Imperial Defence, 1856-1956: The Old World Order (Cass Military Studies)

Imperial Defence

This collection of essays by leading scholars aims to define the main areas of the British strategic decision-making process known as ‘Imperial Defence’. The chapters are historiographical in nature, discussing the major features of each key component of imperial defence, areas of agreement and disagreement in the existing literature and introducing key individuals and positions within the imperial defence system. The chapters will include outlines and commentary on the various systems of resource allocation, information collection, analysis and dissemination, as well as on the final product of that strategic policy-making process. By providing a clear definition of imperial defence and a comprehensive analysis of the way in which the constituent parts of that system have been studied, this collection will serve as a useful guide for upper-level students, as well as for contemporary policy makers. This book will be of much interest to students of strategic studies, defence studies and international history. Greg Kennedy is a Professor of Strategic Foreign Policy at the Defence Studies Department, King’s College London, based at the Joint Services Command and Staff College in Shrivenham. He is the author of several books, including the award-winning monograph, Anglo-American Strategic Relations and the Far East, 1933–1939 (Frank Cass, 2002).

Cass military studies

Intelligence Activities in Ancient Rome Trust in the gods, but verify Rose Mary Sheldon Clausewitz and African War Politics and strategy in Liberia and Somalia Isabelle Duyvesteyn Strategy and Politics in the Middle East, 1954–60 Defending the northern tier Michael Cohen The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991 From Che Guevara to Cuito Cuanavale Edward George Military Leadership in the British Civil Wars, 1642–1651 ‘The genius of this age’ Stanley Carpenter Israel’s Reprisal Policy, 1953–1956 The dynamics of military retaliation Ze’ev Drory Bosnia and Herzegovina in the Second World War Leaders in war Enver Redzic West Point Remembers the 1991 Gulf War Edited by Frederick Kagan and Christian Kubik Khedive Ismail’s Army John Dunn

Yugoslav Military Industry 1918–1991 Amadeo Watkins Corporal Hitler and the Great War 1914–1918 The list regiment John Williams Rostóv in the Russian Civil War, 1917–1920 The key to victory Brian Murphy The Tet Effect, Intelligence and the Public Perception of War Jake Blood The US Military Profession into the 21st Century War, peace and politics Edited by Sam C. Sarkesian and Robert E. Connor, Jr. Civil-Military Relations in Europe Learning from crisis and institutional change Edited by Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann Strategic Culture and Ways of War Lawrence Sondhaus Military Unionism in the Post Cold War Era A future reality? Edited by Richard Bartle and Lindy Heinecken Warriors and Politicians U.S. civil-military relations under stress Charles A. Stevenson Military Honour and the Conduct of Wa From Ancient Greece to Iraq Paul Robinson Military Industry and Regional Defense Policy India, Iraq and Israel Timothy D. Hoyt Managing Defence in a Democracy Edited by Laura R. Cleary and Teri McConville Gender and the Military Women in the armed forces of western democracies Helena Carreiras

Social Sciences and the Military An interdisciplinary overview Edited by Giuseppe Caforio Cultural Diversity in the Armed Forces An international comparison Edited by Joseph Soeters and Jan van der Meulen Railways and the Russo-Japanese War Transporting war Felix Patrikeeff and Harold Shukman War and Media Operations The US military and the press from Vietnam to Iraq Thomas Rid Ancient China on Postmodern War Enduring ideas from the Chinese strategic tradition Thomas Kane Special Forces, Terrorism and Strategy Warfare by other means Alasdair Finlan Imperial Defence The old world order 1856–1956 Edited by Greg Kennedy

Imperial Defence The old world order 1856–1956

Edited by Greg Kennedy

First published 2008 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2007. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.”

© 2008 selection and editorial matter Greg Kennedy; individual chapters the contributors All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN 0-203-00243-1 Master e-book ISBN ISBN10: 0-415-35595-8 (hbk) ISBN10: 0-203-00243-1 (ebk) ISBN13: 978-0-415-35595-7 (hbk) ISBN13: 978-0-203-00243-8 (ebk)

Contents

Introduction: the concept of Imperial Defence, 1856–1956

1

GREG KENNEDY

1 The Foreign Office and defence of empire, 1856–1914

9

T.G. OTTE

2 The Foreign Office and the defence of empire, 1919–1939

30

KEITH NEILSON

3 The Foreign Office and defence of the empire

50

JOHN KENT

4 The Treasury and defence of empire

71

GEORGE PEDEN

5 The British Army and the empire, 1856–1956

91

DAVID FRENCH

6 The Royal Navy and the defence of empire, 1856–1918

111

ANDREW LAMBERT

7 The Royal Navy and imperial defence, 1919–1956

133

GREG KENNEDY

8 The RAF in imperial defence, 1919–1956 JAMES S. CORUM

152

viii Contents

9 Tradition and system: British intelligence and the old world order, 1715–1956

176

JOHN ROBERT FERRIS

10 The empire that prays together stays together: Imperial defence and religion, 1857–1956

197

A. HAMISH ION

11 Propaganda and the defence of empire, 1856–1956

218

STEPHEN BADSEY

12 The colonial empire and imperial defence

234

ASHLEY JACKSON

13 Coalition of the usually willing: the dominions and imperial defence, 1856–1919

251

BRIAN P. FARRELL

14 Imperial defence in the post-imperial era

303

ASHLEY JACKSON

Index

333

Introduction The concept of Imperial Defence, 1856–1956 Greg Kennedy

Imperial Defence in the century, immediately following the end of the Crimean War until the embarrassment of the Suez Crisis, was not a constant. It was not a constant in the sense of how it was conceived in the mind of the British strategic policy-making elite entrusted with the defence of Britain and its empire. Although the concept of the empire was inextricably linked to the British identity, the manner in which the empire existed and how it was to be defended was constantly evolving. Directly linked to this issue of consistency is the fact that resource allocation, funding, technology and politics created other strategic inconsistencies in the Imperial Defence formula.1 At times it was a vibrant and full part of the national identity, while at other points in that century large parts of England and the empire found the concept troubling at best. This lack of consistency was the result of the diversity of the constituent parts involved in creating an overarching national defence policy. Those elites were charged with protecting Britain and its empire in a security environment that had to take into account a wide range of factors. The most important factors were managing changes in the domestic political environment; shifts in national economic fortunes; technological advances in the art of war due to increase or decrease in industrial capacity and ability; changes to the international balance of power system, changes to the system of administering security issues; and changes in the societal values among the British and Imperial populations. It is fair to say, however, that the concept of imperial defence, as an intellectual exercise, was, despite a lack of consistency in image or manifestation, a reality.2 This reality was not always supported by obvious or tangible action on the part of those diverse elites, entwined in the process of providing the national security strategy. The elite entrusted with the formulation of the imperial defence policy laboured to obtain imperial security through a mix of cooperative ventures with other states who at least shared some of their own interests and constructed an armed forces which was sufficient to defeat or at least deter potential opponents. But at all times, in a uniquely British fashion, the elite was governed by the need to ensure that the construction

2 G. Kennedy and maintenance of the imperial defence policy did not consume so much of the empire’s fiscal, industrial, human and economic resources that the act of producing imperial defence altered the very fabric of what was being protected.3 Therefore, due to this diversity in the factors contributing to the management of imperial defence, and the corresponding ebbs and flows of the idea of imperial defence within the totality that was empire as a whole, the idea of imperial defence has often been erroneously identified by some historians as more a myth than reality.4 This case of strategic fluctuation raises a difficult methodological question for those wishing to ascertain the centrality of the concept of imperial defence to the idea of Britishness: Does one measure the actions and physical appendages of the action of providing imperial defence, or, does one have to locate the resting place of the idea and visions of imperial defence within the imperial psyche in order to judge how valued the idea was? The measuring of the manifestations of imperial defence is by far the more obvious path to take. One can approach such a topic from a statistical and scientific standpoint.5 Measuring coaling stations, numbers of naval units, money spent on armies and navies, how, when and where those military units were to fight, foreign policies constructed to protect geographic interests or strategic nations in the global balance of power system are only some of the more familiar elements exposed to the historian’s quest to find the primacy of imperial considerations in Britain’s national security policy. Less obvious, and more revealing, is attempting to interrogate the minds of the men who made those decisions. What view of the world condition, and in particular the imperial condition, did they hold at the time of the making of a particular decision?6 What aspects of the impact of empire on finance, society, religion, culture, civilization did these men hold to the fore as they spent more money on squadrons, regiments or bases? The trick of the matter is that, in order to understand imperial defence in its totality, the investigator is required to be able to follow both streams and overlay them as he or she goes. Only then is it possible to speak of imperial defence, the idea and action.7 And, it is the amalgamation of those two paths that provides the explanation of Britishness that was imperial defence and is still a large part of the British national security character. In terms of the action or implementation elements of imperial defence, the Royal Navy (RN) holds primacy of place. The RN was not only the most important wielder of military power throughout this entire century but also played a crucial role in the construction of imperial defence, fiscal and foreign policies.8 The RN before 1914 was the one true guardian of the empire, with responsibility for safeguarding the far-flung lines that were the vital sea lines of communication that linked the global empire into a coherent whole. Inculcated into the national identity of the nation and empire as a whole, the RN was intellectually, physically, symbolically and intuitively regarded as the embodiment of the martial nature of imperial defence. Tied to a web of industrial and economic interests, through

Introduction

3

its procurement, manpower, budgetary, and basing needs, the RN was big business for both metropolitan Britain and imperial possessions alike. After 1914, this role was challenged by the new technological aspirations of the Royal Air Force (RAF) to be the guarantor of imperial defence. However, the short-term effects of the application of air power, as well as the technical limitations of aircraft in that era, in conjunction with the geo-strategic realities of sea-power to the British Empire meant that the RN never lost its dominant position amongst the services as the primary service responsible for providing the physical protection of the empire. Challenges to the RN from various parts of the empire itself, in the guise of colonial and dominion nationalism, saw difficulties arise as to questions of provision of forces, payment for forces and allocation of units after First World War. However, despite these modest, emotive and at times irrational demands for “independence” of action in naval matters, the reality for the large dominions of Canada, Australia, South Africa and New Zealand was that their own marginal efforts made no sense without the RN as the mainstay and underpinning factor of any maritime defence strategy. Technical training, equipment, doctrine and a plethora of other assets had to be provided by the RN if these other “national” units were to survive in any sort of professional naval form. This predominance went unchallenged in any serious fashion until the age of the atomic bomb. In the nuclear age following the end of the Second World War, all navies were suspect and all national security strategies in need of rethinking. Even so, the RN in the first decade following the conclusion of the war clung tight to its title of predominant service. The British Army, until the dire needs of the First World War changed the strategic circumstances, was always a second sister. Enjoying spurts of support in the pre-First World War period, the army found its salvation in the idea of imperial defence. Never able to find political or economic support as a rival to massive European armies, the British Army existed to garrison the empire, usually in a post situated primarily to provide a major base for the RN.9 As well, in India the acquisition and control of the jewel of empire allowed a bigger army to be maintained away from the home shires. Maintained in a cheaper economy, with easy access to manpower and the rudimentary elements necessary for the creation and maintenance of a modest army, the Indian Army was a pivotal part of the British Army’s imperial defence capability. Geographically central, but a political and ethnic risk, the Indian Army enjoyed a roller-coaster existence with its Camberly brethren. The two world wars were anomalies for the relationship between the empire and the British Army. Imperial defence in these two wars worked as it was supposed to, in that the centre core provided the bulk of the manpower, money, technology and command, while the periphery contributed as much manpower, finance and industry as it could. In each case, the beholdenness of the periphery to the core, in terms of the British Army, was eroded. In the

4 G. Kennedy Boer War, colonial troops happily served under tactical command of British officers. By the First World War, operational command, with strategic input into the war’s direction and the British Army’s use were conditions demanded by the periphery if their units were to be part of the army. Tactical and operational prowess, combined with growing national military cultures that thrived on the failure and “donkey” images of the British Army, manifested themselves in the inter-war into an even greater political factor in the negotiations regarding what price the core would have to pay for the periphery’s contribution in the next European war. By the end of the Second World War, all major dominions possessed first-rank armies. Modelled, trained, equipped in most part and incorporating centuries of tradition not available in their own national existences, these dominions armies were now full-fledged, independent appendages of the British Army. These armies could now protect, of their own accord, the periphery of the empire. However, the process of conflict, alliances and changing global balances of power, which had created the wherewithal for the creation of these peripheral copies of the British Army, also helped to cause a questioning of the need for empire at all any more in the postSecond World War world. India and her vast military value left first, with its leaving quickly followed by a less obvious but no less deliberate turning away from the British Army by Australia and Canada towards closer ties with the American military community. By 1956 the British Army, now constructed primarily for operations in Germany against the Soviet Union, looked more like Wellington’s Army than it did the armies of 1914 or 1939. The Continental Commitment had triumphed over imperial defence. The RAF came late to the game of imperial defence, and its interest in things imperial was also fleeting. The interwar period saw Hugh Trenchard and other proponents of an independent RAF use the fear of spiralling imperial policing costs to argue for the utility of air power for fulfilling that role. But the lure of strategic bombing was already the mainstay of the newest military service, and, unlike the RN, or even the British Army, the RAF never subsumed the role of imperial defender into its service identity. Pushed to the fore of the defence services funding competition through acts of metropolitan defence performed by Fighter Command and the strategic bombing of Germany in the Second World War, the RAF left the rationale of imperial defence quickly behind. The atomic age was also the Air Age, and all small wars and minor roles were seen as either an annoyance or an interesting sidelight in the post-Second World War RAF world. Indeed, attempts to harness the new technologies of atom bomb and bomber focused some of their wrath on the RN itself, as the RAF moved to assert itself as the only defender of the British faith. But, by 1936, the RAF was unable to define what the faith was. Grudgingly forced at times to continue to have to contribute to imperial missions, the post-1945 RAF continued to focus primarily on the strategic defence and bombing doctrines that had won it such prominence in the Second World War and paid no

Introduction

5

serious attention to the question of air power and the retention of air power in the decade following the end of the war. Underpinning these military services, as well as the diplomatic, economic and fiscal power that accompanied them in the imperial defence system, was an extensive system of intelligence provisioning. Information and intelligence-gathering and processing were areas in which the Army, Navy and Air Force provided their own specialist technological, tactical, operational and strategic intelligence. These systems were fed into, and were supplemented when required, by the intelligence created by the Foreign Office, Treasury, Board of Trade, Department of Overseas Trade and a plethora of other governmental departments. The varied intelligence apparatus available in the colonies and dominions, some run by central British agencies, many not, also fed into this web of informationgathering and processing. As well, intelligence from private sources, such as missionaries, journalists, bankers, shippers, police agencies, and so on, who operated in the far-flung parts of the empire, all contributed to this precursor of the Information Age. Information gathered from this complex and highly organized system, but at times mismanaged, was transmitted by state-of-the-art telegraph and telephone cable systems that were the envy of the rest of the world. Radio systems, cryptography and codebreaking were also vital parts of the evolution of the world’s most sophisticated information-gathering and processing system. Without such abilities, the blockade of the First World War, the operational and strategic decisions required in the interwar and the plethora of intelligence requirements dictated by the needs of the Second World War and Cold War would not have been achieved. Early investment in this system in the late nineteenth century by the British Empire, in order to maintain military supremacy, market supremacy, fiscal dominance, administrative control and cultural influence, ensured that this system ushered in the modern information revolution of the late twentieth century. The rapid growth of the need for and ability to obtain information and intelligence was something that the British Empire led the world in throughout the century from 1856 to 1956. This growth in data creation and the need to process it effectively and utilize it in an effective and timely fashion was reflected in the bureaucratic and administrative functions that manifest themselves in the formal governmental apparatus that was the nerve centre of formal imperial defence.10 Of the greatest importance to this evolutionary process were the increasing abilities of the Foreign Office and Treasury to gather a vast amount of information and use it to influence and make Government policy related to defending the British Empire’s position as the world’s most powerful nation. Internal changes were required in the period to these bodies to allow them to deal with the changing circumstances presented by domestic governmental change and the changes in the international system.11 As well, other departments such as the Board of Trade,

6 G. Kennedy the Department of Overseas Trade, and most important, the Committee of Imperial Defence were part of this administrative revolution that allowed some semblance of the management of imperial affairs to take place in a logical and reasoned way. No other nation had this structure, or a need for it.12 While some have claimed that the pure weight and size of such an administrative nightmare as the British Imperial Defence committee system did not allow for timely or effective decision-making to take place, to argue such a point of view is to fail to understand the nature of imperial defence. Often no decision needed making, rather it was that the questions needed asking. And while it is true that there was often no apparent hand on the tiller of imperial defence, the flexibility of such an unstructured edifice was a protection in itself. Not bound to only one General Staff or Imperial Council, having to contend constantly with the cycle of thesis, anti-thesis and synthesis, the administrative structure of the British Empire was able to find solutions when required, although not always as fast as some would have liked. It was able to trade space for time by its very vastness, able to create coalitions or alliances where none had stood before in rapid order due to its geo-strategic realities, and was able to mobilise the world’s greatest industrial and fiscal might in defence of its ideas twice in a quarter of a century, something no other nation has or had ever successfully done. So, while bureaucratic donkeys and missed chances, muddling through and “it’s all right on the night” are often pejorative ways of explaining the British Imperial Defence administrative system, such is done in ignorance of the complexity and power of the vast machinery. It was a system of ideas and beliefs that had the courage and power of its convictions, as well as the muscle, metal and money that these ideas and convictions created. These ideas were the most powerful form of imperial defence. Peace groups, imperial promoters, poets, artists, journalists and academics all plied the troubled waters of Imperialism in the hundred years under review.13 Missionary zeal, educational reform, the introduction of civil, fiscal and criminal law, as well as the introduction of medicine, technology and outlawing of centuries-old customs, were all part of the process of imperial defence. Certainly race was a key issue, and thus racism was a form of communication and identification. It was a value that needed defending and a fact of international relations that created strategic mental maps, flavoured strategic assessments as well as investment strategies and resource allocation.14 For many intellectuals and academics, as well as politicians and administrators, the view was that Great Britain had established between itself and its subject peoples a bond of moral responsibility, a kind of imperial strength that no other empire enjoyed: a sense of Britishness. This empire was an expression of not merely commercial enterprise and force of arms but of a racial nation–producing quality; and that the foundations of the empire were the self-governing sections of it. Indeed, the Empire was seen as a vehicle for social reform

Introduction

7

for all, including and most importantly Great Britain itself as ideas of culture, race and civilisation permeated as aspects of that nation’s live, consciously and sub-consciously. The British system of imperial defence was the first modern British “Force For Good”, and it is the task of this collection to show how its multiple parts were connected and operated. Whether or not it achieved its lofty goal is a tale for other studies15

Notes 1 John Charmley, Splendid Isolation? Britain and the Balance of Power 1874–1914 (London, 1999); Lawrence James, The Rise and Fall of the British Empire (London, 1994); Anil Seal, ed., The Decline, Revival and Fall of the British Empire: The Ford Lectures and Other Essays (Cambridge, 1982); Niall Ferguson, Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World (London, 2004). 2 C.J. Lowe, The Reluctant Imperialists: British Foreign Policy, 1878–1902, vols. I and II (London, 1967); W.C.B. Tunstall, “Imperial Defence, 1815–1870”, vol. 2, pp. 807–41; “Imperial Defence, 1870–1897”, vol. 3, pp. 230–54; “Imperial Defence, 1897–1914”, vol. 3, pp. 563–604, all in the E.A. Benians, J.R.M. Butler and C.E. Carrington eds, Cambridge History of the British Empire (Cambridge, 1940, 1959); Keith Neilson, Britain and the Last Tsar: Anglo-Russian Relations, 1894–1917 (Oxford, 1995); D.C. Watt, “Imperial Defence Policy and Imperial Foreign Policy, 1911–1939: A Neglected Paradox”, Journal of Commonwealth Political Studies, 1(1963); John Kent, British Imperial Strategy and the Origins of the Cold War, 1944–49 (Leicester, 1993). 3 David French, “Rationality and Irrationality in the Political Economy of British Defence Policy: The Pre-1914 and Pre-1939 Eras Compared”, paper given at the Second International Strategy Conference, Carlisle Barracks, 1991; Antonín Basch, The New Economic Warfare (London, 1942). 4 Michael Howard, The Continental Commitment: The Dilemma of British Defence Policy in the Era of Two World Wars (London, 1972); W. Wark, The Ultimate Enemy: British Intelligence and Nazi Germany, 1933–39 (Ithaca, NY, 1985); B.J.C. McKercher, Transition of Power: Britain’s Loss of Global Pre-eminence to the United States, 1930–1945 (Cambridge, 1999). 5 P.J. Cain and A.G. Hopkins, British Imperialism, 1688–2000, 2nd edn. (London, 2000). 6 T.G. Otte ed., The Makers of British Foreign Policy: From Pitt to Thatcher (Basingstoke, 2002); Greg C. Kennedy and Keith Neilson eds, Incidents and International Relations: People, Power, and Personalities (Westport, CT, 2002). 7 Donald M. Schurman, John Beeler ed., Imperial Defence, 1868–1887 (London, 1997); Eric A. Walker, The British Empire: Its Structure and Spirit (Oxford, 1943). 8 John F. Beeler, British Naval Policy in the Gladstone and Disraeli Era, 1866–1880 (Stanford, CA, 1997); C.I. Hamilton, Anglo-French Naval Rivalry, 1840–1870 (Oxford, 1993); Andrew Lambert, The Crimean War: British Grand Strategy against Russia, 1853–56 (Manchester, 1990); G.A.H. Gordon, British Seapower and Procurement Between the Wars (London, 1988); Nicholas Tracy ed., The Collective Naval Defence of the Empire, 1900–1940 (London, 1997); Christopher Bell, The Royal Navy, Seapower and Strategy between the Wars (London, 2000); Paul Haggie, Britannia at Bay: The Defence of Britain’s Far Eastern Empire, 1919–1941 (Oxford, 1981); Greg Kennedy, Anglo-American Strategic Relations and the Far East, 1933–1939 (London, 2002); T124, Sea Power (London, 1940). 9 David French, Raising Churchill’s Armies (Oxford, 1999); Hew Strachan, The First World War (Oxford, 2000); Lawrence James, The Rise and Fall of the British Empire

8 G. Kennedy

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11

12

13

14

15

(London, 1994); David Killingray, “The Idea of a British Imperial African Army”, Journal of African History, 20 (1979), pp. 421–35; Keith Neilson, Strategy and Supply (London, 1984); Peter Burroughs, “Imperial Defence and the Victorian Army”, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 15 (1986), pp. 53–72; R. Clutterbuck, The Long, Long War (London, 1967); Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper, Forgotten Armies; The Fall of British Asia, 1941–1945 (London, 2004). Works of Antony Best, British Intelligence and the Japanese Challenge in Asia, 1914–1941 (Basingstoke, 2002); John Ferris, “ ‘Indulged in all too Little’? Vansittart, Intelligence and Appeasement”, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 6(1995), pp. 122–75; Richard Aldrich, The Key to the South: Britain, the United States, and Thailand during the Approach of the Pacific War (Oxford, 1993); Christopher Andrew, Secret Service: The Making of the British Intelligence Community (London, 1985). D.N. Chester and F.M.G. Willson, The Organization of British Central Government, 1914–1956 (London, 1957); Nicholas d’Ombrain, War Machinery and High Policy: Defence Administration in Peacetime Britain, 1902–1914 (Oxford, 1973); John Darwin, Britain and Egypt in the Middle East: Imperial Policy in the Aftermath of War, 1918–1922 (London, 1981); J. Connell, The “Office”: A Study of British Foreign Policy and its Makers, 1919–1951 (London, 1958); Zara Steiner, The FO and Foreign Policy, 1898–1914 (Cambridge, 1968); Robert Johnson, British Imperialism (Basingstoke, 2003); A. Clayton, The British Empire as a Superpower, 1919–1939 (Georgia, SC, 1986). Ian Drummond, British Economic Policy and the Empire, 1919–1939 (Toronto, ON, 1972); H.F. Fraser, Great Britain and the Gold Standard (New York, 1933); John Ferris, Men, Money and Diplomacy: The Evolution of British Strategic Policy, 1919–1926 (Ithaca, NY, 1989); Patricia Clavin, The Failure of Economic Diplomacy: Britain, Germany, France and the United States, 1931–36 (London, 1996); Carl Bridge and Kent Fedorowich eds, Special Issue Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, “The British World: Diaspora, Culture and Identity”, 31(2003); Martin Ceadel, Semi-Detached Idealists: The British Peace Movement and International Relations, 1854–1945 (Oxford, 2000); Rhodri Williams, Defending the Empire: The Conservative Party and British Defence Policy, 1899–1915 (New Haven, CT, 1991); Howard Robinson, The Development of the British Empire (New York, 1936); Lord Elton, Imperial Commonwealth (London, 1945); Lectures given at the Canadian Institute on Economics and Politics, Canada: The Empire and the League (Toronto, ON, 1936); Basil Williams, The British Empire (London,1928). Vaugh Cornish, A Geography of Imperial Defence (London, 1922) Cornish was a regular lecturer at the Imperial War College in the 1920s; Michael Freeden ed., Minutes of the Rainbow Circle, 1894–1924, Camden Fourth Series, vol. 38 (London, 1989); Brig. D.H. Cole, Imperial Military Geography (London, 1953); Stephen King-Hall, Imperial Defence: A Book for Taxpayers (London, 1926). Andrew Thompson, The Empire Strikes Back?: The Impact of Imperialism on Britain from the Mid-Nineteenth Century (London, 2005); Bernard Porter, The AbsentMinded Imperialists: What the British Really Thought about Empire (Oxford, 2004); W. David McIntyre, The Imperial Frontier in the Tropics, 1865–75 (London, 1967).

