De Gaulle E-Book

Douglas Boyd

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

After watching a D-Day film, do you wonder why no French units took part in the invasion of their own German-occupied country? General Charles De Gaulle commanded 400,000 Free French soldiers, but US President Roosevelt insisted they not be told the date of the invasion because he intended to occupy France and open the country up to American Big Business, while keeping in office traitors who had run the country for Hitler. This would have sparked a civil war, but De Gaulle outwitted Washington to head the first government of liberated France. Disgusted with the professional politicians, he resigned in 1946. but twelve years later, to save France from civil war a second time, he was elected President of the Republic. After Roosevelt's death, he defied presidents Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon. Drawing on hitherto unpublished and revealing material from the archives in Paris and Washington, this thought-provoking account of a great European's rejection of foreign domination has significant resonance for modern Britain, whose governments are subservient both to Washington and Brussels.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Acronyms and abbreviations

Introduction

Part 1: Fighting for a foothold

1 A very special relationship

2 The man of the moment

3 ‘The flame must not go out!’

4 Perfidious Albion

5 Gaining status

6 Operation Menace

7 First blood

8 A question of priorities

9 ‘Lunch, or a battle – you choose!’

Part 2: Fighting for France

10 Assassination and outrage

11 Angst at Anfa

12 One step forward and one step back

13 A grudging approval

14 D-Day

15 A stroll down the Champs-Élysées

Part 3: Fighting for the Future

16 Citizen de Gaulle

17 President de Gaulle

18 The man who came with Jackie

19 150 bullets and four burst tyres

20 The world on the brink of war

21 Espionage, assassination and gold

22 ‘Dear Mr President, go home!’

23 Beware the ides of May!

Appendix A Text of letter from Prime Minister Churchill to President Roosevelt dated 8 December 1940

Appendix B The ‘fourteen points’ of President Woodrow Wilson, published on 8 January 1918

Further Reading in English

Plate Section

Copyright

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks for help in researching this book are due to Monsieur Alexandre Cojannot, Conservateur du Patrimoine in the Archives of the Ministère des Affaires Etrangères in Paris; to fellow BBC pensioners Don Craven, Patrick Gerassi, Brian Johnson, Pierre Lesève and especially John Heuston for helping me correct many inaccuracies in previously published accounts of de Gaulle’s early broadcasts from London; to John Yeowell for digging into his memories of serving in the Foreign Legion in 1940; to Louis Henry, who served with de Gaulle in Africa and Italy; to researcher extraordinaire Joan Goodbody in Washington, who unearthed for me documents for some reason not obtainable in Europe; and especially to the resources of the Fondation Charles de Gaulle in Paris.

In Washington, Alix Sundquist generously took the time to read the entire first draft and gave me the priceless benefit of her long years’ experience in the US Foreign Service – including the three years when she was probably the most popular and effective US Consul-General ever – in Bordeaux. This should not be construed to mean that she in any way ‘approved’ the book, for we agreed to differ on a number of points.

At The History Press I would like to thank my commissioning editor Mark Beynon and Lindsey Smith for her eagle eye as senior editor, plus Emma Wiggin as proofreader. Also thanks to designers Martin Latham and Katie Beard.

With all their help, it follows that any remaining inaccuracies are mine.

ACRONYMS AND ABBREVIATIONS

ACC

Allied Co-ordination Committee

AFTAC

Air Force Tactival Application Centre

ALN

Armée de Libération Nationale

ALSOS

code name for US nuclear intelligence teams during Liberation

AMGOT

Allied Military Government of Occupied Territories

BCRA

Bureau Central de Renseignements et d’Action – Gaullist intelligence organisation in London

BST

British Summer Time

CEA

Commissariat à l’Energie Atomique

CFLN

Comité Français de Libération Nationale

CIA

Central Intelligence Agency

CNR

Conseil National de la Résistance

CRS

Compagnie Républicaine de Sécurité

DBLE

Demi-Brigade de la Légion Etrangère

Defcon

Defense Condition

DST

Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire

FFI

Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur

FLN

Front de Libération Nationale

FO

British Foreign Office

FTP

Franc-tireurs et Partisans – Communist Resistance organisation

GDR

German Democratic Republic

GPO

General Post Office – the British postal system

GPRF

Gouvernement Provisoire de le République Française

HUMINT

human intelligence, i.e. spies

ICBM

intercontinental ballistic missile

IRBM

intermediate-range ballistic missile

MAD

mutually assured destruction

MMFLA

Mission Militaire Française de Liaison Administrative

MRBM

medium-range ballistic missile

MRP

Mouvement Républicain Populaire

MUR

Mouvements Unis de la Résistance

NASA

National Aeronautics and Space Administration

NATO

North Atlantic Treaty Organization

N-PIC

National Photographic Interpretation Centre

NSA

National Security Agency

NSDM

National Security Decision Memorandum

OAS

Organisation Armée Secrète

OSS

Office of Strategic Services

PCF

Parti Communiste Français

REI

Régiment Etranger d’Infanterie

REP

Régiment Etranger de Parachutistes

RPF

Rassemblement du Peuple Français

SAC

Strategic Air Command

SACEUR

Senior American Commander in Europe

SD

Sicherheitsdienst

SDECE

Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionage

SHAEF

Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force

SHAPE

Supreme Headquarters, Allied Powers in Europe

SIGINT

signals intelligence, i.e. interception of broadcast transmissions

SOE

Special Operations Executive

UDR

Union des Démocrates pour la République

UNR

Union pour la Nouvelle République

USAF

United States Air Force

USAFSS

United States Air Force Security Service

USIA

United States Information Agency

WAAF

Women’s Auxiliary Air Force

INTRODUCTION

President Roosevelt won domestic support for US involvement in the European war by his intention to make neutral France a protectorate run by an Allied Military Government of Occupied Territories (AMGOT) like the eventually conquered enemy states of Germany, Italy and Japan. This American-dominated government … would have abolished all sovereignty, including even the right to print money.

History Professor Annie Lacroix-Riz, quoted in Le Monde diplomatique, May 2003

In the early evening of 9 November 1970 Charles de Gaulle was playing a game of patience on a small card table a few paces away from the writing desk in his modest home at Colombey-les-deux-Eglises in the Champagne region of France where he had spent the day working on his memoirs. Falling to the floor with a massive internal haemorrhage from the rupture of an aneurysm in the abdominal aorta, he died instantly, two weeks short of his eightieth birthday.

