Tevor-Browne knew that part of the blame was his. He had chosen Bruce Sutherland for the job of commander himself, and he had failed to act on the letter from Alistair which had warned that something was going to happen unless Sutherland was replaced.
Humphrey Crawford entered Tevor-Browne’s office. Crawford was a pasty-faced career man in the Middle East section of the Colonial Office, and served as liaison between the army and the policy makers at Whitehall and Chatham House. “Afternoon, Sir Clarence,” Crawfo d said nervously. “It is time for our meeting with Bradshaw.”
Tevor-Browne arose and gathered some papers together. “Mustn’t keep old Cecil Bradshaw waiting.”
Cecil Bradshaw’s office was in the Institute of International Relations at Chatham House. For thirty years he had been one of the top men in formulating British Middle East policy.
At the end of World War I, Britain and France competed for influence in the Middle East. When the British got the Palestine mandate, Bradshaw had been one of those, with Winston Churchill, who had pushed for the creation of an Arab state out of half the mandate. The state they were instrumental in forming was Trans-Jordan. The entire purpose for bringing it into being was to turn it into a British military base. British subsidies made possible the establishment of Britain’s Arab army, the “Arab Legion,” and the choosing of a king for Trans-Jordan. He was the Hashimite Arab Abdullah, mortal enemy of Saud of Saudi Arabia.
At the end of World War II the Labour party swept into power with promises-among others-to help establish a Jewish homeland in Palestine and a refuge for the survivors in Europe. Cecil Bradshaw led that strong faction in Chatham House which convinced the new Foreign Minister that these promises were charming but not very practical and that Britain’s interests lay with the Arabs. The Arabs’ ten million square miles were rich in oil and included a vital canal.
General Sir Clarence Tevor-Browne and Humphrey Crawford were ushered into Cecil Bradshaw’s office. The latter, a fat man in his sixties, stood looking at the wall with his back to them, his pudgy hands clasped behind him. Humphrey Crawford sat down nervously on the edge of a seat. Tevor-Browne made himself comfortable in a deep leather chair and lit a cigar.
Bradshaw talked to the wall. “Congratulations, gentlemen,” he said in a voice filled with sarcasm and quivering with
anger. “I see we made the news today.” He turned and patted his rotund stomach and smiled. “You expected to find me in a lather. No indeed, no indeed. Whitehall called this morning. As expected, the Minister has dumped this Exodus business into my lap.” Bradshaw sat behind his desk, glanced at the reports, and snatched off his thick horn-rimmed glasses with a quick gesture. “Tell me, Sir Clarence… was your Intelligence staff dead or merely out for tennis? And I believe you have a bit of explaining to do about Sutherland. He was your idea.”
Tevor-Browne refused to be bullied. “I believe the establishment of camps on Cyprus was your idea. What is your explanation?”
“Gentlemen,” Crawford said quickly to avert a clash, “we are faced with a peculiar situation in this Exodus affair. This is the first time any publicity has carried into the American press.”
Bradshaw laughed a wheezy laugh. His big apple cheeks reddened. “With all of Truman’s talk the Americans have only allowed ten thousand Jewish refugees into the country since the end of the war. Certainly Truman is for Zionism … as long as Palestine isn’t in Pennsylvania. Everyone talks idealistically but we are still the ones with a million Jews on our hands, a million Jews who could ruin our entire position in the Middle East.” Bradshaw replaced his glasses. “Star of David, Moses, Palmach, Gates of Zion, Door of Hope, and now the Exodus. The Zionists are very clever people. For twenty-five years they have made us the villains in Palestine. They write words into the mandate articles and the Balfour Declaration that were never meant. They can argue a camel into thinking he is a mule. Good Lord … two hours with Chaim Weizmann and I’m about ready to join the Zionists myself.” Cecil Bradshaw took off his glasses again. “We know your sympathies, Tevor-Browne.”
“I resent the implications, Bradshaw. Perhaps I am one of a few hardheads who say the only way we are going to hold the Middle East is by building a powerful Jewish Palestine. I don’t speak of Jewish interest but I speak of British interest.”
Bradshaw interrupted. “Now let’s get to this Exodus affair. The implications are absolutely clear. We gave in on the Promised Land but this time we will not give in. This boat is in our waters and not in French waters. We will not go on board, we will not send them to Germany, we will not sink them. They will sit in Kyrenia until they rot. Rot-do you hear that, Tevor-Browne?-rot.” His hand began to shake as he grew angrier.
Tevor-Browne closed his eyes. “We cannot fight this out on moral grounds. We have no cause to keep three hundred
children who were raised in concentration camps from entering Palestine. Oil … canals … Arabs be damned! We have no cause! We made ourselves look ridiculous by sending the Promised Land refugees to Germany.”
“I know your sympathies!”
“Gentlemen!”
Tevor-Browne stood up and leaned over Bradshaw’s desk. “There is only one way we can win this Exodus affair. The Jews have planned this whole incident to create propaganda. Turn the tables on them. Let the Exodus sail this minute. That is what they don’t want.”
“Never!”
“Can’t you see, sir, that we’re playing right into their hands?”
“That ship will not sail as long as I am in Chatham House!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MARK PARKER DOME HOTEL KYRENIA, CYPRUS
STORY GAINING MOMENTUM. KEEP THEM COMING. KEN BRADBURY, ANS LONDON
KYRENIA, CYPRUS (ANS), BY MARK PARKER
It is a ridiculous sight. One thousand armed soldiers, tanks, artillery, and a naval task force all looking helplessly out at an unarmed salvage tug.
The battle of the Exodus ends week one in a draw. Both the British and the refugees are holding fast. To date no one has boarded the illegal runner which has threatened to blow itself up, but from the quay it is only a few hundred yards distant and a pair of field glasses bring the boat an arm’s length away.
The morale of the three hundred children on the Exodus seems to be phenomenal. They spent the week in the harbor alternately singing and catcalling to the British troops on the quay and sea wall.
Mark’s reports went out daily, each new one adding new and interesting details.
When Cecil Bradshaw made the decision to make a test case of the Exodus he knew there would be a barrage of adverse criticism. The French press staged its usual uproar, although this time the insults were so terrible that the likes of them had not been heard in the history of the Anglo-French alliance. The story spread throughout Europe, and even the British press became split and questioned Whitehall’s wisdom in not letting the Exodus sail for Palestine. .
Bradshaw was a wise politician and he had weathered many storms. This one was a storm in a teacup and it would blow over, he was sure. He sent a trio of friendly journalists to Kyrenia to counter Parker’s reports, and a half dozen experts worked full time to explain the British position. The British had a case and it was being presented well, but it was difficult to offset natural sentiment for a group of refugee children.
// the Zionists are so sincere, why are they endangering the lives of three hundred innocent children? The whole thing is a sinister and coldblooded plot to create sympathy and becloud the real issues of the Palestine mandate. It is obvious we are dealing with fanatics. Ari Ben Canaan is a professional Zionist agitator with a record of years of illegal operations.
Newspapermen from half a dozen countries landed at the Nicosia airport and demanded permission to enter the Kyrenia area. Several large magazines also sent in teams. The Dome Hotel began to look like a small political convention headquarters.