1

The Foreign Office and defence of empire, 1856–1914 T.G. Otte

and a statesman who faces the truth, . . . and preserves what is sound in the old diplomatic system, will deserve the thanks of all thoughtful men. Percy M. Thornton1

There is no single, comprehensive scholarly account of the problems of imperial defence as a problem of British foreign policy. For the most part, studies of nineteenth century British diplomacy may be categorised under two broad headings: those examining relations with other European Powers, almost invariably with an exclusively bilateral slant or focused on the policies of an individual Foreign Secretary, and those dealing with British policy overseas, usually with a strongly regional focus. There are some notable exceptions. The late C.J. Lowe’s study of Lord Salisbury’s Mediterranean policy, for instance, examines relations with Berlin, Vienna and Rome as well as a wide range of strategic factors revolving around the notion of Britain’s growing international ‘isolation’ in the 1890s.2 A more recent and conceptually very significant work is R. Keith Neilson’s account of Britain’s policy towards her principal and most persistent, long-term enemy, Russia. At one level a study of bilateral relations, it is more than that. In using relations with Russia as a prism, Neilson offers a reassessment of the status of Britain as the pre-eminent world power before 1914, as well as of the nature of British foreign policy.3 These, however, are exceptions. In general, the historiography of Britain’s external relations between the Crimean War and the First World War tends to reflect the dual nature of British power. The British Empire consisted of two strategic blocs, the British–European and the AngloIndian.4 This duality also influenced Britain’s foreign policy. Nineteenth century Europe was the powerhouse of international politics. Europe’s leading nations constituted the select club of the Great Powers. As one of the six Great Powers of the day, in her relations with other European nations, Britain operated within the established contemporary system of Great Power relations. The norms of the so-called Concert of Europe, which underpinned European diplomacy throughout the century even

10 T.G. Otte though ‘Concert’ activity varied over time in its intensity, and the constellations among the other Powers, as shaped by alliances and other treaties, thus placed certain ‘systemic’ constraints upon British foreign policy. Britain’s worldwide interests and her global reach, at least until the 1870s, and perceived naval supremacy gave her a pre-eminent status among the other Powers. ‘Systemic’ aspects were therefore, largely, though not wholly, absent in British overseas policy. In Russia, as her principal longterm threat, of course, she had to deal with a Power that was a European Great Power, and therefore a ‘systemic’ Power, but whose Asiatic ambitions affected British interests outside the constraints of the European system.5 Despite its significance, the dynamic of ‘systemic’ constraints and ‘non-systemic’ factors in nineteenth century British foreign policy still awaits scholarly examination. Much of contemporary thinking about the requirements and means of imperial defence inevitably revolved around Britain’s armed forces, as is amply demonstrated by the chapters focused on the military service in this collection. Nevertheless, foreign policy played, and was frequently seen to play, a significant role in safeguarding the empire. At the very least, the ‘soft power’ of diplomacy was a cheap means of defending imperial interests.6 This consideration gained in strength in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Until the Crimean War, Britain was able to maintain her naval pre-eminence over her actual and potential rivals, as the most effective means of protecting her imperial and commercial interests, at minimal expense to the Exchequer.7 The exigencies of the war severely tested Britain’s financial resources. A pragmatic mixture of increased taxation and borrowing quite comfortably met the requirements of the moment, and so underscored the fundamentally rude health of the nation’s finances. Still, between them, increased national debt and the ignominious failure of Britain’s military system in the face of the Crimean emergency weakened the confidence of Britain’s political elite. This, combined with the changing nature of British politics after the second reform act of 1867, affected the framing and executing of British foreign and imperial policy. The rising middle class’s demands for greater budgetary stringency began to outweigh the Whig aristocracy’s traditional appreciation of continental affairs. Victorian finance pursued strictly economic ends; and the nineteenth century system of government, moreover, was such as to reinforce conservative fiscal orthodoxy. This, in turn, helped to engender a generally more cautious approach to external problems. Financial constraints and fiscal conservatism did not lend themselves to a rumbustuous Palmerstonian policy of bluff.8 The effect on foreign and imperial policy was twofold. In European affairs, it led to greater caution. With the reduction in government expenditure, both the size and the preparedness of the armed forces fell until the mid-1880s. The growth of the continental railway networks, meanwhile, began to undermine Britain’s commercial dominance but also reduced the strategic advantages of the country’s

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naval supremacy.9 Britain’s military insignificance compared with the mass conscript armies of the continental Great Powers, and the inapplicability of naval pressure against these Powers, reinforced a trend towards selective and strictly non-military interference.10 Victory in the Crimea in 1856 ensured the containment of the Russian menace, at least for some period of time. The Crimean coalition was the product of the allied struggle against Russia, ostensibly in defence of the Ottoman Empire and the reality of the wider balance of power in Europe. The Treaty of Paris of 1856 underscored Britain’s commitment to the containment of Russia, while the Crimean system was founded on an AngloAustrian attempt to preserve the outcome of the war. Yet, it was built on sand. French commitment to the status quo was never firm, and even Austria was ready to abandon aspects of the Crimean settlement.11 By the 1870s, the system had unravelled, and disintegration affected the two strategic blocs of British power in equal measure. In Asia, Russia’s unchecked expansion in Central Asia increased her pressure on British India.12 In November 1870, exploiting Europe’s preoccupation with the FrancoPrussian War, Russia renounced the Black sea clauses of the Paris peace treaty, thereby effectively remilitarising the sea and the surrounding area.13 By the time of the ‘Great Eastern Crisis’ of 1875–8, especially after the preliminary peace treaty of San Stefano, Britain faced the prospect of Russian dominance of the Balkans, to be followed in the near future by a Russian descent on Constantinople. In that case, Russia would have been able to project her naval power into the Eastern Mediterranean and pressurise Britain’s vital sea lines of communications there. Already during the early stages of the crisis, Britain’s naval tools had proved practically useless. Only diplomacy could provide a solution. Disraeli’s and Salisbury’s surefooted policy before and during the Congress of Berlin ensured Russia’s isolation and thus forced her to relinquish her ill-gotten gains. The acquisition of Cyprus shored up Britain’s position in the Mediterranean, and gave her the means of pinning down the Russian fleet, if ever the Tsar’s government decided to break the Treaty of Berlin and force the Turkish straits.14 Britain’s ability to act unilaterally in defence of her imperial interests remained curtailed however. Already the second Afghan War of 1879 and the abortive Herat Convention with Persia demonstrated Britain’s limited ability to sustain a consistently ‘forward’ policy in Central Asia in the face of Russian expansionism.15 Gladstone’s well-meant but ultimately disastrous attempt to revive the ‘Concert of Europe’ served further to encourage Russia’s ‘Drang nach Osten’ whilst simultaneously isolating Britain from the status quo Powers in Europe. During the Pendjeh crisis in 1885, war with Russia seemed imminent, and though the latter eventually disengaged, the problems of facing Russia unaided were clearly discernible.16 The precarious situation in 1885 underlined also the interaction between systemic constellations in Europe and developments in the Anglo-Indian

12 T.G. Otte sphere. For as long as Russia was allied with Germany and Austria-Hungary in the Dreikaiserbund, Russia was potentially in a position to pressurise points of strategic interest for Britain. With the collapse of the combination of the three Eastern monarchies in 1886–7 during the Bulgarian crisis, Britain’s diplomatic and imperial problems eased somewhat. With a political settlement with Russia not feasible, Salisbury sought a diplomatic solution to Britain’s Russian problem in an informal leaning towards Germany and an alignment with Italy and Austria-Hungary in the Mediterranean entente.17 At the same time, Salisbury’s failure to negotiate an evacuation of Egypt, combined with a growing realisation that the navy could no longer force the now heavily fortified Dardanelles, provided an incentive to place Britain’s position in Egypt on a firmer footing. Ironically, then, the relative success of the Mediterranean entente in containing Russia in the Balkans ultimately undermined the combination with Vienna and Rome, as Cairo began to replace Constantinople as a key British strategic interest in the Eastern Mediterranean.18 The increasing importance of Britain’s hold on the country on the Nile brought East Africa and the Upper Nile Valley into the sight of British foreign policy. The Heligoland–Zanzibar exchange with Germany, the Anglo-Italian delimitation of sphere of influence on the Horn of Africa, the Anglo-French West Africa agreement (all of 1890) and Rosebery 1894 Congo agreement with the Belgians – all aimed at ensuring that the upper reaches of the Nile were kept out of the hands of another Power.19 To attain this end, Salisbury used a judicious mixture of treaty diplomacy and military force. His decision in 1896 to reconquer the Sudan, following Italy’s rout at Adowa in March and the stalemate in the Anglo-French talks on Africa, prepared the ground for the Fashoda standoff with the French in September 1898. France’s decision to yield to British pressure, in turn, led to the Anglo-French agreement of March 1899, in which Paris acknowledged Britain’s predominance in the Upper Nile Valley. This also underlined Britain’s reduced dependence on the Mediterranean entente that had withered away in 1897.20 It was symptomatic of the nineteenth century system of government that, despite the key role of foreign policy in defending imperial interests, there was no central coordinating mechanism at the heart of government. Until the creation of the Committee of Imperial Defence (CID) in 1902, cooperation between the Foreign, India and Colonial Offices and the two armed services departments was on an ad hoc basis, usually in reaction to emerging crises rather than in reflection of longer-term strategic objectives. At Cabinet level, the Foreign Office (FO) enjoyed a degree of autonomy that was not vouchsafed to other departments of state. Unlike the rest of Whitehall, the FO and the diplomatic service, which latter remained a separate branch of the civil service until its merger with the FO in 1918, were relatively inexpensive. Treasury interference was, therefore, restricted to matters of administration, personnel and pensions. An exception was loans, especially to China, Persia or Latin America, issued by British banking houses

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with the encouragement of the FO. Here, the need for Treasury approval potentially restricted the Office’s freedom of manoeuvre.21 Crucially, the FO’s superior status among other Whitehall departments was a function of hierarchy. It reflected the contemporary constitutional notion that foreign affairs were part of the royal prerogative. As ‘the official organ and adviser of the Crown in its intercourse with foreign powers’, Her (or His) Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs enjoyed a status more elevated than that of other senior ministers.22 While in theory the final decision-making power over foreign policy was vested in the Cabinet, it was a theory only rarely tested in practice. Notwithstanding the deep divisions over the Eastern Question within Disraeli’s second government, or the clash between Rosebery and Harcourt, his thwarted rival for the postGladstonian leadership of the Liberal party, or Cabinet opposition to Salisbury’s ideas of a more coercive policy during the Armenian crisis of 1895–6, or even the split within the Asquith government between ‘economists’ and ‘imperialists’, these were exceptions. Overall, the Cabinet was no effective check on the powers of the Foreign Secretary. Cabinet involvement in foreign affairs was intermittent at best. In general, the most ministers ‘know and care nothing about foreign affairs’.23 As a matter of routine, relevant FO papers were circulated to the Colonial, India and War secretaries, the First Lord of the Admiralty and the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Most administrations of the period also had in their ranks the odd senior elder statesman with special expertise or interest in foreign and imperial questions. The roles of the Duke of Devonshire in the Unionist administration after 1895, the Marquess of Ripon in the Campbell-Bannerman government or Viscount Haldane in the Asquith cabinet are cases in point. Central to the foreign policy-making process was the relationship between the two tenants of Nos 10 and 14 Downing Street. In the Earl of Granville’s felicitous phrase, the Prime Minister ‘should only appear as a Deus ex machinâ’, intervening at the crucial moment to facilitate the solution to the problems under discussion.24 This consideration also explains why the Marquis of Salisbury decided to hold the two offices in conjunction for large parts of his premiership. The small number of politicians who served as Foreign Secretary in the nineteenth century underscores the exclusivity and relative autonomy of the post. Their previous political and administrative experience is also indicative of the wider imperial context of British foreign policy. During the period 1856–1914, there were only 11 Foreign Secretaries. Most of them served several times at the head of the FO: Salisbury four times; Clarendon and Granville three times; and Derby, Malmesbury, Russell and Rosebery twice each. Only Grey, Iddesleigh (whose brief spell at the FO was the exception during this period), Kimberley, and Lansdowne held the office once only. With the exceptions of Malmesbury and Rosebery, all had previous diplomatic or imperial experience, though the latter had at least served in a Cabinet post before his elevation to the foreign secretaryship.

14 T.G. Otte Some, like Clarendon, Granville and Kimberley, had held diplomatic posts. Russell, Derby, Granville and Kimberley had previously been Colonial Secretaries. There were three former India Secretaries among the FO chiefs in this period: Derby, Kimberley and Salisbury. Russell and Lansdowne had held the War Office. The latter had also held senior positions in imperial administration as Governor-General of Canada and Viceroy of India. And finally, Derby, Granville, Kimberley and Grey had served their political apprenticeships as Parliamentary Under-Secretaries at the FO. Two Foreign Secretaries, Salisbury and Rosebery, succeeded to the premiership, and Derby might have done so. At the same time, the FO was seen also as an appropriate office for the former Prime Minister Lord John Russell. Imperial concerns were also reflected in the FO’s administrative structure and the career patterns of senior officials and diplomatists. Of the seven permanent heads of the department in the period covered here, five had been connected with Anglo-Russian relations prior to their appointment: Charles Hardinge and Arthur Nicolson as ambassadors at St. Petersburg; Edmund Hammond as senior clerk of the Oriental Department; and Philip Currie and Thomas Sanderson as heads of the Turkish Department and its successor, the Eastern Department, respectively. Thus, the personnel arrangements at the Office reflected the significance of the Russian factor for Britain’s foreign and imperial policies throughout the nineteenth century.25 Among the senior diplomats, some acquired reputations as area experts. Sir Nicholas O’Conor or Sir Arthur Nicolson, for instance, were acknowledged ‘Eastern’ diplomats with expertise in Chinese, Turkish and Russian affairs (O’Conor) and Persian, Turkish, Moroccan and Russian questions (Nicolson). Sir J. Rennell Rodd’s East African experience was crucial in his later appointment as ambassador at Rome, while Sir Arthur Hardinge was regarded as an authority on Persian and Central Asian matters.26 The FO internal structure mirrored wider changes in international politics. Thus, for instance, the creation in 1899 of a separate Far Eastern Department provided for more specialised advice at a time when much international attention was focused on this area.27 It was as much a reflection of the superior status of the FO as of the lack of proper policy planning and coordination in Whitehall that frequently the FO was able to dictate imperial policy. Thus, for instance, Lord John Russell decided early in 1860 to cede the Bay Islands colony off the coast of Honduras to that state without consulting the Colonial Office, which had issued certain guarantees to the population of the islands. Removing a source of tension in relations with the United States had overriding priority.28 It was on the basis of Russell’s treaty policy in West Africa and the manoeuvres of Britain’s consuls in the region in the late 1850s that the FO forced the Colonial Office to acquiesce in early 1861 in the annexation of Lagos for a mixture of humanitarian (antiSlavery) and commercial reasons, but principally in order to forestall French plans for a military establishment there at a time when British

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policy was subject to repeated French war and invasion scares.29 Salisbury at the FO, forcefully aided by Disraeli, pushed through Cabinet the decision to acquire Cyprus from Turkey in April–May 1878. Obtaining a foothold in Ottoman territory was deemed to be vital as a means of blocking Russia’s further advance in the Near East, as well as a means for controlling what might some day become the great highway to India through northern Syria.30 It is suggestive of the ill-defined borders between foreign and colonial affairs at the time when the FO initially administered that island under the supervision of Philip Currie, senior clerk of the Office’s Turkish Department and a future Permanent Under-Secretary. In a similar manner, territories north of the Zambezi River, including the British Central Africa protectorate, and later Uganda were originally under the Office’s administration.31 No such interdepartmental border disputes arose when in 1898 Salisbury and the FO decided upon the acquisition of the northern Chinese harbour of Weihaiwei as a strategic counterpoise to recent German and Russian seizures of Chinese ports as well as a sop to a critical press at home. It was symptomatic of the absence of a proper policy coordinating mechanism that the decision to take Weihaiwei was driven by Salisbury and senior officials at the FO without prior consultation of the Admiralty or the embryonic Cabinet defence committee. Indeed, the navy department was anxious to rid itself of Salisbury’s gift base, and, having administered it jointly with the War Office from 1899, both service departments decided in 1901 completely to divest themselves of their joint responsibilities by passing the leasehold into the care of the Colonial Office.32 Relations between the Foreign and Colonial Offices were, if not close, at any rate not distant. Frequently, colonial problems could only be solved within a wider international context; and this required closer coordination of efforts by the two ministries. One such instance was the settlement in 1906–7 of the future status of the New Hebrides islands, the last remaining territories in the South Pacific unclaimed by any of the Powers. While British diplomacy aimed to moderate French claims in the question as well as to block rumoured German ambitions on the islands, the Colonial Office worked on the government of the Australian Commonwealth to accept the terms of the Anglo-French convention.33 Contacts between the two Offices also extended to personnel exchanges. Sir Julian Pauncefote, Permanent Under-Secretary at the FO in the 1880s and then Britain’s first ambassador at Washington, began his official career at the Colonial Office where he rose to become Legal Assistant UnderSecretary before taking up the same position at the FO in 1876.34 Conversely, Sir Robert Meade began his official career in the FO and served on several diplomatic missions before transferring to the Colonial Office as an Assistant Under-Secretary in 1871, eventually to become one of the outstanding permanent heads of that department (1892–7).35 Meade and Pauncefote’s cases involved permanent career changes. But there were

16 T.G. Otte also temporary personnel transfers between the two Offices. The diplomat W. Conyngham Greene, legation secretary at Tehran and later Ambassador at Tokyo, was seconded to the Colonial Office in 1896 to act as British agent at Pretoria, where he remained until the outbreak of hostilities with the two Boer republics. Relations with the India Office (IO) were more complicated. To an extent, this reflected the somewhat anomalous position of the Office among the other great departments of state. As Lord George Hamilton, who held the seals of the IO several times, later reflected in his memoirs, it was ‘a miniature government in itself’.36 The characterisation of the Office’s departmental remit by its long-serving permanent head Sir Arthur Godley, the later Lord Kilbracken, bears repetition: ‘it is concerned with all the affairs, great and small of a gigantic empire, and contains under one roof some eight or nine departments, corresponding respectively to the Treasury, Board of Trade, the FO, and so on’.37 Developments in India’s strategic perimeter in Central Asia and the effects of European diplomacy on India made it necessary that the Foreign and India Offices communicated regularly and frequently. The bulk of this communication consisted of copies of despatches to and from the British embassy at St. Petersburg and reports by the Indian government’s military intelligence branch.38 The two departments also had joint responsibilities in Asia. In India’s central Asian security glacis, some British consular officials were directly responsible to the Indian government, such as the agents at Kabul and, perhaps most famously, Sir George Macartney, the consul at Kashgar in Sinkiang, China’s most westerly province.39 In addition, the India and FOs jointly subsidised a number of consulates and legations in the region around the Persian Gulf, where the two departments also shared areas of joint jurisdiction. Thus, the consuls at Aden or the political resident in the Gulf at Muscat were recruited from the Indian Political Service but were responsible to the British minister at Tehran. The latter was appointed by the FO from the ranks of career diplomats, though a notable exception was the appointment in 1894 as minister to Persia of Sir Mortimer Durand, who had previously been Indian Foreign Secretary. Similarly, the FO clerk, Charles Sebastian Somers-Cocks, was seconded to the IO’s foreign department as assistant secretary for two years (1904–6). An exception of a kind was also Evelyn Baring, the later Earl of Cromer, who had been private secretary to the Viceroy of India before becoming British representative on the Egyptian Caisse de la dette publique, the debt administration created by the European Powers at Cairo, a transfer that would eventually see him emerge as Britain’s de facto ruler over Egypt at the end of the century.40 Durand’s transfer to the diplomatic service and Cromer’s straddling of the Indian and proconsular fields were exceptions. Generally, there were no personnel exchanges of the kind that took place between the Foreign and Colonial Offices. There was, however, the joint exercise of responsibilities. Throughout the nineteenth century, the government of India paid half the

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costs of the Tehran legation, although there were no Indian officials on its staff. In 1914, as many as 13 of the 23 salaried consular positions in Persia were paid out of Indian government funds.41 Nevertheless, in normal times relations between the two departments ‘were carried on with great formality and some jealousy’, especially where international politics were concerned.42 To an extent this reflected profound differences in the ‘official mind’ of the two departments. With India’s security usually not under immediate threat, the IO and the government at Delhi and Simla tended to stress longer-range developments and policies, usually with a view to formulating an early ‘forward’ action to preempt possible actions by foreign Powers. The FO, by contrast, moved in a much more dynamic and fluid environment, where differences of interest with other governments always had the potential of escalating into crises. British diplomacy operated on the assumption that any disagreement with another Great Power carried the risk of military conflict. In consequence, Britain’s foreign policy tended to be status quo oriented and conciliatory, reactive rather ‘forward’.43 Inevitably, conciliating diverging departmental perspectives and interests so as to formulate joint policy positions was a cumbersome and slow process. This did not preclude cooperation, but it did not facilitate it either. Senior officials in the IO were anxious not ‘to be exploited by the FO’.44 The submission by the Indian authorities to the ‘greater imperial considerations’ often claimed by the FO was grudging at best. In 1898–9, during the talks on the Persian loan project, the two Permanent Under-Secretaries, Sir Thomas Sanderson (FO) and Sir Arthur Godley (IO), consulted with each other. But it was Sanderson who prepared the ground for discussions with the Treasury, the Imperial Bank of Persia and the Tehran government and who formulated the British government’s position.45 Friction between the two Offices grew considerably during Curzon’s viceroyalty, when various questions connected with the Persian Gulf came to the fore. Interdepartmental tensions, combined with the already complex and cumbersome policy-making process, meant that the ultimate policy decisions were often so delayed or so diluted that they lost all practical meaning, as the First Lord of the Admiralty, the Earl of Selborne, noted in 1903: ‘What an intolerable method of doing business! Indian Government, India Office, Minister at Tehran, FO, Cabinet Committee, Treasury, Cabinet! Bah! the Russians ought to walk round us each time’.46 A further group of officials close to the centre of the foreign policymaking process were the members of Britain’s nascent intelligence services. Following the release over recent years of nineteenth century secret service files, and the pending release of further intelligence-related material, this formerly ‘missing dimension’ can now be more fully incorporated into analyses of British foreign and imperial policy.47 Although there was no formal organisation or a properly constituted ‘intelligence community’ yet, internal channels of communication existed that made

18 T.G. Otte senior intelligence officers part of a wider foreign policy ‘strategic clique’. The views, for instance, of Sir John Ardagh, the head of military intelligence in the 1890s, were sought by the Permanent Under-Secretary of the FO.48 A great deal of the intelligence gathering, limited though it was in comparison with later twentieth century practices, was financed out of the annual secret service vote, which was administered by the FO’s Permanent Under-Secretary. The fund could be used to finance activities which the Foreign Secretary thought ought to remain secret. These were often, but not exclusively, related to intelligence gathering, usually through ad hoc informants or agents. Senior diplomats abroad were themselves often involved in intelligence work, though such activities were largely confined to non-European countries. Successive heads of mission at Constantinople or Peking cultivated secret sources within the governments there. Such efforts were often extensive and remarkably reminiscent of methods usually associated with later periods. At Peking, for instance, the British minister there had established a British hospital in the Chinese quarter of the capital at the end of 1902, paid for out of the secret service fund. The real purpose of the establishment, however, was not so much the administration of medicine to ailing Chinese, but to serve as a kind of ‘safe house’, an innocuous meeting place for native informants and the Chinese Secretary of the legation.49 When in 1909 the Asquith government, reacting to the contemporary ‘spy hysteria’ which had affected the public and Whitehall alike, set up the Haldane committee to investigate the need for more organised counter-espionage measures, the FO retained an important role in the nascent secret service. The Office’s Permanent Under-Secretary, Sir Charles Hardinge, well versed in the craft of the trade since his days in charge of the St. Petersburg embassy, was a senior member on the committee. While the primary function of the fledgling organisation was counter-intelligence, there was a clear understanding that political intelligence remained the business of the FO;50 even so, the secret service was financed out of FO funds. Relations between the Office and the new service, however, were anything but smooth. Ironically, although the senior diplomats appreciated the significance of intelligence, the Office guarded its preserve against interlopers. Attempts by the intelligence service to use Britain’s consular officials as additional sources of operational intelligence led to constant friction with the FO.51 From the turn of the nineteenth century, there was also a growing bureaucratic awareness across Whitehall that a major war was then a realistic eventuality. This heightened an awareness of the need for properly organised intelligence gathering. The absence of such organisation or, indeed, intelligence sources was keenly felt during the Boer War.52 Bureaucratic and parliamentary pressure resulted in a series of official enquiries into various aspects of Britain’s armed and intelligence services. Responding to such pressure, the new Prime Minister, Arthur Balfour,