The world awoke next morning to the loss of a great man and a great European. French President Georges Pompidou’s broadcast tribute expressed what most of the nation was feeling, including those people who had voted against the man known simply as le général on every possible occasion. ‘General de Gaulle is dead,’ he said solemnly. ‘France is a widow.’

In adversity Charles de Gaulle had been arrogant, demanding and infuriating for his allies. Harold Macmillan called him ‘the almost impossible ally’. In power, he could be gracious, but also autocratic and inflexible, earning the undying hostility of US President Franklin D. Roosevelt and FDR’s five successors. Few had loved him, but millions had respected his integrity, as witness the flood of tributes from all over the world, including many who had been his ardent critics in France and abroad. The consensus was that he had saved his country’s honour in 1940; in 1945 he had restored the country’s independence, despite Roosevelt’s plan to impose a military occupation on neutral France, as though it were a defeated enemy belligerent; and in 1958 he had saved the nation from civil war for a second time. The one jarring note in the media – a mocking article in a French satirical weekly – was the object of public outrage so widespread that the magazine Hara Kiri fittingly committed suicide and ceased publication.

To President Pompidou, US President Richard Nixon wrote, ‘I was profoundly upset and saddened by the death of General de Gaulle. My country considered General de Gaulle as a faithful ally in time of war and a true friend in time of peace … Greatness knows no national frontiers, and consequently the loss which France has undergone is a loss for all humanity.’1

Charles de Gaulle’s wartime partner Winston Churchill died in January 1966 and the heartbeat of the British nation stopped for a moment. Few think of him now, for that is the fate of the great who rise to their destiny for one particular task, and are later an embarrassment in their decline. Franklin D. Roosevelt, too, is history’s dust, except in the US, where his record in combating poverty and social unrest after the Depression keeps his memory on a level with that of Presidents Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln. Josef V. Djugashvili, aka Stalin, has almost been written out of the history taught in the schools of the many subject peoples his armies and political police terrorised for decades. But de Gaulle lives on in France, for without him it is very possible that Britain’s nearest neighbour in the new Europe would have been inadvertently destroyed by Roosevelt in 1945. In the French presidential elections of May 2007, the victorious candidate Nicolas Sarkozy evoked Charles de Gaulle’s name in the early stages of his campaign to gain votes, as his predecessor Jacques Chirac did many times – in each case by implying that he was in some way the political heir of the man they call simply le général.

What was so special about this man?

Notes

1. The broadcast tribute the morning after de Gaulle’s death

PART 1

FIGHTING FOR A FOOTHOLD

1

A VERY SPECIAL RELATIONSHIP

During the Cold War, American uniforms were an everyday sight on the streets of Western Europe. Apart from the far left, who saw the world through glasses tinted in Moscow, most people believed what they were told by their governments: that the US presence east of the Atlantic was like having a big brother standing between our democratic way of life and the Russian bear, whose appetite had been whetted by carving out a European empire stretching from Karelia in the far north to include half of Germany, all of Central Europe and the Balkans, and which, given half a chance, would swallow up all the rest of us, too. Relatively few people knew that behind the comforting image of this protective ‘big brother’ was really Orwell’s Big Brother, snooping on us and riding roughshod over our customs and laws.

American warships regularly participated in simulated NATO confrontations with the forces of the Warsaw Pact. American aircraft carrying nuclear bomb-loads constantly patrolled European airspace. US pilots initiated the dangerous game of ‘straying’ into Soviet territory to test the enemy’s radar systems and time the reaction by armed fighter aircraft. America’s nuclear-powered submarines, dedicated to delivering intercontinental ballistic missiles on targets deep within the Soviet Union, left moorings in a Scottish loch to ‘play chicken’ with similarly lethal Soviet subs in European waters. Beneath the grass of East Anglia and the peat of remote Scottish moors, launch silos euphemistically described as ‘storage areas’ in the British press, muzzled by the D notice censorship, held multiple-warhead ICBMs, the roar of whose motors would have been the last trump signalling Armageddon.

In 1984 New Statesman reporter Duncan Campbell wrote a book entitled The Unsinkable Aircraft Carrier. Subtitled American Military Power in Britain,1 it set out the reality behind the ‘special relationship’ between London and Washington during the Cold War period. Even for British citizens who, like the author – a former Russian Linguist serving in the Royal Air Force in beleaguered Berlin – had played a part in the NATO defence system and learned through their work about many of the risks that were taken daily, Campbell’s book contained revelations that made one’s hair stand on end. Its wider readership was stunned to learn the reality of the ‘special relationship’, which successive British governments had portrayed as a great asset for the nation and the people.

During the research, Campbell and his collaborators exposed lie after lie that had been used by official spokesmen in and out of Parliament to mislead MPs and the media and sedate the public. Especially targeted by the deception operation were the several million people who lived in the densely populated areas of the country that had become prime targets in the event of nuclear war breaking out, due to the location of American bomber and missile-launching bases there and also to espionage activities carried out from British territory, sometimes by aircraft misleadingly painted with RAF insignia.

For example, when Labour MP Bob Cryer asked in Parliament for a complete list of US facilities in Britain, he had to repeat the question three times. At first, he was told by the Ministry of Defence that there were twelve bases. Then, the number was upped to fifty-one, and finally to fifty-four. Yet, working from published American sources, Campbell drew up and published a list of 103 US facilities in Britain. Digging further, he found that the Ministry of Defence had admitted in a parliamentary answer three years previously in 1977 that there were ‘more than 100 … defence facilities’ as well as other facilities used by US forces in the United Kingdom.2

The numbers of American personnel at these ‘facilities’ fluctuated. At one time, a fifth of the US Air Force outside the States was stationed in Britain. In 1952 there were 45,000 servicemen and 3,500 American civilian contractors present in Britain, plus 28,000 dependents spread over forty-three airbases. After that, it seems that no one in Britain had any right to know how many US personnel were using these bases or what they were all doing here. Few British citizens were aware that, under the 1952 Visiting Forces Act, US personnel were not subject to the laws of the United Kingdom, but lived in a virtual American state created on British soil by that Act.

