Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07 (86 page)

Sir Pellinore took a swig
of champagne, and went on: “But it’s come out now that General Michel’s plan
didn’t tally with the notions of his colleagues. They didn’t believe the
Germans would violate Belgium. They were not prepared to stand on the
defensive. So they managed to get him sacked.”

“Yes. I remember hearing
he had gone. The present
C. in C.
,
Joffre, was appointed as his successor.”

“That’s right. At first
Joffre wasn’t in the runnin’. Galli
é
ni
was the obvious choice, but the War Minister wanted a chap called Pau. Then Pau
made demands about the appointment of Generals to which the Government wouldn’t
agree; so they used the pretext of his age to rule him out. That ruled out
Galli
é
ni
too, as he was even older. So Joffre was given the job.”

“I’ve never understood
why,” remarked the Duke. “He was an engineer with a sound reputation, but no
more. He is a stolid, unimaginative man. I don’t think he has even commanded an
Army on manœvres, and he was only a junior member of the War Council.”

“I’ll tell you. He got
the job because he is a bone-head who couldn’t do any harm to anyone. He’s
never mixed himself up in politics. For three years he held his post under four
Governments without upsettin’ anybody. And he has no religious views, so they
knew that he wouldn’t favour either the Catholics or the Atheists. Naturally,
an old plodder like that, with no notions of his own, was easy meat for all the
young hot-heads of the French General staff. They are a powerful lot, and call
themselves the Young Turks. God knows why! Anyway, they’re all apostles of the
offensive. They persuaded the old fool to scrap General Michel’s plan. Instead,
they produced a suicidal document called Plan XVII. Its object was to take
advantage of the very temporary superiority in numbers that the French would
have in the first stage by launching a million men in an all-out attack at the
earliest possible moment.”

De Richleau’s face fell. “Then
the French
have
frittered away their resources.”

“Frittered!” repeated Sir
Pellinore angrily. “Chucked, would be a better word. Twelve days ago Joffre
began destroyin’ his own army as surely as if he were a god with a grouse and a
hatchet. Division after division was thrown in like coconuts against an iron
Aunt Sally. Those lunatics chose the virtually impregnable fortress of Metz for
the central point of their attack. Of course, they were influenced by all this
sentimental clap-trap about liberating Alsace-Lorraine. Instead of exercisin’ a
reasonable patience, they’ve gambled their whole country against a chance to
run the French flag up in Strasburg. Naturally the artillery in the Hun
fortress line bowled them over as though they were ninepins. In five days
fightin’ that fat imbecile they call ‘papa’ Joffre caused the slaughter of
300,000 French soldiers; and he hasn’t even got a German town to show for them.
That’s why no advantage can be taken of this marvellous news you’ve brought
about the transfer of the six Corps to East Prussia.”

The Duke’s head reeled
under the magnitude of the blow.
Three hundred thousand
men gone in five days. It was one fifth of the whole French Army.
At that rate it must either surrender or cease to exist within a fortnight.
After a moment he murmured:

“Could nothing be done to
stop this madness?”

“On the sixth day it
stopped itself. The four Armies on the French right were too punch-drunk to take
any more punishment. So ‘papa’ Joffre and his Young Turks thought they would
launch an offensive in another direction. The two remainin’ French Armies and
the British were ordered to close up and attack northward. But they were spread
out wafer-thin compared with the great mass of Germans pourin’ down on ’em—and
already in full retreat. The only card left lay in a new Army of odds and ends
that was being got together by General Maunoury in the neighbourhood of Amiens.
That’s the spot where Joffre
ought
to have had the 300,000 men he’s squandered. He might have rolled up the German
flank then. But they were dead, dyin’ or prisoners. And Maunoury’s lot had no
chance to get going. They were pushed back with the rest.”

“Is there no hope left,
then?”

“Hope!” boomed Sir
Pellinore suddenly. “Of course there’s hope! Bags of it! War’s only just
started. The Ruskies have taken a nasty knock at some place called Tininberg,
and the French have made a shockin’ muddle. But this is only the beginning.
Britain rules the waves, my boy. The world’s our oyster. We’ve got the men, we’ve
got the ships, we’ve got the money, too. The Empire’s capable of putting five
million men in the field, and we’ve got the markets of the world to buy
supplies in. Britain wins the last battle in every war, and the Kaiser’s a
dunderheaded fool to have forgotten it.”

“I meant, there is little
hope now for France.”

Sir Pellinore considered
for a moment, then he rumbled, “There’s one. Paris, with its great ring of
forts, is the strongest fortress in the world. Can’t possibly be taken by a
straightforward assault—any more than the 800,000 men Joffre threw into his
offensive could take Metz. The Huns will have to bring up their siege trains
and invest the city. To subdue it will take weeks—if not months. That should
give the French Army a breather. They’ll be able to get their Empire troops
over; and so shall we. The allies may be able to form a solid front along the
Seine—if only Paris holds out.”

“The Germans may decide
to by-pass it. They know their business, and I’m sure their objective is the
destruction of the French Army.”

“True. But if they do, it
will mean splittin’ their forces. Von Kluck’s Army, on their extreme right, and
probably von Below’s which is next to it, would have to pass west of the city.
They’d be entirely cut off from their pals. They’d be very vulnerable to a
counter-offensive then—if only the French can still find the troops to make it.”

The Duke was silent for a
moment in his turn, then he said glumly: “All the older people in Paris—the
members of the Government and the High Command—remember the horrors of the
seige in 1870. They may not be prepared to face starvation and riots again, and
a far more terrible bombardment. Instead of holding Paris, they may decide to
declare it an open city, and let the Germans walk through.”

