Suez 1956, page 49
Among backbench MPs there was barely a ripple. Stanley Evans, a selfmade businessman representing Labour, was pushed out by his Birmingham constituency for supporting Suez while Angus Maude resigned from his Toryheld seat in protest at the ceasefire. But of the local political battles the chief interest was in the Bournemouth East constituency, where a Conservative majority of middleclass, elderly voters disposed of their parliamentary representative, who had come out against Suez. Nigel Nicolson was a dedicated but outspoken backbencher who, in the words of his father, Harold Nicolson, ‘always seems to espouse causes which are unpopular with his constituency . . . He is too honest and progressive for those old Bournemouth tabbycats’.23 That the younger Nicolson had ever been selected in the first place is a mystery explained only by the apathy of the aged when life is proceeding at a leisurely pace. Suez was the shock to the nervous system that jerked them out of their lethargy.
‘Simple minds work simply,’ mused Harold Nicolson. ‘The ladies of Bournemouth do not like the Russians, the Americans or Nasser. Eden has dealt a blow to these three enemies: therefore Eden must be right.’24 Even so, when the young MP’s future was put to the constituency membership he did better than expected, losing by just ninetyone votes out of a total of 7,500. His successor was Major James Friend, Harrow, Sandhurst and 11th Hussars, who made a living managing his soninlaw’s estates in Staffordshire.
That Nicolson lost so narrowly in a constituency where the Tory establishment was blimpish to the point of caricature was one of several indications that Britain was beginning to emerge from under the dead weight of patriotic nostalgia. Change there had to be, as even a strong minority in Bournemouth East had the wit to recognise. In Macmillan’s time as prime minister the far right, represented at its most farcical level by the League of Empire Loyalists, was relegated to the political fringe. Even the Suez Group became something of a joke.
Writing in the Toryleaning Spectator, Bernard Levin had no fear of a backlash when he ridiculed Captain Waterhouse for a speech that was ‘so silly, so futile, so nasty . . . and with all so empty of anything at all but the spirit which moves a bad tempered child to kick a table against which it has bumped its knee’.25 When Salisbury resigned from the government in protest at the return from exile of the Cypriot nationalist leader Archbishop Makarios, who three years later was to become Cyprus’s first president, Macmillan made no effort to dissuade him.
One of the more inspired of Macmillan’s government appointments was Duncan Sandys as minister of defence. Sandys had a reputation as a political bruiser who got things done. As minister of supply he had come to know about advanced weapons systems that had yet to be adopted for British defence. Sandys’ respect for the military chiefs was, at best, restrained, and he was not about to knuckle under to men in gold braid. Macmillan was warned of trouble to come, but for all his talk of Britain remaining a great country he knew that a radical rethink of defence was long overdue.
The weak point was the army and the weakest point of the army was conscription, or, as it was known to officialdom keen to promote the boy scout image of life in uniform, national service. Fixed in 1946 at twelve months for eighteenyearolds who were not blind, mentally defective or in reserved occupations such as coal mining and farming, the period of callup was extended to eighteen months in 1947 and to two years in 1950.
By far the greatest number of conscripts joined the army. More dependent on technical skills, the navy and air force limited their intake to those with relevant qualifications or who showed an interest in signing up as regulars. In April 1956, conscripts accounted for only i0 per cent of navy manpower, 32 per cent of the RAF but over 50 per cent of the army. In other words, 200,000 regular army personnel were responsible for training and engaging 200,000 national servicemen. Small wonder that the professionals had little time for anything else, such as thinking rationally about why they needed a standing army, navy and air force (772, 000 in total in 1956) bigger than those of any other European country and, at one time, bigger even than those of the USA.
The oftcited responsibility to protect western Europe from Russian invasion was outmoded by the nuclear deterrent, while the tired cliché of living up to worldwide commitments, even when they could be justified for reasons other than pomp and glory, would have been better served by a smaller, topquality mobile force kitted out with the best of modern weaponry.
