ALTHOUGH General Auchinleck had not felt himself strong enough to seize the initiative in the Desert, he awaited with some confidence the enemy’s attack. General Ritchie, commanding the Eighth Army, had under his chief’s supervision prepared an elaborate defensive position stretching from Gazala to Bir Hacheim, forty-five miles due south, composed of fortified points called “boxes”, held in strength by brigades or larger forces, the whole being covered by an immense spread of minefields. Behind this the whole of our armour and the XXXth Corps were held in reserve.
All the Desert battles, except Alamein, began by swift, wide turning movements of armour on the Desert Flank. Rommel started by moonlight on the night of May 26–27, and swept forward with all his armour, intending to engage and destroy our own, and hoping as we now know, to seize Tobruk on the second day of his attack. This he failed to accomplish, and on June 10, after much bitter and gallant fighting, General Auchinleck sent us an estimate of the casualties on both sides. The figures of tanks, guns, and aircraft were satisfactory, and also precise. But I was naturally struck by the following statement: “Our own losses in personnel are estimated very approximately at 10,000, of whom some 8,000 may be prisoners, but the casualties of the 5th Indian Division not yet accurately known.” This extraordinary disproportion between killed and wounded on the one hand and prisoners on the other revealed that something must have happened of an unpleasant character. It showed also that the Cairo headquarters were in important respects unable to measure the event. I did not dwell on this in my reply.
Throughout June 12 and 13 a fierce battle was fought for possession of the ridges that lie between El Adem and “Knightsbridge”. This was the culmination of the tank battle; at its close the enemy were masters of the field, and our own armour gravely reduced. “Knightsbridge”, the focus of communications in that neighbourhood, had to be evacuated, after a stubborn defence, and by the 14th it became clear that the battle had taken a heavy adverse turn. Mr. Casey, the Minister of State, sent me a telegram which emphasised the Service messages, and contained the following passage:
As to Auchinleck himself, I have all possible confidence in him as regards his leadership and the way he is conducting the battle with the forces that are available to him. My only wish is that he could be at two places at once, both here at the centre of the web and forward directing the Eighth Army battle in person. I have even thought at times in recent days that it would be a good thing for him to go forward and take charge of the battle, leaving his Chief of Staff here temporarily in charge, but he does not think so and I do not want to press him on it. It is Auchinleck’s battle, and decisions as to leadership subordinate to himself are for him to make.
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Mr. Casey’s remark about the advantages of Auchinleck’s taking personal command of the Desert battle confirmed my own feelings which I had expressed to the General a month before. The Commander-in-Chief of the Middle East was embarrassed and hampered by his too extensive responsibilities. He thought of the battle, on which all in his work depended, only as a part of his task. There was always the danger from the north, to which he felt it his duty to attach an importance to which we at home, in a better position to judge, no longer subscribed.
The arrangement which he had made was a compromise. He left the fighting of the decisive battle to General Ritchie, who had so recently ceased to be his Deputy Chief of Staff. At the same time he kept this officer under strict supervision, sending him continuous instructions. It was only after the disaster had occurred that he was induced, largely by the urgings of the Minister of State, to do what he should have done from the beginning and take over the direct command of the battle himself. It is to this that I ascribe his personal failure, some of the blame for which undoubtedly falls on me and my colleagues for the unduly wide responsibilities assigned a year before to the Middle East Command. Still, we had done our best to free him from these undue burdens by precise, up-to-date, and superseding advice, which he had not accepted. Personally I believe that if he had taken command from the outset and, as was fully in his power, left a deputy in Cairo to keep an eye on the north and discharge the mass of varied business belonging to the rest of the immense theatre over which he presided he might well have won the battle, and certainly when late in the day he took command he saved what was left of it.
The reader will presently see how these impressions bit so deeply into me that in my directive to General Alexander of August 10 I made his main duty clear beyond a doubt. One lives and learns.
Immediately Tobruk glared upon us, and, as in the previous year, we had no doubt that it should be held at all costs. Now also, after a month’s needless delay, General Auchinleck ordered up the New Zealand Division from Syria, but not in time for it to take part in the battle for Tobruk. We were not satisfied with his orders to General Ritchie, which did not positively require him to defend the fortress. To make sure I sent the following telegram:
We are glad to have your assurance that you have no intention of giving up Tobruk. War Cabinet interpret [your telegram] to mean that, if the need arises, General Ritchie would leave as many troops in Tobruk as are necessary to hold the place for certain.
