Extra, Extra!
Extra, Extra!
On the 7th December 1921, six nations signed the world's first treaty intended to limit strategic weapons. The articles would come into effect on January 1st, 1922, although the machinations of six different government bureaucracies meant that it was not formally ratified by all parties for some time. Indeed, in two cases, it was a very close-run thing.
The French only ratified the treaty once their lawmakers had inserted a clause into their national legislation, which would force the government to seek a renegotiation before any of the controversial limits were reached. Within days, diplomatic feelers had been put out to the Dutch government, regarding the possibility of industrial co-operation on shipbuilding.
Despite the numerous outstanding grudges and grievances, the German fleet would still be subject to the same restrictions as the Treaty of Stockholm, and the international situation was less tense than it had been at the start of the 1921. Both Germany and Russia seemed to be on a path towards some sort of stability, following nearly four years of revolts and discontent in Germany and outright civil war in Russia.
The capture of the Tsar during an unexpected Bolshevik attack near Kiev in 1919 had turned out to be a blessing in disguise for the anti-communist movement. Faced with a fierce counterattack, the Reds had been unable to hold the ground, and the local commander seems to have panicked. Nicholas II, his son and eldest daughter were shot as they retreated, and White forces found their mutilated bodies just hours later.
Such savage events had been happening all over the country, and on a far greater scale, but the murder of the Tsar and the propaganda it generated cemented a widespread view of the Bolsheviks as brutal and unprincipled killers. By the time of his death, the man himself had long since lost his power and even many of his loyal followers, but in the minds of many Russians his rule now evoked nostalgia for better days. The Tsar had been ‘The Boss’, a man who could get things done in a way that the Bolsheviks, for all their popular promises, had never managed to equal.
In Soviet-run cities, the inability of the communist administration to implement many of the promised reforms, or even adequately feed the people, had led to dissent and even uprisings. In many rural areas, the peasantry had more of their crops confiscated than ever before. The Cheka used ever more violent means to suppress any internal opposition, but by 1921 they were losing ground. The Russian communists had always been split, and now the Bolshevik movement began to splinter. Disastrous campaigns to ‘recover’ lost territory in Poland and Georgia had led to plots and recriminations at the highest level.
-o-
In an unremarkable row of Edwardian houses in Isleworth, Fred Harmsworth sat down to read the paper, as he did every Sunday morning. His job was unremarkable, his wife Martha was unremarkable, and so too was the scholarly performance of their two children, Donald and Irene.
What he read in the paper was altogether more noteworthy.
‘Naval Treaty Signed and Sealed’, said the headline.
‘Size of Our Fleet to be restricted’, stated the summary below. Apparently, Britain had signed a deal with the Americans, French and others to limit the power of the Royal Navy.
Fred had vaguely heard of this before, and he didn’t think it sounded much like a good idea.
What did America and France ever do for us, he thought contemptuously. Britannia rules the waves, that’s the way it’s always been.
Fred wasn’t a Navy man; but he’d answered Lord Kitchener’s call during the war and had seen enough of northern France to last a lifetime. However, he retained an almost inbred certainty that the best way to prevent all that from happening again was through a strong British fleet, always standing guard against Johnny Foreigner.
Neither Fred, nor his regular Sunday paper were known for their liberal views on the rest of the world.
‘I don’t reckon this treaty’, he said, nominally to Martha, but in practice to no-one in particular.
She patiently replied, ‘Oh yes, dear’, and went on with her knitting while he continued to read the article.
‘For the next ten years, our Navy will be allowed to keep 30 battleships, while America and Japan will have 38 between them. Some of our latest vessels are to be cancelled, while foreign powers are permitted to build more.’
He grunted his disapproval.
‘However, Admiral Beatty, the head of the Royal Navy and hero of Stavanger, has stated that Britain and her Empire can continue to build powerful new battleships, in numbers sufficient to secure command of our Imperial trade routes.’
Fred’s tone became slightly more positive as he turned over and read the rest of the article.