As it was, the British army, backed by a defence expenditure that was close on 10 per cent of the national budget, stuck to a mindset that was best suited to a rerun of the Second World War. A generation of national servicemen, with this author among them, can testify to the mindnumbing banality of paradeground ritual and the futility generated by military exercises in which the ‘best friend’, which we had to keep with us at all times, was a rifle showing more than ordinary signs of wear and tear and at least twice the age of the carrier.
Those who defended national service gave it a social bonus, arguing that young men emerged from their two years as more mature individuals. This without stopping to think that any eighteenyearold, whatever his experience, is liable to be more mature at twenty. But even conceding the point, what was seldom recognised was the resentment building up against established authority. Britain was teetering on the edge of the liberating sixties. National service and Suez brought the social revolution that much closer.
With Macmillan’s backing, Sandys forced through a drastic reduction in conventional forces, arguing for the nuclear deterrent as the cornerstone of the new defence policy. Conscription was to be phased out by 1960, bringing military manpower down to 375,000 by 1962. A process known as ‘bowler hatting’, the thinning of the ranks of the inflated officer corps, was the first example of what nowadays would be called administrative downsizing. The labour market was suddenly awash with middleaged retired captains and majors eager for jobs that would enable them to continue to live like gentlemen.
Under Sandys the defence ministry became a power to be reckoned with. Up to Suez power had been concentrated in the service departments, with the result that the navy, army and air force spent much energy on vying with each other for the lion’s share of an ever ballooning defence budget. Some idea of the importance attached to what was supposed to be the coordinating ministry was the number of Duncan Sandys’ predecessors – twentythree since 1945. The latest incumbent understood that defence had to be centralised and, moreover, that defence and foreign policy were parts of the same package. Excusing themselves for a strategy of failure at Suez, the service chiefs blamed the politicians for their apparent inability to spell out precisely what they wanted to achieve. In promoting the defence ministry at the expense of the service departments, thus giving it a stronger voice in cabinet, Sandys ensured that the Suez mistakes would not be repeated. Predictably, the service chiefs failed to get the point. But the force of their anger was focused on what was seen as a disastrous reduction in fighting strength. Sandys held his ground. The only successful counterattack was led by Mountbatten, who managed to preserve the navy’s aircraft carriers. They were expensive but had proved their worth at Suez.
The new defence policy was not an unqualified success. The mounting costs of sophisticated weaponry meant that the expected savings did not materialise. Defence commitments were reduced, but it was not until the late sixties that Britain abandoned its defence role east of Suez. Finally, it took some time for the outstanding lesson of Suez to be recognised; that what was needed above all for Britain to fulfil its defence obligations was a wellequipped, highly trained rapid response force. The surest way of preventing another major war was to curb troublemakers before they gained the strength to be threats to world peace. If such a force had been on hand in 1956, the Suez story might had a different ending. All the evidence suggests that it would still have been a monumental political mistake, but the military would have emerged with more credit.
25
Macmillan’s entry into Downing Street was followed by a period of intense diplomatic activity as Britain worked to restore the special relationship with the USA. The first hint that Eisenhower was in forgiving mood had come in early December when, at a meeting with Lloyd in Paris, Dulles had agreed that it was time for a fresh start. Soon afterwards, an invitation from the White House mooted either Washington or Bermuda as a venue for an AngloAmerican summit. Macmillan chose Bermuda, a British colony, to give him a slight homeground advantage, making him appear less like the humble supplicant, which, of course, he was.
The talks, beginning on 21 March, were hailed by both sides as a great success. Eisenhower confided to his diary that it was the most successful international meeting he had attended since the end of the Second World War. Credit must be given to Macmillan for promoting a spirit of camaraderie. Unlike Eden, who operated on the assumption that American support was a tap to be switched on and off as needed, the latest prime minister was more the pragmatist, ready to accept that America called the shots and that Britain’s glory days were over.