Campbell’s title derives from declassified documents revealing that Britain was regarded by the Strategic Air Command (SAC) as an unsinkable aircraft carrier and ballistic missile launch pad. Unsinkable it was, but large tracts of the country were destined by Britain’s US-designated role to be turned into a nuclear wasteland by Soviet retaliation if the Cold War went beyond a certain political temperature. SAC’s best-case scenario gave large areas of Britain a habitable duration of perhaps six months; the worst case envisaged as little as thirty days in a hot war! But that did not matter to SAC because its UK command centre would have become airborne twenty-four hours a day in EC-135 flying command centres operating out of Mildenhall airbase in Suffolk under Operation Silk Purse long before then.3 This was the opposite of the image purveyed by successive British governments, which inferred that the nation was safely sheltering under an American umbrella.

In the immediate post-war administration, Prime Minister Clement Attlee innocently went to Washington to clarify with President Truman how a dual US-British control of the recently developed strategic weapons based in Britain would operate. He was devastated to be informed that it was illegal for the US president to diminish his authority as supreme commander of United States armed forces by ceding any such joint control authority to any other person or agency.

Nearly four decades of the ‘special relationship’ later, Defence Secretary Robert McNamara admitted in 1983 that Britain had only a right to ‘consultation (about the use of nuclear weapons based in the United Kingdom) … with the party having the authority – in this case the US – making the final decision’.4 In case there was any doubt what that meant, his assistant Paul Warnke made it crystal clear: ‘If you mean that at a time of crisis you could be quite confident that American nuclear weapons could not he launched from your territory without your agreement … then I think you would be deluding yourself.’ He added, ‘No piece of paper, no matter how well intentioned, is going to make any real difference at a time of crisis. The … country that physically controls the weapon is going to make the decision.’5 And that country was the United States. Nor was US control limited to US weaponry and personnel. The targets for British V-bombers at RAF Marham, for example, were allocated by Senior American Commander in Europe (SACEUR), not the British Ministry of Defence.

So much for what British Government spokesmen called the ‘British veto’ on US nuclear initiatives launched from the United Kingdom. If one can judge by her public pronouncements, even Iron Lady Margaret Thatcher, who was British prime minister 1975–90 and a great supporter of NATO, was deluded into thinking, or chose to pretend, that Britain had control over US nuclear weaponry on NATO bases here. Other NATO bases occupied by US forces in Britain also served as gigantic warehouses stocked with everything needed to conduct a major conventional war – from high-explosive blockbuster bombs and ammunition of all calibres to transportation, rations, clothing and contraceptives – all stored here for issue to US troops airlifted or shipped ‘light’ across the Atlantic. Effectively, this concession by the British Government meant that major ports like Liverpool, Southampton, Hull, Grimsby and Harwich, through which the incoming and outgoing troops would pass, became priority targets for Soviet nuclear retaliation, together with the millions of civilians living there.6

It might be argued that in a hot war those targets would have been nuked anyway, but Britain’s population was in danger also during peacetime. The British Government was aware that bombed-up American aircraft regularly overflew its cities on practice bombing runs, but was never told when or how many aircraft were involved, either before or after the fact. On every such flight there was a risk of systems failure, a crash landing, a mid-air collision or an H-bomb being jettisoned unintentionally – the last event happened on a number of occasions. Even today, the total of such incidents is hard to ascertain, but it ran well into four figures. After one crash of a nuclear bomber in America, it was found that six of the seven safeguards to prevent accidental detonation of an H-bomb’s fissile core had failed.

Most of the NATO European allies were far more cautious than Britain in granting facilities for US forces on their territory. Greece, for example, never exempted US servicemen there from liability under Greek law and did keep a veto on the use to which bases there could be put under the bilateral agreement of 15 July 1983. Athens also levied a price for its cooperation, as did Ankara, Madrid and Lisbon, which shared a total of around $1.5 billion a year for their limited compliance.7 Seven out of the fifteen NATO countries refused to have nuclear weapons on their US bases.

One of these was Spain. Yet, although the bilateral US–Spain treaty was far more restrictive on visiting forces than its British counterpart in that it granted no storage facilities for nuclear devices on Spanish soil, on 17 January 1966 a B-52 bomber of Strategic Air Command that had taken off from Seymour Johnson airbase in North Carolina had a mid-air collision with a KC-135 tanker based in Spain while refuelling over Palomares. On board the B-52 were not one but four B-28 H-bombs, with a total power that was not revealed, but could have been as high as 4.4 megatons, depending on their particular modifications. They would have been sufficient to annihilate the populations of four major cities and render them uninhabitable for a long period.

The four-man crew of the KC-135 were killed, as were three of the seven crewmen of the B-52, the others parachuting to safety. Immediately after the crash, a search operation was initiated. Its code name ‘Broken Arrow’ designated a top-level nuclear risk. ‘Less serious’ nuclear accidents were coded ‘Bent Spear’, with ‘Blunt Sword’ as the lowest category. Within hours of the Palomares crash, three of the H-bombs were traced on land or in shallow water, but the fourth bomb was missing for eighty days, despite all the state-of-the-art technical facilities of the US military deployed in the search. Although much was made of the fact that no nuclear explosion occurred as a result of the mid-air collision, the high-explosive triggers in two of the bombs had detonated on impact with the ground, spreading radioactive plutonium dust over a considerable tract of land and sea, and would have caused enormous loss of life in a built-up area. Another bombed-up B-52 that crashed near Thule in Greenland similarly released quantities of plutonium dust, after which it was estimated that several hundred people involved in the clean-up operation had suffered radiation sickness, a high percentage of them developing various cancers.

A number of accidents involving nuclear hazards on the ground occurred in Britain. Censorship kept details for the public extremely vague. After one such event, it was announced in the media that a ‘fire had occurred in a storage area’ on an RAF base in East Anglia. As two friends of the author, who were serving as rocketry guidance system technicians in the RAF at the time, said, ‘Storage area! If only people knew what was being stored there.’ The fire had been in a ballistic missile silo. Other areas designated ‘Special Ammunition Stores’ stocked not only the nuclear stockpile, but also extremely potent nerve gases. These areas, even on British bases, were guarded by American military police and many were out of bounds to British personnel.