“Ah! That’s the rub! If
so, I fear the French goose is cooked. France will be forced to surrender. That
will make it a darned long business; and we’ll have to take our Army off. But
don’t worry. We’ll go back again. We always do.”

The butler then arrived
to announce lunch, so they went downstairs. Over the meal De Richleau gave his
host a more detailed account of some of his doings. Then, after the port, Sir
Pellinore said:

“This afternoon I’ll look
in on a few people. Tell ’em about these six Corps of yours. Never say die, eh?
Meantime I expect you’d like to get yourself some decent clothes. Better make
your headquarters here for the time bein’. I’d be delighted to have you. I’ll
be back about six and let you know the form.”

They went out together
and separated in Pall Mall. The Duke walked up to his tailor’s, where he always
kept a trunkful of clothes, and soon made himself more presentable. Then he
spent an hour or so strolling round the West End.

There were quite a number
of officers and men about in khaki, but otherwise it looked little different
from when he had last seen it. After an almost complete stoppage of business,
trade had begun to recover, and many of the shops had printed slogans in their
windows carrying the words ‘Business as Usual.’

In a few brief bulletins
the public had been informed that the B.E.F. was in contact with the Germans
and had inflicted heavy losses upon them; but not one in ten thousand had the
vaguest idea what was happening in France, so the well-dressed, well-fed crowds
showed no sign of depression. On the contrary, there seemed a new buoyancy and
cheerfulness about them. Kitchener, so the Duke learned, had been made War
Minister, and no appointment could have given greater confidence to the nation.
On every hoarding there were pictures of him with a pointing finger, and the
legend under it ‘Your country needs YOU’. He had called for a million
volunteers, and from boys of fifteen to elderly men who were dyeing their white
hair black in order to be taken, Britons from every city, town and village, and
from every country in the world were flocking to the colours.

In a somewhat more
cheerful frame of mind the Duke returned to Carlton House Terrace, but Sir
Pellinore did not get back by six o’clock, nor seven, nor eight: so at half
past eight De Richleau sat down to a solitary dinner. It was nearly ten before
his host joined him, and said abruptly:

“Sorry to have left you
on your own. Had the hell of an afternoon. To start with I couldn’t get hold of
anyone I wanted. No good goin’ to little people on a thing like this. Sir
Bindon was at a meetin’ of the Committee of Imperial Defence that didn’t break
up till five. He’s very grateful to you, and inclined to be optimistic. He says
the withdrawal of those six Corps might still make all the difference. But
Kitchener poured cold water on me. He’s very under the weather these days, and
who can blame him? He confirmed though that, since the 26th, German troop
trains have been leavin’ Belgium for the Russian front. The size of the
transfer surprised him, and he’ll pass the information on with the latest M. I.
reports. But he feels that it’s up to the French, and doubts their ability to
do anything. Felt I must let ‘Mr. Marlborough’ know, so I barged in on him at
dinner. He took a very different view. He said, ‘Now is the hour! This secret
intelligence is the one thing which might stiffen the backs of the French and
save the situation. We’ve got to
make
them
dig their toes in’. So you and I are off to France first thing tomorrow morning.”

“What!” exclaimed the
Duke.

Sir Pellinore nodded. “Yes.
Unofficial mission, of course. But somebody’s got to talk to ‘papa’ Joffre, and
hammer what this means into his thick head.”

“I quite see that; but I’m
afraid that I can’t possibly go with you.”

“Oh, yes you will!” Sir
Pellinore’s chin jutted out belligerently. “You’re the feller who knows the facts.
They’re much too down in the mouth to take any notice of mere hearsay. But when
they learn that you had it straight from the horse’s mouth—actually heard old
von Moltke give the order—they’ll believe it. Then with any luck they’ll get
their peckers up.”

“I see that, too,” replied
De Richleau unhappily. “But you have evidently forgotten that I was exiled from
France. Directly I tell them my name, they will arrest me.”

“Oh, no they won’t! They’ll
not dare to lay a finger on you. I’ve thought of that snag already. You’re
coming with me dressed as a British Brigadier-General.”

De Richleau laughed. “Well!
That is quite a promotion from an Austrian Colonel.”

“I’d give you a higher
rank if I didn’t feel that would be overdoin’ it,” grinned the baronet. “But we
want to impress these fellers as much as we can. They’ll take a lot from a
soldier that they wouldn’t from a civilian. If they think we think enough of
you to have made you a Brigadier, they’ll take what you have to say about the
stuff you picked up in Germany pretty seriously.”

“All right, then. I’m
taking it for granted that you will protect me from the wrath of the British
Army if it hears about this. But what about uniform?”

“Don’t worry about that.
Hundreds of young chaps are being granted temporary commissions overnight now.
The shops are full of ready-made tunics and breeches. My man will measure you.
Then I’ll telephone Sir Woodman Burbridge. Old friend of mine. He’ll send one
of his people down to Harrods before the store opens to-morrow. They’ll get you
everything you want up here by nine o’clock. That’ll be plenty of time. We’re
leavin’ on the ten-thirty for Dover. Make a list out, and don’t forget to put
on it a couple of rows of medal ribbons. The more the merrier!”

So, at ten-thirty next
morning, a very tall grey-haired gentleman with a fine cavalry moustache, and a
slim, dark-haired Brigadier-General left Charing Cross. Overnight the Admiralty
had made all arrangements for them, so they were met at Dover by a young R. N.
R. officer, who took them along the harbour and on board a destroyer that was
acting as a fast ferry several times a day, to run staff officers to and fro
across the channel.

They landed at Calais
well before two; but were held up there for a while, as the Admiralty was short
of cars and a special arrangement had to be made for them to be provided with a
military car and driver. But by two-thirty they were on their way to Bar le
Due, in the department of the Meuse, where
Grand Quartier Général
was established.