7

With intentions thus defined and elaborated, the Group faced the formal outbreak of the War of Ideologies. They spread their tentacles as Bodisham had planned them, and the combatant and authoritative forces in the world, seeking to use their propaganda, were gripped by its implications. The Group undertook responsibilities and achieved recognition. Insensibly it became a power in the world. It became an intermediary and then a decisive intermediary. Its informality and apparent flexibility made it more convenient and more non–committal than the official modes of communication between the Allied Democracies.

Few people remarked the rapid gradations by which this Party from nowhere and everywhere became a world institution. A year and a half of chaotic warfare and it was quasi–official. The winding up of the war drew near.

So eighteen months to a day after its decision to take part in the war, the Group met in that same room at Sloten. But now they were all wearing the plain grey uniform of New World Police, and the Dutch War Minister and a number of officers of the Consolidated Air Forces were with them. The maps upon the wall had undergone great changes.

The Common–sense Party was in practical and legal control of Holland. The Common–sense Government had an overwhelming majority there. This was true now of ten of the pseudo–democratic powers. And the Group had become the chief consolidating organ of all the allies. The shattered and exhausted militant states had realised its menace for them too late. First they had tried to make use of it under the impression that it was a pacifist influence that would weaken discipline in the Allied Armies. Then discovering that its ideas were permeating backward into their own ranks, they had attempted a futile suppression which had merely strengthened its hold on the Allies. And now the Group was discussing the campaign that would wind up the war, and it had met at the initiative of Reedly who, with an air of subordination that hardly pretended to conceal his growing insolence, had demanded "instructions" from his colleagues. The war, he said, was approaching its final decision.

He had long since abandoned his place at the middle of the table and shifted to the end, so that he faced Rud, and he was speaking now with the air of a reasonable man who exercises self–control in spite of much provocation. "I protest," he said.

He had evidently come charged with that word.

Chiffan's mind went wandering in search of a quotation. "Methinks"—how did it go—who was it—"doth protest too much…"

Reedly was speaking, and Rud was regarding him with brow–knitted attention. Bodisham, at the middle of the table, said very little, but looked occasionally at Rud. Once or twice Rud and he exchanged glances. Dreed and Norvel, the men responsible for education and public information, Thirp for the police liaison everywhere, Steenhold, Irwell, Roots and Holbank, for production, and Bellacourt, the director of air communications, were all, it appeared, treating Reedly unreasonably and unfairly. He wanted the situation cleared up and he wanted to be entrusted with greater powers. There was a demand and a menace in all he had to say.

His position was a peculiar one. The necessity of a unified Allied Command had been forced upon the Democratic Powers by a series of military defeats in the European area. But the bitterness of wilful mutual sabotage had made the direct subordination of the acutely nationalist national forces, to the direction of any single commander among them, impossible. The British Premier's idea of a Liaison Minister, who might develop insensibly into an Allied Commander–in–Chief, was felt to be a brilliant one. It was also the Prime Minister's idea to look to the left for this Liaison Minister. The revolutionary strikes of great sections of the munition workers and the refusal of the unified air forces, after the Authoritarians had been virtually driven from the air, to continue to take orders from any source except their representative Bellacourt, had turned the Allied Governments to Reedly as the most hopeful intermediary for a restoration of their internal as well as their international solidarity. Reedly was manifestly far less "Red" and revolutionary in spirit than his associates, essentially he was a good soldier, and nevertheless he was in contact, or he professed to be in contact, with the entire Group, and he became in rapid succession Liaison Minister and then "World Marshal" of the Allied Armies. His commission was vague and he interpreted it as conferring upon him the supreme command over all the forces of the Democratic Powers. There was little resistance to his aggressions. On the whole the allied commanders were not averse to shifting their responsibility to a man who might be set aside at the general settlement. So in a couple of years this disgruntled military expert, this detractor with a grievance, had become an arrogant and aggressive soldier again.

"I come here from the active front and Bellacourt is not here to meet me."

"He is in America," said Rud, "he is dealing with the strike. And Thirp, too, is busy—elsewhere."

"But I need them here. Bellacourt particularly. Believe me, I cannot wind up this war without his effective cooperation. I cannot do it."

He put out his open, hairy hand on the table and clutched, as though he grasped the world.