On 26 July 1956 a B-47 bomber was taking off on a training flight from the US base at Lakenheath in Suffolk – one of SAC’s four principal bases worldwide, although situated in close proximity to Cambridge, Norwich and Bury St Edmunds and thus placing these towns firmly on Soviet retaliation maps. The B-47 crashed into a storage igloo, inside which were stored three H-bombs. Aviation fuel from the aircraft’s ruptured wing tanks spread in an immediate inferno over the bomber, the surrounding area and the igloo. Although the fissile cores had been removed, inside each bomb were several hundred pounds of high explosive as the triggering element. The fire crew correctly did not try to save the men inside the burning B-47, who were left to die, but concentrated on directing their foam hoses onto the igloo in a desperate attempt to stop the temperature inside mounting to the point where a large part of the base would be destroyed and a cloud of radioactive particles driven skyward even if no nuclear explosion occurred.

Concern that the base emergency teams could not contain the raging fire led to a panic request to the civilian divisional fire officer at Bury St Edmunds to send all his available fire-fighting units to the base, to be held there on standby. En route to Lakenheath – a journey of less than 20 miles – the British firemen were alarmed to encounter, heading at speed in the opposite direction, a long ‘convoy of American cars full up with women and children. They were obviously panicking, simply trying to get away. It was a pretty amazing sight.’ At least one US serviceman was recorded as running out of the main gates and leaping into a waiting taxi, telling the driver, ‘Go anywhere. Just get away from here.’ The neighbouring US base at Mildenhall was also evacuated, but the village of Brandon, much closer to the fire and the hazard of radioactive pollution, was not warned. After the emergency was over, the lies began, with the gullible British public being fed an improbable story that the hazard on the base had been limited to the ‘cooking off’ of the .50 calibre ammunition on board the crashed B-47.8

There was no obligation on American base commanders to inform either the local civil defence organisations or the British Ministry of Defence when incidents like this occurred. For twenty-three years, the public was not told the truth about the accident at Lakenheath, which only emerged in November 1979 in an unauthorised interview given by former SAC personnel to a North American local newspaper, in which they admitted that a large part of East Anglia could have ‘become a desert’ on 26 July 1956.9

With the introduction of intercontinental ballistic missiles in the sixties, SAC withdrew from Britain in 1965, leaving the United States Third Air Force – the most powerful air force in Europe – still based in the United Kingdom. Much was made of the dual-key launch systems for the ICBMs in Britain, but US technicians laughed at the idea that a British keyholder could have prevented a launch by refusing to turn his key. Conversely, the idea that the British Ministry of Defence could have ordered the launch of a dual-key missile without American say-so, was equally laughable.

In the air, on the ground and in the sea – the risks were everywhere. In 1978 abnormally high levels of cobalt-60 were discovered in the waters of Holy Loch, where the former Royal Navy submarine base, less than 30 miles from the centre of Glasgow, was used by the US Navy from 1960–92, most famously for refitting Polaris submarines. From what leakage the cobalt-60 came was never made clear. Three years later, a near-nuclear accident occurred at the base when a Poseidon missile containing ten nuclear warheads was being winched into the submarine USS Holland at the Holy Loch base. A malfunction of the hoist dropped the missile 17ft onto the USS Los Angeles.

How often did such things happen? In 1996 the Ministry of Defence admitted that seven accidents had taken place, but its Chief Scientific Adviser put the figure at twenty since 1960, while admitting that he had no idea whether his information was complete. A University of Bradford research paper estimated that only one in five of these near-nuclear accidents ever became public knowledge. What did Britain gain from all these risks? Certainly, British nuclear research was speeded up and successive British H-bombs bore close resemblance to US models, but that was because the Pentagon saved some money from its Cold War budgets by allowing Britain to produce some weapons following American designs.

As far as intelligence gathering went, the UK–USA agreement signed in 1947 envisaged two-way feeds between British and US agencies, as did subsequent agreements between the US and Commonwealth countries like Australia. In the event, a very low-profile US National Security Agency (NSA) unit in the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square monitored, and probably still monitors, British Government, military and civilian telecommunications. This agency, founded in 1952, has always been so high security that its initials were long said to stand for ‘No Such Agency’ or ‘Not Saying Anything’. All British telephone, telex and data transmissions were accessible to the world’s largest SIGINT facility at Menwith Hill in Yorkshire via a special landline installed between that base and Hunter’s Stones GPO microwave relay tower.10 From there, they were fed back to multiple Cray super-computers at NSA headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland. In 1955 and again in 1976, the British Government confirmed that the US had security of tenure at Menwith Hill, sometimes referred to as ‘Field Station 83’, for a period of twenty-one years.

The US Air Force Security Service (USAFSS) base at Chicksands – which was a prime nuclear warfare target between London and Bedford – monitored not only Warsaw Pact military and diplomatic transmissions, but also both civil and military transmissions of its NATO allies, including Britain. There is some evidence that the snooping at Chicksands also covered civilian communications of UK-based companies up against US competitors. Although the base had an RAF ‘commanding officer’, his role was purely for liaison duties and smoothing out problems with the local population, and no British personnel were allowed in the operational areas. Strange but true – as borne out when a Congressional Appropriations Committee queried why the NATO allies should not contribute part of a further $6.5 million required for an extension of the facilities at Chicksands. In the double-speak of the time, the reply was that, ‘This facility supports a USAF operational requirement and the information gathered is not shared with NATO allies.’

This is Big Brother talking.

Across the Channel, France was among the NATO allies snooped on. There was nothing the French could do to stop it. But at least the French population was not exposed to the potentially far more lethal consequences of the alliance with Washington – largely thanks to one man.

When the hazard of geography aligned European governments on both sides of the Iron Curtain for or against the USSR or the USA irrespective of any ideology, a few brave statesmen rejected the role imposed on their countries by Moscow or Washington. Forgotten today outside Hungary, Premier Imre Nagy paid with his life in 1956 for daring to be a Hungarian and not a Soviet puppet. In what was called the ‘Prague Spring’ of 1968, Alexander Dubcek had the courage to reject Moscow’s ruthless rule in Czechoslovakia. For this, he was expelled from the Party and demoted to the position of a forestry inspector in the eastern part of the country.

West of the Iron Curtain, French President Charles de Gaulle openly criticised the American domination of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, in whose command theoretically all the partners had a say. Refusing the Pentagon’s role for France as ‘an unsinkable American aircraft carrier’ exposed to possible nuclear retaliation for missiles launched against Soviet targets from bases in France, he expelled NATO forces from his country in 1966, while continuing to support the organisation in the event of unprovoked aggression.