The reply left no doubt, and on this we rested with confidence based upon the experience of the previous year. Moreover, our position, as General Auchinleck had pointed out, appeared on paper much better than in 1941. We had an army deployed on a fortified front, in close proximity to Tobruk, with a newly constructed direct broad-gauge railway sustaining it. We were no longer formed to a flank with our communications largely dependent on the sea, but according to the orthodox principles of war, running back at right-angles from the centre of our front to our main base. In these circumstances, though grieved by what had happened, I still felt, from a survey of all the forces on both sides, and of Rommel’s immense difficulties of supply, that all would be well. With the New Zealand Division now not far away, and with powerful reinforcements approaching by sea, I did not myself feel that the continuance of hard fighting in the greatest possible strength on both sides would be to our detriment in the long run. I did not therefore cancel the plans I had made for a second visit to Washington, where business of the highest importance to the general strategy of the war had to be transacted. In this I was supported by my colleagues.
The main object of my journey was to reach a final decision on the operations for 1942-43. The American authorities in general, and Mr. Stimson and General Marshall in particular, were anxious that some plan should be decided upon at once, which would enable the United States to engage the Germans in force on land and in the air in 1942. Failing this, there was the danger that the American Chiefs of Staff would seriously consider a radical revision of the strategy of “Germany first”. Another matter lay heavy on my mind. It was the question of “Tube Alloys”, which was our code-word for what afterwards became the atomic bomb. Our research and experiments had now reached a point where definite agreements must be made with the United States, and it was felt this could only be achieved by personal discussions between me and the President. The fact that the War Cabinet decided that I should leave the country and London with the Chief of the Imperial General Staff and General Ismay at the height of the Desert battle measures the importance which we attached to a settlement of the grave strategic issues which were upon us.
On account of the urgency and crisis of our affairs in these very difficult days, I decided to go by air rather than by sea. This meant that we should be barely twenty-four hours cut off from the full stream of information. Efficient arrangements were made for the immediate transmission of messages from Egypt and for the rapid passage and decoding of all reports, and no harmful delays in taking decisions were expected or in fact occurred.
Although I now knew the risks we had run on our return voyage flight from Bermuda in January, my confidence in the chief pilot, Kelly Rogers, and his Boeing flying-boat was such that I asked specially that he should take charge. We left Stranraer on the night of June 17, shortly before midnight. The weather was perfect and the moon full. I sat for two hours or more in the co-pilot’s seat admiring the shining sea, revolving my problems, and thinking of the anxious battle. I slept soundly in the “bridal suite” until in broad daylight we reached Gander. Here we could have refuelled, but this was not thought necessary, and after making our salutes to the airfield we pursued our voyage. As we were travelling with the sun the day seemed very long. We had two luncheons with a six-hour interval, and contemplated a late dinner after arrival.
For the last two hours we flew over the land, and it was about seven o’clock by American time when we approached Washington. As we gradually descended towards the Potomac River I noticed that the top of the Washington Monument, which is over five hundred and fifty feet high, was about our level, and I impressed upon Captain Kelly Rogers that it would be peculiarly unfortunate if we brought our story to an end by hitting this of all other objects in the world. He assured me that he would take special care to miss it. Thus we landed safely and smoothly on the Potomac after a journey of twenty-seven flying hours. Lord Halifax, General Marshall, and several high officers of the United States welcomed us. I repaired to the British Embassy for dinner. It was too late for me to fly on to Hyde Park that night. We read all the latest telegrams—there was nothing important—and dined agreeably in the open air. The British Embassy, standing on the high ground, is one of the coolest places in Washington, and compares very favourably in this respect with the White House.
Early the next morning, the 19th, I flew to Hyde Park. The President was on the local airfield, and saw us make the roughest bump landing I have experienced. He welcomed me with great cordiality, and, driving the car himself, took me to the majestic bluffs over the Hudson River on which Hyde Park, his family home, stands. The President drove me all over the estate, showing me its splendid views. In this drive I had some thoughtful moments. Mr. Roosevelt’s infirmity prevented him from using his feet on the brake, clutch, or accelerator. An ingenious arrangement enabled him to do everything with his arms, which were amazingly strong and muscular. He invited me to feel his biceps, saying that a famous prize-fighter had envied them. This was reassuring; but I confess that when on several occasions the car poised and backed on the grass verges of the precipices over the Hudson I hoped the mechanical devices and brakes would show no defects. All the time we talked business, and though I was careful not to take his attention off the driving we made more progress than we might have done in formal conference.
The President was very glad to hear I had brought the C.I.G.S. with me. His field of interest was always brightened by recollections of his youth. It had happened that the President’s father had entertained at Hyde Park the father of General Brooke. Mr. Roosevelt therefore expressed keen interest to meet the son, who had reached such a high position. When they met two days later he received him with the utmost cordiality, and General Brooke’s personality and charm created an almost immediate intimacy which greatly helped the course of business.
