the runaway cavalryman; vignette

The news, when it came, was paralyzing, dumbfounding; the world, at least the world of post war politics, turned upside down. Since Lloyd George's death by zeppelin- and the under the circumstances amazingly quick publication of his personal papers, after which few were prepared to call his death untimely- things had been very much in flux.

A largely caretaker government for the last two years of the fighting, consisting essentially of the cobbled together wreckage of the Liberal party and the only barely civil Conservatives- only good manners, and those not always evident behind closed doors, prevented them behaving as the ravening wolves they were. And the growing movement of the workers, looming in the wings and multiplying towards ends unknown.

Once the Americans had come into the war- and thank whatever mad Jacobite impulse had moved Rupprecht of Bavaria to lunge at them so directly and give that composite, consummate and contumely ass Pershing no choice but to commit, even if the result had been the Third Battle of the Marne- the political fighting had become even more intense, as the prospect of gain became more real.

It was hard to claim the opening moves of the Somme as anything other than a bloody disaster, but if they had been forced to go with the middle plan, the attack north of the river to relieve the pressure on Verdun- into deep, unbreachable field fortification lines instead of against the more fluid flank of an advancing army, the result would undoubtedly have been much worse.

At any rate, the Allies had won in the end, despite the Easterners' best efforts to keep the corpse breathing; the rolling shifts in front and growing skill of the British army- slowly and painfully- had ploughed a way to victory in the end, and the assault across the Rhine was this century's moment to stand with Blenheim and Waterloo.

There would be a few years of peace and personal profit for the victors before the Official Histories spilled the beans about how very nearly they hadn't. For the maniacal adventurer Churchill, some kind of Commission for the Levant would only be justice; help clear up his own mess, except that there was an excellent possibility he would emerge at the head of a new crusade, as caliph of the faithful, or knowing him, both.

Justice was in short supply in British politics- although perhaps not as short as it would have been if Lloyd George had lived- and an ambassadorship in Washington seemed likely. It would be interesting to see which side he would turn out to be on.

The victor of the war at sea, who had largely ruined Churchill's chances in domestic politics albeit mostly by accident, was due something, but what Lord- Viscount Jellicoe of Jutland wanted or would accept was still a mystery. Always a quiet, private man, Cromwell's comment that none rises so high as he who knows not whither he is going fit his career perfectly. He would have to be given something, ideally before he reached the stage of writing his memoirs.

The master of the field, on the other hand, it had seemed fairly safe an assumption that he would not be entering politics. An abysmally, impossibly bad public speaker, at least in English, since he had handed over the Army of Occupation to Smith- Dorrien, Douglas Haig had kept himself busy organizing veteran's groups and societies, making peace between them and pointing to the common cause, working days as long and covering more ground than he had as a general.

Possibly it was on the advice of an old enemy, a wise Machiavellian Jacobite; perhaps the experience of military government had given him a taste for it. Possibly that it seemed the only way to ensure what he wanted for his men would indeed happen- perhaps when his ancestors' home was bought and gifted to him by a grateful nation, a blood memory of chivalry and good lordship had been stirred. Possibly the caricature was not the man.

Most probably, whatever the roots, the beginning of the post-war slump was the trigger. Things percolated slowly, undoubtedly his family knew, those veterans whose help and support he would need as a campaign team knew, but only Messines achieved the same degree of surprise as his entry into politics.

Certainly none of his military efforts, not even Pyrmont- Holzminden, caused anything like the same degree of outrage. The Times of 16 February 1923 would have spontaneously combusted, if the sulphurousness of the language had anything to do with it; perhaps it was an old cavalry officer trying to tame a runaway beast, perhaps it was stabbing Wat Tyler, an act of pure upper class cynicism, but the establishment of the day certainly took it the wrong way.

They could not understand why the former Commander-in-Chief BEF should choose to stand at election for the Labour Party.
 
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