He was now a fine, florid, soldierly figure. He had expanded physically. His elocution had improved. A certain cantankerous note was no longer audible. Thirp, who missed nothing, had pointed out to Rud that he had acquired an artificial wave in his hair. "Vanity," said Thirp, "or ambition? Some vanity, of course. After all, ambition is only vanity with a backbone. That wave photographs better. It makes better personal propaganda…"

Steenhold found Reedly as admirable as an eighteenth–century portrait of a general. He deserved a background of battle–smoke—and a horse. A prancing horse with red nostrils. He was certainly the finest–looking captain of men the Group could have produced. He quite outshone the stockish Rogers, who had fallen entirely under his spell.

Reedly opened his big hand again and indicated points upon the chart of the world. "There," he said, "and there and there, you have the last resistances, the last possibilities of a final offensive. This Japanese–Brazilian army here has its back to the Andes. For that region a renewal of air action is absolutely vital. With that we could force a capitulation in a month and then we could concentrate all the air power on this Levantine–Persian–Danube–Elbe complex."

"It's intricate."

"Not so intricate if I had the air."

"And then a general capitulation?" asked Rud. "Naturally."

"Marches into Berlin and Tokio and so forth?" "Something of the sort," said Reedly.

"Nothing of the sort."

"But you want the war to end!"

"Do we?"

"Well?"

"We don't want a capitulation," said Rud. "I think we have that plain. Bodisham can give you chapter and verse for that. You see, Reedly, we don't want any excuse for an assembly of the old governments on our side. On our side. The 'democratic' governments and all that. The longer they hide in their dug–outs the better for the New World. From our point of view the war to end war can have no formal end. We've got controlled shipping, amalgamated air forces, pooled finance, consolidated news–services, a common uniform. We want to keep them common for evermore. But the day we proclaim Victory and Peace the diplomatists and nationalists will come creeping out of their funk–holes again with their flags and claims and bills on each other and all that sort of thing. Versailles all over again."

"I agree with that," said Bodisham. "Our revolutionary organisation has become a world war organisation, and now it has to develop into a world peace organisation."

"Even now," said Reedly, "if we fly in the face of national feeling too openly—After all, the war isn't won yet."

"To all intents and purposes it is won," said Rud.

"In order to wind it up," said Reedly, "I want to have complete, unqualified control of the munition supply, and I want to put an end to this ridiculous Air Truce of Bellacourt's. Who ever heard of such a thing? It makes the war—ridiculous! Every day now we get a fleet of planes from Sweden going along the lines, inspecting us. Did you know that? I thought you didn't. They just fly over us and go away. Taking snapshots, I suppose. To send home to their friends. It makes a commander–in–chief feel like a fool. I'm like one of those Indian princes under the old British raj who were given armies to play with and weren't allowed big guns. Then there's this strike in America!—going right over the heads of the government…It's fantastic. It's indecent. Here we have the men, the workmen away there, deciding what sort of shell we may have, what sort of guns, if any—and Roots here and Holbank aiding and abetting them. Practically the hold–up of air–bombs is complete. Think of that. And not a fighter left. All in cold storage in Sweden. With a war still going on. Fantastic!"

"With an enemy immobilised and not daring to put a plane in the air—even if they had the stuff to do it with," said Bodisham.

"What do we know what surprises they might not spring on us? Or what other surprises may be in store for us?"

"Your business to know that," said Rud.

"Pshaw!" said Reedly.

Never before in his life had Steenhold heard anyone say "Pshaw!" It amused him greatly. It went with that family portrait of a general. Pure eighteenth–century. "How do you propose to deal with these munition–strikers in America?" asked Rud. "If you have a free hand there."

"Clap loyal troops into the factories. British and American regulars. In the past Americans haven't been so particularly gentle with strikers. Didn't they use to have special strikebreakers?"

"They've lost so many of those old freedoms," jeered Chiffan.

"If they try and replace the trained workers in the explosives factories," said Rud, "they'll have most of the factories in fragments somewhere up in the stratosphere. Well, Reedly, you'll be pleased to learn that both Bellacourt and Holbank are in America now, dealing with that situation. There'll be a fleet of bombing planes and a reasonable ration of bombs available for Europe or Asia or anywhere quite soon."

"In my hands?"

"In Bellacourt's hands, subject to your—intimations." Reedly was disconcerted.

"I can't work with Bellacourt."

No answer. Rud pulled a grimace.

"I tell you I can't work with Bellacourt."

Still not a word. They all stared at him.