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who had himself become increasingly disturbed by the inadequacy of the Cabinet’s existing defence committee, established the CID in December 1902.53 This body never had any executive authority, and its wartime functions were dispersed among other organisations. But its formation created a new interdepartmental forum, chaired by the Prime Minister, for the discussion of strategic questions affecting foreign and imperial policy. It was an attempt, in the contemporary spirit of ‘national efficiency’, to apply a broader and more systematic approach to defence planning; and the CID was to prove the principal advisory body on imperial and home defence matters until 1939.54 From about 1901 onwards, considerations of the strategic requirements of imperial defence began to have a more direct impact on foreign policy. At one level, this reflected the differences in temperament and personality between Salisbury and his successors, Lansdowne and Grey. Lord Salisbury had encouraged the work of the military intelligence branch under Generals Brackenbury, Chapman and Ardagh, and he regularly received and studied intelligence reports. He also authorised additional funding for the branch’s work from the Secret service vote, for example, to consolidate the information gathering to the north of Meshed up to the Oxus river, commonly accepted as Afghanistan’s frontier with Russia.55 There were instances when Salisbury’s decisions were guided by intelligence assessments provided by the military and Admiralty intelligence branches, such as the abandoning of his earlier preference for a forcing of the Turkish Straits as a means of coercing the Sultan’s government during the Armenian massacres in 1895–6.56 His recognition of the need for intelligence gathering and his acceptance of the recommendations of the secret services were entirely pragmatic; and he was frequently dismissive of military and naval advisers, as the First Lord of Admiralty noted ‘[Salisbury] very characteristically pooh-poohed the present naval and military Defence Committee as its members were all professionals and professionals were always narrow-minded’.57 Lansdowne was more receptive to advice by professionals. His previous, somewhat unfortunate, experience at the helm of the unreformed War Office and, more important, his lengthy spells in imperial administration had sharpened his understanding of the military requirements of the empire and the dangers of over-extension. The differences in Salisbury and Lansdowne’s responses to intelligence advice were not simply rooted in their different personalities. They reflected also the shifts that had occurred in the wider strategic landscape within which British foreign policy operated at the beginning of the twentieth century. British military planning was still primarily concerned with the eventuality of a war with the Franco-Russian combination. Such a conflict, a report by the military intelligence branch warned in August 1901, would be prolonged and would spell disaster for all parts of the empire.58 Lansdowne and the FO were fully aware of such deliberations. Policy planning discussions within the department, in fact, reflected the strategic deliberations of

20 T.G. Otte the armed services as well as the growing Treasury anxiety about Britain’s mushrooming budget deficit as a result of the South African war. Acknowledging concerns of the naval authorities about an over-extension of naval resources, and in nod to Treasury pressure for an overall curb on expenditure, the Assistant Under-Secretary of the FO, Francis Bertie, recommended in a series of memoranda in the summer of 1901 a reciprocal, geographically defined arrangement with Japan as the best means of containing Russia’s threat to the status quo in the Far East, Britain’s most pressing overseas problem at that time. A regional defence pact would act as a deterrent against Russia but would also help to reduce the strain on Britain’s naval and financial resources.59 The constraints were very real. Technological changes in naval architecture led to significant increases in the production costs of naval vessels in the period between the passing of the 1889 Naval Defence Act and 1904. The expansion and acceleration of the French and Russian armament programmes exacerbated the situation. The need to increase the Royal Navy’s (RN) narrow margin of superiority over the combined naval forces of France and Russia, and to adapt British ships to the changes in enemy battleship design, led to a 20 per cent increase in the cost of the 1901–2 building programme alone.60 In the summer and autumn of 1901, the Earl of Selborne, the First Lord of the Admiralty, warned that, in view of the increased naval competition by other Powers and Britain’s own naval overstretch, foreign policy had to provide the solution. As the First Sea Lord argued, ‘our hitherto followed policy of “splendid isolation” may no longer be possible’.61 Thus, the Admiralty’s strategic resource management, the Treasury’s attempts to curb spending and the FO’s evolving diplomatic strategy reinforced each other. The result was a new dynamic within Whitehall, where an axis of these three departments of state dominated foreign and imperial policy discussions.62 It enabled Lansdowne to carry through the revised Hay–Pauncefote treaty of November 1901 with the United States, under which Britain effectively relinquished the Western hemisphere to Washington’s custodianship. The treaty, ‘one of the great treaties of the twentieth century’, laid the foundations for the rapid improvement in Anglo-American relations and the ‘special relationship’ of later years.63 But, mending fences with America was purchased at the price of recognising American naval supremacy in the Western hemisphere and thus having to conform British policy to that of the United States. More significantly, for the immediate future in 1901, naval considerations encouraged Lansdowne to pursue the option of a Japanese alliance. He expected the alliance to safeguard British interests in the Far East, without entailing European commitments. The combination with Japan, therefore, underscored Britain’s continued aloofness from the European Great Powers. It did not mark the end of ‘splendid isolation’.64 The combination of British and Japanese naval forces established a Russo-Japanese balance of tension in northern China and Korea, the main focus of Great Power diplomacy around the turn of the century. Delicately poised, it nevertheless offered a kind of strategic

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umbrella for the protection of British regional interests against Russian ambitions. Although essentially reactive and defensive, it was not without risks, for the combination with Japan did not reduce the likelihood of a Russo-Japanese conflict.65 Following Russia’s defeat at the hands of Japan in 1905, considerations of European diplomacy and imperial defence became more closely entwined. The ‘catastrophe in the Korea Straits’ eliminated Russia as a naval factor. Her military weakness combined with domestic instability, moreover, effectively disabled the Franco-Russian alliance. This helped to ease the various strains on Britain’s over-extended resources. During the Anglo-Japanese talks in 1905 about the renewal of the 1902 alliance, the CID pushed hard for a geographical extension of the renewed alliance’s scope.66 Indeed, the second alliance of August 1905 not only then covered India but was also much tighter, with the casus belli triggered by the attack of just one Power on either party. The revision of the alliance had the effect of ‘rais[ing] the wall of our back garden to prevent an over-adventurous neighbour [i.e. Russia]’, as Lansdowne aptly commented.67 Russia’s weakness worked in Britain’s favour. On taking office, Lansdowne’s successor, Sir Edward Grey, stressed his wish ‘to see Russia restored in the councils of Europe, & I hope on better terms with us than she has yet been’.68 Given Russia’s need to consolidate her position, the St. Petersburg government was willing to negotiate a settlement with Britain. Grey, aided by the India Secretary John Morley, succeeded in overcoming opposition to an Anglo-Russian accord from within the IO as well as the Liberal Party. The convention of August 1907 removed long-standing Anglo-Russian frictions in Asia, and so further strengthened Britain’s position in Asia, though Grey’s simultaneous attempts to negotiate further Japanese assistance for Britain in India in the event of a collapse of the convention with Russia failed.69 While Russia’s defeat in 1905 blunted her advance in Asia and so increased the security of Britain’s Asiatic position, it also disrupted the European equilibrium. The German challenge of France over Morocco in 1905 was a direct result of the disabling of France’s alliance with Russia. In the changed post-conflict circumstances, British foreign policy was forced to lend greater support to France than was originally warranted under the terms of the 1904 Anglo-French entente. German pressure transformed the settlement of outstanding imperial problems with France into a ‘virtual diplomatic alliance’, though Grey insisted on the non-binding character of the agreement, and it would, indeed, be fallacious to argue that either the entente or Grey’s diplomacy during the Moroccan crisis paved the way for war with Germany in 1914.70 The dislocation of the European equilibrium and Germany’s growing restlessness had an impact on Britain in an imperial context also. To a large extent, this was the result of the Anglo-German naval race that was fully under way since 1904/6 and which had implications for the balance of power in Europe and the security of the empire.71 In addition, German

22 T.G. Otte diplomacy created a nexus between the naval issue and colonial questions, such as the Baghdad Railway project. Grey preferred to deal with these problems discretely. The Wilhelmstrasse suggested a comprehensive settlement of the naval race and the Middle Eastern railway. To some degree, this was a not altogether incorrect interpretation by the Germans of the evolving logic of Grey’s entente diplomacy. Crucially, however, the German proposals envisaged a British neutrality pledge in the event of a continental war. This linkage was unacceptable. The neutrality pledge amounted to a form of carte blanche for Germany to provoke a continental war while Russia was still reeling from the aftershocks of 1905. Exclusive cooperation with Germany over the Baghdad Railway, meanwhile, ran the risk of loosening the existing ties with France and heightening Russian security concerns along Russia’s southern frontiers. The end result of all of this would have been the weakening of Britain’s much improved international position in exchange for some degree of dependence on Germany.72 Inevitably, much diplomatic energy was consumed by the AngloGerman antagonism. Some aspects of Anglo-German rivalry before 1914 were clearly exaggerated. Yet, the notion that the challenge posed by the Reich was something of an ‘invention of the German menace’ as a device to ‘divert attention from the British Empire’s vulnerability and rivet it on Germany’ is a perverted and narrow interpretation of the historical evidence.73 If there was little concrete to fight over, there was nothing illusory about the ultimate object of Tirpitz’s naval build-up and Berlin’s ambitions to establish Germany as the dominant Power in Europe. The root problem was rather that German diplomacy lacked clear strategic guidance; and this made it erratic and difficult for the FO to ‘read’ accurately.74 The mounting tensions with Germany were compounded by strains in the relations with Russia. The 1907 accord had reduced some of Britain’s most pressing problems in Central Asia. The friendly noises emanating from the Russian foreign ministry, the Anglo-Russian convention failed to restrain the more aggressive designs of Russia’s agents in Persia and Central Asia in the last few years before 1914. Much of the deterioration in the relations with Russia in that period was caused by the recrudescence of Russia’s military power after 1910. The impact of this on Britain was twofold. In Europe, it heightened German security fears and so increased the willingness of the ruling circles in Berlin to contemplate military solution before Russia became too strong. In an imperial context, Russian policy in the Near East and Central Asia became more restless. Indeed, Russia’s occupation of Kashgar in July 1912 and increased pressure on Mongolia seemed to suggest the likelihood of renewed instability in Central Asia.75 Similarly, rumours of a possible Russo-German rapprochement in 1913, St. Petersburg’s prolixity over Albanian independence in 1913–14 or its obstreperous position in the Spitzbergen negotiations in the spring of 1914 were causes of further strains. By 1914, Russian

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pressure was mounting on Persia, and an increasingly confident Russia was constantly pushing the boundaries of the 1907 agreement.76 AngloRussian relations were changing on the eve of the Great War. Grey and the FO faced the fact that the Anglo-Russian convention required a major revision; and the prospect of failure, followed by a re-emergence of the pre-1907 antagonism with Russia, was very real. Britain’s difficulties with Russia reflected the peculiar nature of British world power with its two foci on Europe and on Asia. Russia affected both. In Europe, a strong Russia was needed to balance a restless and potentially aggressive Germany, but a revived Russian Empire also had the potential of threatening Britain’s Asian interests. In his dealings with Russia, in the words of Sir Arthur Nicolson, the Permanent Under-Secretary, Grey, had to follow a ‘policy of dancing on a tight rope’.77 The impact of the Russian and imperial factors on FO decision-making during the July crisis of 1914 is a contentious point. Keith Wilson has advanced the argument that the British decision to go to war was based on an imperial set of priorities, that Britain went to war to protect her Asian interests and that the perceived need to maintain good relations with Russia was the determining consideration rather than concern about a German threat to the balance of power in Europe. The implication is that prior to 1914, Britain pursued some form of ‘appeasement’ of Russia and that a major European war was a price well worth paying for the protection of Central Asian interests against a future Russian menace.78 This argument is problematic on a number of counts, not least because there is no clear evidence connecting Grey’s decision-making with such calculations. Wilson’s argument is based on the 23 July 1914 memorandum by George Clerk, senior clerk of the Eastern department, on the difficult state of Anglo-Russian relations. Clerk argued that good relations with Russia were of paramount importance to Britain and that renewed AngloRussian hostility might threaten vital imperial interests in Asia. According Wilson’s interpretation, such imperial considerations must have been background influences shaping Grey’s decision-making during the July crisis.79 A closer examination of the departmental paper trail shows that, in this particular case, Grey himself did not see the memorandum until a fortnight after the expiry of Britain’s ultimatum to Germany, by which time he minuted that Clerk’s proposals ‘must of course now be suspended’.80 When placed in the wider context of late-nineteenth century AngloRussian relations, Grey’s policy towards Russia was constant and consistently even-handed. It was necessarily reactive, for Grey ‘could neither compel Anglo-Russian relations to be cordial, nor force Russo-German relations to be distant’.81 Whilst there is no doubt the Russian foreign ministers Aleksandr Pyotrovich Izvolsky and Sergei Dimitrevich Sazonov attempted political blackmail during the Bosnian annexation crisis of 1908–9 and in 1914 by threatening the end of the 1907 convention, the

24 T.G. Otte British government did not yield. Against advice by senior officials, Grey refused definitively to bind Britain to Russia. His acceptance of the need to renegotiate the Anglo-Russian convention was no indication of his aim of a full alliance with St. Petersburg. This might appear ‘paradoxical’,82 but it reflected the fact that by 1914 the 1907 settlement had turned out to be little more than a ‘holding operation’ that had stabilised Anglo-Russian relations in Central Asia. Whether a revised convention with Russia was still in the realm of practical politics had war not broken out in 1914 is speculative. What is certain is that British diplomats did anticipate the possible collapse of negotiations with Russia.83 Yet, when Germany decided upon the ‘calculated risk’ of a continental war, European calculations superseded considerations of imperial interests.

Notes 1 P.M. Thornton, Foreign Secretaries of the XIX. Century (3 vols, London, 2nd edn. 1883), vol. III, 407. 2 Cedric James Lowe, Salisbury and the Mediterranean, 1886–1896 (London, 1965). Though pioneering in many respects this work is not without flaws. The problematic notion that Salisbury was somehow following a Palmerstonian tradition apart, the wider significance of the Mediterranean periphery is not always fully integrated with the wider constellation of the Great Powers. 3 Keith Neilson, Britain and the Last Tsar: British Policy and Russia, 1894–1917 (Oxford, 1995). 4 For the emergence of this see E. Ingram, In Defence of British India: Great Britain in the Middle East, 1775–1842 (London, 1984), though his argument of Britain as a ‘dual monarchy’ seems far-fetched. 5 For this argument see Keith Neilson, ‘Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 1902–1914’ STICERD conference, who stresses the non-systemic aspects; also T. Otte, Global Transformation: Britain, Great Power Politics and the China Question, 1894–1905 (forthcoming) which stresses the interaction between ‘systemic’ and ‘non-systemic’ factors. 6 For this consideration see my ‘ “It’s What Made Britain Great”: Reflections on British Foreign Policy from Malplaquet to Maastricht’, in T. Otte (ed.), The Makers of British Foreign Policy: From Pitt to Thatcher (Basingstoke and New York, 2002), 1–34. 7 C.J. Bartlett, ‘Statecraft, Power and Influence’, in C.J. Bartlett (ed.), Britain Preeminent: Studies of British World Influence in the Nineteenth Century (London, 1969), 173–4. 8 This has not been fully appreciated by scholars of British foreign and imperial policy. For the background see J.R. Vincent, The Formation of the British Liberal Party, 1857–1868 (New York, 2nd edn. 1976), 246–50; H.C.G. Matthew, ‘Disraeli, Gladstone, and the Politics of Mid-Victorian Budgets’, Historical Journal, 22 (1979): 615–43; H. Roseveare, The Treasury, 1660–1870: The Foundations of Control (London, 1973), 104–6; M. Wright, Treasury Control of the Civil Service, 1854–1874 (Oxford, 1969). 9 C.J. Bartlett, ‘The Mid-Victorian Reappraisal of Naval Policy’, in K. Bourne and D.C. Watt (eds), Studies in International History: Essays Presented to W. Norton Medlicott (London, 1967), 189–208; J.F. Beeler, ‘One-Power-Standard?: Great Britain and the Balance of Naval Power, 1860–80’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 15 (1992): 548–52; D.M. Schurman, Imperial Defence, 1868–1887 (London, 2000).

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10 Cf. K.A.P. Sandiford, Great Britain and the Schleswig-Holstein Question, 1848–1864: A Study in Diplomacy, Politics, and Public Opinion (Toronto, 1975). 11 W.E. Mosse, The Rise and Fall of the Crimean System, 1855–71: The Story of a Peace Settlement (London, 1963). On the global nature of the Anglo-Russian struggle, cf. also A. Lambert, The Crimean War: British Grand Strategy, 1853–6 (Manchester, 1990), xvi–xxi, and 269–80. 12 G.J. Alder, British India’s Northern Frontier, 1865–95: A Study in Imperial Policy (London, 1963), 38–57, 100–13 and 165–88. 13 W.E. Mosse, ‘The End of the Crimean System: England, Russia, and the Neutrality of the Black Sea, 1870–1’, Historical Journal, 4 (1961): 164–90. 14 W.N. Medlicott, The Congress of Berlin and After: A Diplomatic History of the Near Eastern Settlement, 1878–80 (London, 2nd edn. 1963), 137–47; M. Swartz, The Politics of British Foreign Policy in the Era of Disraeli and Gladstone (London, 1985), 82–103; R. Millman, Britain and the Eastern Question, 1875–1878 (Oxford, 1979), 403–51; J. Charmley, Splendid Isolation?: Britain and the Balance of Power, 1874–1914 (London, 1999), 145–62. 15 M. Cowling, ‘Lytton, the Cabinet, and the Russians, August to November 1878’, English Historical Review, 85 (1961): 59–79; and A.P. Thornton, ‘British Policy in Persia, 1858–90 (I)’, ibid., 69 (1954): 569–72, for the Herat Convention. 16 R.L. Greaves, Persia and the Defence of India, 1884–92 (London, 1959), 70–120; D.R. Gillard, ‘Salisbury and the Defence of India, 1885–1902’, in Bourne and Watt (eds), Studies in International History: Essays Presented to W. Norton Medlicott, here esp. 246–8. 17 Lowe, Salisbury and the Mediterranean, passim; W.N. Medlicott, ‘The Mediterranean Agreements of 1887’, Slavonic Review, 5 (1926): 71–4. 18 T.G. Otte, ‘ “Floating Downstream”?: Lord Salisbury and British Foreign Policy, 1878–1902’, in T.G. Otte (ed.), The Makers of British Foreign Policy, 112–15; K.M. Wilson, ‘Constantinople or Cairo: Lord Salisbury and the Partition of the Ottoman Empire, 1886–1897’, in K.M. Wilson, Empire and Continent: Studies in British Foreign Policy from the 1880s to the First World War (London, 1987), 1–30. 19 G.N. Sanderson, England, Europe and the Upper Nile, 1882–1899 (Edinburgh, 1965); A.S. Kanya-Forstner, ‘French Africa Policy and the Anglo-French Agreement of 5 August 1890’, Historical Journal, 12 (1969): 628–50; D.R. Gillard, ‘Salisbury’s Africa Policy and the Heligoland Offer of 1890’, English Historical Review, 85 (1960): 631–53; C.J. Lowe, ‘Anglo-Italian Differences over East Africa and Their Effects on the Mediterranean Entente’, ibid., 81 (1966): 319–30; M.P. Hornik, ‘The Anglo-Belgian Agreement of 12 May 1894’, ibid., 62 (1942): 233–43; A.J.P. Taylor, ‘Prelude to Fashoda: The Question of the Upper Nile, 1894–5’, ibid., 65 (1950): 52–80. 20 Otte, ‘ “Floating Downstream”?’, 116–17; J.A.S. Grenville, ‘Gołuchowski, Salisbury, and the Mediterranean Agreements, 1895–7’, Slavonic and East European Review, 36 (1958): esp. 353–5. 21 D.C.M. Platt, Finance, Trade and Politics in British Foreign Policy, 1815–1914 (Oxford, 1968), 20–2. 22 H.D. Traill, Central Government (London, 1881), 78–80. 23 Kimberley to Ripon (private), 6 Nov. 1893, Ripon Mss, British Library, Add. Mss 43526. 24 Granville to Gladstone, 29 Oct. 1879, in A. Ramm (ed.), Gladstone–Granville Correspondence, 1868–1876 (2 vols, London, 1952), vol. I, 351. For the above cf. N.S. Johnson, ‘The Role of the Cabinet in the Making of Foreign Policy, 1885–1895’, with special reference to Lord Salisbury’s second administration’ (D.Phil. thesis, Oxford, 1970); V. Cromwell and Z.S. Steiner, ‘The FO before 1914: A Study in Resistance’, in G. Sutherland (ed.), Studies in the Growth of Nineteenth Century

26 T.G. Otte

25 26

27 28 29 30

31

32 33 34

35

36 37 38 39 40

Government (London, 1972), 167–94; K. Robbins, ‘The Foreign Secretary, the Cabinet, Parliament and the Parties’, in F.H. Hinsley (ed.), British Foreign Policy under Sir Edward Grey (Cambridge, 1977), 3–21; T.G. Otte, ‘Old Diplomacy: Reflections on the FO before 1914’, in G. Johnson (ed.), The FO and British Diplomacy in the Twentieth Century (London, 2004), 31–52. Otte, ibid., 38–9. There is no proper study of career patterns in the British diplomatic service in this period. A useful discussion of ambassadorial appointments and the influence of ambassadors is K. Neilson, ‘ “Only a d–d marionette”?: The Influence of Ambassadors on British Foreign Policy’, in M.L. Dockrill and B.J.C. McKercher (eds), Diplomacy and World Power: Studies in British Foreign Policy, 1890–1950 (Cambridge, 1996), 56–78. E. Hertslet, FO List . . . for 1900 (London, 1900), 5–6; R.A. Jones, The Nineteenth Century FO: An Administrative History (London, 1971), 81–2. F.D. Munsell, The Unfortunate Duke: Henry Pelham Clinton, Fifth Duke of Newcastle, 1811–1864 (Columbia, MI, 1985), 244–5. Russell to Newcastle, 7 Feb. 1861, and min. Palmerston, 3 Mar. 1861, in C.W. Newbury (ed.), British Policy towards West Africa: Selected Documents, 1786–1874 (Oxford, 1965), nos V/18–19. D.E. Lee, Great Britain and the Cyprus Convention (Cambridge, 1934), 75–7; L.M. Penson, ‘The Foreign Policy of Lord Salisbury, 1878–80: The Problem of the Ottoman Empire’, in A. Coville and H.W.V. Temperley (eds), Studies in Anglo-French History (Cambridge, 1935), 125–42. Sir Charles Dilke, Parliamentary Under-Secretary, was instrumental in forcing the administration of Cyprus upon the Colonial Office in 1880, cf. FO List 1879 (London, 1879); A. Cecil, ‘The FO’, in A.W. Ward and G.P. Gooch (eds), The Cambridge History of British Foreign Policy, 1783–1919 (3 vols, Cambridge, 1921–3), vol. III, 608. For the Zambezi territories, cf. R.V. Kubicek, The Administration of Imperialism: Joseph Chamberlain at the Colonial Office (Durham, NC, 1969), 26. T.G. Otte, ‘ “Wee-ah-Wee”?: Britain at Weihaiwei, 1898–1930’, in G. Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 1900–2000: Influences and Actions (London, 2005), 4–34. R. Hyam, Elgin and Churchill at the Colonial Office, 1905–1908: The Watershed of the Empire-Commonwealth (London, 1968), 305–10. There is still no proper modern biography of this important official, cf. R.B. Mowat, The Life of Lord Pauncefote: First Ambassador to the US (London, 1929), 27–30; L. Wright, Julian Pauncefote and British Imperial Policy, 1855–1889 (Lanham, MD, 2002), 19–37. Kubicek, Administration of Imperialism, 37–8. Another point of contact was of an administrative nature. The 1905 Crowe–Hardinge reforms at the FO introduced a number of innovations copied from the Colonial Office, including a General Registry and the famous ‘minute sheets’ that cover the despatches received, cf. Otte, ‘Old Diplomacy’, 36–8. Lord G. Hamilton, Parliamentary Reminiscences and Reflections, 1868 to 1885 (London, 1917), 68–9. Reminiscences of Lord Kilbracken, GCB (London, 1931), 160–1. Copies of Indian correspondence and memoranda can be found in the correspondence and papers of the St. Petersburg embassy archives, TNA (PRO), F[oreign] O[ffice Paper] 181. C.P. Skrine and P. Nightingale, Macartney at Kashgar: New Light on British, Chinese and Russian Activities in Sinkiang, 1890–1918 (Hong Kong and Oxford, 1987). Baring’s position in India, however, was not an official one, but connected to his uncle’s elevation to the viceroyalty, cf. R. Owen, Lord Cromer: Victorian Imperialist and Edwardian Proconsul (Oxford, 2004), 56–67.