I told Harry Hopkins about the different points on which I wanted decisions, and he talked them over with the President, so that the ground was prepared and the President’s mind armed upon each subject. Of these “Tube Alloys” was one of the most complex, and, as it proved, overwhelmingly the most important. I had my papers with me, but the discussion was postponed till the next day, the 20th, as the President needed more information from Washington. Our talk took place after luncheon, in a tiny little room which juts out on the ground floor. The room was dark and shaded from the sun. Mr. Roosevelt was ensconced at a desk almost as big as the apartment. Harry sat or stood in the background. My two American friends did not seem to mind the intense heat.
I told the President in general terms of the great progress we had made, and that our scientists were now definitely convinced that results might be reached before the end of the present war. He said his people were getting along too, but no one could tell whether anything practical would emerge till a full-scale experiment had been made. We both felt painfully the dangers of doing nothing. We knew what efforts the Germans were making to procure supplies of “heavy water”—a sinister term, eerie, unnatural, which began to creep into our secret papers. What if the enemy should get an atomic bomb before we did! However sceptical one might feel about the assertions of scientists, much disputed among themselves and expressed in jargon incomprehensible to laymen, we could not run the mortal risk of being outstripped in this awful sphere.
I strongly urged that we should at once pool all our information, work together on equal terms, and share the results, if any, equally between us. The question then arose as to where the research plant was to be set up. We were already aware of the enormous expense that must be incurred, with all the consequent grave diversion of resources and brain-power from other forms of war effort. Considering that Great Britain was under close bombing attack and constant enemy air reconnaissance, it seemed impossible to erect in the Island the vast and conspicuous factories that were needed. We conceived ourselves at least as far advanced as our Ally, and there was of course the alternative of Canada, who had a vital contribution herself to make through the supplies of uranium she had actively gathered. It was a hard decision to spend several hundred million pounds sterling, not so much of money as of competing forms of precious war-energy, upon a project the success of which no scientist on either side of the Atlantic could guarantee. Nevertheless, if the Americans had not been willing to undertake the venture we should certainly have gone forward on our own power in Canada, or, if the Canadian Government demurred, in some other part of the Empire. I was however very glad when Mr. Roosevelt said he thought the United States would have to do it. We therefore took this decision jointly, and settled a basis of agreement. I shall continue the story in a later chapter. But meanwhile I have no doubt that it was the progress we had made in Britain and the confidence of our scientists in ultimate success imparted to the President that led him to his grave and fateful decision.
Late on the night of the 20th the Presidential train bore us back to Washington, which we reached about eight o’clock the next morning. We were heavily escorted to the White House, and I was again accorded the very large air-conditioned room, in which I dwelt in comfort at about thirty degrees below the temperature of most of the rest of the building. 1 glanced at the newspapers, read telegrams for an hour, had my breakfast, looked up Harry across the passage, and then went to see the President in his study. General Ismay came with me. Presently a telegram was put into the President’s hands. He passed it to me without a word. It said, “Tobruk has surrendered, with twenty-five thousand men taken prisoners.” This was so surprising that I could not believe it. I therefore asked Ismay to inquire of London by telephone. In a few minutes he brought the following message, which had just arrived from Admiral Harwood at Alexandria.*
Tobruk has fallen, and situation deteriorated so much that there is a possibility of heavy air attack on Alexandria in near future, and in view of approaching full moon period I am sending all Eastern Fleet units south of the Canal to await events. I hope to get H.M.S. Queen Elizabeth out of dock towards end of this week.*
This was one of the heaviest blows I can recall during the war. Not only were its military effects grievous, but it affected the reputation of the British armies. At Singapore eighty-five thousand men had surrendered to inferior numbers of Japanese. Now in Tobruk a garrison of twenty-five thousand (actually thirty-three thousand) seasoned soldiers had laid down their arms to perhaps one-half of their number. If this was typical of the morale of the Desert Army, no measure could be put upon the disasters which impended in North-East Africa. I did not attempt to hide from the President the shock I had received. It was a bitter moment. Defeat is one tiling; disgrace is another. Nothing could exceed the sympathy and chivalry of my two friends. There were no reproaches; not an unkind word was spoken. “What can we do to help?” said Roosevelt. I replied at once, “Give us as many Sherman tanks as you can spare, and ship them to the Middle East as quickly as possible.” The President sent for General Marshall, who arrived in a few minutes, and told him of my request. Marshall replied, “Mr. President, the Shermans are only just coming into production. The first few hundred have been issued to our own armoured divisions, who have hitherto had to be content with obsolete equipment. It is a terrible thing to take the weapons out of a soldier’s hands. Nevertheless, if the British need is so great they must have them; and we could let them have a hundred 105-mm. self-propelled guns in addition.”