The Axis warlords of the Second World War – Hitler, Mussolini and Japan’s Emperor Hirohito – are to many young people studying this period almost as remote as Napoleon or George Washington. So, too, are the wartime Allied leaders – Britain’s Prime Minister Winston Churchill, US President Franklin Roosevelt, the Soviet tyrant Josef Stalin and France’s Charles de Gaulle.

Churchill came to power in May 1940 in a position of strength as the one man who could pull Britain out of defeat, albeit at the head of a coalition government. US President Franklin D. Roosevelt was elected for a third term in 1940 and went on to become the only president elected for a fourth term in the White House. After killing off or sending to the Gulag all his Party rivals and most of the Red Army’s generals, the paranoid Soviet supremo Josef Stalin was the absolute ruler of what was called ‘the Socialist sixth of the world’, and chose to spend the first twenty-one months of the war as Hitler’s ally. Any revisionist who doubts that should ask the Finns.

Of the wartime Big Four, only Charles de Gaulle began the Second World War as a substantive colonel backed by nothing except his integrity and an unswerving conviction that the inadequate military and political leaders of his country were cowardly traitors for seeking peace at any price. Rejecting the defeatism of French C-in-C General Maxime Weygand and Premier Philippe Pétain’s pleas to Hitler for an armistice, in June 1940 de Gaulle flew to Britain in a cloak-and-dagger operation worthy of James Bond. With nothing to offer in return but an indomitable belief in his country, he placed his trust in the equally pugnacious new prime minister, Winston Churchill. When asked why he was doing this, he replied, ‘To save the honour of France.’

In the twenty-first century few people talk about national honour, except politicians seeking to confuse the voters, but Charles de Gaulle was born in 1890, a child of the nineteenth century. Brought up in a fiercely patriotic Catholic home and educated by the Jesuits, for him words like ‘honour’ and ‘duty’ were the code by which a man should live, or die in the attempt. His concept of duty, however, did not mean slavishly obeying superiors who were wrong, because that conflicted with honour, which was the paramount virtue. Thrice wounded and taken prisoner in the First World War, he spent the inter-war years as an outspoken advocate of mechanised warfare, hectoring France’s politicians and generals to drag the largest army in Europe into the modern era before it was too late.

He argued, lobbied and published books in the hope of convincing them to form armoured divisions with close air support and infantry backup – exactly the blitzkrieg tactics that won Hitler’s victories in the Second World War. When the summer of 1940 saw General Heinz Guderian’s panzer columns using these very ideas to rip through the weak points in the French line and drive the British Expeditionary Force into the sea at Dunkirk, acting Brigadier de Gaulle was one of the few Allied commanders who attempted to stem the tide by counter-attacking with tanks that had inadequate armour, under-powered engines and obsolete cannon.

After his country was occupied and its leaders duped at every turn into believing that Hitler would offer them an honourable peace treaty – which never materialised – de Gaulle made the transition from soldier to politician, convincing other émigré officers and men from private soldiers to admirals and generals that he could, and would, lead them to victory. Imposing himself as the leader of a few thousand French servicemen in Britain – a movement he labelled les Français libres or Free French – he created a power base in the overseas territories of the French Empire. On occasion, this was done with British help, but he also had to combat deliberate obstruction by British officials at all levels.

The War Office despised his movement as the rump of those allies who ‘had let Britain down in the Battle of France’. The Foreign Office repeatedly cut him out of the circuit, preferring to bribe and cajole the collaborationist regime of Marshal Pétain in Vichy from fear that it might otherwise hand the intact French navy over to Hitler. Time and again, only de Gaulle’s unflinching courage and iron nerves saved him from being wiped off the military/political map. Such a man has few friends. Yet, the British and American press and public opinion continued to acclaim the one Frenchman who never gave up.

Although frequently infuriated by his intransigence, Winston Churchill stood by the man who had been his only ally in the dark days of the Battle of Britain and the Blitz, but was eventually forced, as the junior partner in the Atlantic Alliance, to submit to President Roosevelt’s antipathy for de Gaulle. This was despite his undoubted status as head of la France Combattante, or Fighting France, in the French Empire and the only leader accepted by all the mutually hostile elements of the Resistance inside France.

Roosevelt’s enmity began before he even met the tall, gawky Frenchman, because de Gaulle’s reputation had preceded him. Secretary of State Cordell Hull had worked hard to implement Roosevelt’s Good Neighbor Policy, a later modification of the Monroe Doctrine that sought to veil in double-speak the desire of the United States to dominate its Latin American neighbours. In the nineteenth century, this had been achieved by gunboat diplomacy on the European colonial model, which continued as late as 1927, when US ground forces with air support invaded Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic and Haiti.

As Roosevelt reportedly said of the corrupt Dominican dictator Trujillo, ‘He may be a sonofabitch, but he’s our sonofabitch.’ De Gaulle was nobody’s sonofabitch, but was, in Harold Macmillan’s words, ‘an almost impossible ally’ because he never swerved from the path of patriotism as he saw it. When British influence conflicted with French interests, he went his own way. Nor had he any compunction in denouncing and thwarting American plans to impose a military government on his country after its liberation from German occupation.

None of the many enemies he made during the Second World War and his years in political office after the war was ever able to accuse de Gaulle of corruption or accommodating people or political parties of whom he disapproved. On the contrary, he gave the lie to those wartime allies who tried to diminish his achievements by allegations that he was driven by personal ambition to place himself on the throne of France. On 20 January 1946 he resigned from the hard-won position as first head of government of his liberated country, rather than be embroiled in the machinations of the squabbling, power-hungry politicians who had brought the Third Republic to its ultimate humiliation of defeat and enemy occupation in 1940.

On 1 June 1958, after twelve years openly criticising the defects of the Fourth Republic that earned France the formerly Ottoman epithet of ‘the sick man of Europe’, Charles de Gaulle was brought back to power as the only person capable of drafting a new constitution and persuading the French people to accept it. Elected first president of the Fifth Republic, he introduced policies so unpopular that around thirty serious attempts were made on his life during the presidency, mostly by renegade army officers who opposed the withdrawal from French North Africa, to which de Gaulle as both general and politician saw no alternative.