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41 There were also six unsalaried posts. The Colonial Office funded the consulate on Tonga, while the Anglo-Egyptian administration of the Sudan paid for two consular posts in Ethiopia. Chinde in Portuguese Africa was paid out of Nyasaland funds, cf. G.E.P. Hertslet (ed.), The FO List and Diplomatic and Consular Year Book for 1914 (London, 1914), 30–52; also B.C. Busch, Britain and the Persian Gulf, 1894–1914 (Berkeley, CA, 1967), 6–7 and 350–2. 42 A.P. Kaminsky, The India Office, 1880–1910 (Westport, CT, 1986), 109. 43 See also the argument developed by Paul M. Kennedy concerning the longer term roots of ‘appeasement’ as a foreign policy strategy, Paul M. Kennedy, Strategy and Diplomacy, 1870–1945: Eight Studies (London, 1984), 13–39. 44 Godley to Curzon (private), 8 Nov. 1901, Curzon Mss, British Library Oriental and India Office Collection, Mss Eur.F.150. For the background see D. McLean, Britain and Her Buffer State: The Collapse of the Persian Empire, 1890–1914 (London, 1979), 36. 45 J.V. Plass, England zwischen Russland und Deutschland, 1899–1907 (Hamburg, 1966), 45. 46 Selborne to Curzon, 24 Apr. 1903, as quoted in D. Dilks, Curzon in India (2 vols, London, 1969), vol. I, 111; also Kaminsky, India Office, 110. 47 Cf. L. Atherton, Top Secret: An Interim Guide to Recent Releases of Intelligence Records at the Public Record Office (London, s.a. [1993]); also L.P. Morris, ‘British Secret Service Activity in Khorassan, 1887–1908’, Historical Journal, 27(1984): 657–75; J. Ferris, ‘Before “Room 40”: The British Empire and Signals Intelligence, 1898–1914’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 12(1989): 431–55. 48 Cf. Ardagh to Sanderson, 8 Nov. 1900, and min. Sanderson, 9 Nov. 1900, HD 3/119. 49 Cf. T.G. Otte, ‘ “Not Proficient in Table-Thumping”: Sir Ernest Satow at Peking, 1900–1906’, Diplomacy & Statecraft, 13 (2002): 175. 50 C. Andrew, ‘Codebreakers and FOs: The French, British and American Experience’, in C. Andrew and D. Dilks (eds), The Missing Dimension: Governments and Intelligence in the Twentieth Century (London, 1984), 33–53; C. Andrew, ‘Secret Intelligence and British Foreign Policy, 1900–1939’, in C. Andrew and J. Noakes (eds), Intelligence and International Relations, 1900–1945 (Exeter, 1987), 9–28; also J.W.M. Chapman, ‘British Use of “Dirty Tricks” in External Policy Prior to 1914’, War in History, 9 (2001): 60–81, though this contains a number of factual errors. A useful biography along popular lines of the first head of SIS is A. Judd, The Quest for ‘C’: Sir Mansfield Cumming and the Founding of the British Secret Service (London, 1999). 51 Cf. mins Crowe, 29 Apr. 1909, FO 371/673/16182, and 12 Feb. 1912, FO 371/1374/25576; also T.G. Otte, ‘Eyre Crowe and British Foreign Policy: A Cognitive Map’, in T.G. Otte and C.A. Pagedas (eds), Personalities, War and Diplomacy: Essays in International History (London, 1995), 24. 52 Field Marshal Lord Roberts complained that ‘he had to do for himself what an intelligence department ought to have done for him’, cf. N.H. Gibbs, The Origins of Imperial Defence (Oxford, 1955), 8–9. 53 R. Williams, Defending the Empire: The Conservative Party and British Defence Policy, 1899–1915 (New Haven, CT, and London, 1993), 19–20; J. Ehrman, Cabinet Government and War, 1890–1940 (Cambridge, 1958), 27–30. 54 J.P. Mackintosh, ‘The Role of the Committee of Imperial Defence before 1914’, English Historical Review, 77 (1962): 490–503; N. d’Ombrain, War Machinery and High Policy: Defence Administration in Peacetime Britain, 1902–14 (London, 1973). 55 Tenterden to Thomson (secret), 20 Apr. 1880, HD 3/58. On the close contacts with the FO, cf. Lord E. Gleichen, A Guardsman’s Memories: A Book of Recollections (London, 1932), 140–3 and 180.

28 T.G. Otte 56 J.A.S. Grenville, Lord Salisbury and Foreign Policy: The Close of the Nineteenth Century (London, rev. edn. 1970 (pub.)), 24–54; P.T. Marsh, ‘Lord Salisbury and the Ottoman Massacres’, Journal of British Studies, 9 (1972): 77–80. 57 Goschen to Devonshire, 6 Sept. 1895, as quoted in Z.S. Steiner, The FO and Foreign Policy, 1898–1914 (Cambridge, 1969), 53. 58 Memo. Altham, ‘Military Needs of the Empire in a War with France and Russia’, 10 Aug. 1901, WO 106/48/E3/2. 59 Memo. Bertie, 20 June 1901, and ‘Anglo-Japanese Agreement’, 20 July 1901, FO 46/547; and memo. Bertie, 22 July 1901, FO 17/1507; cf. I.H. Nish, AngloJapanese Alliance: The Diplomacy of Two Island Empires, 1894–1907 (Westport, CT, repr. 1976), 154–6. 60 Between 1889 and 1904 production costs for capital ships doubled and those for cruisers quadrupled, cf. J.T. Sumida, In Defence of Naval Supremacy: Finance, Technology, and British Naval Policy (London, 1993 (pb)), 18–20; K. Neilson, ‘The Anglo-Japanese Alliance and British Strategic Foreign Policy, 1902–1914’. 61 Kerr to Selborne (secret), 2 Sept. 1901, in D.G. Boyce (ed.), The Crisis of British Power: The Imperial and Naval Papers of the Second Earl of Selborne, 1895–1910 (London, 1990), p. 123; memo. Selborne, ‘Balance of Power in the Far East’, 4 Sept. 1901, CAB 37/58/81. For the background and impact cf. Z.S. Steiner, ‘Great Britain and the Creation of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance’, Journal of Modern History, 31 (1959): 27–36; also K. Neilson, ‘ “Greatly Exaggerated”: The Myth of the Decline of Great Britain before 1914’, International History Review, 13 (1991): 695–725. 62 For a fuller discussion of this dynamic cf. T.G. Otte, Global Transformation, Chapter 6; also, albeit somewhat mechanistic in its analysis, A.L. Friedberg, ‘Britain Faces the Burdens of Empire: The Financial Crisis of 1901–5’, War & Society, 5 (1987): 15–37. 63 J.A.S. Grenville, ‘Great Britain and the Isthmian Canal, 1898–1901’, American Historical Review, 61(1955): 69. 64 For this argument cf. J.M. Goudswaard, Some Aspects of the End of Britain’s ‘Splendid Isolation’, 1898–1904 (Rotterdam, 1952), 92–3; M.E. Howard, The Continental Commitment: The Dilemma of British Defence Policy in the Era of the Two World Wars (Harmondsworth, Mdx, 1974 (pub.)), 92–3. 65 Neilson, Britain and the Last Tsar, 223–6; I.H. Nish, The Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 229–44; Otte, Global Transformation, Chapter 7. 66 P. Towle, ‘The Russo-Japanese War and the Defence of India’, Military Affairs, 44(1980): 114–15; useful, albeit somewhat rigid, K.M. Wilson, ‘The AngloJapanese Alliance of August 1905 and the Defending of India: A Case of the Worst Case Scenario’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 21(1993): 324–56. 67 Lansdowne to Hardinge, 4 Sept. 1905, Hardinge Mss, Cambridge University Library, vol. 7; cf. R.A. Esthus, Double Eagle and Rising Sun: The Russians and Japanese at Portsmouth in 1905 (Durham, NC, 1986), 144–5. 68 Grey to Spring-Rice, 22 Dec. 1905, as quoted in K. Neilson, ‘ “Control the Whirlwind”: Sir Edward Grey as Foreign secretary, 1906–1916’, in T.G. Otte (ed.), The Makers of British Foreign Policy, 130. 69 For the background, cf. B.J. Williams, ‘The Strategic Background to the AngloRussian Convention of August 1907’, Historical Journal, 9 (1966): 360–73; Neilson, Britain and the Last Tsar, 267–88; also S.E. Koss, John Morley at the India Office (New Haven, CT, 1969), 111–17. For the military and naval talks with the Japanese, cf. Nish, Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 353–8. 70 T.G. Otte, ‘The Elusive Balance: British Foreign Policy and the French Entente before the First World War’, in A. Sharp and G. Stone (eds), Anglo-French Relations in the Twentieth Century: Rivalry and Cooperation (London, 2000), 11–35.

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72 73 74 75 76 77 78

79

80 81 82 83

29

The extent to which Grey deviated from Lansdowne’s seemingly more evenhanded approach remains the subject of some debate. For a critical view of Grey, cf. J. Charmley, Splendid Isolation?: Britain and the Balance of Power (London, 1999), 332; K.M. Wilson, The Policy of the Entente: Essays on the Determinants of British Foreign Policy, 1904–1914 (Cambridge, 1985), 86–99. For interpretations stressing the continuity between Lansdowne and Grey, cf. Z.S. Steiner and K. Neilson, Britain and the Origins of the First World War (Basingstoke and New York, 2nd edn. 2003), 35–43; T.G. Otte, ‘ “Almost a Law of Nature”?: Sir Edward Grey, the FO, and the Balance of Power in Europe, 1905–12’, in B.J.C. McKercher and E. Goldstein (eds), Power and Stability: British Foreign Policy, 1865–1965 (London, 2003), esp. 80–88. P.M. Kennedy, The Rise of the Anglo-German Antagonism, 1860–1914 (London, 1990), 444–7; J. Steinberg, ‘The Novelle of 1908: Necessities and Choices in the Anglo-German Naval Arms Race’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th ser., 21 (1971): 25–43; A.J. Marder, From Dreadnought to Scapa Flow: The RN in the Fisher Era, vol. I, The Road to War (London, 1961), 105–85. Neilson, ‘Control the Whirlwind’, 130–1; Otte, ‘Almost a Law of Nature’, 99–102; Steiner and Neilson, Britain and the Origins, 114–16. The argument developed by Wilson, Policy of the Ententes, 106–8 and 115–18, and unreflectedly taken over by N. Ferguson, The Pity of War (London, 1998), 55–81. Steiner and Neilson, Britain and the Origins, 83. J. Siegel, Endgame: Britain, Russia and the Final Struggle for Central Asia, 1907–1914 (London, 2002), 175–96. D. McLean, Britain and Her Buffer State: The Collapse of the Persian Empire, 1890–1914 (London, 1979), 111–16. Nicolson to Buchanan (private), 21 Apr. 1914, as quoted in Steiner and Neilson, Britain and the Origins, 99. The state of Anglo-Russian relations in 1914 is comprehensively treated in Neilson, Britain and the Last Tsar, 333–40. Wilson, Policy of the Entente, 74–84, 95–9 and 115–20; Wilson, ‘Imperial Interests in the British Decision for War, 1914: The Defence of India in Central Asia’, Review of International Studies, 10 (1984): 189–203; and Wilson, (ed.), British Foreign Secretaries and Foreign Policy: From Crimean War to First World War (London, 1987), 172–97. This seems to be Wilson’s idée fixe, for he has recently charged the Aberdeen coalition of 1853 with deciding on war in the East (against Russia) in order to avoid confronting France in the West (over Belgium), cf. Wilson, Problems and Possibilities: Exercises in Statesmanship, 1814–1918 (Stroud, 2003), 69. K.M. Wilson, ‘The Struggle for Persia: Sir G. Clerk’s Memorandum of 21 [recte 23] July 1914 on Anglo-Russian Relations in Persia’, Proceedings of the 1988 International Conference on Middle Eastern Studies (Leeds, 1988), 290–334, and Wilson, ‘Britain’ in Wilson, (ed.), Decisions for War, 1914 (London, 1995), here 184–7. Min. Grey, 18 Aug. 1914, on memo. Clerk, ‘Anglo-Russian Relations in Persia’, 23 July 1914, FO 371/2076/33484. Neilson, Britain and the Last Tsar, 289–90. Ibid., 340. Otte, ‘Old Diplomacy’, 42–3.

2

The Foreign Office and the defence of empire, 1919–1939 Keith Neilson

At the end of the First World War, four European empires – the Austro–Hungarian, the German, the Ottoman and the Russian – collapsed. At the same time, Japan and the United States emerged as major players on the world stage. To complicate matters further, ideologies hostile to Western democracy – successively Bolshevism, Fascism and Naziism – sprang up, each asserting that it held the keys to the future. Equally important, the verities of pre-war international relations were under siege. Alliances, secret (or ‘old’) diplomacy and arms races were held to be responsible for the outbreak of hostilities in 1914. Finally, the principle of national self-determination was held to be an essential element of peace.1 There was even an attack on the concept of empire itself, although most in the British establishment believed that the time for imperial retreat could be safely put off into the indefinite future.2 British Imperial Defence would have to be formulated in an environment completely different from that of 1914.3 The role of Foreign Office (FO) in determining British strategic foreign policy had also altered. Before the war, the FO had been a central component in the Committee of Imperial Defence (CID), created in 1902 as a nexus between the various departments of state concerned with defence policy.4 And, with respect to foreign policy itself, the FO was supreme prior to 1914, despite efforts by groups – both parliamentary and extra-parliamentary – to push the policy in various directions. After the war, the situation had changed. The machinery of government had altered.5 The increase of prime ministerial power was reflected in the growth of the Cabinet secretariat and the creation of Lloyd George’s ‘garden suburb’, where voices advocating alternate foreign policies would have an opportunity to oppose the FO.6 Further, other departments of state – particularly, the Treasury – then claimed a greater voice in foreign-policy issues, particularly those that involved finances.7 Seriously though, the FO’s own authority was diminished by attacks made on it during the war, although efforts were made under Curzon and, later, Austen Chamberlain to restore its pre-war lustre.8 All these considered, determining the shape of the new world order was the first order of business for the FO after the First World War. Much of

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this took place at the Paris Peace Conference.9 Here, British policy makers made a number of decisions that would affect imperial defence throughout the interwar era. While the various peace treaties were each shaped by particular concerns, there were a number of verities that affected them all. The first was that there should be no more war. This was to be achieved by several means, including the liberation of national minorities and disarmament. Those disputes that still existed were to be resolved by the means provided by the League of Nations, itself a product of the peace.10 This was the ideal.11 However, the circumstances of 1919 and the utopian aims of the peace conference were not always compatible. One dilemma for the FO was how to reconcile its professed support for national minorities (and their aspirations for independence) with the needs of imperial defence. This was particularly acute with respect to the borderlands of the former Tsarist state.12 Some of these problems were not new. In addition to pre-1914 concerns about the Russian threat to India, during the war itself the British had spent a good deal of time ensuring that the ‘jewel of empire’ was secure against all comers.13 This concern was tied to the need to guarantee that the post-war settlement would be favourable to the empire.14 Such considerations had been particularly pressing during the bleak months of 1917 and 1918 when Russia’s collapse had made it seem possible that a military stalemate, if not outright defeat, was the likely outcome of the First World War and that Germany might gain territories in the East that would offset any possible losses she might incur in the West.15 While this did not come to pass, even after the guns stopped firing the British remained very much concerned about the fate of those former Tsarist territories that bordered the British Empire.16 This involved two things: whether such territories would be re-absorbed into a new Soviet state, allowing for a recrudescence of the nineteenth century Russian physical threat to the empire and whether Soviet Russia, as a purveyor of dangerous thoughts, would be successful in undermining the British Empire by means of ideological subversion. Under Lord Curzon, the British Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs from 1919 to 1924, Britain attempted to create a cordon sanitaire against Bolshevik expansion.17 In Europe, this took the form of supporting the independence of the Baltic States, Poland and Eastern Europe generally. In the Baltic, the British wished for stability, a situation in which the Baltic and the Scandinavian states would ensure their own security by means of cooperation, all the while allowing British sea power to operate freely in the Baltic itself.18 In Eastern Europe, where British power could not act, London promoted security through loans and economic penetration.19 More important to the empire, and crucial to imperial defence, was the fate of the southern tier of states in the Caucasus and Central Asia.20 Here, Curzon wished to pursue a forward policy, achieving the long-term goal of defending India by creating a British crescent stretching from India through the Middle East to Egypt. This was not a simple task.21 There were

32 K. Neilson enormous demands on the British army, which had to provide the forces necessary to stabilize the region. In 1920, there were British troops in Germany, Poland, Flanders, France and southern Russia, in addition to those in Ireland and Britain itself. The result was that Curzon’s grand vision found itself incapable of realization. Instead, he was forced to pursue a number of separate policies.22 Afghanistan’s defeat in the IndoAfghan war of 1919 restored Kabul as a buffer state between a recrudescent Russian power and the British Empire. A similar policy was followed with respect to Persia, where the British encouraged Reza Khan’s efforts to create stability rather than attempt to maintain their wartime intervention there.23 Support for the nascent states in the Caucasus was abandoned; the decision being made that the British could not provide them with adequate material means to ensure their independence, and that, in any case, their existence was not central to imperial security.24 Instead, the cordon sanitaire against Bolshevism was to be supplemented by diplomacy. In 1921, the Anglo-Soviet trade agreement was signed in an attempt to restore European economic stability and aid British post-war reconstruction.25 This did not bring an end to concerns about India.26 Late in 1926, Soviet Russia and Afghanistan began a border quarrel over the island of Urta Tagai, situated in the Oxus. The British had headed off an actual conflict by persuading the Amir of Afghanistan to refer the matter to a commission, but the question of whether the British should and how they could defend the North-West frontier remained. There were divided counsels. Men like Birkenhead, the Secretary of State for India, pointed out that Britain lacked any military means of defending Afghanistan. Instead, he argued that Britain must ensure that Moscow realized that any Soviet threat to the North-West frontier would mean war with Britain. The Chiefs of Staff (COS) echoed the bleak military assessment but were deeply suspicious of Soviet motives, a position shared by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Winston Churchill. The FO, for its part, preferred a policy of ‘aloofness’ towards Soviet Russia.27 Any clash or break with Soviet Russia would threaten both the Locarno accords that Austen Chamberlain, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, had concluded in 1925 and Britain’s position in China. For the FO, the Russian threat to British security could be met in two ways. First, Anglo-Japanese relations should be improved as much as possible in order that Tokyo could help buttress the British position in China. Second, Britain should build on Locarno and thus make Europe secure and prosperous so that Soviet subversion would find no fertile ground there. Nonetheless, the COS continued their examination of the security of the Afghan frontier. The government of India favoured caution. They contended that building rail lines into Afghanistan, the COS’s preferred response to possible Soviet aggression, was not practical politics and that to inform Moscow and Kabul that an attack on Afghanistan would mean war would permit Kabul to adopt a policy of provocation towards the

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Soviets. This, in turn, would mean, in the words of the Foreign Secretary to the Government of India, Sir Denys Bray, that Britain ‘would have surrendered the issues of peace or war with Russia to the incalculable actions of an unscrupulous, reckless barbarian’.28 For the Government of India, diplomacy, not armed force, was the way to maintain India’s defences. This line of argument was still favoured at the FO. But, the government’s discontent with Soviet Russia, which had simmered throughout 1926 and early 1927, boiled over. The result was the Arcos raid and the breaking of diplomatic relations with Russia. The immediate result, after mutual recriminations, was a reduction in Anglo-Soviet tension, while the purge of communists in the Nationalist government in China lessened British fears for that region of the world. However, with the cessation of formal relations, British diplomacy could no longer act directly in Moscow. However, the Soviet threat remained. In July 1927, Chamberlain told the CID that the British army should be organized on the basis that its most likely field of endeavour would be on the North-West frontier. Diplomacy was to focus on maintaining good relations with Afghanistan, while the Birkenhead Committee, set up to examine the entire issue of the defence of that country, emphasized the need for plans to be made to defend the region, while a second sub-committee dealing with the security of the Persian Gulf reached similar conclusions.29 While the Bolshevik threat to Afghanistan and India went into remission in 1928, it emerged again in 1932. This resulted from an inquiry by the Afghans as to what response the British would make should Soviet Russia threaten Kabul.30 British policy remained the same: any Soviet attack on Afghanistan would be a casus belli; however, it also remained imprudent to let the Afghans know this definitely. Instead, Kabul was informed that action might be taken through the agency of the League, and, if this proved ineffectual, British aid would be forthcoming. However, the nature of Soviet action required to trigger such a response was left deliberately vague. The FO was convinced by this time that Soviet Russia would not risk taking action against Afghanistan due to the Soviet need to contend with a belligerent Japan. This interaction between Great Power relations and the empire also was noticeably during the deliberations of the Defence Requirements SubCommittee (DRC), set up in November 1933 to consider the deficiencies in Britain’s defences.31 In these discussions, the defence of India was made the third priority, after the need to guard against Japan and Germany.32 In fact, it was simply assumed in the DRC’s report that if Britain were prepared to deal with the first two contingencies, then the wherewithal to defend India could be found. This remained the position until 1938, when once again the question of defending India was raised.33 However, throughout this period the FO (if not the India Office) remained convinced that Soviet Russia was unlikely (as a result of facing both a German and Japanese threat) to contemplate aggression. Thus, the defence of

34 K. Neilson India remained a low priority, and the inherent strength of the Indian army itself was felt likely sufficient to deal with any issues.34 The defence of India and Afghanistan was not the only issue that derived from the collapse of the Russian and Ottoman Empires. We have seen that the Caucasus were not deemed essential to imperial defence, but the same could not be said with respect to the Middle East.35 For one thing, the Suez Canal still remained the ‘jugular vein of empire’, although the British attempted to establish alternative routes to the empire beyond Suez via railways.36 When the British granted Egypt ‘independence’ in 1922, the issue of defence was left to be decided by a later treaty, as there was strong opposition to putting such a vital matter in the hands of the Egyptians.37 The negotiation of this treaty was a difficult matter. The FO’s desire to finalize the matter foundered, initially, on the nationalist opposition of Egypt’s ruling Wafd party and, then, in 1933, on the objections of the British service chiefs.38 Italian actions in Abyssinia in 1935 broke this deadlock and acted as a catalyst, raising both British concerns about imperial lines of communication and Egyptian fears about their own security. The result was the signing of the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of Friendship and Alliance in 1936, under the terms of which British forces remained (indeed were augmented) in Egypt. From this time, until the Italian declaration of war in 1940, the FO had to deal with a number of often contradictory issues. On the one hand, it supported the Anglo-Egyptian Agreement as an important element for maintaining Britain’s strategic position; on the other, it wished to find a modus vivendi with Italy and so avoid the possibility of facing three enemies – Germany, Japan and Italy – simultaneously.39 Equally, it was concerned that Egypt might be unwilling to invoke the emergency clauses that would permit the Suez Canal Defence Plan to be initiated. Finally, the FO was troubled by the fact that sending the Mediterranean fleet to the Far East would fatally compromise Britain’s position in the Middle East and Balkans generally.40 The other problem in the Middle East was the fate of Turkey itself. British promises of Turkish territory to Italy in the Treaty of London were incompatible with the aspirations of the Turkish nationalism under the leadership of Mustafa Kemal. The Treaty of Sèvres, which put the Straits under international control and provided for both Greek and Italian acquisitions in Asia Minor, thus would have to be reified by force of arms.41 However, as usual, the British lacked troops, and Greek forces became involved in the attempt to enforce the provisions of Sèvres. The Kemalist movement seemed to tie many of Britain’s enemies together.42 Kept informed by its intelligence services of behind-the-scenes manoeuvrings, the British feared that the Turkish nationalist movement contained a number of elements that threatened the empire: the most frightening aspects of the Pan-Turanian movement and, lurking in the shadows behind it, both the red hand of Bolshevism and Japanese efforts to create an antiWestern linkage between Tokyo and militant Islam.