Macmillan’s critics accused him of trying to preserve Britain’s world standing at American expense – greatpower status on the cheap. There was some truth in this, as became evident with Macmillan’s insistence on Britain’s own nuclear deterrent, independent in theory, but conditional on having American technology and on handing over to Washington exclusive responsibility for deciding if and when to wage war. But if Macmillan was rather too preoccupied with keeping up appearances, in real terms he was ready to accept Britain’s secondary role in the Atlantic partnership.
The change in the balance of power in the Middle East was a case in point. At last Britain conceded that there was no chance of the USA joining the Baghdad Pact. To have done so (how many times had Dulles pointed this out?) would have upset the Saudis, which in turn would have created problems with Israel and aroused congressional ire. The USA was, however, ready to do more to protect the oil supplies while trying not to gloat at Britain’s failure to achieve that objective. The result was the Eisenhower Doctrine (January 1957), which promised economic and military support for Middle East states threatened by Soviet incursion. There was no reference to Britain, or to France for that matter, but it was understood that Britain should continue to take responsibility for the Gulf sheikhdoms and for Jordan and Iraq. That even this was beyond its capacity was soon to become apparent.
In March 1957, internal pressures forced King Hussein of Jordan to abrogate the 1948 treaty with Britain and to declare that henceforth the subsidy needed to keep his country afloat would come from Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Syria. The threat of revolution, even the breakup of the country, did not have to be spelt out. Britain offered advice; the USA acted. An aid package worth $10 million was delivered to Hussein while units of the US Sixth Fleet moved into the eastern Mediterranean.
Attention shifted to Iraq, where Nuri asSaid, Britain’s faithful ally in the region, felt under threat from a revitalised Nasser. When, on 1 February 1958, Egypt and Syria came together in the United Arab Republic, Nuri responded with a counterunion of Iraq and Jordan to be known as the Arab Federation. To strengthen his position further he urged Britain to stand back from Kuwait, allowing the sheikh to join the Arab Federation. He was asking too much. For Britain to remove itself from Kuwait was to invite a Nasserstyle revolution. In any case, the sheikh was satisfied with the status quo.
Nuri’s response was to revive a longstanding claim that Kuwait really belonged to Iraq. The argument, brought back into play by Saddam Hussein forty years on, was based on the legalistic complexities of Ottoman imperialism, which had the ruler of Kuwait owing allegiance to the Vilayat of Basra. Confronted by two friendly states at odds with each other, Britain professed diplomatic impotence. The issue was resolved by revolution in Iraq. After the bodies of Nuri and King Faisal had been dragged through the streets, Britain offered pious regrets while making haste to connect with the new regime. Meanwhile American and British troops entered Jordan and Lebanon to hold back the tide of discontent. In July, the USA offered to protect the security of members of the Baghdad Pact. According to Selwyn Lloyd this made the USA a full member of the pact in all but a signature on the treaty. In fact, it was more an acknowledgement that America was now the first line of defence throughout the Middle East.
Restoring relations with Egypt was an exercise in patient diplomacy over two years, building up to the exchange of ambassadors. Crammed into one room of the old residence, the British delegation, led by Colin Crewe, sweated over the outstanding issues, ranging from compensation for those who had had their property confiscated to the resumption of air services. As Crewe’s number two, Paul Wright gives credit to Mohamed Heikal, editor of Al Ahram, for easing the way to an agreement. But there was fear of a lastminute hitch when, late one night, Crewe was summoned to an urgent meeting.
On his way to Heikal’s office, he reviewed the remaining possible areas of misunderstanding. Among them was the continued detention in an Egyptian prison of a British subject named Mr Zarb [arrested when the MI6 ring was broken up in August]. It was a tricky business. The Egyptians were touchy about it and . . . it had therefore been decided not to press the point in the hope that feelings of humanity would prevail . . . So he had dismissed this as a complicating factor and had arrived chez Heikal baffled and apprehensive. The great man was affability itself; sorry to drag Colin out so late at night, urgent message from the President himself, must be dealt with at once, and so on.