To complete the story it must be stated that the Americans were better than their word. Three hundred Sherman tanks with engines not yet installed and a hundred self-propelled guns were put into six of their fastest ships and sent off to the Suez Canal. The ship containing the engines for all the tanks was sunk by a submarine off Bermuda. Without a single word from us the President and Marshall put a further supply of engines into another fast ship and dispatched it to overtake the convoy. “A friend in need is a friend indeed.”
On June 21, when we were alone together after lunch, Harry said to me, “There are a couple of American officers the President would like you to meet, as they are very highly thought of in the Army, by Marshall, and by him.” At five o’clock therefore Major-Generals Eisenhower and Clark were brought to my air-cooled room. I was immediately impressed by these remarkable but hitherto unknown men. They had both come from the President, whom they had just seen for the first time. We talked almost entirely about the major cross-Channel invasion in 1943, “Round-up”, as it was then called, on which their thoughts had evidently been concentrated. We had a most agreeable discussion, lasting for over an hour. I felt sure that these officers were intended to play a great part in it, and that was the reason why they had been sent to make my acquaintance. Thus began a friendship which across all the ups and downs of war I have preserved with deep satisfaction to this day.
Meanwhile the surrender of Tobruk reverberated round the world. On the 22nd Hopkins and I were at lunch with the President in his room. Presently Mr. Elmer Davis, the head of the Office of War Information, arrived with a bunch of New York newspapers, showing flaring headlines about “ANGER IN ENGLAND”, “TOBRUK FALL MAY BRING CHANGE OF GOVERNMENT”. “CHURCHILL TO BE CENSURED”, etc. I had been invited by General Marshall to visit one of the American Army camps in South Carolina. We were to start by train with him and Mr. Stimson on the night of June 23. Mr. Davis asked me seriously whether, in view of the political situation at home, I thought it wise to carry out the programme, which of course had been elaborately arranged. Might it not be misinterpreted if I were inspecting troops in America when matters of such vital consequence were taking place both in Africa and London? I replied that I would certainly carry out the inspections as planned, and that I doubted whether I should be able to provoke twenty members into the Lobby against the Government on an issue of confidence. This was in fact about the number which the malcontents eventually obtained.
Accordingly I started by train next night for South Carolina, and arrived at Fort Jackson the next morning. The train drew up, not at a station, but in the open plain. It was a very hot day, and we got out of the train straight on to the parade ground, which recalled the plains of India in the hot weather. We went first to an awning and saw the American armour and infantry march past. Next we watched the parachute exercises. They were impressive and convincing. I had never seen a thousand men leap into the air at once. I was given a “walkietalkie” to carry. This was the first time I had ever handled such a convenience. In the afternoon we saw the mass-produced American divisions doing field exercises with live ammunition. At the end I said to Ismay (to whom I am indebted for this account), “What do you think of it?” He replied, “To put these troops against German troops would be murder.” Whereupon I said, “You’re wrong. They are wonderful material and will learn very quickly.” To my American hosts however I consistently pressed my view that it takes two years or more to make a soldier. Certainly two years later the troops we saw in Carolina bore themselves like veterans.
We flew back to Washington on the afternoon of the 24th, where I received various reports, and next evening I set out for Baltimore, where my flying-boat lay. The President bade me farewell at the White House with all his grace and courtesy, and Harry Hopkins and Averell Harriman came to see me off. The narrow, closed-in gangway which led to the water was heavily guarded by armed American police. There seemed to be an air of excitement, and the officers looked serious. Before we took off I was told that one of the plain-clothes men on duty had been caught fingering a pistol and heard muttering that he would “do me in”, with some other expressions of an unappreciative character. He had been pounced upon and arrested. Afterwards he turned out to be a lunatic. Crackpates are a special danger to public men, as they do not worry about the “get away”.
We came down at Botwood the next morning in order to refuel, and took off again after a meal of fresh lobsters. Thereafter I ate at stomach-time—i.e., with the usual interval between meals—and slept whenever possible. I sat in the co-pilot’s seat as, after flying over Northern Ireland, we approached the Clyde at dawn, and landed safely. My train was waiting, with Peck, one of my personal secretaries, and a mass of boxes, and four or five days’ newspapers. In an hour we were off to the South. It appeared that we had lost a by-election by a sweeping turn-over at Maldon. This was one of the by-products of Tobruk.
This seemed to me to be a bad time. I went to bed, browsed about in the files for a while, and then slept for four or five hours till we reached London. What a blessing is the gift of sleep! The War Cabinet were on the platform to greet me on arrival, and I was soon at work in the Cabinet Room.
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