‘In the opinion of this reporter, the Treaty will prevent a dangerous build-up of naval forces, and will reduce the burden on all our pockets. Readers may note that the British Empire retains the largest fleet, once the vessels of our great Dominions, Canada, Australia and New Zealand are considered.’
‘I s’pose if it means Donald’ll never ‘ave to go through what we did in France, it’ll be worth it’, remarked Fred at length, before he wondered aloud,
‘Mind you, I don’t see mention of them Germans in this treaty, or them Russians neither … not that you can trust any of ‘em.’
As if to confirm his opinions on that matter, another article caught his eye.
‘Listen to this Martha’, he said knowingly, ‘I told you I was right. This headline says: Red Anarchy in Germany … Ha! serves the damned Hun right if you ask me…’
‘Language Fred!’, interrupted Martha, ‘Donald’s listening.’
‘Yes, yes, alright woman … anyway, this’ll make you laugh…’
Fred pulled up the paper again, chuckling as he did, and then read,
‘Last Tuesday, police in Munich stormed a house occupied by supporters of the notorious Red revolutionary Josef Dugo... Dugasiv… oh! … some funny foreign name.’
In the corner of the room, Donald giggled.
‘The violence that followed spread to neighbouring buildings, and the besieged Reds attempted to block access by throwing the contents of the houses out into the street. Eyewitnesses reported that a local German painter, who was attempting to sell his pictures on the pavement below, was crushed when a piano was hurled out of a third-floor doorway.’
Just yesterday they'd been at the cinema, seeing Charlie Chaplin's latest film, in which he too had been hit by a piano; only of course the comic character had been entirely unhurt, rising silent to shake his fist at the clumsy removals men above. Donald was howling with laughter at the thought of it, and even Martha smiled while Fred continued, with some difficulty.
‘Munich police are reported to have rounded up the gang, but Josef – err, whatsisname – remains at large.
These senseless outrages are what this newspaper has come to expect from the lawless Communists and should serve to warn our readers of the threat posed by the Red Menace!’
On the 7th December 1921, six nations signed the world's first treaty intended to limit strategic weapons. The articles would come into effect on January 1st, 1922, although the machinations of six different government bureaucracies meant that it was not formally ratified by all parties for some time. Indeed, in two cases, it was a very close-run thing.
The French only ratified the treaty once their lawmakers had inserted a clause into their national legislation, which would force the government to seek a renegotiation before any of the controversial limits were reached. Within days, diplomatic feelers had been put out to the Dutch government, regarding the possibility of industrial co-operation on shipbuilding.
Despite the numerous outstanding grudges and grievances, the German fleet would still be subject to the same restrictions as the Treaty of Stockholm, and the international situation was less tense than it had been at the start of the 1921. Both Germany and Russia seemed to be on a path towards some sort of stability, following nearly four years of revolts and discontent in Germany and outright civil war in Russia.
The capture of the Tsar during an unexpected Bolshevik attack near Kiev in 1919 had turned out to be a blessing in disguise for the anti-communist movement. Faced with a fierce counterattack, the Reds had been unable to hold the ground, and the local commander seems to have panicked. Nicholas II, his son and eldest daughter were shot as they retreated, and White forces found their mutilated bodies just hours later.
Such savage events had been happening all over the country, and on a far greater scale, but the murder of the Tsar and the propaganda it generated cemented a widespread view of the Bolsheviks as brutal and unprincipled killers. By the time of his death, the man himself had long since lost his power and even many of his loyal followers, but in the minds of many Russians his rule now evoked nostalgia for better days. The Tsar had been ‘The Boss’, a man who could get things done in a way that the Bolsheviks, for all their popular promises, had never managed to equal.
In Soviet-run cities, the inability of the communist administration to implement many of the promised reforms, or even adequately feed the people, had led to dissent and even uprisings. In many rural areas, the peasantry had more of their crops confiscated than ever before. The Cheka used ever more violent means to suppress any internal opposition, but by 1921 they were losing ground. The Russian communists had always been split, and now the Bolshevik movement began to splinter. Disastrous campaigns to ‘recover’ lost territory in Poland and Georgia had led to plots and recriminations at the highest level.