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Thus, when the Greeks were crushed by the Turks in August 1922, the British attempted to establish a united front against the latter. However, Curzon soon found that France was unwilling to help, and the government’s approach to the Dominions was bungled.43 Thus, the so-called Chanak crisis ended in disaster for the British, one that was instrumental in the revolt that removed Lloyd George from the prime minister’s office. Curzon and the FO managed to rescue Britain from this embarrassing fiasco. At the conference held at Lausanne at the end of 1922 and in early 1923 to resolve the issue, the foreign secretary managed to secure Britain’s concerns with respect to imperial defence by maintaining the freedom of the Straits, with international commissions to administer demilitarised zones at them.44 What remained was to delineate the border between Iraq and Turkey, the sticking point being the possession of Mosul, which the British wished to retain because of its strategic significance for the production of oil for the Royal Navy. This was initially referred to the League for arbitration (another instance of the changed environment for the making of British strategic foreign policy after 1919), and the result was finally confirmed by the Anglo-Turkish Treaty of 5 June 1926. From that time until the approach of war in 1939, Anglo-Turkish relations remained cordial, the only issue of strategic significance being the revision of the Straits agreement in 1936.45 In the years just before the war, both sides moved to make relations even closer in order to check the threat that, first, Italy and then Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia posed to Turkey and Britain’s position in the Middle East.46 While the defence of India and British interests in the Middle East occupied much time and thought, by far the greatest difficulty for imperial defence after the First World War was to protect British interests in the Far East. This was due to the fact that the Far East involved a greater number of issues than did any other area. In that region, formulating British strategic foreign policy involved dealing with the complicated tangle of Great Power relations among Britain, Japan, China, Soviet Russia and the United States. And, as imperial defence in the Pacific centred on naval issues, it also was intimately involved with the twin issues of naval arms control and disarmament. Various British departments of state ranged on opposing sides, with the Admiralty, the War Office and the Treasury all possessed of differing (and contradictory) views as to how best to ensure British security. The FO’s task was to establish a policy that resolved all these issues. The fundamental starting point for imperial defence in the Far East had been established in 1902 with the signing of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance.47 On the British side, the motive behind the alliance had been to check Russian depredations in China.48 However, with St. Petersburg’s defeat in the Russo-Japanese War and the subsequent conclusion of the Anglo-Russian Convention in 1907, much of the advantage accruing to Britain by virtue of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance vanished with the end

36 K. Neilson of the Russian threat.49 In fact, by the time of the Imperial Conference of 1911, the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Edward Grey, had to reassure the delegates that the real advantage of the arrangement with Tokyo was that it ensured that Japan would not threaten the empire.50 The possibility of a Japanese threat became more pronounced during the First World War when Japan took advantage of Britain’s European preoccupations to attempt to force China to accept the Twenty-One Demands of 1915.51 As the war came to an end, and as the date for the expiry of the AngloJapanese Alliance drew closer, the FO had to ponder whether a renewal of the agreement still served British strategic needs.52 While Japan had proved a useful ally, particularly in the naval war, Japan’s aggressive actions on the Asian continent were clearly a menace to Britain’s imperial possessions.53 However, as the Admiralty pointed out at the end of the war, to abrogate the alliance would mean that Britain faced a period of naval inferiority in the Far East. For the FO, the position was even more complicated. American–Japanese relations had deteriorated during the war, and the Americans believed that the Anglo-Japanese Alliance was aimed at them. This, combined with American unhappiness over the British blockade during the First World War, raised the spectre of an Anglo-American naval race unless Washington could be convinced that no sinister Anglo-Japanese naval combination existed.54 The ideal solution would be an Anglo-American agreement in the Far East, but this was not a likely prospect. The FO thus had to balance good Anglo-American relations against the Far Eastern security provided by the ongoing relationship with Japan. A committee was set up under Curzon in September 1920 to consider all these matters.55 The result was a call for the perfection of an AngloAmerican–Japanese agreement to replace the Anglo-Japanese Alliance. But, this could not be considered in isolation. At the same time, the impending Imperial Conference raised the issue of how to defend the Far East.56 The definitive arguments were made by the Admiralty and supported by the Lord President of the Council, Arthur Balfour, a former prime minister and foreign secretary who had been instrumental in the very creation of the CID.57 It was concluded that, regardless of the fate of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance, it was necessary to build a major naval base at Singapore in order to ensure the security of the Far Eastern portion of the empire. This was the origin of the so-called ‘Singapore strategy’, the basis of all interwar thinking concerning the defence of the Far East.58 It is important to note, however, that the Treasury opposed the Singapore project. They contended that Japanese aggression was unlikely, that the Singapore base was too expensive and that the one-power standard against Tokyo (the basis of Admiralty building programmes) was both unnecessary and imprecise in definition. It was now up to the FO to ensure that all these considerations did not adversely affect British policy generally. This was achieved at the

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Washington Naval Conference.59 Here, the British delegation, under Balfour’s leadership, achieved marvels. The Four Power Treaty and the Nine Power Treaty replaced the Anglo-Japanese Alliance and guaranteed China’s sovereignty and integrity.60 The naval portions of the conference established fixed ratios between the principal naval powers with respect to capital ships. As long as the treaties remained in place and were observed, Britain’s Far Eastern empire remained secure, a naval building race against the United States had been avoided, and a reasonable degree of harmony among the Great Powers with respect to East Asia seemed likely.61 Diplomacy had come to the aid of imperial defence. Of course, such a situation was only temporary and was dependent on circumstances. The Treasury and the Admiralty continued to quarrel over the costs of building Singapore and fleet construction, while Soviet Russia became a threat to the British position in China.62 Under Chamberlain, the FO decided that it wished to pursue a new policy in the Far East to counter this trend. Beginning in 1925, the FO repeatedly asserted that no conflict with Japan was likely.63 In fact, by mid-1926, the FO asserted that British imperial defence policy in the Far East should be ‘based on the assumption that Russia is the enemy and not Japan’.64 The FO wished to couple this with a changed policy towards China, a policy that was more in line with post-1918 thinking about empire and was aimed at creating a prosperous unified China that would continue its lucrative trade with Britain without the need for the unequal treaties that had been concluded in the nineteenth century.65 This had a direct impact on imperial defence. The assertion of good relations with Japan meant that the Admiralty would no longer find an ally in the FO against the Treasury’s calls for economy. If Japan were no longer a potential opponent, against whom was the Admiralty’s building programme directed? And, what reason was there for the Singapore naval base? However, the new policy in China also had the potential to complicate Britain’s relations with the Great Powers: a policy of cooperation with China meant that Britain would automatically be ranged on the opposite side if Japan were to pursue an adventurist policy against the mainland. Further, although less so after the Nationalist government of Chiang Kaishek had purged itself of its communist elements in 1927, support for the Nationalists created yet another opportunity for Anglo-Soviet clashes. And, it also underlined departmental differences: the War Office saw Japan as an ally against Soviet actions in China, whereas the FO wished to combat Soviet incursions without Japanese aid. A new China policy did not bring an end to the issues of arms control and the extent of naval building programmes. General arms control was a difficult matter for the FO. While the Treaty of Versailles had inherently promised that disarmament would be pursued, the practical achievement of it was arduous.66 It was difficult to find agreement on technical matters, and each of the Powers wished to exempt from limitation those weapons

38 K. Neilson that it deemed necessary for its own needs. The British were no exception. Since air power promised the maintenance of order in Britain’s colonial possessions on the cheap, the British were loathe to limit its use in the colonial sphere (although quite willing to restrict or abolish any air force that threatened Britain itself).67 However, the Admiralty’s realization that it could no longer use the Japanese bogey to extract funds for its building programmes meant that it became a supporter of naval arms control as a means to maintain its predominant position at sea: if the Royal Navy (RN) could no longer build as it pleased, then it was best to limit the building programmes of other countries. This dovetailed nicely with the FO’s desire to improve AngloAmerican relations. While the 1927 Geneva conference failed to find a solution to the differing needs of London and Washington with respect to cruisers – themselves a vital component for maintaining the sea lanes so necessary for imperial defence – this did not bring an end to the attempt to regularise naval construction.68 This was renewed in 1930 at the London Naval Conference. Here, the Labour Prime minister, J. Ramsay Macdonald, working in tandem with the FO, set the parameters for the naval aspects of imperial defence in the Far East.69 The FO’s desire to improve Anglo-American relations overrode the Admiralty’s desire for maintaining a fleet of 70 cruisers, while Macdonald gave short shrift to the Treasury’s attempts to cut naval budgets even further. With Anglo-American naval relations set on an even keel and with Anglo-Japanese relations seemingly good, it appeared as if the FO had established the diplomatic requirements for ensuring British imperial defence east of Suez. This proved not to be the case. In the autumn of 1931, the Japanese began an aggressive campaign against China, beginning a phase that would not end until 1945. This campaign soon spread and threatened the British position at Shanghai.70 The British Foreign Secretary, Sir John Simon, found himself in a dilemma. He wished to get the Japanese to moderate their actions, but he also wished to pursue this under the aegis of the League so as to avoid focussing Japanese resentment on Britain. This resulted in his being unwilling to follow the anti-Japanese line proposed by the American Secretary of State, Henry L. Stimson. While Simon believed that if Britain were to adopt the American position, Washington would leave it to the British to take any concrete action and do nothing itself, for his part Stimson asserted that he had been let down by the British foreign secretary. This created a situation that bedevilled any Anglo-American cooperation in the Far East for the rest of the decade. There were elements on either side of the Atlantic that distrusted the other, something that the British, and particularly the FO, worked hard to overcome.71 Here, Singapore became an important symbol, as the FO endeavoured to persuade the Americans that its defence was as much an American as a British interest.72

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The emergence of the Japanese threat also was the motivating force behind the calling of the DRC. At that body, the FO sent mixed signals: the bulk of the Office believed that Japan remained the principal threat to British interests, while Sir Robert Vansittart, the Permanent Undersecretary at the Office, insisted that Germany was the ‘ultimate’ enemy.73 Nonetheless, the DRC’s report reflected the FO’s priorities, with Japan being designated as the first contingency against which Britain must guard. At this point, the Treasury’s long-standing arguments in favour of improving Anglo-Japanese relations in order to reduce costs again took the field. These arguments were championed by Neville Chamberlain, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who disliked the Americans and believed that British imperial interests in the Far East could be best safeguarded by a return to the Anglo-Japanese amity of the period from 1902 to 1921.74 Chamberlain’s arguments impressed neither the FO nor the Fighting Services (including the Royal Air Force (RAF), despite its benefitting from Chamberlain’s preference for creating sufficient air power to deter any possible British opponent), but his political clout was sufficient that the priorities of the DRC were skewed away from naval power and imperial defence against Japan. In these circumstances, the FO had to fend off the Treasury’s attempts to shape British policy in the Far East, while instead attempting to provide for imperial defence in that region by means of diplomacy.75 Its preferred means of doing so was to improve Anglo-American relations and to attempt to plant in Japanese minds the idea that Tokyo faced a united Anglo-American front.76 This, the so-called ‘no-bloc’ strategy, also utilized the ongoing tension between Japan and Soviet Russia to create the impression that there was a shadowy European coalition designed to thwart Japan’s expansion on the Asian continent.77 Additionally, the FO worked hard to help the Admiralty to maintain the precarious naval balance that had emerged at London. This was less than successful. The London Naval Conference of 1935 scarcely got off the ground, as the Japanese refused to contemplate any restriction on their building programmes. However, the FO’s adroit handling of the preliminaries to the conference helped to convince the Americans that Britain was neither pro-Japanese nor attempting to go back on the naval parity that Washington had gained in 1930.78 The Anglo-German Naval Agreement of 1935 was another attempt to make bricks without straw.79 In limiting German naval power to 35 per cent of the RN’s level, the Anglo-German Naval Agreement was part and parcel of the Admiralty’s effort to maintain the shaky naval balance established at the London Conference in 1930. As such, it was supported by some at the FO, particularly Robert Craigie, who had been the FO’s chief naval negotiator since the late 1920s. However, others felt that concluding the Anglo-German agreement was bad policy due to its implications for Britain’s relations with the other Great Powers. This was due to the fact

40 K. Neilson that signing it both destroyed the Anglo-French agreement of 3 February, which called for arms control agreements to be made only in the context of a general settlement with Germany, and encouraged the Italians in their desire to attack Abyssinia.80 Equally, it annoyed the Soviets, who lost all faith in any British commitment to a general settlement. This later had its impact on naval arms control with all that implied for imperial defence. In 1936, when the British attempted to conclude a naval agreement with Moscow, the Soviets proved quite unwilling to shape their building programme to suit British interests.81 The Russians were only reluctantly persuaded to limit their building to ships that would neither undermine the basis of the Anglo-German Naval Agreement nor inspire an increase in Japanese naval construction, each of which would have ruined the Admiralty’s careful efforts to maintain a naval balance. Using diplomacy as a substitute for armed might in imperial defence was clearly something that needed to be handled with care. The defence of the Far East became even more complicated in the late 1930s.82 Italy’s growing hostility in the Mediterranean precipitated a crisis in imperial defence as the country imperilled Britain’s lines of communication to the Far East.83 Faced with the ‘triple threat’ of Germany, Italy and Japan, the British turned once again to diplomacy. This was a failure. Neville Chamberlain’s naive attempt to wean Italy away from its hostile policy towards Britain was unsuccessful.84 With Italy’s being unable to be appeased, this turned the FO’s attention back to the interaction between naval power and diplomacy.85 Opinions were divided. Sir Robert Craigie, then Ambassador to Japan, wanted the Admiralty to send a substantial fleet to the Far East to shore up the British imperial position. At the FO, some agreed, arguing that abandoning the Mediterranean was more sensible than leaving the Far East to Japan’s tender mercies. However, leaving the Mediterranean had its drawbacks. France would be disheartened by a British abandonment of the Middle Sea, while Egypt would see this as a betrayal of the 1936 treaty, and Turkey needed to be guaranteed against Italy if Britain wished to persuade Ankara to become the hub of a Balkan combination against the Axis powers. Others at the FO wished to continue the ‘no bloc’ policy and to utilize Japan’s concerns about Soviet Russia and the latent power of the United States to safeguard Britain’s interests in the Far East. The signing of the Nazi-Soviet Pact and the outbreak of war made this latter preference the only practicable policy. With the RN unable to go to the Far East due to the situation in Europe, the defence of Britain’s Empire in the Far East was dependent on the kindness of strangers. With respect to the United States, this meant that British diplomacy had to ensure that Washington continued to believe that Britain did not contemplate any action in the Far East that would either violate the Nine Power Treaty or appear to suggest that Britain was doing a deal with Japan at the expense of China. With respect to Soviet Russia, British policy had to walk a fine line. It was all to the good that Soviet–Japanese tensions should

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remain high, but any Anglo-Japanese rapprochement to encourage such a state (as the Japanese persisted in suggesting) was forbidden by the simultaneous need not to offend Washington. And, the Soviet attack on Finland in late 1939 brought Anglo-Soviet relations to a crisis in which it was contemplated declaring war on Moscow.86 The fall of France and the Italian declaration of war in June 1940 made the situation in the Far East even more difficult. With the Japanese moving into French Indo-China, the security of British lines of communication to the Far East becoming less reliable than ever, and America’s apparent unwillingness to take any concrete actions against Japan, the FO contemplated making a general settlement with Japan.87 But this alternative would have involved abandoning China, and both forfeiting any American help that might be forthcoming in the Far East and lessening American support for Britain in the European conflict. If diplomacy were to continue to substitute for military power in imperial defence, then Britain must appear to have no truck with aggressors. This circumstance remained until Pearl Harbor converted the ‘no bloc’ policy into the Grand Alliance. A consideration of the FO and imperial defence in the period between the wars makes evident a number of things. It underlines the need for a broader conceptual basis for the study of imperial defence. A recent commentator has pointed out the need for ‘reintegrating the sub-disciplines’ of imperial history generally; this point is particularly apt when considering imperial defence.88 For the latter to be understood properly, it needs to be contemplated in the context of British strategic foreign policy. This latter term is a complex one, but involves considering how the British used all their resources – economic, financial, military – within the confines of foreign policy narrowly defined to achieve their aims. And, it is equally important to note that such policy was made within a particular intellectual framework, one that limited what policies could have been both contemplated and pursued. Thus, those who wish to write about imperial defence must place their study not only in the context of empire, but also in the context of British foreign policy generally. Further, they need to take into account specialist work dealing with economics, finances and military and naval matters, all the while being aware of the limiting intellectual constraints on policy. Such general observations have a number of ramifications for research. One is the need for more time in the archives and the requirement to consult a wider range of primary materials than is usual. Another is the necessity to read more widely in the realm of the history of ideas. Only when this is done can imperial defence, properly considered, be understood.

Notes 1 Kenneth J. Calder, Britain and the Origins of the New Europe (Cambridge, 1976); Hugh Seton-Watson and Christopher Seton-Watson, The Making of a New Europe (London, 1981).

42 K. Neilson 2 John Darwin, ‘Imperialism in Decline? Tendencies in British Imperial Policy between the Wars’, Historical Journal, 23 (1980): 657–79; P.J. Marshall, ‘Imperial Britain’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 23 (1995): 395–426. 3 For an elaboration of these ideas, see Keith Neilson, Britain, Soviet Russia and the Collapse of the Versailles Settlement, 1919–1939 (Cambridge, 2005). For an excellent study that analyzes the changed circumstances with regard to strategic foreign policy after the war, see John Robert Ferris, Men, Money, and Diplomacy. The Evolution of British Strategic Foreign Policy, 1919–1926 (Ithaca, NY, 1989). 4 Nicholas d’Ombrain, War Machinery and High Policy. Defence administration in peacetime Britain 1902–1914 (Oxford, 1973) and F.A. Johnson, Defence by Committee: The British Committee of Imperial Defence, 1885–1959 (Oxford, 1960). 5 Kathleen Burk, ed., War and the State. The Transformation of British Government, 1914–1919 (London, 1982). 6 John F. Naylor, A Man and An Institution. Sir Maurice Hankey, the Cabinet Secretariat and the custody of Cabinet secrecy (Cambridge, 1984); John Turner, ‘The Formation of Lloyd George’s “Garden Suburb”: “Fabian-Like Milnerite Penetration”?’, Historical Journal, 20 (1977): 165–84; ibid., Lloyd George’s Secretariat (Cambridge, 1980). 7 George Peden, The Treasury and British Public Policy 1906–1959 (Oxford, 2000), 170–4, 212–16. 8 Roberta M. Warman, ‘The Erosion of FO Influence in the Making of Foreign Policy, 1916–1918’, Historical Journal, 15 (1972): 133–59; Alan J. Sharp, ‘The FO in Eclipse 1919–22’, History, 61 (1976): 198–218; G.H. Bennett, ‘Lloyd George, Curzon and the Control of British Foreign Policy 1919–22’, Australian Journal of Politics and History, 45 (1999): 467–82; Gaynor Johnson, ‘Curzon, Lloyd George and the Control of British Foreign Policy, 1919–22: A Reassessment’, Diplomacy & Statecraft, 11 (2000): 49–71; B.J.C. McKercher, ‘Old Diplomacy and New: The FO and Foreign Policy, 1919–1939’, in Michael Dockrill and Brian McKercher, eds, Diplomacy and World Power: Studies in British Foreign Policy, 1890–1950 (Cambridge, 1996). 9 For British policy at Paris, see Erik Goldstein, Winning the Peace. British Diplomatic Strategy, Peace Planning, and the Paris Peace Conference 1916–1920 (Oxford, 1991). Two recent collections introduce the literature, set the context and add to Goldstein: Manfred F. Boemeke, Gerald D. Feldman and Elisabeth Glaser, eds, The Treaty of Versailles. A Reassessment after 75 Years (Washington, DC and Cambridge, 1998) and Michael Dockrill and John Fisher, eds, The Paris Peace Conference, 1919. Peace without Victory? (Basingstoke and New York, 2001). 10 On the League, and the differing British views of what it meant, see G. Egerton, Great Britain and the Creation of the League of Nations (London, 1972), F.S. Northedge, The League of Nations. Its Life and Times: 1920–1946 (Leicester, 1986); Peter J. Yearwood, ‘ “Read Securities against New Wars”: Official British Thinking and the Origins of the League of Nations, 1914–19’, Diplomacy & Statecraft, 9 (1998): 83–109; George Egerton, ‘Collective Security as Political Myth: Liberal Internationalism and the League of Nations in Politics and History’, International History Review, 5 (1983): 496–524; ibid., ‘Conservative Internationalism: British Approaches to International Organization and the Creation of the League of Nations’, Diplomacy & Statecraft, 5 (1994): 1–20. For an excellent interpretative essay, see Zara Steiner, ‘The League of Nations and the Quest for Security’, in R. Ahmann, A.M. Birke and M. Howard, eds, The Quest for Stability. Problems of West European Security 1918–1957 (Oxford, 1993), 35–70. 11 For some early efforts by the League and the British attitude towards its functioning, see Peter J. Yearwood, ‘ “Consistently with Honour”: Great Britain, the

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14 15 16

17 18

19

43

League of Nations and the Corfu Crisis of 1923’, Journal of Contemporary History, 21 (1986): 559–79; P.J. Beck, ‘From the Geneva Protocol to the Greco-Bulgarian dispute: the development of the Baldwin government’s policy towards the peacekeeping role of the League of Nations, 1924–1925’, British Journal of International Studies, 6 (1980): 52–68; David Carlton, ‘Great Britain and the League Council Crisis of 1926’, Historical Journal, 11 (1968): 345–64. Keith Neilson, ‘ “That elusive entity British policy in Russia”: the Impact of Russia on British Policy at the Paris Peace Conference’, in Dockrill and Fisher, eds, Paris Peace Conference, 67–103. For the pre-war concern, in addition to the material cited above in the chapter by Thomas Otte, see R.A. Johnson, ‘ “Russians at the Gates of India”? Planning the Defence of India, 1885–1900’, Journal of Military History, 67 (2003): 697–743. For the matter during the First World War, Keith Neilson, ‘ “For diplomatic, economic, strategic and telegraphic reasons: British imperial defence, the Middle East and India, 1914–18’, in Greg Kennedy and Keith Neilson, eds, Far-Flung Lines. Essays on Imperial Defence in Honour of Donald Mackenzie Schurman (London and Portland, OR, 1997), 103–23; Benjamin Schwartz, ‘Divided Attention: Britain’s Perception of a German Threat to Her Eastern Position in 1918’, Journal of Contemporary History, 28 (1993): 103–22. V.H. Rothwell, British War Aims and Peace Diplomacy 1914–1918 (Oxford, 1971) and Lorna Jaffe, The Decision to Disarm Germany (London, 1985). Brock Millman, Pessimism and British War Policy 1916–1918 (London, and Portland, OR, 2001), 112–54; 199–240; ibid., ‘A Counsel of Despair: British Strategy and War Aims, 1917–18’, Journal of Contemporary History, 36 (2001): 241–70. For British policy, generally towards Soviet Russia in the early period, see R.H. Ullman, Anglo-Soviet Relations 1917–1921 (3 vols; Princeton, NJ, 1961–1973). For parallel studies of Soviet policy that puts British actions in the Soviet perspective, see two monographs by Richard K. Debo, Revolution and Survival. The Foreign Policy of Soviet Russia 1917–18 (Toronto, ON, and Buffalo, NY, 1979) and Survival and Consolidation. The Foreign Policy of Soviet Russia 1918–1921 (Montreal, CA, and Kingston, ON, 1992). See G.H. Bennett, British Foreign Policy during the Curzon Period, 1919–24 (Basingstoke and New York, 1995), 41–60. For Poland, see K. Lundgreen-Nielsen, The Polish Problem at the Paris Peace Conference. A Study in the Politics of the Great Powers and the Poles, 1918–1920 (Odense, 1979) and Edgar Anderson, ‘The British Policy Toward the Baltic States 1918–1920’, Journal of Central European Affairs, 19 (1959): 276–89. For Scandinavia and the Baltic States, the articles by Patrick Salmon, ‘British Security Interests in Scandinavia and the Baltic 1918–39’ and Merja-Liisa Hinkkanen, ‘Bridges and Barrier, Pawns and Actors. The Baltic States in East-West Relations in the 1920s’ all in John Hiden and Aleksandr Loit, eds, The Baltic in International Relations between the Two World Wars (Stockholm, 1988), 113–36, 431–42; Markku Ruotsila, ‘The Churchill-Mannerheim Collaboration in the Russian Intervention, 1919–1920’, Slavonic and East European Review, 80 (2002): 1–20. Essential are Olavi Hovi, The Baltic Area in British Policy 1918–1921. Vol. I: From the Compiègne Armistice to the Implementation of the Versailles Treaty (Helsinki, 1980) and the work of Ea Sundbäck: ‘ “A Convenient Buffer between Scandinavia and Russia” Great Britain, Scandinavia and the Birth of Finland after the First World War’, Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas, 42 (1994): 355–75 and Finland in British Baltic Policy. British political and economic interests regarding Finland in the Aftermath of the First World War, 1918–1925 (Helsinki, 2001). For an introduction, see Gábor Bátonyi, Britain and Central Europe 1918–1931 (Oxford, 1999); for some specifics, see Gerald Protheroe, ‘Sir George Clerk and the Struggle for British Influence in Central Europe’, Diplomacy &

