A Splendid Little War Read Online Free PDF Page A

Jennifer.”
    â€œNot many do. A small school, but with very high standards. You’d never have got in, Olly. Not a hope.”
    The R.T.O. came over. “Two lorries,” he said. “Waiting outside. You haven’t heard the last of this.”
    â€œWell, you know where to find us,” Hackett said. “Up in the clouds, duelling with death.” He took the last sandwich and bit into it.
    â€œHave a word with the management,” Wragge told the R.T.O. “Worcester Sauce is what this place needs. Otherwise … well done. Bully for you.”
    â€œMy report will go directly to the general.”
    â€œOf course it will. Worcester Sauce. Make a note of it.”
4
    The Royal College of Embroidery had occupied a building in the centre of Grosvenor Crescent, Belgravia, since 1783. Few Londoners knew it existed; nobody polished the small, discreet nameplate. But the house was only a short cab-ride from all the major offices of state, and on a bright but chilly afternoon in March 1919, men from most of those offices were standing in its Reading Room. They were watching the Prime Minister, the Right Honourable David Lloyd George, who was talking quietly to his chief adviser. As they watched, they were thinking their various thoughts.
    Charles Delahaye from the Treasury was thinking about tax. Paying for the war had been relatively easy, you just borrowed from the Americans, who, God knows, were happy to lend. But how was the P.M. going to sell this painfully expensive peace to the people?
    General Stattaford from the War Office, six feet two in his socks, was thinking how short the P.M. was. Midgets were taking over the world. Even the Grenadier Guards had lowered their height requirement. Tragic, really. How can you have a short Grenadier?
    Sir Franklyn Fletcher, Permanent Private Secretary at the Foreign Office, was thinking the P.M. looked awfully tired. All this rushing back and forth to France for the Peace Conference. Suppose President Wilson had to go back to America, suppose the P.M. went down with this terrible flu which was spreading everywhere – that would leave Clemenceau running the show and then we’re really
dans le potage
…
    James Weatherby, from the Home Office, was thinking Lloyd George looked like a small greengrocer. What did women see in him? The man had all the charm of a walrus and more sex than a goat. The British newspapers were squared, nothing to worry about there, but what if the truth appeared in the foreign Press? The old goat might sue for libel. Weatherby shuddered.
    Lloyd George nodded goodbye to them all, and left.
    His chief adviser, Jonathan Fitzroy, sixty, was built like a blacksmith, face like a turnip, mind like a razor, and morals of a stoat. Or so people said. He gestured at the armchairs, arranged in a wide circle. For himself he chose a large cane chair. It gave him a height advantage.
    â€œGentlemen: you probably know each other. However …” He quickly introduced everyone, ending with General Stattaford. “I shouldn’t be here,” the general said. “Forgot my
petit-point
.” He smiled when they chuckled. One up to the Army.
    â€œAn unusual rendezvous, I agree,” Fitzroy said. “We’re here because, first, my sister runs the College, and secondly, it’s completely private. Free from gossip. And that matters because our agenda has only one, very delicate, item: Russia. The Prime Minister feels the public needs to be reassured. Some aspects of our Russian involvement may be causing confusion. It’s a matter of communications. Why are we in Russia? A simple and easily understood message is what the P.M. seeks. He looks to you for help.”
    â€œTwo words. Strategic necessity,” General Stattaford said. “Bolsheviks pulled Russia out of the war in the east. Common knowledge. Obviously we had to go in and start it again, otherwise the Boche would hammer us twice as hard in the