‘Not at all,’ Colin said, sitting back and waiting for the blow to fall.
‘Well,’ Mohammed continued, ‘the President and I have been thinking that we ought to give you a present in recognition of all you have done for our future relations.’ Colin heard distant alarm bells going off at that stage, remembering regulations about the giving and receiving of presents by Civil Servants, rules which many foreigners regard as incomprehensibly restrictive to fruitful intercourse, as it is understood in their own moral climates.
‘But when it came to deciding what to give you, we were stumped. So we thought that the best thing would be to give you a cheque to buy something for yourself. Here it is, with our best thanks and good wishes!’ And with a grin, he handed Colin a plain white envelope. Colin was transfixed by the implications of this exceedingly awkward development. Knowing that he could not refuse such a gift out of hand, his one desire was to get away as quickly as possible and think out how to cope with it. So with as much grace as he could muster, he thanked Mohamed, thrusting the envelope into his pocket, and made a move to leave. He was not to be let off so lightly.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Mohamed asked. Feeling, and probably looking, guilty, Colin retrieved the now crumpled envelope from his pocket, tore it open, and pulled out a sheet of paper on which was written the single word ‘Zarb’.1
The French government emerged relatively unscathed from the Suez crisis. Or so it seemed. With the blame fixed squarely on the irresolute British and the doubledealing Americans, Mollet was confirmed in office by a large majority in a National Assembly debate just before Christmas. When MendèsFrance and Edgar Faure spoke out against the Suez adventure, the response was cool going on openly hostile. Opinion polls taken in November 1956 and March 1957 showed a marginal shift in the approval rating for Suez, from 44 per cent to 43 per cent, while the number who disapproved actually fell. The only increase was in the proportion of ‘don’t knows’.2
What the pollsters and, indeed, the votes of the deputies failed to show was that government support had less to do with positive enthusiasm than with sheer apathy, a sense of helplessness in a political process that threw up one ineffectual government after another. Mollet was backed because few could imagine any better alternative. But for those who looked beneath the surface of French life, there were warnings enough of a growing ‘disorientation, disenchantment and disgust’. These were the words of Stanley Karnow, an American journalist who spent a month just prior to the Suez crisis checking out the views of young French citizens. Nostalgia for the great days of empire was, he concluded, a ‘gimmick concocted to camouflage the deficiencies of the present’. The sense of malaise was plain enough, but beneath it ‘burned an ember of revolt that simmered with a yearning for change’.3
Disillusionment and cynicism deprived the Fourth Republic of its bedrock. But what could replace it? Inevitably thoughts turned towards General Charles de Gaulle, the leader in waiting, who made no secret of his ambition to return to power in circumstances that would do away with destructive party wrangling and ineffectual compromise.
The failure of Suez served to boost de Gaulle’s popularity. This is not to say that his accession was assured. The majority of the population were neither Gaullist nor antiRepublican, and there was not sufficient support in the Assembly for de Gaulle to be voted into power constitutionally. At the same time there were no signs of a readiness to die on the barricades to save the Fourth Republic.
Critical to de Gaulle’s future was the army, or more specifically the army in Algeria. Disappointed in its expectations that Suez would end the revolt in Algeria, the generals cast about for other ways of denting the appeal of the insurgents. With 400,000 troops there was no doubt that the country could be held militarily, even if the brutal methods used to enforce submission far exceeded the bounds of tolerable behaviour. But while torture and summary executions were said to be justified as the only means of defending the loyal Muslim majority, even the most ruthless of the commanders, of whom Massu was one, accepted that Algeria could not be ruled indefinitely as a police state. Something more was needed to keep her permanently bound to France.