De Gaulle’s foreign policies also earned him enemies. The memory of his opposition to Britain’s half-hearted first attempt to join the European Community still festers in the corridors of Whitehall. The Pentagon never forgave his criticism of the American entanglement in Vietnam, where its generals made all the mistakes that the French had made when it was their colony – and went on to waste no one knows how many hundreds of thousand lives of US soldiery, their South Vietnamese allies, Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army, without counting the millions of innocent civilians killed to eventually no purpose at all. When on Capitol Hill measures are taken to ban importation of French champagne or cheese there is always a hint of revenge on a great European who had the effrontery not to allow his country to become a buffer state in the game of American geopolitics.

Front page of Le Figaro

The story of this man who had the courage to say ‘No!’ to the White House – not once but several times – begins on 30 September 1938. (See the front page of the mass-circulation French daily Le Figaro reproduced opposite.)

British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain and French Premier Edouard Daladier might be fooling themselves and most of their fellow citizens that day with the fiction that they had bought off Hitler by abandoning the Czech people to his lust for Lebensraum at the meeting with him in Munich, but in London Winston Churchill, head of what they derisively called ‘the war party’, was not fooled. Across the Channel, at least one French professional soldier shared his certainty that war was coming, and was agonised that his superiors refused blindly to prepare for it. Twenty-two months later, with the German armies already in Paris, he wasted no time saying ‘I told you so’, but set out to do what he believed destiny had intended him for.

Notes

1. First hardback edition published in London by Michael Joseph

2. D. Campbell, The Unsinkable Aircraft Carrier, London, Collins/Paladin, 1986, p. 15

3. Ibid., p. 18

4. Ibid., p. 310

5. Ibid.

6. Ibid., pp. 81–2

7. Ibid., p. 322

8. Ibid., pp. 51–3

9. Omaha, Nebraska, World Herald of 5 November 1979

10. Campbell, The Unsinkable Aircraft Carrier, pp. 159, 168

2

THE MAN OF THE MOMENT

On Sunday 16 June 1940 the swastika flags had already been fluttering for two days in the summer breezes that stirred the leaves on the plane trees in Parisian parks. There was even a huge red-white-black banner lording it arrogantly over the Arc de Triomphe at the top of the Champs-Élysées. To civilians daring enough to stroll through the deserted French capital, in which the only traffic was the orderly progression of motorised and horse-drawn columns of men in field grey, it was clear that Hitler had claimed the City of Light for his own by branding it with the hooked cross chosen thirty years before by the otherwise unknown poet Guido von List as a symbol of anti-Semitism. On every abandoned government building hung the enormous Nazi banners that would stay there for the next four years, two months and nine days. Some French people were actually relieved that the Germans had arrived so quickly: two weeks earlier, US Ambassador William Bullitt had cabled the State department that the French prime minister and members of his Cabinet feared a communist uprising in the capital and other industrial centres as the Germans approached, leading to a bloodbath.1

The weather was hot and humid over most of France, but the political hotspot was Bordeaux, the major city and port of the south-west to which France’s government had fled for refuge from the invading German armies that had entered an undefended Paris on the preceding Friday. With the enemy spearheads advancing as much as 100km in one day, with 5 million bewildered refugees jamming the roads by day and spending their nights in barns, schoolrooms or in the open air, with casualty figures running into the hundreds of thousands and an entire French army surrounded in the north-east of the country, Prime Minister Paul Reynaud was told by his shrewd and manipulative mistress the Countess de Portes that he should resign and let someone else sort out the mess. When questioned why he had given way to her pressure on another matter, he once replied, ‘After an exhausting day in politics, a man will say anything to get some peace at home.’

In fairness to Reynaud, it has to be said that he had accepted the premiership during the phoney war only three months earlier, by which time it was already too late to make the necessary preparations for what was bound to come, even had he had a workable majority. Fundamental differences of opinion within the Cabinet on whether to surrender or fight would probably have ended his administration earlier, had not the crossing of the French frontier by 2,000 German tanks on 10 May forced the squabbling factions to compromise at least temporarily.

After Reynaud handed his resignation to President Albert Lebrun in Bordeaux that Sunday evening, Lebrun called the leaders of the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies to a consultation. Although all three men were personally in favour of continuing the fight, Lebrun resisted the house leaders’ urging to invite Reynaud to form another cabinet on the grounds that to do so would simply prolong France’s agony.

Shortly after 9.30 p.m. an aircraft with RAF roundels landed at the joint military/civilian airport in Mérignac to the west of the city carrying Major General Sir Edwin Louis Spears, head of the British military mission to Reynaud’s now defunct government. With him was his French opposite number, returning from a second fruitless mission to London that week, pleading for military assistance. A tall, awkward and aloof brigadier whom Reynaud had appointed under- secretary for defence only eleven days earlier, 49-year-old cavalryman Charles André Joseph Marie de Gaulle learned of the resignation from two of his staff on stepping out of the aircraft and was immediately driven by them into Bordeaux, to find out for himself what was going on.

In accordance with tradition, whereby outgoing prime ministers suggested likely successors, a few days earlier Reynaud had suggested that Lebrun should ask Marshal Philippe Pétain, the great hero of the First World War, to form a new government. Lebrun therefore summoned the 84-year-old marshal, who arrived in civilian clothes looking like a stern but benign grandfather. Accustomed during his eight-year term as president to lengthy negotiations in such situations, Lebrun was relieved when the marshal took out of his wallet a handwritten list of men he proposed including in his Cabinet. Because the marshal had a horror of new faces, all were politicians with whom he had worked in previous administrations. Knowing them all well, Lebrun heaved a sigh of relief that France had a new prime minister prepared to take over the reins of government in a country staring defeat in the face.