44 K. Neilson

20

21

22 23

24

25

26

27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

Statecraft, 12 2001: 39–64; Gyorgy Peter, ‘Central Bank Diplomacy: Montagu Norman and Central Europe’s Monetary Reconstruction after World War I’, Contemporary European History, 3 (1992): 233–58, Anne Orde, ‘Baring Brothers, the Bank of England, the British Government and the Czechoslovak State Loan of 1922’, English Historical Review, 106 (1991): 27–40. John Fisher, Curzon and British Imperialism in the Middle East 1916–19 (London, and Portland, OR, 1999) sets the wider context; see also ibid., ‘ “On The Glacis of India”: Lord Curzon and British Policy in the Caucasus, 1919’, Diplomacy & Statecraft, 8 (1997): 50–82; David Kelly, ‘End of the Great Game: British Intervention in Russia’s Southern Borderlands and the Soviet Response’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, 13 (2000): 84–100; L.P. Morris, ‘British Secret Missions in Turkestan, 1918–19’, Journal of Contemporary History, 12 (1977): 363–79. What follows is based on Keith Jeffery, ‘Sir Henry Wilson and the Defence of the British Empire, 1918–22’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 5 (1977): 270–94; ibid., The British Army and the Crisis of Empire 1918–1922 (Manchester, 1984). Bennett, British Foreign Policy, 60–75. Houshang Sabahi, British Policy in Persia 1918–1925 (London, and Portland, OR, 1990), 157–200. For the earlier policy in Persia, see Brock Millman, ‘The Problem with Generals: Military Observers and the Origins of the Intervention in Russia and Persia, 1917–18’, Journal of Contemporary History, 33 (1998): 291–320. See Manoug J. Somakian, Empires in Conflict. Armenia and the Great Powers 1895–1920 (London and New York, 1995). The British did continue to attempt to preserve trade with the area, but this was ended when it was re-absorbed by the Bolsheviks; see Dennis Ogden, ‘Britain and Soviet Georgia, 1921–22’, Journal of Contemporary History, 23 (1988): 245–58. M.V. Glenny, ‘The Anglo-Soviet Trade Agreement, March 1921’, Journal of Contemporary History, 5 (1970): 63–82. For the difficulties involved, see the account of the Genoa Conference in Anne Orde, British Policy and European Reconstruction after the First World War (Cambridge, 1990), 194–207. What follows, except where otherwise noted, is informed by Orest Babij, ‘The Making of Imperial Defence Policy in Britain, 1926–1934’, unpublished DPhil thesis, Oxford, 2002, pp. 25–66 and Keith Neilson, ‘ “Pursued by a Bear”: British Estimates of Soviet Military Strength and Anglo-Soviet Relations, 1922–1939’, Canadian Journal of History, 27 (1993): 194–206. Richard S. Grayson, Austen Chamberlain and the Commitment to Europe. British Foreign Policy 1924–29 (London, and Portland, OR, 1997), 253–58. Minutes, 223rd meeting of the CID, 17 March 1927, Cab[inet Office] 2/5. Uriel Dann, ‘British Persian Gulf Concepts in the Light of Emerging Nationalism in the Late 1920s’, in Uriel Dann, ed., The Great Powers in the Middle East 1919–1939 (New York and London, 1988), 50–68. Neilson, Britain, Soviet Russia, chapter 1. For the DRC and its context, see Keith Neilson, ‘The Defence Requirements Sub-Committee, British Strategic Foreign Policy, Neville Chamberlain and the Path to Appeasement’, English Historical Review, 118 (2003): 651–84. Committee of Imperial Defence. Defence Requirements Sub-Committee Report’, DRC 14, Hankey, Chatfield, Ellington, Fisher, Montgomery-Massingberd and Vansittart, 28 Feb. 1934, Cab 16/109. Milan Hauner, ‘The Soviet Threat to Afghanistan and India 1938–1940’, Modern Asian Studies, 15 (1982): 287–309. For Indian strength, see Pradeep Barua, ‘Strategies and Doctrines of Imperial Defence: Britain and India, 1919–45’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 25 (1997): 240–66. This runs counter to the commonly held belief that

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35 36

37

38 39

40

41 42

43

44 45

45

India was a drag on British defence, for which see Michael Howard, The Continental Commitment: The Dilemma for British Defence Policy in the Two World Wars (London, 1972) and Brian Bond, British Military Policy Between the Two World Wars (Oxford, 1980), 267–70. For the context, see John Darwin, ‘An Undeclared Empire: The British in the Middle East, 1918–39’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 27 (1999): 159–76. Steven Morewood, ‘Protecting the Jugular Vein of Empire: The Suez Canal in British Defence Strategy, 1919–1941’, War and Society, 10, 1 (1992), pp. 81–107; Keith Neilson, ‘The Baghdad to Haifa Railway: the Culmination of Railway Planning for Imperial Defence East of Suez’ in Thomas Otte and Keith Neilson, eds, The Path of Empire: Railways in International Politics, 1860–1943 (London, forthcoming). For British policy towards Egypt, see John Darwin, Britain, Egypt and the Middle East. Imperial policy in the aftermath of war 1918–1922 (London and Basingstoke, 1981); ibid., ‘An Undeclared Empire: The British in the Middle East, 1918–39’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 27, 2 (1999), pp. 159–76; Gabriel R. Warburg, ‘Sudan, Egypt and Britain, 1919–1924’, in Dann, ed., Great Powers in the Middle East, pp. 71–90. Steven Morewood, ‘Appeasement from Strength: The Making of the 1936 Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of Friendship and Alliance’, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 7, 3 (1996), pp. 530–62. For this, see Steven Morewood, ‘Anglo-Italian Rivalry in the Mediterranean and Middle East, 1935–1940’, in Robert Boyce and Esmonde M. Robertson, eds, Paths to War. New Essays on the Origins of the Second World War (London, 1989), pp. 167–98; ibid., The British Defence of Egypt 1935–1940. Conflict and Crisis in the Eastern Mediterranean (London and New York, 2005). For analysis of all these problems, see David Omissi, ‘The Mediterranean and the Middle East in British Global Strategy, 1935–39’, Michael J. Cohen, ‘British Strategy in the Middle East in the Wake of the Abyssinian Crisis, 1936–39 and Paul Harris, ‘Egypt: Defence Plans’, all in Michael J. Cohen and Martin Kolinsky, eds, Britain and the Middle East in the 1930s (London, 1993), pp. 3–20, 21–40 and 61–78 respectively. Also important is Lawrence Pratt, East of Malta, West of Suez: Britain’s Mediterranean Crisis, 1936–1939 (Cambridge, 1975). Bennett, British Foreign Policy, pp. 76–94. John R. Ferris, ‘ “Far Too Dangerous a Gamble”? British Intelligence and Policy during the Chanak Crisis, September-October 1922’, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 14, 2 (2003), 139–84; A.L. Macfie, ‘British Intelligence and the Turkish National Movement, 1919–22’, Middle Eastern Studies, 37, 1 (2001), 27–46; ibid., ‘British Views of the Turkish National Movement in Anatolia, 1919–22’, Middle Eastern Studies, 38, 3 (2002), 27–46; John Fisher, ‘The Interdepartmental Committee on Eastern Unrest and British Responses to Bolshevik and other intrigues against the Empire in the 1920s’, Journal of Asian History, 34, 1 (2000), pp. 1–34, and Selçuk Esenbel, ‘Japan’s Global Claim to Asia and the World of Islam: Transnational Nationalism and World Power, 1900–1945’, American Historical Review, 109, 4 (2004), pp. 1140–70. D. Walder, The Chanak Affair (London, 1969); Philip G. Wigley, Canada and the Transition to Commonwealth. British-Canadian Relations 1917–1926 (Cambridge, 1977), pp. 160–72; Michael L. Dockrill and J. Douglas Goold, Peace without Promise. Britain and the Peace Conferences 1919–23 (London, 1981), pp. 226–35. Dockrill and Goold, Peace without Promise, pp. 236–52; Bennett, British Foreign Policy, pp. 89–94. For this, see Brock Millman, The Ill-Made Alliance. Anglo-Turkish Relations 1939–1940 (Montreal and Kingston, ON, 1998), pp. 69–85.

46 K. Neilson 46 Ibid., pp. 162–293. 47 Ian Nish, The Anglo-Japanese Alliance. The Diplomacy of Two Island Empires 1894–1907 (London, 1966) remains the best study. Also important is ibid., ‘Origins of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance. In the Shadow of the Dreibund’, in Phillips Payson O’Brien, ed., The Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 1902–1922 (London and New York, 2004), pp. 8–25. 48 Keith Neilson, ‘The Anglo-Japanese Alliance and British strategic foreign policy, 1902–1914’, in O’Brien, ed., Anglo-Japanese Alliance, pp. 48–63. 49 Keith Neilson, Britain and the Last Tsar. British Policy and Russia, 1894–1917 (Oxford, 1995). 50 Robert Joseph Gowen, ‘British Legerdemain at the 1911 Imperial Conference: The Dominions, Defense Planning, and the Renewal of the Anglo-Japanese Alliance’, Journal of Modern History, 52, 3 (1980), pp. 385–413. 51 I.H. Nish, ‘Japan and China, 1914–1916’, in F.H. Hinsley, ed., British Foreign Policy under Sir Edward Grey (Cambridge, 1977), pp. 452–65; ibid., Alliance in Decline. A Study in Anglo-Japanese Relations 1908–23 (London, 1972), pp. 115–262; Robert Joseph Gowen, ‘Great Britain and the Twenty-One Demands of 1915: Cooperation versus Effacement’, Journal of Modern History, 43, 1 (1971), pp. 76–106; Peter Lowe, Great Britain and Japan 1911–1915: a study of British far eastern policy (London, 1969); ibid., ‘The British Empire and the Anglo-Japanese Alliance 1911–1915’, History, 54, 1969, pp. 212–25. 52 Keith Neilson, ‘ “Unbroken Thread”: Japan, Maritime Power and British Imperial Defence, 1920–32’, in Greg Kennedy, ed., British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 1900–2000. Influences and actions (London and New York, 2005), pp. 62–89; John Fisher, ‘ “Backing the Wrong Horse”: Japan in British Middle Eastern Policy 1914–18’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 21, 2 (1998), pp. 60–74. 53 On Japan in the naval war, J. Charles Schencking, ‘Navalism, naval expansion and war. The Anglo-Japanese Alliance and the Japanese Navy’, in O’Brien, ed., Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 122–39; Timothy D. Saxon, ‘Anglo-Japanese Naval Cooperation, 1914–1918’, Naval War College Review, 53, 1 (2000), pp. 62–92. For the broader aspects, V.H. Rothwell, ‘The British Government and Japanese Military Assistance 1914–1918’, History, 56 (1971), pp. 35–45 and Yoichi Hirama, ‘The Anglo-Japanese Alliance and the First World War’, in Ian Gow, Yoichi Hirama and John Chapman, eds, The History of Anglo-Japanese Relations, 1600–2000. Volume III: The Military Dimension (Basingstoke and New York, 2003), pp. 51–70. 54 J. Kenneth McDonald, ‘Lloyd George and the Search for a Postwar Naval Policy, 1919’, in A.J.P. Taylor, ed., Lloyd George: Twelve Essays (London, 1971), pp. 191–222. 55 Nish, Alliance in Decline, pp. 310–13. 56 See Michael G. Fry, Illusions of Security. North Atlantic Diplomacy 1918–22 (Toronto, ON, and Buffalo, NY, 1972), pp. 121–53. 57 For Balfour’s thinking, Jason Tomes, Balfour and Foreign Policy: The International Thought of a Conservative Statesman (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 238–52. 58 There is a large body of work on the Singapore strategy. Two reviews summarize much of the literature: Malcolm H. Murfett, ‘Living in the Past: A Critical Re-examination of the Singapore Naval Strategy, 1918–1941’, War and Society, 11, 1 (1993), pp. 73–103 and ibid., ‘Reflections on an Enduring Theme: The “Singapore Strategy” at Sixty’, in Brian Farrell and Sandy Hunter, eds, Sixty Years On. The Fall of Singapore Revisited (Singapore, 2002), pp. 3–28. In addition, there are some articles that throw light on the topic: Galen Roger Perras, ‘ “Our Position in the Far East would be Stronger without this Unsatisfactory Commitment”: Britain and the Reinforcement of Hong Kong, 1941’, Canadian Journal of History, 30, 2 (1995), pp. 231–59; Ian Cowman, ‘Defence

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59 60 61

62

63 64 65 66 67

68

69

47

of the Malay Barrier? The Place of the Philippines in Admiralty Naval War Planning, 1925–1941’, War in History, 3, 4 (1996), pp. 398–417; ibid., ‘Main Fleet to Singapore? Churchill, the Admiralty, and Force Z’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 18, 1 (1995), pp. 79–93; Christopher Bell, ‘ “Our Most Exposed Outpost”: Hong Kong and British Far Eastern Strategy, 1921–1941’, Journal of Military History, 60, 1 (1996), pp. 61–88 and, most recently, ibid., ‘The “Singapore Strategy” and the Deterrence of Japan: Winston Churchill, the Admiralty and the Dispatch of Force Z’ English Historical Review, 116, 467 (2001), pp. 604–34. There is a useful account in Malcolm H. Murfett, John N. Miksic, Brian P. Farrell, Chiang Ming Shun, Between Two Ocean: A Military History of Singapore from First Settlement to Final British Withdrawal (Oxford, 1999), pp. 145–74. In addition, Christopher Bell, The Royal Navy, Seapower and Strategy between the Wars (London, 2000) and Ong Chit Chung, Operation Matador. Britain’s War Plans against the Japanese 1918–1941 (Singapore, 1997), put the subject into context. The best introduction to the Washington Conference is the issue of Diplomacy and Statecraft, 4, 3 (1993) edited by Erik Goldstein and John Maurer, which is devoted to the topic. For Canada, see Fry, Illusions of Security, pp. 154–86. Nish, Alliance in Decline, pp. 368–82. J. Kenneth McDonald, ‘The Washington Conference and the Naval Balance of Power, 1921–2’, in John B. Hattendorf and Robert S. Jordan, eds, Maritime Strategy and the Balance of Power. Britain and America in the Twentieth Century (London, 1989), pp. 189–213. The Treasury was unable to control cost until the late 1920s; see John Ferris, ‘Treasury Control, the Ten Year Rule and British Service Policies, 1919–1924’, Historical Journal, 30 (1987), pp. 359–83. For the Soviet threat, see Babij, ‘Imperial Defence Policy’, pp. 37–59; Antony Best, British Intelligence and the Japanese Challenge in Asia, 1914–1941 (Basingstoke and New York, 2002), pp. 49–69. Neilson, ‘Unbroken Thread’, pp. 73–5. Foreign Relations in Relations to Russia and Japan’, CID 710-B, Tyrrell (PUS), 27 July 1926, Cab 4/15. Edmund S.K. Fung, ‘The Sino-British Rapprochement, 1927–1931’, Modern Asian Studies, 17, 1 (1983), pp. 79–105; ibid., The Diplomacy of Imperial Retreat: Britain’s South China Policy, 1924–1931 (Oxford, 1991). Dick Richardson, The Evolution of British Disarmament Policy in the 1920s (London and New York, 1989) is the best study, although rather partisan. David Omissi, ‘Technology and Repression: Air Control in Palestine 1922–36’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 13, 4 (1990), 41–63; ibid., Air Power and Colonial Control: The RAF 1919–1939 (Manchester, 1990); Charles Townshend, ‘Civilization and “Frightfulness”: Air Control in the Middle East Between the Wars’, in Chris Wrigley, ed., War Diplomacy and Politics. Essays in Honour of A.J.P. Taylor (London, 1986), pp. 142–62. More generally, see Philip Towle, Philip, ‘British Security and Disarmament Policy in Europe in the 1920s’, in R. Ahmann, A.M. Birke and M. Howard, eds, The Quest for Stability. Problems of West European Security 1918–1957 (Oxford, 1993), pp. 127–53. For the Geneva Conference, see Tadashi Kuramatsu, ‘The Geneva Naval Conference of 1927: The British Preparation for the Conference, December 1926 to June 1927’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 19 (1996), pp. 104–21; ibid., ‘Viscount Cecil, Winston Churchill and the Geneva Naval Conference of 1927: Si vis pacem para pacem vs si vis pacem para bellum’, in T.G. Otte and Constantine A. Pagedas, eds, Personalities, War and Diplomacy: Essays in International History (London, 1997), pp. 105–27; Babij, ‘Imperial Defence Policy’, pp. 70–83. Orest Babij, ‘The Second Labour Government and British Maritime Security, 1929–1931’, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 6, 3 (1995), pp. 645–71; Orest Babij, ‘The

48 K. Neilson

70

71 72 73 74

75

76

77 78 79

80

81

82 83

RN and the Defence of the British Empire, 1928–1934’, in Neilson and Kennedy, eds, Far-Flung Lines, pp. 171–89. Christopher Thorne, ‘The Shanghai Crisis of 1932: The Basis of British Policy’, American Historical Review, 75, 6 (1975), pp. 1616–39; ibid., The Limits of Foreign Policy: The West, the League and the Far Eastern Crisis of 1931–33 (New York, 1973) and Ian Nish, Japan’s Struggle with Internationalism: Japan, China and the League of Nations, 1931–33 (London, 1993) set the situation and the British response. The effort to do so is the theme of Greg Kennedy, Anglo-American Strategic Relations and the Far East 1933–1939 (London, 2002). Greg Kennedy, ‘Symbol of Imperial Defence: The Role of Singapore in British and American Far Eastern Strategic Relations, 1933–1941’, in Farrell and Hunter, eds, Sixty Years On, pp. 42–67. Neilson, ‘Defence Requirements Sub-Committee’, pp. 665–9. Greg Kennedy, ‘ “Rat in Power”: Neville Chamberlain and the Creation of British Foreign Policy, 1931–1939’, in T.G. Otte, ed., The Makers of British Foreign Policy: From Pitt to Thatcher (Basingstoke and New York, 2002), pp. 173–95; ibid., ‘Neville Chamberlain and Strategic Relations with the US during his Chancellorship’, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 13 (2002), pp. 95–120. Gill Bennett, ‘British Policy in the Far East 1933–1936: Treasury and FO’, Modern Asian Studies, 26 (1992), pp. 545–68; V.H. Rothwell, ‘The Mission of Sir Leith-Ross to the Far East, 1935–1936’, Historical Journal, 18 (1975), pp. 147–69; Peter Neville, ‘Lord Vansittart, Sir Walford Selby and the Debate about Treasury Interference in the Conduct of British Foreign Policy in the 1930s’, Journal of Contemporary History, 36, 4 (2001), pp. 623–33. See Kennedy, Anglo-American Strategic Relations; see also, ibid., ‘What Worth the Americans? The British Strategic Foreign Policy-Making Elite’s View of American Maritime Power in the Far East, 1933–1941’, in Kennedy, ed., British Naval Strategy, pp. 90–117. Greg Kennedy, ‘1935: A Snapshot of British Imperial Defence in the Far East’, in Neilson and Kennedy, eds, Far-Flung Lines, pp. 190–216. Kennedy, Anglo-American Strategic Relations, pp. 121–210 makes this point decisively. Clare M. Scammell, ‘The RN and the Strategic Origins of the Anglo-German Naval Agreement of 1935’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 20, 2 (1997), pp. 92–118; Joseph A. Maiolo, ‘The Admiralty and the Anglo-German Naval Agreement of 18 June 1935’, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 10, 1 (1999), pp. 87–126 and ibid., The RN and Nazi Germany, 1933–39. A Study in Appeasement and the Origins of the Second World War (London, 1998). D.C. Watt, ‘The Anglo-German Naval Agreement of 1935: An Interim Judgment’, Journal of Modern History, 28, 2 (1956), pp. 168–71; Hines H. Hall III, ‘The Foreign Policy-Making Process in Britain, 1934–1935, and the Origins of the Anglo-German Naval Agreement’, Historical Journal, 19, 2 (1976), pp. 477–99; Reynolds M. Salerno, ‘Multilateral Strategy and Diplomacy: The AngloGerman Naval Agreement and the Mediterranean Crisis, 1935–1936’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 17, 2 (1994), pp. 39–78. Greg Kennedy, ‘Becoming Dependent on the Kindness of Strangers: British Strategic Foreign Policy, Naval Arms Limitation and the Soviet Factor: 1935–1937’, War in History, 11, 1 (2004), pp. 79–105; David K. Varey, ‘The Politics of Naval Aid: The FO, the Admiralty, and Anglo-Soviet Technical Cooperation, 1936–37’, D & S, 14, 4 (2003), 50–68. For British attempts to obscure what this meant for Imperial defence, see Rainer Tamchina, ‘In Search of Common Causes: The Imperial Conference of 1937’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 1, 1 (1972), pp. 79–106. For the crisis, see Reynolds M. Salerno, Vital Crossroads. Mediterranean Origins of

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the Second World War, 1935–1940 (Ithaca, NY and London, 2002), pp. 10–39; Pratt, East of Malta, West of Suez; Robert Mallett, The Italian Navy and Fascist Expansionism 1935–1940 (London, and Portland, OR, 1998). See the articles by William C. Mills, ‘The Chamberlain-Grandi Conversations of July-August 1937 and the Appeasement of Italy’, International History Review, 19, 3 (1997), 594–619; ‘The Nyon Conference: Neville Chamberlain, Anthony Eden, and the Appeasement of Italy in 1937’, International History Review, 15, 1 (1993), 1–22, and ‘Sir Joseph Ball, Adrian Dingli, and Neville Chamberlain’s “Secret Channel” to Italy’, International History Review, 24, 2 (2002), 278–317 for the nature and extent of Chamberlain’s gullibility. Keith Neilson, ‘Defence and Diplomacy: The British FO and Singapore, 1939–1940’, Twentieth Century British History, 14, 2 (2003), pp. 138–64. Michael Carley, ‘ “A Situation of Delicacy and Danger”: Anglo-Soviet Relations, August 1939-March 1940’, Contemporary European History, 8 (1999), pp. 175–208; Patrick R. Osborn, Operation Pike: Britain versus the Soviet Union, 1939–1941 (Westport, CT, 2000), pp. 1–50. John E. Dreifort, ‘Japan’s Advance into Indochina, 1940: The French Response’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 13 (1983), pp. 279–95; Nicholas Tarling, ‘The British and the First Japanese Move into Indo-China’, Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 21 (1990), pp. 35–65; ibid., Britain, Southeast Asia and the Onset of the Pacific War (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 123–92; Antony Best, Britain, Japan and Pearl Harbor. Avoiding war in East Asia, 1936–41 (London and New York), pp. 112–17. A.G. Hopkins, ‘Back to the Future: From National History to Imperial History’, Past and Present, 164 (1999), pp. 198–243, here, p. 242.

3

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire John Kent

The role of the Foreign Office (FO) in military matters of imperial defence has long been a grey and neglected area. The fact that ‘imperial’ can be interpreted in a number of ways with regard to the use of military forces is part of the explanation. It also reflects the fact that in the early twentieth century, imperial defence worked on the assumption that Britain would have the resources to enable her empire to be defended. This was particularly so when the Royal Navy (RN) was still a global force of major significance even when no longer at a level superior to its two nearest challengers. With the approach of the Second World War, the policy assumptions of civilian planners could no longer depend on being able to provide what the empire in its various far-flung components might actually need for defence. Hard choices therefore loomed large but nowhere larger than in the interwar debates on the appeasement of Japan and Germany. They also reflected the difficulty of determining what the empire symbolised for British greatness and prestige as a still important global power and how this might be realised or represented in the imperial mind, military or civilian. The rise of Germany and Japan also began the debate which was to continue for over 30 years as to whether Britain should give priority to the demands of the empire over the alleged military requirements of North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) or continental defence. As nuclear weapons became important strategic considerations, the tension between foreign policy makers and those with military priorities over the relation of geopolitical foreign policy needs and its effect on strategic priorities did not decrease. Moreover, it should not be assumed that military men did not have a geopolitical or even purely political vision of the British Empire; this, whilst it might have reflected imperial service in the distant lands of the Middle East or the Indian subcontinent, was not averse to having the political or power political needs of the imperial state dictate the military strategy of the British armed forces. Nor that imperial defence after the Second World War would depend on the operational needs arising from the empire or the defence of the British Isles. From the time of the first conflicts over the continental commitment, the needs

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 51 of imperial defence did not initially dictate foreign policy but opposed it; it was only in the 1950s that an agreed global strategy, followed for political reasons, led to alleged military needs justifying the policies maintaining the status and (prestige) of an imperial, non-European or global role for Britain. The growing problems with imperial defence and the inability to fight the three powers of Germany, Japan and Italy in three different theatres resulted in the loss, albeit temporary, of many of Britain’s Southeast Asian territories. The whole issue of imperial defence, defined in terms of strategic planning for defending British territory in a global conflict, was tied into political conceptions of Britain’s global role. As capabilities declined, the symbolism associated with a far-flung presence outside the European continent after the Second World War increased in importance. Imperial defence, defined as the strategy dictating the deployment of forces to protect the territories of the Commonwealth/Empire, came to be meaningless as in a global war in different theatres Britain could not provide the military resources. Imperial defence, defined in terms of the deployment of forces to quell rebellions or disturbances within parts of the empire, was a very different story that will not be dealt with here. A number of issues arose from the dramatic effect on the empire of the Second World War even though old conceptions of Britain’s imperial role remained. The loss of India was one such issue. But arguably, India had been replaced by the Middle East, especially in the minds of army officers and the jewel in the Crown had become by 1945 the largest military base in the world in the Suez Canal zone.1 The Indian Ocean and its shores, which, along with the northern shores of the Mediterranean (East of France and Spain), Afghanistan, Bulgaria, Iran, India and Black Africa, formed the regions covered by the British Defence Co-ordination Committee (BDCC) (Middle East).2 Whatever the realities of the economic and political value of the Middle East, British Army officers, with interwar experiences of the BDCC region informing their perceptions, believed the region to be important. In addition, the idea of imperial defence had been increasingly linked to the Middle East in the eyes of the army by the fact that victories had been won there in two World Wars whilst nothing but ignominious defeat had resulted from excursions onto the continent of Europe. This was a clear hint that military planning for the post-war world was likely to be conducted with the British Empire very much in mind. Therefore, the relationship between the foreign policy needs of any future European strategy and the military rationale for a continental commitment might not be easy to reconcile. With the creation of NATO, this problem became too difficult to ignore. The differences between the military and the FO led to the latter instigating a move away from traditional imperial priorities. It was fairly simple to disentangle the roles of the FO and COS when the issue was the political formation of a western European bloc.3 Things were to become different when the political perceptions related to

52 J. Kent Britain’s global role and status were at issue. Foreign policy and strategy were not so easy to separate in the defining and development of such a global, imperial role even if military operational plans were initially shelved partly because of the need to incorporate the use of nuclear weapons, which in 1945 were still shrouded in uncertainty. It is worth contemplating exactly what ‘imperial defence’ meant with regard to foreign policy and the new global role in the radically new postwar circumstances of the Cold War. Imperial defence in this period (1945–56), police operations or anti-guerrilla warfare aside, first came to mean protecting the strategic position of the Commonwealth when the idea of giving this operational forms had not been finally abandoned. It was then defined as the global strategy underpinning Britain’s position as a world power. Britain as a global power, with important influence in Europe, would retain this role through its defence policy and military deployments that helped produce and justify the power political influence required. In 1947, Britain could still aspire to play a military role in parts of the globe outside Europe (or out of area), or so it was assumed. It would continue to aspire to do so until 1956, when this too was revealed as a total sham in so much as military operations in the Commonwealth depended on foreign policy delivering the American alliance or at least ensuring US tolerance of any such operations. First attempts by the military to produce a strategy for defending the Commonwealth and prepare for future global war were made in early 1946.4 By then, key disagreements in the attempts to produce peace settlements were reflecting the rhetorical gestures towards the establishment of freedom and self-determination. These conflicted with the FO policies that embraced the power political spirit inherent in spheres of interest and the British Empire.5 Whatever the justification for the British imperial ethos, there had to be a means of defending the empire now more commonly referred to as the Commonwealth. Yet, the role this provided for the military came to be more and more to provide the means of justifying its political existence rather than providing for its military defence and security. For foreign policy, the preserving of a global role as one of the Big Three Powers came in 1948 to require the merging of an imperial with a European role in a Third Force led by Britain which would constitute a Third World Power.6 The development of a European strategy in ways which would contribute to the Empire/Commonwealth enhancing Britain’s future global role had first been suggested by Sir Orme Sargent, permanent under-secretary at the FO, in his famous ‘Stocktaking on VE Day’ memorandum.7 In contrast, the military, in attempting to define a strategy for the Defence of the Commonwealth, had taken on board the past lessons of the Second World War. The apparently glorious victories in the North African desert of Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery were certainly uppermost in the mind of the man who had achieved them and who became Chief of the Imperial General Staff in June 1946.

