The British Ambassador arched an impatient eyebrow.
“Anyhow,” the Taoiseach went on, “at the time he deserted McCormick was a sergeant in the Royal Engineers. He was an ordnance specialist; a bomb disposal expert. Between 1956 and 1959 he was based at Bovington and assigned to the Royal Tank Regiment’s Experimental Ordnance Company. Which means he is familiar with, and presumably expert in the maintenance and deployment of prototype wire-guided rocket-propelled anti-tank and other precision guided munitions. The IRA have plenty of men who know which end of a gun to point at the target, and quite a few bomb-makers, I’ll be bound. But unless somebody came over with the Redeyes from America, they’ve only got Seamus McCormick who can actually make the things work.”
“Why haven’t you arrested this man McCormick?” Sir Ian MacLennan asked, knowing his principles in Oxford would want to know that very, very badly.
“We tried to,” Lieutenant General John McKeown interjected, his tone that of a man offended by the implied suggestion that his country would casually allow criminals to possess and to parade through the streets carrying anti-aircraft missiles. “Garda Síochána andSpecial Branch officers supported by my men carried out a series of raids across this city and elsewhere last night hoping to nip the IRA’s forthcoming offensive in the bud.”
Sir Ian MacLennan was unimpressed.
Within a couple of hours of the news of those raids becoming public there would be a Republican mob outside the British Embassy yelling abuse, waving outrageous placards and hurling bottles and stones over the fence. The last time there had been a big demonstration all the phone lines in and out of the Embassy had been cut, the water and electricity disconnected and by and large, the Dublin police had sat on their hands and done virtually nothing to keep back the crowds.
“What can you tell me about the ‘actions’ Seamus McCormick’s ‘active service unit’ plan to carry out in England?”
The three Irishmen said nothing.
“Ah, that’s the way it is going to be,” the British Ambassador groaned. “Just so that we all understand how things stand,” he prefaced dryly. “The Irish Republican Army which broadly speaking subscribes, albeit violently, to articles of political faith like a united Ireland and an end to British influence in the north — objectives which are coincidentally peaceful articles of faith to your own governing Fianna Fáil Party — has acquired sophisticated modern weapons and is determined to wreak havoc in the United Kingdom, England specifically. You have just undertaken what will be interpreted in Oxford as a ‘token’ series of unsuccessful raids to disrupt the IRA’s plans. Those raids failed in even that limited purpose. Therefore, the Irish Government knew what was happening in advance and effectively, did nothing material to stop it. For what it is worth I personally believe that you gentlemen are honourable men and that you have been honest with me today. But my Prime Minister and my Foreign Secretary have never had the opportunity to meet you face to face and to form a similar personal opinion. When I transmit my report of this meeting to them I pray that they listen not just to my factual report of this meeting, but are prepared to listen to the advice that I will attach to that report. However, I am not at all sure that anything I can say will do much good. Frankly, in the United Kingdom my principals draw little or no distinction between Ireland, the Irish and the Irish Republican Army, and as you well know the failure of the Irish Government to do anything to materially reduce the tensions north of the border since the October War has very nearly completely poisoned the well of Anglo-Irish relations.”
The British Ambassador got to his feet shaking his head.
The only reason people had not starved on the streets of Dublin last winter was that Ted Heath’s and then Margaret Thatcher’s administrations had diverted ships from the Operation Manna convoys to Ireland. This was at a time when winter was biting hard on the mainland and the bread and meat ration in England, Scotland and Wales had had to be cut to ensure that supplies lasted until the spring. The decision to divert those ships had gone through on the nod. Nobody in England had asked for a bouquet of flowers for putting food in the mouths of Irish men, women and children that its own government was unable to feed and its American military ‘guests’ regarded as cheap labour.
“I say this not as a threat, gentlemen,” Sir Ian MacLennan said wearily. “But in the event of attack on the Royal family, Parliament, even on Oxford itself, let alone an attempted assassination of a major political figure in England I very much doubt that the Unity Administration of the United Kingdom would feel constrained in any respect in its future policy towards the Irish state.”
Sean Lemass rose to shake his hand.
“General McKeown’s boys will be on the street today, Sir Ian. You and your people will be safe when this things breaks.”
The British Ambassador took the assurance with a large pinch of salt.
“Look,” he murmured, almost thinking better of what he was about to say. “Dammit!” There was nothing to lose and he suddenly thought about the vast majority — the mostly ‘silent’ majority — of the three million or so souls living in the twenty-six counties of the Republic. Hardly any of them wanted any part in the ‘armed struggle’ of the men with the guns and the bombs still fighting a war that was over forty years ago. Who, if anybody, spoke for them? “Forgive me, Taoiseach,” he continued, “but it seems to me that things are so bad that you have two choices; you can either sit here in Leinster House and await events, or you and your colleagues can take the bull by the horns.”
Sean Lemass met his gaze with his own, inscrutable level stare.
“What did you have in mind, Sir Ian?”
“You should send a Minister to Oxford.”
“To plead our case like the supplicants we once were?”
“No,” the British Ambassador said, suppressing a groan of despair, “to claim Ireland’s rightful place as a proud and independent nation in the new World order!”
Chapter 14
The Mareşal Fevzi Çakmak had enjoyed a long and somewhat chequered career in the Royal Navy prior to her handover to the Turkish Navy on 29th June 1959. Since the previous autumn she had been assigned to the small flotilla charged with escorting the re-activated Great War battlecruiser Yavuz wherever that great ship roamed. A fast, agile and well-found vessel equipped with a new radar and communications suite before her transfer to Turkey, she had been well-appointed for her post-October War role. Her six 4.7-inch guns in three twin turrets, her Squid anti-submarine mortars and her still impressive turn of speed belied her age and in most situations made her a formidable foe. However, having witnessed the fate of the Yavuz and the Sverdlov class cruiser Admiral Kutuzov, the crew of the Mareşal Fevzi Çakmak had, to a man recognised the utter hopelessness of their position.