British Prime Minister Winston Churchill had heard Charles de Gaulle treating the outgoing premier with scant respect, on one occasion calling Reynaud ‘un poisson gelé’, or frozen fish. De Gaulle also detested the Countess de Portes and mistrusted her influence over Reynaud, so details of the late-evening conversation between the outgoing prime minister and his ex-under-secretary of defence would make interesting reading, but are not available. All we know is that, after Reynaud had brought de Gaulle up to date, neither man deluded himself that Pétain would continue the fight. Assessing the situation as a professional soldier, the marshal had long since advised surrender, and 99 per cent of the population wanted nothing but an end to the fighting. To de Gaulle’s mindset, this was a short-sighted attitude: he considered the marshal not only too old for the job, but a prisoner of his mid-nineteenth-century worldview. Pétain had been born a scant few weeks after the end of the Crimean War and saw the German invasion of 1940 as a rerun of the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. De Gaulle, on the other hand, had already decided that this present invasion was but the start of what would become a global war. His plan – had he been in Weygand’s position – would have been to order the French armies, navy and air force to make a fighting withdrawal to French North Africa and there combine them with the enormous reserves of manpower and resources of the French Empire to resist the Germans until they were eventually defeated by the untapped military-industrial potential of the United States.

Having informed Reynaud that he would never surrender and therefore intended returning to Britain, the only country still resisting Hitler’s victorious forces, de Gaulle accepted the sole help Reynaud could offer. From secret funds over which he still had control, he handed over 100,000 francs as start-up finance for a no-surrender operation in London. De Gaulle’s next call was at the hotel where British Ambassador Sir Ronald Campbell was staying, to inform him and Spears of his decision. With Churchill’s authority, Spears agreed that he might fly back in the RAF aircraft next morning.

At 6 a.m. French time Paul Reynaud was awoken to take a call from the White House. It was 11 p.m. in Washington. On the line was international lawyer René de Chambrun, whose father-in-law was prominent French politician Pierre Laval. Having spent several hours that day briefing President Franklin D. Roosevelt, de Chambrun was asking for the latest news. Protesting that he had resigned – which itself was news in the White House – Reynaud told de Chambrun to call Marshal Pétain. The line kept breaking up, and de Chambrun was afraid he would not get another connection, so he asked Reynaud to relay to his successor Roosevelt’s advice to sue for an armistice on one condition: that the French fleet must not be handed over to the Germans.2

Roosevelt was one of the few Americans to have read Hitler’s Mein Kampf and thought he understood European politics. On the return to France of Premier Edouard Daladier from the disastrous Munich conference in 1938, Roosevelt had warned him that, without the United States firmly on-side, the French–British alliance would be beaten, adding that the American people had no wish to become involved in the coming European conflict.3 At the time, the United States had an army smaller than that of Romania, with only nine infantry divisions and not a single armoured division. Since 1935, when the signs of approaching war became obvious, successive legislation had made it more and more difficult for the country to become embroiled in another adventure like the First World War. However, before the end of that year Roosevelt approved the French purchase of advanced US warplanes. By 1940 France had contracted to buy $425 million worth, but only 10 per cent had been delivered by the time of the German invasion.4

It has to be said that it was with understandable relief that the mass of the French population learned after dawn on 17 June that Pétain’s first act as head of government just after midnight had been to ask Hitler, ‘as soldier to soldier’,5 for an armistice to put an end to the fighting and loss of life that marked the five weeks since German troops had crossed the frontiers of Belgium and Holland and wheeled left to rip through the allegedly impregnable French defences in many of the same places as their fathers and grandfathers had done in 1870 and 1914. With no formal channels of communication open between the fleeing French Government and Berlin, the request had to be relayed by the Spanish ambassador via his government in Madrid. Meanwhile, men in uniform at the front and civilians of both sexes and all ages on the crowded roads were dying – the latter most often as victims of low-flying Stukas, whose Maltese cross insignia and screaming sirens brought terror on each strafing attack.

De Gaulle, however, summed up the situation as follows:

On 17 June, the last proper government of France died in Bordeaux. A team brought together by defeatism and treachery took power in an atmosphere of panic as a clique of shabby old politicians, businessmen devoid of honour, opportunist civil servants and bad generals rushed to take over in conditions of servitude. An old man of eighty-four, sad shadow of a past glory, was raised shoulder-high to endorse the capitulation and trick a stupefied nation.6

Whatever doubts de Gaulle may have had about the course that he should follow vanished at the news of Pétain’s request for an armistice. However, since he was still a serving officer under military discipline, albeit no longer under-secretary for defence, he covered his tracks by ostentatiously making for that afternoon several appointments which he had no intention of keeping. He was seen sitting on the desk of General Laffont lecturing him calmly, as though it were obvious to anyone, ‘The Germans will lose this war in the end. France must hold out.’7

The third passenger in Spears’ car driving out to the airport that day was cavalry reservist Lieutenant Geoffroy Chodron de Courcel, a peacetime lawyer and diplomat who had been appointed aide-de-camp to de Gaulle only ten days previously. De Courcel was privy to his master’s plan and had volunteered to be part of it. The tarmac at Mérignac airport was seething with people both in and out of uniform seeking an aircraft to take them away before the Germans arrived. France being a pays d’accueil- with a tradition of welcoming political refugees from central and Eastern Europe that dated back to the Revolution, the civilians were mainly Jews and anti-fascists, both French and foreign, who knew all too well what lay in store for them if they were still on French soil after an armistice was agreed. A few French diehards of all ranks in uniform also demanded an aircraft in which to reach Britain or French North Africa, where they could continue the fight.

However, the ground crews were deaf to all entreaties. Since they had no way of escaping, they refused to ready or refuel the many civil and military aircraft on the base for people they regarded as runaways. Spears’ plane was among the very few ready for take-off but, after de Gaulle’s ‘luggage’ of several heavy boxes of confidential files had been discreetly removed from Spears’ car and stowed behind the cabin seats, the pilot understandably refused to take off before they were lashed down, in case he had to take violent evading action on meeting Luftwaffe fighters during the long flight up the Atlantic coast to Britain.

De Gaulle despatched his equally tall and gangling aide-de-camp into the surrounding chaos to hunt for anything with which to tie down the cases, leaving him and Spears standing by the aircraft. In appearance a dour, pipe-smoking career soldier, Spears was also a linguist, a businessman, politician and author – most of whose many talents would be called upon in his role as Churchill’s go-between with de Gaulle in the months to come.

Had the contents of the illicit files been suspected, both men could have been arrested on the spot and the course of the war and shape of post-war Europe changed – all for want of a ball of yarn. Increasingly tense as the minutes ticked by, Spears puffed at the pipe which seldom left his lips while de Gaulle dragged on a cigarette, both men pretending that they were saying their goodbyes, as would have been natural before Spears left and de Gaulle returned to take up whatever new duties might await him in Bordeaux.