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 53 The most obvious lesson was that a land power on the Continent could dominate Western Europe; yet, the British Empire/Commonwealth, with the right allies and support, could survive. Moreover, it could even emerge victorious through a strategy that could maintain the informal Anglo-American military alliance while preserving and exploiting or developing key imperial regions. This was at the heart of the arguments over defining a post-war military strategy for a major war in 1946 and 1947. The military ideas were referred to in the context of the ‘The Strategic Position of the British Commonwealth’ which would ensure an important role for Britain as a world power in line with the military’s imperial ethos.8 They would exclude the incorporation of Europe as the FO were suggesting and thereby avoid the disadvantages of cooperating with left-wing Europeans as well as adding to defence commitments. Therefore, instead of thinking of uniting the empire and Europe, the military were thinking more in terms of abandoning Europe if the empire was to make the most of its limited resources. The military strategy of course emphasised the importance of the Middle East and the Eastern Mediterranean, which heightened the geostrategic conflict that was emerging out of the Soviet desire to get greater access to the warm waters of the Mediterranean by revising the Montreux Convention.9 These strategic ambitions in the Mediterranean clearly exacerbated the developing political tension between Britain and the Soviet Union.10 The requirements of foreign policy, as opposed to military deployments and operations, were designed to be compatible with Britain’s past and present imperial role, but in ways which reflected some of the new post-war circumstances that were no longer in line with the military’s imperial conceptions. In the long and medium term, as will be seen, this in fact ceased to matter when the military no longer had the resources and therefore any capacity to carry out such roles. In effect, the armed forces were to become the provider of military strategic rationales that were not dictated by operational requirements but were used to justify power political foreign policy goals. The military in the late 1940s remained committed to imperial defence at the expense of Europe and with little regard for the political requirements of foreign policy. The military had originally based the broad concept of Commonwealth (imperial) defence in global war on the idea of main support areas that were necessary for eventual victory and the three pillars required to ensure they were protected and maintained in wartime. The main support areas were deemed to be the Western hemisphere and the white Dominions, despite the fact that South African allegiance to the war effort from 1939 to 1945 was a close-run thing. The other resources were expected to come from Black Africa, and as in Second World War, Britain would be cut off from a hostile Western Europe. Britain, the first pillar, the Middle East, the second pillar and, as in the recent war, the sea communications between Britain and the main support areas were the crucial three pillars. If the Red Army were to

54 J. Kent overrun Western Europe, Britain could eventually emerge victorious by relying on the Dominions and Africa which required the preservation of a Middle Eastern presence to defend it. Hence, the perceptions of the military associated with Britain’s past imperial roles were fully incorporated.11 It was not true (apart from India and other South Asian non-selfgoverning territories) that decolonisation was destroying an imperial role and it was certainly not the desire of the military in the 1940s that an imperial role should end. One strategic argument initially put forward by the military in 1946 had been that there should be no potentially hostile power flanking British air and sea communications in the Mediterranean. This was particularly important for the links to the main support areas of the Antipodean Dominions, and to ensure that Britain remained linked to the Middle East, the crucial area in preserving Black Africa from ingress by a potentially hostile power.12 Attlee regarded this idea as outmoded and a reflection of an imperial past built on sea power which was no longer relevant in an age of air power which the Second World War had inaugurated.13 For the prime minister, communications with the important areas of the empire East of Suez could be maintained via the Cape route which would avoid the gathering conflict with the Soviet Union.14 Along the lines put forward by Liddell Hart, Attlee developed in March an alternative to a costly and wasteful strategy for defending the empire in the Mediterranean and the Middle East. Imperial defence was to be based in Black Africa and specifically on an axis running from Lagos in the West to Mombasa in the East. Liddell Hart’s ideas for imperial defence were stimulated by a desire to avoid a confrontation with the Soviets in ways which would be unaffordable and impractical.15 In February 1946, the foreign secretary had already examined the idea of developing Mombasa as a major base to replace Egypt from which British evacuation had first been proposed in December 1945.16 The COS had firmly rejected the idea of abandoning a peacetime garrison in Egypt. Yet the FO, at the official level, believed that this continued military presence could not be justified if ‘the overall defence of the British Empire can be assured by substituting for the Egypt–Palestine–Transjordan–Iraq bastion the East African bastion plus through communications with West Africa’.17 This formed the point which Bevin then went on to develop. He added the African requirements to the Middle Eastern ones by pointing to the power political needs served by the Middle East rather than just its military/strategic importance. ‘Our presence in the Mediterranean serves a purpose other than a military purpose which is vital to our position as a Great Power’. If Britain moved out of the Mediterranean the Russians would move in, an act guaranteed to allow all sorts of economic disasters to ensue.18 In addition to the loss of democracy, Italy was deemed likely to leave Western civilisation and any weakening of Britain’s positioning the Mediterranean was deemed likely to cause the end of social democracy. Hence the need to support the Lagos–Mombasa line and develop Britain’s

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 55 imperial defence position in East Africa, not as an alternative to the Middle East and the Mediterranean but to strengthen it. From the FO’s point of view, it would also have the advantage of solving the Egyptian base evacuation problem. Yet, despite this agreement between the military and the foreign secretary on the way a Lagos–Mombasa strategy would add to a Middle Eastern strategy, the military did not accept Western Europe as a factor to be added to imperial defence. Indeed, the COS continued to see the two areas as alternatives. Despite these differences, what united the FO and the military in their approach to imperial defence was the idea of maximising the appearance of British world power through a military presence in the Middle East. This concept was to remain, albeit in changing guises, both before and after the debacle of Suez in 1956, and the imperial element, defined as the projection of power, still continues in Mr Blair’s conception of a ‘pivotal’ world role for Britain. Unfortunately, the different military and political strategies to achieve this soon became clear between 1947 and 1949. Then, with NATO eventually being followed by the transition to a revised global strategy paper in 1952, a new era of greater unity over imperial defence between the FO and the military was finally confirmed. The military, although they would not openly acknowledge it, were by then faced with the unavoidable reality that idea of imperial defence, or any meaningful defence in a general global role, was operationally impossible however pivotal it might be deemed by politicians. Yet, Bevin and the FO had already laid out strategic requirements in the informal empire (the Middle East in particular). These were regarded in the FO as necessary to contribute important power political effects but justified by their military operational effectiveness. And the military would subsequently assist the FO in the 1950s by devising new strategic and military positions to support the power political requirements. In effect, the latter were to enhance Britain’s global role and justified by the alleged needs of imperial defence based in the Middle East. In 1948, when military plans for global conflict were first drawn up by the military planners, (they were emergency plans, meaning plans to fight with the resources available) for operations in Europe and the Middle East, previous assumptions began to appear seriously questionable. From the start, a number of unpalatable facts about ‘hard’ British power became too obvious to ignore. British imperial defence, even without a possible continental commitment, was living on borrowed time. The FO was however hoping to borrow time in abundance for Britain to recover economically, helped by the resources of the sterling area and the colonial empire in Africa.19 This goal had produced the ‘First Aim of Foreign Policy’ in January 1948 in a Cabinet paper, which first revealed a problem in reconciling the ‘hard’ power facts accompanying an imperial defence strategy with the political means envisaged in the FO for maximising British post-war global power and influence.20

56 J. Kent The FO was in fact no longer happy with a military strategy relying on an imperial position alone.21 As Europe recovered, much effort was devoted to developing links with the Western Europeans that could be combined with an imperial, global role still uppermost in the minds of policy makers, especially the military. Like the Treasury and the Board of Trade, the military were not keen on the European connection because of their perceptions of economically weak left-wing Europeans.22 By late 1949, the economic realities of the hoped-for African resources had impacted on policy makers, and the Third World Power idea was replaced as the first aim of British foreign policy by the Cabinet.23 The strategic concept underlying imperial defence remained however, and the Strategic Position of the Commonwealth continued as its military centrepiece which defined strategic priorities in global war. This remained so even when the US Joint COS informed their British counterparts in August 1949, after the signing of the NATO treaty, of their new strategic concept that would replace Plan Fleetwood their plan for global war. Fleetwood was the US equivalent of the British plan Speedway (the first had been called Doublequick), whose successor Galloper now had to be revised as the Americans were less interested in the Middle East than in defending a bridgehead in Southern Europe.24 The idea in taking account of NATO was to avoid a repeat of a D-Day invasion of occupied Europe. This also required the abandonment of the American commitment in the first month of war to dispatch American forces to the defence of the Middle East, the vital area in any future global war, for the British imperial defence strategy. The formation of NATO did not lead to a greater military emphasis on a continental commitment at the expense of imperial defence by the military. The British military did not believe that the Russians would attack Western Europe and hence questioned the need for forces to defend the Continent.25 One might have thought that as the BDCC Middle East looked at the growing problems of planning for the defence of the Middle East,26 it would lead both to a greater European commitment to NATO and to a new approach to imperial defence. Moreover, with the emergency in Malaya in 1948, the ‘terrorist’ attacks in the Suez Canal zone in 1951 and the Mau Mau rebellion in Kenya in 1952, the deployment of troops in an imperial policing role was by itself reducing available resources. Thus it would be more difficult for an imperial power to meet any wartime commitments, and a strategic defence of the empire would no longer be a practical use of resources. Yet, this was only partially true as the old requirements of maintaining Britain’s position as world power to which the Empire/Commonwealth, measured in power political and not colonial terms, remained. Hence, the empire was intrinsically necessary in that sense, and imperial defence became more and more a defence of a concept and its political value and less a commitment to a specific operational role.

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 57 The first plan for the defence of the Middle East with the forces then available, drawn up in June 1948 and known as Plan Sandown, was based on the Tel Aviv–Ramallah line.27 This was hardly the defence of the Middle East and could only be portrayed as such if it was assumed that in the future more forces would be available at cheaper cost. When in fact the opposite turned out to be the case and the limited practical boundary of operations defined by the Tel Aviv–Ramallah continually expanded, this inconvenient fact was largely ignored. Yet, it enabled the FO to help define a world role for Britain by calling on strategic justifications that the military were only too happy to provide, however spurious, in operational terms. The American change of strategy with its abandonment of a Middle East commitment in the early stages of war did have one important consequence. The planners were asked in November 1949 to revise the existing Strategic Position of the Commonwealth Paper of 1947. When they did so, and it was presented to the Defence Committee in June 1950,28 the changes reflected the fact that Britain was still deemed to be playing an important world role. The choice of empire or Europe was being avoided, even though the increasing disparity between commitments that had to be retained for geopolitical/status reasons, and the resources that were available to meet them continued to grow. This disparity really emerged in the mid-1950s, but the signs were already there during 1949–1950. The problem by August 1949 was not just the American reluctance to accept the three pillars (Britain, the Middle East and the defence of sea communications) of imperial defence. The FO feared the economic consequences of Europe not recovering and dragging Britain down, so policy makers found it easier to accept a special place in an American-dominated alliance.29 Yet they remained committed to some lesser form of integration and cooperation with Western Europe as this could provide the Americans with a rationale for Britain’s special position. In addition, the Cold War need of solidifying a Western bloc, for which the military (apart from Montgomery) had little time, was now a key FO consideration. Yet, the difficulties of committing forces to Europe,30 which gave substance to the desired cooperation in line with a military strategy, remained. The military remained reluctant to have the military importance of Commonwealth defence superseded by the political importance of NATO.31 The retreat from empire in the sense of its military/strategic raison d’être or in the influence and prestige that a military commitment represented was not underway. The provision of ‘security’ through bases and their apparent strategic rationale could give a power like Britain, seeking the preservation of a global role, important cards to play. Even if imperialism and empire were no longer acceptable words, and even if Britain lacked the military resources to carry out effective operations, there was the Cold War. As we will see, the FO and the military came increasingly to support each other in the attempts to promote a global role for Britain by using imperial defence, especially the protection of

58 J. Kent the Middle East in the Cold War, in ways which would preserve British influence. The more so as it became obvious, there were insufficient conventional forces for global war operations in either Europe or the Middle East. As imperial defence or the strategic position of the Commonwealth was replaced by global strategy, the shadow of British power could no longer be translated from a concept into a tangible, military/strategic reality. The realities were the atomic bombs and the Cold War, defined as the war for hearts and minds fought by all means short of international armed conflict. This was to have a great and largely misunderstood impact on global strategy. The Soviets had exploded their first atomic bomb in August 1949 and caused consternation in the West which influenced the American production of National Security Council Report 68 (NSC 68).32 It also led the British to become nervous about the scale of attack that could be unleashed on the British Isles following a Soviet conquest of Western Europe. One obvious effect might be the reallocation of forces earmarked for the Middle East to assist in preventing the Soviets arriving so easily on the Channel coast. In particular, the despatch of two divisions was agreed by the Defence Committee on 24 March 1950.33 It was noted that the United Kingdom could not provide the forces to defend the British Isles and Western Europe in addition to the forces needed to defend the imperial lifelines and the Middle East. In fact, as was soon to be noted, it could not provide for the collective defence of Western Europe but could successfully contribute to a collective defence of the Middle East – which the Americans were now refusing to join. This recent decision on the despatch of two divisions to Western Europe in the event of war would not, however, reduce the land reinforcements planned for the Middle East (two divisions) nor even delay them. What it would mean was that there could be no rapid follow-up of such reinforcements. More worryingly, while the initial forces to defend Egypt were not very great (in effect, the defence of Egypt was called the defence of the Middle East under Plan Sandown), already in 1950 they are beyond the capacity of the UK alone to provide. The retention of our position in the Middle East is of such importance to the cohesion of the British Commonwealth in cold and hot war34 that we should do all in our power to engage Australia, New Zealand and South Africa – and we hope some day in happier times Pakistan and possibly even India – to undertake firm commitments to send armed forces to the Middle East as soon as possible after the outbreak of war.35 Bombers earmarked for the Middle East, although not in a strategic role, were to be moved back to Europe under Galloper, and the strategic bombing of the Soviet Union would be left to the Americans (the lengthening of the runways at Abu Sueir was vital if the Americans were to launch

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 59 offensive operations from the base in the Canal Zone as opposed to using it as a staging post). Unfortunately for Britain’s global military role, the United States then confirmed in June 1950 that they had no intention of sending forces to assist in the air defence of the Middle East because they did not intend to use the area as a base for long-range bombing.36 Worse was soon to follow to reveal the futility of a British, or indeed a European, commitment to the conventional defence of Western Europe. Imperial defence, or now Commonwealth defence, remained centred on the Middle East, whatever the position of Western Europe. As well, Britain could no longer provide for the defence needs of the Antipodean Dominions in the Commonwealth. However, reinforcements from Australia and New Zealand for a possible war in Europe remained a classic example of inadequate British resources being hopefully augmented through Commonwealth contributions that would be justified in terms of Cold War and not imperial needs. It was, therefore, hoped that the ANZAM area in the South Pacific would not receive more than the minimum essential strength and that any surplus Australian and New Zealand forces would be available to defend the Middle East.37 The manner by which Britain initially avoided abandoning an imperial global strategy, while attempting to support the political needs of the FO in Western Europe, was to retain the three-pillar strategy by incorporating Western Europe into the first pillar (the defence of the United Kingdom).38 Hence, when the review of global strategy, as imperial defence was now incorporated under, was completed in June 1950, the continuing importance of the Middle East was confirmed.39 This was despite the growing problems with force provision, as well as the resource difficulties of projecting hard power on a global basis to conform with the commitment to Britain’s world role. The decision of Australia and New Zealand to establish military relations with the Americans, independently of Britain, through the the Australia, New Zealand, United States Security Treaty (ANZUS) treaty proved indicative of the way things were developing by1951.40 Ironically, from mid-1950s, British appeals to the Commonwealth Dominions in the Pacific to provide forces for the old imperial defence of the Middle East were never more than partially successful. But, of course, imperial operations in Malaya or Egypt could be justified by a Cold War cloak. The British were determined to use the strategic requirements, apparently inherent in military facilities and operations, to conceal whatever imperial role might be retained – at cheaper costs than hot war requirements. The modification of defence strategy in June 1950 was in a sense overtaken by events in Korea within a matter of days. The following year when the dust had settled on the devastation and the changes in the world situation, notably the acceptance of German rearmament, it was revised again. Despite a Cold War providing more justification for the imperial Cold War roles of the French in Indo-China and the British in Malaya, the

60 J. Kent principles underlying the 1950 modifications remained unchanged. Although the world situation had become more serious in Cold and hot war terms, the measures adopted by the Western powers were deemed to have developed principles which in the British case went back to 1947.41 Yet with a Cold War strategy, British military operational planning in the Middle East would now have to take account of a foreign policy more centred on Europe. As Europe was now deemed more vital for the defence of the British Isles, operations in a hot war would seem to become more important. The deployment of nuclear weapons, assuming the failure of their deterrent role, would continue to play a key role at least until NATO had developed sufficient conventional strength to defend Western Europe. Yet, there was to be no abandonment of a Middle Eastern strategic commitment and the diplomatic efforts to secure Egyptian acceptance of a British military presence in Egypt in peacetime. Naturally, the military argued that any defence of the Middle East depended on this requirement being met. The commitment to defend the Middle East (in effect Egypt) remained the stated goal into 1951 even after it was realised by the men on the spot in the spring of 1950 that the defence of the Middle East was not possible given that Britain would have such few resources.42 As such, it was decided that British defence plans could not be disclosed to the Middle Eastern states as ‘the little the UK can actually do to protect the Middle East’ was more likely to lower the morale than to raise it. The Tel Aviv–Ramallah line (the defence of the base in Egypt) remained the only viable option under Plan Celery (the emergency plan for the Middle East) with the forces actually available. It was assumed that Australian, New Zealand and South African forces would not arrive for several months after the outbreak of war.43 If American forces were now to be included (contrary to American plans), then a successful defence of the Inner Ring (running from the Turkish Mediterranean coast opposite Cyprus along the Taurus mountains to Malatya, south along the Firat River to the Anti-Lebanon mountains and south to the lava belt) could be planned for. Yet at the end of the day, the decision between the Inner Ring and the Lebanon–Jordan line (a line astride the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon mountains north of the Beirut–Damascus road, then south through Lake Tiberius and south through the Jordan Valley) would have to depend on the Anglo-American forces at the time. One is tempted to say at the beginning of 1951 that there were little or no realistic reasons to adopt either an imperial defence policy or a European one when Britain had decided to adopt both. In 1951, the FO continued to attempt to renegotiate the soon-to-beexpiring Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of 1936. Bevin had several meetings with the Egyptian Foreign Minister Saleh el Din in December 195044 and, in the face of the military’s objections, was prepared to concede ownership and control of the base and its equipment in 1951. Unfortunately, Herbert Morrison became foreign secretary in March 1951, the same

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 61 month that the majlis in Iran also nationalised the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company. This produced a furious reaction to the damage it caused to British imperial prestige and hardened British attitudes to an Egyptian agreement. The classic reason for not surrendering the vestiges of informal empire in the Middle East prevented the contemplated concessions and ensured the Ambassador in Cairo Sir Ralph Stevenson’s advice was ignored.45 Thus the Egyptians, who would only reach an agreement encompassing a British evacuation in peacetime, were faced with a British government that would only accept an agreement allowing for evacuation based on the alleged military requirements.46 The new foreign secretary’s proposals embodying an air defence organisation and the military forces to be stationed in Egypt were then embodied in a paper considered by the Cabinet on 30 March47 and finally approved on 2 April 1951.48 They meant that military needs had justified an imperial presence in Egypt and prevented the FO securing an agreement with the Egyptians. It was already obvious that the idea of imperial defence, even meaning only the most vital area (the defence of the Middle East), was somewhat spurious given the lack of British resources which simply could not provide for the operations that were necessary to implement the strategy. Defence of the empire would become the uniting feature of military and civilian planners because they were becoming joint participants in maintaining an imperial role for Britain in the Middle East. From October 1951, when the Egyptians abrogated the 1936 treaty it became a serious business when a campaign of violence against the British began. The doubling of the numbers of troops in the Canal Zone was far more than an imperial police operation because of the importance of the Middle East for Britain’s place in the world. It signified a link between defending an imperial past and defining a military strategy linked to the pursuit of the Cold War. The revision of global strategy in June 1950 had clearly been done with the distinction between Cold and hot war very much in mind but had emphasised the need not to form two separate compartments out of the two concepts. Naturally, the military argued that the fighting of the Cold War had to be consistent with the strategy for hot war and largely conditioned by it.49 Put another way, the old idea of defending the empire had to be linked to the requirements of preventing the spread of communism on a global, not simply, European basis. Nor could the military, or the FO, be sanguine about the erosion of British status in the Middle East. The Cold War had to be related to military strength, and the priority in the short term had to be the stabilisation of the anti-communist front, especially in the Middle East. The British were committed to defend the Middle East in the hot war for which they allegedly needed a base and peacetime presence in Egypt. Hence the linkage between the Cold and hot war. ‘The essential garrison and emergency forces in Europe the Middle East and Far East’ were ‘to win the Cold War’ but were pretending

62 J. Kent to be ‘the vital requirements of preparedness for hot war’ that was more and more a pretence. Hot war needs also included ‘the air defence of the UK with special reference to atomic attack, the security of the North Atlantic sea route and our home waters. Our commitments to Western Europe for the defence of the land frontier in Europe’. Second in importance in hot war were ‘the UK share in the defence of the Egyptian base and the control of the Mediterranean sea route for as long as possible with the US navy and its denial to the enemy’.50 The military commitment to the Egyptian base was not only questioned from within the embassy in Egypt, but also by the State Department. The FO was informed of their belief that Egyptian nationalism would not be overcome by a head-on confrontation. The bigger question was whether British forces anywhere in the Middle East could serve as a stabilising factor in the Cold War or, as the Americans came to believe, a source of provocation to the nationalists. It was a vital question for the way in which the British were attempting to use ‘defence’ needs as a justification for a military presence justified by Cold War needs by the possible fighting of a hot war irrespective of its feasibility. The reality was that the military and the FO were now both committed to the Cold War as a means of removing the imperial stigma while still ensuring that the old imperial values of projecting power in the world remained to benefit Britain’s global status. The alleged military defence needs would continue to provide a justification for this essentially imperial strategy. This was what was confirmed in the major revision of global strategy in 1952 which also had to take account of the economic circumstances dictating defence expenditure cuts. Unfortunately, these seemed to have grave implications for the specifics of a Middle Eastern defence strategy that was already struggling realistically to be able to defend anything more than the base in Egypt. However, the disparity between resources and their deployment in the circumstances of hot war was much less if their main rationale was presented privately as Cold War. Yet the problem in deploying all British troops, which Eden and the FO were aware of, was growing particularly in Egypt. Thus the defence of the United Kingdom and Western Europe was a Category A obligation for the FO while that of the Commonwealth and the Middle East were only Category B. The FO paper which was presented to the Cabinet as an accompaniment to the military’s global strategy paper was entitled ‘British Overseas Obligations’. It noted that ‘the essence of a sound foreign policy is to ensure a country’s strength is equal to its obligations’ and consequently if the effort required to maintain them was beyond the capacity of existing resources, a difficult choice had to be faced. Yet it was not one that inevitably meant reducing commitments. If Britain were to do that, the British people would see their country ‘sink to the level of a second class power, with injury to their essential interests and way of life’. Damage to the Commonwealth and to

