"Democracy cannot be imposed by atom bombs. Democracy can only grow in an atmosphere of friendship and security."
- Konni Zilliacus, (January 22, 1948)
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Buffeted by crosswinds, the de Havilland Dove came in for a rather ungainly landing, bumping twice, before dropping down for an abrupt halt, like a inexpertly skimmed stone. The passengers, jolted by the sudden loss of momentum, could have been forgiven for looking rather queasy. For the Foreign Secretary however, such landings were commonplace. Certainly more comfortable than Helsinki he mused, but then again, the enemy isn’t at the gate. Still, he thought as he eased him out of the chair, (beside him, the Education Secretary – rather less accustomed to air travel – was discreetly vomiting into a paper bag.)
Bickenhill Aerodrome was about as lovely as it always had been, which was to say, not very. The three men descended to the runway as quickly as possible, Solley still wiping his mouth apologetically with a speckled handkerchief. A captain of the Fusiliers was waiting for them. The Prime Minister had clearly arrived some time before – it would have been unacceptable to send regular forces at the present time if had just been the Outer Cabinet. The Foreign Secraetry did his best to ignore the ignore the men in uniform, although Alexander – the Home Defence Secretary – gave a dutiful nod.
“The Prime Minister has set up his office in the international terminal,” the captain said, “I understand that preparations at the University have been delayed.”
The delegation walked the short distance to the squat building that was serving as the interim Downing Street. The famous terrace was still very much around, of course, but the immolation of Peterborough has caused consternation in London. Despite the best efforts of Home Defence, most of the capital was in a state of curfew and martial law. Birmingham was quieter, Birmingham was rattled. Nevertheless, the decision had broken Durbin. Even during the darkest days of the Blitz, Parliament and Monarch had remained in post – heavens, even the destruction of the Commons Chamber had resulted in little more than the Animals moving to the Vegetables.
“The Walloons don’t even have nuclear artillery,” Alexander had said to him during the flight, “all we achieve from moving here is an extra fifteen minutes of terror.”
They had enter the terminal building. It was cavernous, but unfinished, although the civil service were in full swing – opening countless boxes of papers, installing telephone lines and – obviously – setting up a tea urn. At the centre of the chaos, looking small and isolated behind his huge desk, was the Prime Minister.
Evan Durbin had not slept properly for a month, and it showed. Despite his distaste for the man, the Foreign Secretary couldn’t avoid a twinge of pity for him. It had been he, not the Leader of the Opposition, who had assaulted Stanley’s coalition when Kaganovich and Beria had brought the Berlin Uprising to an end in the most brutal (but effective) way possible.
He had warned them, hadn’t he? He had told them that the proliferation of the ludicrously-named ‘defence’ organisations - N.A.T.O, S.E.A.T.O, W.E.U – had been the politics of the mad-house. He’d been compared to the Bourbons, but in the end, it has been the Nationals that had never learned anything and thus never forgotten anything. It had been they who had fallen back into the old habits of the Great Powers and returned to power plays rather than internationalism. When the first attack came, all of those who had been beating the war-drum had paid. With Konni’s star so high, and with the Army of the Rhine desperately re-grouping outside Frankfurt, he had been unopposed for the ILP leadership. Now, it seemed, he would be unopposed for the Premiership.
Durbin gave an half-attempted smile and beckoned the three men sit. Jenkins, his PPS, sat beside him and began jotting down the minutes.
“Thank-you for coming Gentlemen,” the Prime Minister began, his voice rasping, “I trust that you were not too delayed in London?”
Solley gave an sharp bark of not-amusement. Durbin looked pained.
“Firstly, I should perhaps take the liberty of informing you all that the Chancellor’s plane is still unaccounted for,” he said (beside him, Jenkins’ broke his pen-nib in shock), “-I have therefore taken the decision of asking Nye to take over at the Treasury on an interim basis, at least until we get confirmation of his whereabouts.”
“Geoffrey was a good man,” Solley said, giving the impression that Durbin was anything but, “although it is gratifying that a true Labour man has been allowed to return to government.”
The Prime Minister slumped further down in his chair. “In that respect,” he replied, “I would be grateful if we could look towards a formal re-unification of our parties. The differences between ourselves has been largely moot since Berlin – and the Nationals are in no fit-state to do anything. Half of the frontbench resigned the other day alongside Eden, and they aren’t going to come around to Lloyd by the time of the election.”
“If we have one,” Alexander muttered.
The Prime Minister’s eye twitched, “I have not asked you here to begin preparations for a coup.”
“But you are resigning?” the Home Defence Secretary replied.
“The only reason I have not already done so was the lack of an available monarch to resign to,” Durbin snapped, “but I understand that Her Majesty is on her way back from Ottawa as we speak. My recommendation, as any fool knows, is for her to call for Konni.”
The Foreign Secretary stretched ostentatiously.
“I suspect that the President will not be keen on that” he noted.
“Frankly,” Zilliacus replied, “it will make little difference at this stage. I met with the Secretary of State at the Zurich Summit last month. The President only avoided impeachment in April because everyone knows he is going down in November anyway. La Follette said that he may stand for the nomination himself, which would be useful from our perspective, even if he won’t win.”
“Probably for the best,” Solley interjected, “with regard to the international situation, anything that hastens the disintegration of the two oligopolies is preferable.”
There was a brief consternation as the Secretary of State for War arrived.
“Apologies for my tardiness,” Greenwood said, breathlessly, “we had, thankfully erroneous, reports of high-altitude bombers over the Channel.”
As the Member for Rossendale gave a brief review of the present situation in Europe, Konni felt his mind wandering. He thought back to his years at Yale, and the League. He recalled the old lectures on Grotius and Hobbes. All ‘state of nature’ this and ‘nasty and brutish’ that. That had not been the way he’d seen the international situation at the time, and he still didn’t. Had it not been he ‘Vigilantes’, who had warned about the failures of diplomacy before the wars? It had been that same mistake that had emerged again. Germania est delenda had been taken up by all the key players, though none of them had been fit to hold a candle to either of the three Catos. No – the warmongers needed to be swept away – his diplomacy would see to that.
“Of course,” Greenwood concluded, “with this Lagaillarde fellow apparently on the verge of deposing the Republic, I would suggest disengaging from our commitments on the continent as soon as possible. We cannot afford having our servicemen being caught up in another Révolution culturelle.”
“Tillon is still in London,” Zilliacus noted, “it may be worth our while sending him on a peace mission.”
Durbin looked exasperated.
“We aren’t exporting another revolutionary,” he furiously responded, “Togliatti’s ‘Italian Road’ took about six weeks to become ‘Moscow’s Road’, France falling is a tendril of the Soviets that would be flung far, far west indeed.”
“So what?” the Foreign Secretary retorted, “our commitments are to the United Nations, not to whatever the Americans tell us to do! We have seen all that you have described emerge purely out of successful governments having this foolish attachment to a nation on the other side of the Atlantic. You dither in your indecisiveness, Evan, it is time for you to give up on this absurd attachment to the past – the future is in co-operation with our brothers on the continent.”
The Prime Minister appeared to freeze momentarily, before slowly drawing himself up.
“You are naïve, Konni,” he said, “more to the point, you are an idealist.”
He cast a mournful eye around the terminal building, despite their best efforts, some of the civil servants were only miming theirr work, instead doing their best to eavesdrop.
“However,” the Prime Minister continued, “look where realpolitik has got us.”
He consulted the large map of the world that had been pinned inexpertly on a cork board to the side of his desk. Most of western Germany was now full of scribbled red pencil.
Konni followed his gaze before replying.
“Evan, let’s give peace a chance.”
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