-o-
In an unremarkable row of Edwardian houses in Isleworth, Fred Harmsworth sat down to read the paper, as he did every Sunday morning. His job was unremarkable, his wife Martha was unremarkable, and so too was the scholarly performance of their two children, Donald and Irene.
What he read in the paper was altogether more noteworthy.
‘Naval Treaty Signed and Sealed’, said the headline.
‘Size of Our Fleet to be restricted’, stated the summary below. Apparently, Britain had signed a deal with the Americans, French and others to limit the power of the Royal Navy.
Fred had vaguely heard of this before, and he didn’t think it sounded much like a good idea.
What did America and France ever do for us, he thought contemptuously. Britannia rules the waves, that’s the way it’s always been.
Fred wasn’t a Navy man; but he’d answered Lord Kitchener’s call during the war and had seen enough of northern France to last a lifetime. However, he retained an almost inbred certainty that the best way to prevent all that from happening again was through a strong British fleet, always standing guard against Johnny Foreigner.
Neither Fred, nor his regular Sunday paper were known for their liberal views on the rest of the world.
‘I don’t reckon this treaty’, he said, nominally to Martha, but in practice to no-one in particular.
She patiently replied, ‘Oh yes, dear’, and went on with her knitting while he continued to read the article.
‘For the next ten years, our Navy will be allowed to keep 30 battleships, while America and Japan will have 38 between them. Some of our latest vessels are to be cancelled, while foreign powers are permitted to build more.’
He grunted his disapproval.
‘However, Admiral Beatty, the head of the Royal Navy and hero of Stavanger, has stated that Britain and her Empire can continue to build powerful new battleships, in numbers sufficient to secure command of our Imperial trade routes.’
Fred’s tone became slightly more positive as he turned over and read the rest of the article.
‘In the opinion of this reporter, the Treaty will prevent a dangerous build-up of naval forces, and will reduce the burden on all our pockets. Readers may note that the British Empire retains the largest fleet, once the vessels of our great Dominions, Canada, Australia and New Zealand are considered.’
‘I s’pose if it means Donald’ll never ‘ave to go through what we did in France, it’ll be worth it’, remarked Fred at length, before he wondered aloud,
‘Mind you, I don’t see mention of them Germans in this treaty, or them Russians neither … not that you can trust any of ‘em.’
As if to confirm his opinions on that matter, another article caught his eye.
‘Listen to this Martha’, he said knowingly, ‘I told you I was right. This headline says: Red Anarchy in Germany … Ha! serves the damned Hun right if you ask me…’
‘Language Fred!’, interrupted Martha, ‘Donald’s listening.’
‘Yes, yes, alright woman … anyway, this’ll make you laugh…’
Fred pulled up the paper again, chuckling as he did, and then read,
‘Last Tuesday, police in Munich stormed a house occupied by supporters of the notorious Red revolutionary Josef Dugo... Dugasiv… oh! … some funny foreign name.’
In the corner of the room, Donald giggled.
‘The violence that followed spread to neighbouring buildings, and the besieged Reds attempted to block access by throwing the contents of the houses out into the street. Eyewitnesses reported that a local German painter, who was attempting to sell his pictures on the pavement below, was crushed when a piano was hurled out of a third-floor doorway.’
Just yesterday they'd been at the cinema, seeing Charlie Chaplin's latest film, in which he too had been hit by a piano; only of course the comic character had been entirely unhurt, rising silent to shake his fist at the clumsy removals men above. Donald was howling with laughter at the thought of it, and even Martha smiled while Fred continued, with some difficulty.
‘Munich police are reported to have rounded up the gang, but Josef – err, whatsisname – remains at large.
These senseless outrages are what this newspaper has come to expect from the lawless Communists and should serve to warn our readers of the threat posed by the Red Menace!’