"To be frank I don't trust Bellacourt. What is he after? You don't seem to have thought about Bellacourt. Wings over the World. Air Peace? Dreams and dangerous dreams at that. Or excuses. He's hand and glove with Holbank and Roots. Beware of these men. Yes, Roots, I say it. To your face. Beware of them. If only for the sake of world security—to keep faith with our allies—we have to hold in Bellacourt. After all we are men of honour. We are soldiers first and foremost. The Allied War Offices appointed me. Me and Rogers. We can't play tricks on these governments that have trusted us."

Rud sat ostentatiously weighing every word of this.

"I think we understand Bellacourt," he said with deliberation, "Bodisham and I and the rest of us. What we don't understand is what you are after. Why do you want control of the air? Bluntly—who is it you want to bomb, Reedly?"

"The situation is complex."

"Obviously. But who is it you want to bomb?"

"I don't want Bellacourt to come sailing over the Pole to Europe on some private expedition of his own."

"He makes you—uncomfortable. I quite see that. But all the same, if you get those bombers, Reedly, whom do you want to bomb? Grossberg is beaten. His army just sticks there waiting for something to happen…Whom do you want to bomb?"

"I don't want other people to be bombed. I want to have things in my own hands."

"You puzzle us all," said Rud. "What, Reedly, do you really want?"

"The end of the war. Peace. The restoration of civilisation."

"Dear old civilisation!" whispered Chiffan. "Dear old civilisation."

"And—yourself, Reedly?"

"I shall be content to have done my duty."

"You ought to be. You will be the last World Marshal and the Lord of Peace. You will have done a crowning service to mankind, for which all the world will thank you. Your statues will be everywhere and you'll have more Avenues, Squares, railway–stations than you'll know what to do with. Isn't that enough?"

"But," said Reedly, and stopped. He was not nimble in debate.

"Reedly, what exactly do you want?" asked Rud, very white and resolute. "Why did you come here? What have you got on your mind? What have you got up your sleeve?"

Reedly sat squarely at the end of the table with that big, hairy hand of his half–clenched. He glanced at his sleeve as though he thought something might be betraying him there. "This is all very well. I'm not a talker. I'm a plain soldier and I want to win this war for the Democratic cause. Mixing the military and civil commands has never been a success, and it will not be now."

"We live in exceptional times," said Rud.

"And that's my answer?" said the World Marshal. "Yes."

There was a pause. Everyone felt that a long latent issue in the revolution had suddenly become patent.

Rud realised fully that he was at a crisis in his career. It had suddenly come into his head as a bright, clear fact, that in some manner, publicly or privately, in the interest of the new–born World Republic, within a year at longest it would be necessary to have Reedly shot…

"Now more than ever," he said, "the supreme duty of everyone in the Group is loyal co–ordination. Everyone is answerable for his own department and must keep complete control of his own subordinates. Everyone must understand Reedly's plans, in general and in particular, just as we all understand Bodisham's plans. There must be understanding. There must be complete understanding. The Group is one."

"Then I am still to be like one of those Roman Generals with—What did they call those chaps?"

"Questors," said Irwell.

"A Questor at my elbow?—with"—he looked round the room and added three for the absentees—"with ten Questors?" "It works out rather like that," said Rud.

"And away there in America Bellacourt gets his bombs if he wants them and consolidates his position according to his own ideas. Has a free hand."

"You underrate Bellacourt," said Rud.

"And in any emergency I am to be caught short of munitions and helpless in the air!"

"What emergency?"

"How can I tell beforehand?"

"That is your job. To tell beforehand. Military command is perpetual anticipation…But you know that as well as we do."

He looked down the table at the sulky face of the great soldier. An impulse from his cruder, earlier days, to have the World Marshal arrested and shot forthwith, had to be controlled. He glanced at the placid face of Bodisham. "No hysteria," he said to himself, "no hysteria. Keep your head, Rud." This situation had been inevitable from the beginning.

"World Marshal," he said, "even if we cannot simplify your task in the way you wish, all the same, you may rely upon all of us being at your service, in the service of our Common World."

He got up, and the Group took this as a sign that the session was over. He forced himself to walk down the room to Reedly, lay his hand on his arm and turn him towards the maps.

"Tell us all," he said, "what exactly you think we ought to do."

Reedly seemed disposed to resist for a moment, seemed disposed to throw off Rud's light, nervous grip on his arm; he looked down on Rud like an Alsatian dog being smelt by a mongrel terrier; then he shrugged his broad shoulders and complied.

"I must fly back to Poland," he said, "in an hour or so. Military necessity waits for no man. I cannot give you very long. Let me first explain the position of Grossberg's group of armies…"