General Spears later recalled:

At last Courcel appeared, his stilt-like legs carrying him fast (through the crowd) although he appeared to be moving in slow motion. In his hand, a ball of string. I hope that never again will this commonplace article be so important to me. Our troubles were over. [The aircraft] had begun to move when, with hooked hands, I hoisted de Gaulle on board. Courcel, more nimble, was in in a trice. The door slammed. I had just time to see the gaping face of my chauffeur and one or two more beside him.8

Their flight path lay directly over the sinking French liner Champlain, going down with 2,000 evacuated British troops aboard after hitting a mine. Over La Rochelle and Rochefort, they flew through columns of smoke from French ships bombed in the harbours below them and from harbour installations, ammunition dumps and fuel reserves fired to prevent them falling into German hands. Over Brittany, huge tracts of forest were invisible below clouds of smoke from the demolitions. During a refuelling stop in Jersey, Spears went personally to find a cup of English coffee for his guest. Tasting the insipid liquid, de Gaulle thought it was tea, but the sour taste was as much in his mouth as in the brew. He had had plenty of time on the flight to reflect on the double irony of his defection. Not only was he breaking his officer’s oath of loyalty and obedience, but the new head of government he was defying had been his protector during the inter-war years. Known to his brother officers as le poulain préféré, or ‘favourite son’, of the ageing marshal, for whom he had spent two years writing Le Soldat à travers les Ages, which was published under Pétain’s name, de Gaulle had virtually no other friends in the army hierarchy.

In 1938, when he was about to publish under his own name a political document entitled La France et son Armée, Pétain wrote him a furious letter to the effect that the work had been written as part of his job. De Gaulle replied:

Without going into the reason which led you to end my collaboration with you eleven years ago, it will not have escaped your notice that (in the interim) my circumstances have changed. I was thirty-seven. Now I am forty-eight. Those who have wounded me include yourself, monsieur le Maréchal. I have lost my illusions and renounced my ambitions. As to my ideas and the style with which I express them, I was then unknown, but have since begun to be known. In short, I am no longer so compliant and anonymous as to let other people claim what talent I have in the field of writing and history.

Ten days later, Colonel de Gaulle met the venerable marshal in Paris. Pétain ordered him to hand over the proofs of his new book. De Gaulle replied, ‘Marshal, I am yours to command militarily – not in literary matters.’9

In another book, published in 1934,10 his had been one of the few voices raised west of the Rhine during the 1930s to warn his political and military masters of the need to modernise the French army by ceasing to replay the First World War with a few tanks attached to each regiment and creating instead armoured divisions complete with their own motorised infantry, air and artillery support. An arrogant certainty that he was right and they were wrong had earned him the undying hostility of the generals who were going to lose the battle of France in 1940. He had also published a book enshrining his belief in the need for France to have a professional army, as against the reliance on largely conscripted armed forces traditional since Napoleon’s time.

Among his readers east of the Rhine was General Heinz Guderian, whose own book Achtung! Panzer!, published three years later,11 owed much to the writings of de Gaulle and British Major General J.F.C. Fuller. Whereas Hitler gave Guderian full rein to implement the creation of the fast-moving armoured panzer columns with close air support that wrought the defeat of Poland, Holland, Belgium and France, both de Gaulle’s masters and Fuller’s had turned deaf ears to their arguments for modernising outdated command structures and embracing new technology.

After the blitzkrieg invasion of Poland in September 1939, when all his ideas were exploited by the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe flying close-support missions, de Gaulle had sent to eighty of the top political and military leaders in France a memorandum in which he stated that, when the German attack came in the west, it would be led by armoured columns with close tactical air support. The only way, he said, for the French army to combat and contain such an assault was immediately to regroup all tanks in autonomous armoured divisions with air support on call. Unfortunately, nobody paid attention, except for those who sought to denigrate this pretentious colonel and his preposterous ideas. Undeterred, de Gaulle spoke his mind to a group of British Members of Parliament visiting the front during the phoney war, before the shooting started. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this war is already lost. We have to prepare to win a different one with machines.’ The MPs departed similarly uncomprehending.12

Since crossing the French frontier on 10 May, the Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS tankers did not have it all their own way in smashing through the French defences. A few Allied commanders stalled them here and there by counter-attacking with inadequate forces and outdated equipment. When General Henri Georges Corap was sacked from command of Ninth Army after allowing the Germans to break the Meuse line, in the consequent reshuffle 49-year-old de Gaulle was given command of 4th Armoured Division with the rank of acting brigadier, which made him the youngest officer of general rank in the French armies. Despite the grand title, his division was a scratch assembly of very disparate qualities, not a tool that gave him the chance to put into practice what he had been preaching.

Tasked with delaying the enemy until two infantry divisions could take position in his rear at Laon in Picardy, he counter-attacked after dawn on 17 May with the aim of cutting Guderian’s supply line. His command consisted of three battalions. One was equipped with B1 Mk 2 heavy tanks with a 75mm gun that had, however, only been test-fired and was untried in combat, plus a company of D2 medium tanks. The other two battalions were of lighter Renault R35 tanks with an obsolete 37mm cannon.13 It was not much with which to take on battle-experienced German panzer troops in tanks whose armour his guns could not pierce, but the 30km drive north-east to the road junction at Montcornet was accomplished with several successful skirmishes en route.

At this point, de Gaulle’s plan foundered on that German genius for battlefield improvisation which was to wrong-foot Allied commanders so many times during the war. Approaching Montcornet at 3.30 p.m., the French column was less than 2km from the command post of 1st Panzer Division in the village of Lislet. General Kirchner, the irascible, injured divisional commander, refused at first to believe that a French counter-attack had managed to advance so near at a moment when all his tanks were either undergoing maintenance or parked with their crews resting, so he evacuated the village and despatched a staff officer to Guderian’s HQ 5km distant. Finding some tanks emerging from the mobile workshops, the officer ordered them immediately into action, while a battery of 88mm guns opened up on the French, reducing Lislet to ruins, in which a number of de Gaulle’s tanks were left burning. After Stuka dive-bombers joined the fray, French losses by the time withdrawal was complete totalled twenty-three out of ninety tanks, as against German losses of no tanks at all. As a French officer remarked after observing the futile charge of the British Light Brigade at Balaklava, ‘C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre.’