one of the southernmost light cruisers, but the Guerrero was too far away for Diaz to assess the damage or recognize the ship.
"All ships to report damage" ordered Diaz, bringing his elated bridge officers back to business. "I'm going to my quarters. Captain Ubalde, you have the ship"
Thirty minutes later, as Diaz was going over his battle plans for the tenth time of the day, a more composed but puzzled Ensign Hernandez entered.
"Admiral, destroyer Matador reports he's spotted the Espana and Revolucion 6 miles south of his position, moving towards us"
"What ? That doesn't make sense, we're supposed to rendez-vous in" Diaz checked his watch "almost ninety minutes off Majorca ! Tell the helmsman to veer the ship towards Matador"
Grabbing binoculars from his small desk, Diaz rushed to the small observation platform outside the cruiser's brige, ready to throw a fit if his counterpart from the battleship force had blown the operation. Half cursing, half praying, for even a loyal Communist sailor found some habits hard to break, Diaz pointed his binoculars south. The weather had been worsening all day, and now thick storm clouds were forming off the African coast and advanced rapidly towards his squadron. A seasoned sailor, Diaz could smell a great storm was brewing over there, and wondered what it'd mean for his operational plans.
Damn, it's getting hard to see anything thought Diaz. If it keeps like that the French cruisers might abandon the pursuit or lose us in the rough seas. Now where is Matador ?
He could barely see his southernmost ships against the blackened horizon. The clouds seemed alive, charcoal-grey horrors with thunder pulsating inside. The whole horizon seemed pregnant with what felt like a monstrous tempest, and when it would finally give birth the storm would be unleashed on his squadron, starting with the tiny Matador which he could now barely make out as a small dark point over there, near the horizon. The destroyer's captain had been right, there clearly were two elderly battlewagons farther south, approaching fast. They were hard to focus on, their dark hull barely silhouetted against the blackened horizon. For some reason Diaz could not fathom, Matador seemed to be making a sharp turn at full speed.
Have the French detected our battleships and forced them to run for the open sea ? Have the orders been changed ? Has Barcelona already fallen ? Have..
"Sir !" said Hernandez, somewhere behind him, "Matador is transmitting again, urgent message, it..."
All of a sudden, the storm he had felt came alive from both the sea and the sky, and as he expected, it first engulfed the Matador. As the first lightning streaked across the dark skies, the closest battleship opened fire at the destroyer practically at point blank range, leaving it engulfed in flames like a modern version of a Viking funeral boat.
"It...it says the approaching ships are not ours" finished Hernandez almost in a murmur, his gaze lost over the horizon towards the burning ship.
Courbet is closing in for the kill...
As another lighting illuminated the scene, Diaz realized and understood Matador's mistake. His captain had been expecting to meet two venerable and aging battlewagons, and the ships he had encountered certainly did match the description. What the darkening skies had managed to hide until the very last minute was the fact the approaching vessels were two French battleships from the Courbet class, which were now using their superior gun range to dislocate his flotilla.