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 63 the special relationship which Britain allegedly had with the United States and Europe would also follow as these relationships depended ‘largely on our status as a world power and upon their belief that we are ready and willing to support them . . .’ Finally there is the general effect of loss of prestige. It is impossible to assess in concrete terms the consequences to our ourselves and the Commonwealth of our drastically and unilaterally reducing our responsibilities . . . But once the prestige of a country has started to slide there is no knowing where it will stop.51 While both papers were primarily concerned with defending the threat to Britain’s world role, the COS global strategy paper had more imperial implications. This imperial role could now be maintained or justified on a global basis because of the Cold War, which was formally placed at the forefront of military global strategy. The suggestions made by Field Marshall Slim for winning the Cold War had as their first priority the maintenance of adequate forces in overseas theatres (Asia and Africa) to hold back aggressive communism.52 Furthermore, the chiefs briefed the prime minister on the importance of the Middle East by arguing that if Britain evacuated Egypt it would not only be a blow to its position as a great power, but it also would create a vacuum which the Russians would enter immediately. The result would inevitably be ‘Communist regimes in all Arab states eventually extending from the Eastern Atlantic to the Indian Subcontinent’.53 The COS 1952 global strategy paper defined the Cold War as the top military priority compared with the hot war requirements needed to fight a global war or even what was required for the provision of deterrent forces.54 And with the Cold War coming before deterrence and fighting a hot war, the key issue in 1952 was winning the Cold War to prevent an international armed conflict. Yet unlike the FO, the military had little time for Europe and preferred to refer to Her Majesty’s Government (HMG) ‘pursuing a policy in the field of imperial and foreign affairs . . . to maintain out interests in various parts of the world which are threatened by the Cold War tactics of Russia and China’.55 The problem which may have influenced the global strategy paper considerably was the need for defence cutbacks in 1952, and the pressures to reduce the defence budget were to continue to grow. In other words, it was now even more difficult to accommodate the hot war requirements of NATO56 let alone when combined with the Cold War requirements that were now seen as key to the maintenance of Britain’s global role.57 Another major problem for military/strategic requirements designed to achieve power political ends was inherent in the Cold War military deployments. While garrisons and the stationing of British troops could be done more cheaply than providing the necessary forces for the hot war,

64 J. Kent the focus on empire ran up more and more against the mounting problem of nationalist movements. Whether in the formal or informal empire, they were either opposed to the continuation of British rule or, in the case of Egypt, to the maintenance of British influence they represented. Fighting the Cold War was bad for the Western position precisely because of its association with the empire, which had been the main British reason for the power political connection in the first place. The immediate consequence was the strengthening of the FO position that the maintenance of a military presence in Egypt should not continue to be insisted on at the expense of the kind of hostility from the Egyptians which it was now provoking. Hence Eden was less willing to confront nationalism by 1953 and was prepared to abandon the peacetime occupation of the Suez Canal base for an agreement guaranteeing its availability to the British in wartime.58 The situation following the finalisation of the global strategy paper was further changed by the explosion of the hydrogen bomb by the United States in 1952 and then by the Soviet Union in 1953. The explosive power from fusing the atom was 1,000 times more than that developed by the purely fission atomic weapons, and the reliance on large military bases naturally came to be regarded as less appropriate in the thermonuclear age. However, at the end of 1952, the military were coming round to accepting the FO line that the peacetime evacuation of Egypt might be desirable and necessary. Studies were authorised on the basis of planning with no base in Egypt and on the forces available being reduced to one division and 160 aircrafts – a cut of one division and 200 aeroplanes. In short, radical cutbacks were altering military strategy in operational terms and favouring a shift from Cold War priorities and sizeable bases to emphasising the nuclear deterrent as the number one requirement for global strategy which was formally instituted in 1955.59 It is important to note that the imperial alliance between the FO and the COS remained a firm one once the agreement to leave Egypt had been decided. The FO had their own reasons for wanting bases in Iraq irrespective of any spurious justification for a military presence designed to symbolise prestige and influence through the ostensible provision of military capabilities to defend the Middle East. The FO was still committed to an imperial role but now again added to a European one which would make Britain more attractive as an ally to the Americans. The way of doing it in the 1950s was, in effect, to play the leading regional role on behalf of the Western alliance in Cold War areas of the Middle East and Black Africa. The diplomatic achievements of Eden at Geneva in 1954 were not designed to do more than play a supportive role alongside the Americans despite the different approaches to Southeast Asia by the two powers. The Middle East was different and regarded as a British Commonwealth responsibility, hence the efforts, for example, to get the Australians and New Zealanders to agree to provide an air squadron or two.60 There had

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 65 also been suggestions of a Middle East Command to make a British presence in Egypt more justifiable, and when 1953 began, this had become a proposed Middle East Defence Organisation designed to take the imperial stigma but not the prestige away from a British military presence.61 However, when Dulles toured the Middle East in the summer of 1953, he was confronted with the failure of such ideas and struck by the resentment that the imperial British presence was provoking in Egypt.62 It was the start of exactly what the FO feared, namely, the Americans deciding that they now ought to make their own policies for the region and not rely on taking the lead from the British in military matters. As Roger Allen, the head of the African Department, noted, the American attitude to the supply of military equipment to the Middle East made it clear that they wanted to now establish a position to the detriment of the long-standing British position in the region.63 The FO saw problems in this new, more independent American position, whereas the chiefs, always more inclined to have faith in the value of American benevolence, were more concerned with indigenous challenges to Britain’s regional position. The military now shared the FO’s concern that hostile Egyptian nationalists could make the base a liability,64 ‘as our strength declined it became increasingly important to show we meant business there’.65 This was an example of how strategic requirements were interpreted in order to demonstrate Britain’s global status and its valuable presence in the Middle East, rather than having any viable operational rationale. The prospects seemed good for a choice being made to spend increasingly scarce military resources on the nuclear deterrent, and the conventional forces deemed necessary for the deterrence to work and to enhance Britain’s credibility in Europe. Yet, in fact, Britain’s imperial status as a global power had to be consolidated because of the retreat from Egypt in the eyes of both the military and the FO. The stationing of British forces for Cold War reasons, ostensibly linked to the defence of the Middle East, required a new base and a new strategy. The military gave attention to this before the agreements on the evacuation of the Suez Canal Base were signed with the Egyptians in the summer and autumn of 1954. The three possible areas which came to mind in 1954 and 1955 were Cyprus, Iraq and Jordan. None of them proved viable long-term prospects and although Cyprus and Jordan faded from consideration in 1956 without causing any major disasters, the quest for an Iraqi base was to lead directly to the Baghdad Pact. Not only did this prove to be unpopular with both Arabs and Israelis, it also proved unpopular with the French and after some initial enthusiasm American support for the Pact soon began to wane. It was the Pact which epitomised the farcical role of operational capability in relation to strategy and politics and without which the Suez debacle would have been much less likely. And then the last imperial gasp would have been far less humiliating in bringing to an end the imperial defence of the Middle East based on the Levant.

66 J. Kent The old imperial traditions were clung to most fervently by the military when formulating British global strategy in defence terms. Despite the hydrogen bomb, the Cold War rationale for force deployments to fulfil a global role and its associated prestige remained. It was again argued that to abandon significant Cold War commitments would make hot war more likely and cause damage to Britain’s position, influence, security and commerce.66 Therefore, the military view was that it was necessary to retain all overseas bases except Korea, Trieste and the Suez Canal zone to maintain Britain’s position as a world power.67 With the departure from Egypt, the Cyprus base, which had replaced Egypt as Middle East HQ, was discussed in similar terms. It was not the strategic assessments of what military operations the base was needed for that were producing the need for military facilities on sovereign British territory. It was the political wish to demonstrate a British presence in the Middle East that provided the rationale for British sovereignty and in the military’s own terms made the base essential. The strategic arguments were, as the chief of the Air Staff pointed out, subsidiary to the political requirements.68 The extent to which the desire for the political status from a global role was dictating military thinking on defence and security within an imperial context was now absolutely clear. It was precisely revealed again when the COS expressed agreement on Cyprus with the BDCC that ‘British influence and prestige in the Middle East as a whole could not be retained without the retention of our present military position in Cyprus which was therefore strategically essential’.69 While the military were considering Cyprus, the other and more disastrous quest for a base to replace Egypt was being pursued by the FO. Again the motivation was the need for the retention of an important presence in the Middle East as a contribution to Britain’s global role. This would confirm, especially to Washington, Britain’s special position in a changed strategic world where large-scale forces no longer served the same needs. It was precisely because of the perceived military contribution, allegedly to the defence strategy for the Middle East, but in reality to the maintenance of British prestige in the region, that the FO could continue to see political value in forming the Baghdad Pact. The problems foreseen with the Baghdad Pact were recognised in the FO and it remains unclear as to whether the military arguments strengthened the hands of those most in favour of a continued imperial role in the Middle East. One official referred to ‘seizing the bird in the hand’ of the Turco-Iraqi Pact in order to provide the umbrella for the continued military presence in Iraq.70 Extending it would remove, so it was hoped, the stigma of a British presence signifying imperialism. From the FO point of view, the value of the Baghdad Pact was first noted in terms of the need to convince others that Britain could defend them and thereby prevent the United States undermining the British position. How much this view was increased by defence pacts in the less-developed world like the Southeast

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 67 Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO) in Southeast Asia is difficult to tell. What is certain is that the Baghdad Pact, like the other post-war military alliances in the West, was primarily created for political reasons. As well, it was a disastrous mistake to ally with an Arab rival to Egypt so soon after Nasser had successfully removed Western imperial influence in the form of a military presence on Egyptian soil. The Baghdad Pact aroused virulent Egyptian opposition, as the British and the Americans were relying on Nasser to play a key role in Plan Alpha, the Anglo-American attempt to bring about a settlement of the Arab–Israeli dispute. And it constituted the first disastrous contradiction in the British attempt to maintain an imperial defence commitment in the heart of the Middle East that ended with Suez. The Baghdad Pact and the attempt to use it to maintain British prestige and influence ironically came to depend on deceptions over the availability of nuclear weapons as the political battle between Britain and Egypt over Middle Eastern leadership of the Arab world intensified. More important, it coincided with the latest FO attempt to press again for a European connection, expressed in power political terms through nuclear cooperation as opposed to global influence exercised through an imperial and European combination. The British military had to face the unpleasant fact that for political reasons the outer ring strategy for the defence of the Middle East required more and more resources as British defence cuts were only able, after 1953 and 1955, to provide less and less. When the last desperate card to retain British imperial influence in the Middle East was played in the form of military aggression to remove Nasser, the imperial losses were considerable. In general terms, the idea that British foreign policy could preserve a global role through playing the leading role in the Middle East on behalf of the Cold War needs of the Western alliance sank with the block ships in the Suez Canal. Yet, even that was not enough to prevent the British abandoning the delusions of grandeur that might be sustained by a military strategy divorced from the political requirements of decolonisation but not from the projection of British power on a global basis. Ironically, as Egyptian opposition to the Pact began to cause difficulties weeks before the Suez crisis, the FO began to consider ways in which the military commitment to an imperial defence strategy might be offset by a greater commitment to Europe. As before, this perception grew from consideration of Britain’s position as a global power, which required more military focus on Europe because of the political benefits. It was not a clear choice in favour of a pre-Suez European strategy but a way of again combining the empire and Europe which followed consideration of the future of the Commonwealth in June 1956. The review by the Commonwealth Relations Office forecast that Britain’s position would become less dominant, but that Britain could continue ‘to derive increasing influence as a world power from its headship of the Commonwealth’.71 But influence from Europe and nuclear weapons would be a possibility now that

68 J. Kent defence needs could no longer be so easily met through an imperial defence strategy. And Selwyn Lloyd suggested precisely this in early 1957.72 Changes had taken place since the war as the Commonwealth replaced the empire and global strategy replaced imperial defence. But there were large similarities once the FO and the military were fully committed in the 1950s to Britain’s global role. The means of developing this were clearly the same in that operational rationales were developed to justify the military deployments out of area that provided for the status and prestige such deployments were perceived as representing in global terms. The hard choice of an either or policy between Out of Area and European defence when military strategy focused on imperial deployments while the FO were desperately trying to gear force provision to the political requirements of NATO in Europe was avoided. It was only by combining the two strategies that the resource needs of the European and global components could be prevented from becoming an issue. Yet, the reality was that Britain could not meet the resource needs of either area in whatever military role. By such ‘defence’ means was the Empire/Commonwealth justified and a weakened imperial role maintained even after Suez.

Notes 1 For the arguments on this perception of Empire’s changing importance, see R. F. Holland, In Pursuit of Greatness: Britain and the World Role 1900–1970 (London, 1991). On the base in Egypt, see J Kent (ed.), British Documents on the End of Empire Series B Vol 4 Part I xlv–l (London, 1998). 2 J. Kent (ed.), British Documents on the End of Empire, xlii. 3 The arguments between the FO and the COS over a Western European bloc and the role of the post Hostilities Planning Committee have been well covered with different interpretations in J. Lewis, Changing Direction: British Military Planning for Post-War Strategic Defence 1942–1947 (London, 2002) and J. Kent, British Imperial Strategy and the Origins of the Cold War (Leicester, 1994). 4 AIR 9/267 Memo by ACAS(P) 24 Feb 1946 and see CAB 131/2 DO(46)40 Memo by Bevin 13 Mar. 1946. 5 FO 371/50912 Memo by Sir O Sargent ‘Stocktaking on VE Day’ outlines the early ideas on the relationship between the smokescreen of liberalism and Britain’s power political and imperial needs. 6 For the development of the Third World Power idea, see J. Kent, British Imperial Strategy, Chapters 5 and 6. 7 FO 371/50912 Memo by Sir O Sargent ‘Stocktaking on VE Day’. 8 CAB 131/2 DO(46)47 2 Apr. 1946. 9 On Montreux at the end of the war, see CAB 80/97COS(45)551 and 573 and the annexes 28 Aug. 1945 and 11 Sept. 1945; J. Kent, British Imperial Strategy, 69–71. 10 On the arguments during the war about the Straits and their significance, see CAB 81/41 PHP(43)5 16 Aug. 1943;CAB 84/55 JP(43)294 20 Sept. 1943. 11 The imperial role needed on a global basis had been confirmed for the military by the Second World War – contrary to the ending of direct colonial rule. Hence Montgomery’s commitment to using Black Africa as a source of manpower to replace the Indian army FO 800/451 Report by Montgomery to Bevin 25 Sept. 1947 and Glubb Pasha arguing for the importance of colonial areas

The Foreign Office and defence of the empire 69

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

for military bases – ‘A Chain of Gibraltars’ FO371/91223 Memo by Glubb 23 May 1951. CAB 131/2 COS(46)43 13 Feb. 1946. CAB 131/2, DO(46)27 Memo by Attlee for the Defence Committee 2 Mar. 1946. Ibid. Ibid. In 1946, the FO was deep in negotiations with Egypt over the future of the base in the Suez Canal Zone. See J. Kent (ed.), British Documents on the End of Empire (BDEEP) Series B Vol 4 Egypt and the Defence of the Middle East 1945–56 Part I. FO 371/53286 2 Mar. 1946. CAB 131/12 DO(46)47 Memo by COS 2 Apr. 1946. See J. Kent, ‘Bevin’s Foreign Policy and the Idea of Euro-Africa’ in M. Dockrill and J. W. Young (eds). CAB 129/23 CP(48), 4 Jan. 1948. See FO 371/62557 Bevin to Creech Jones on 20 Aug. 1947 on the linkages between the Marshal Plan and the colonies and CAB 134/1217. Memo by Dalton 3 Jan. 1948. Kent, British Imperial Strategy, 187–200. CAB 129/37 Pt I CP(49)205 25 Oct. 1949. DEFE 4/23 COS(49)113 3 Aug. 1949. See DEFE 4/11 COS(48)39 Confidential Annex 17 Mar. 1948 for the views of Sir John Cunningham and Lord Tedder on the Russians retreating eastwards in any conflict rather than attacking westwards. DEFE 5/20 COS(50)141, annex 28 Apr. 1950. DEFE 4/16 COS(48)145 11 Oct. 1948 JP(48)106 annexes 7 Oct. 1948. CAB 131/9 DO(50)45 7 June 1950. CAB 129/37 Pt I CP(49)208 18 Oct. 1949. DEFE 4/10 and 11 contain numerous discussions about force provisions in Europe and the difficulty of providing for a ‘stop line’ when the forces did not exist to enforce it. See also DEFE4/14 COS (48)96 9 July 1948. DEFE4/16 COS(48) 124 8 Sept. 1948 confirms the British military belief in the impossibility of defending the Rhine. For interpretations of NSC 68 that relate Cold War policies to hot war ones, see John W. Young and J. Kent, International Relations since 1945 A Global History (2004). DEFE4/30 COS(50) 49 24 Mar. 1950. It is vital to be aware of the distinction between these terms in the military assumptions of the early 1950s on both sides of the Atlantic. Most interpretations of military policy and the rearmament implemented in the wake of the Korean War are seen in foreign policy Cold War terms and the interpretations of NSC 68 fail to understand it. CAB 131/9 DO(50)45 7 June 1950. DEFE 4/32 COS(50) 84th, Annex, 7 June 1950, Minute by Brigadier C Price (Secretary to COS Committee) to the C’s-in-c Middle East, 31 May 1950. CAB 131/9 DO(50)45 7 June 1950. DEFE 4/25 COS(49)154 19 Oct. 1949. CAB 131/9 DO(50)45 7 June 1950. Amongst the many works on ANZUS for documents, see R. Holdich, V. Johnson and P. Andre (eds), ANZUS Treaty 1951 (2000). CAB131/11 DO(51)70 2 June 1951. DEFE 5/20 COS(50)141 28 Apr. 1950. DEFE 5/24 COS(50)363 15 Sept. 1950. CAB 129/43 CP(50)310 12 Dec. 1950.

70 J. Kent 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

FO 371/90176, Cairo to FO 5 Feb. 1951. DEFE 4/38 COS(50)210 19 Dec. 1950; DEFE 5/29 COS(51)129 22 Mar. 1951. CAB 129/45 CP(51)95 30 Mar. 1951. CAB 128/19 CM(51)23 2 Apr. 1951. CAB 131/9 DO(50)45 7 June 1950. Ibid. CAB 129/53 C(52)202 18 June 1952. WO 216/459 Memo by Field Marshal Slim 17 Dec. 1951. DEFE 5/35 COS(51) 759 annex 18 Dec. 1951. CAB 131/12 D(52)26 17 June 1952. CAB 131/12 D(52)45 31 Oct. 1952, cited in D. Goldsworthy (ed.), BDEEP Series A Volume 3 The Conservative Government and the End of Empire 1951–57 Part I (1994), 36–7. These in Feb 1952 were deemed to be a total of 96 divisions; M. Dockrill, British Defence since 1945 (Oxford, 1988), 50. See D. Goldsworthy (ed.) op cit 26–36, 39–41, citing CAB 129/55 C(52)316 3t 1952, CAB 129/55 C(52)320 3 Oct. 1952, CAB 129/56 C(52)39 3 Nov. 1952. See CAB 129/59 C(53)65 Cabinet Memo by Eden 16 Feb. 1953. DEFE 4/77 COS(55)51 27 June 1955. The Australians agreed to provide two squadrons in 1952 and the New Zealanders one in 1953. For the MEC, see J. Kent (ed.), British Documents on the End of Empire, lxii–lxviii. FRUS 1952–1954 The Near and Middle East Vol. IX Pt I 379–86. DEFE 4/66 COS(53)124 3 Nov. 1953. DEFE 4/72 COS(54)92 27Aug. 1954 JP(54)58 24 Aug. 1954. DEFE 4/72 COS(54)92 27 Aug. 1954 Record of Lt-Gen. Sir Neville Brownjohn’s (VCIGS) remarks. DEFE 5/47 COS(54)332 9 July 1953; DEFE 5/47 COS(53)336 11July 1953. DEFE 4/70 COS(54)53 10 May 1954. DEFE 4/72 COS(54)94 6 Sep. 1954. DEFE 4/77 COS(55)50 27 June 1955. FO 371/115488 Minute by J G Ward 2 Feb. 1955. CO 1032/51 and June 1956 cited in Goldsworthy Doc 26. CAB 129/84 CP(57)6 5 Jan 1957 cited in Goldsworthy Doc 28.

4

The Treasury and defence of empire George Peden

The Treasury’s influence on imperial defence is often overlooked, as can be seen from the very different treatment accorded to it in different volumes of the Oxford History of the British Empire. In the nineteenthcentury volume, finance is described as central to the resolution of strategic choices, and examples are given of Chancellors of the Exchequer, Gladstone and Disraeli, successfully curbing army and navy expenditure.1 In the twentieth-century volume, there is only a passing reference to Treasury ministers pointing out the huge disparity between Britain’s military commitments and her financial resources in the late 1940s.2 There is no mention of Treasury control of defence expenditure between the wars, although that is the period for which complaints by military historians about ‘Treasury meanness’ are most common.3 There is nothing on the Treasury in the chapters on imperial defence and the Royal Navy (RN) and the British Empire in the historiographical volume.4 The Treasury’s influence can be understood only in the context of its role, which evolved over the period covered by this book.5 The Chancellor of the Exchequer is responsible not only for taxation and public loans, but also for controlling central government’s expenditure. One of the conventions of a parliamentary system of government is that money for central government expenditure should be voted in advance by the House of Commons, sitting as the Committee of Supply, and audited to ensure that it has been spent as voted. Each spring departments submit to Parliament estimates for expenditure in the coming financial year (starting in April). In 1861, Gladstone won the Cabinet’s agreement to the principle that the estimates should be subject to detailed criticism by the Treasury before Parliament was asked to approve them, to ensure that the taxpayer would be getting value for money. However, the Admiralty and War Office estimates were regarded as highly confidential and went to the Cabinet without previous discussion with Treasury officials, who normally had less opportunity to criticize proposals for defence expenditure than in the case of civil departments, who consulted the Treasury in advance of their estimates going to the Cabinet. Even so, the Chancellor would delay Cabinet approval until his officials had had the opportunity to compare

72 G. Peden the estimates with previous years’ expenditure. The defence departments were brought into line with civil departments after the Cabinet agreed in 1919 that it would not consider new proposals for expenditure until the Treasury had approved them or until the responsible minister had indicated his intention to appeal to the Cabinet against a Treasury decision. The Chancellor did not have the power of veto, but he could warn Cabinet colleagues of the consequences of increased expenditure. In practice, the power of the Treasury rested on the convention of the balanced budget. So long as an increase in one department’s expenditure meant either an increase in taxation or less money for other departments, the Chancellor was not short of allies among Cabinet ministers. However, if Parliament authorized borrowing for expenditure, as in wartime or for some specific purpose, as for example, warship construction under the Naval Defence Act of 1892, or for rearmament before the Second World War, it was harder for the Treasury to impose restraint. The estimates were set out in considerable detail and were divided into a series of ‘votes’: for example, in the case of the Admiralty, there would be one for pay, one for stores, one for new construction and so on. Underspending in one vote could be used to balance overspending in another, provided that the Treasury granted the power of virement. Otherwise, when a department wished to exceed its estimates during the financial year, it had to ask the Treasury for a supplementary estimate which would then be submitted to the Cabinet and Parliament for approval. Since not all proposals included in the annual estimates could be examined in detail before they were submitted to Parliament, the Treasury would reserve some matters for further consideration, and if it later found that a proposal was wasteful or did not conform to government policy, it would withhold approval, and the money could not be spent, even although already voted by Parliament, unless the minister in question appealed successfully to the Cabinet. Detailed examination of the estimates usually secured some economies, but the Treasury’s most effective approach was to limit the total amount of money available for a department’s estimates, thereby forcing the experts within that department to cut out the less-essential proposals. Prior to the First World War, the Treasury did not claim the right to question policy when examining the estimates, and Treasury control was concerned solely with financial prudence. The Chancellor could discuss policy, as a member of the Cabinet or its sub-committees, but it was only after the First World War that officials began systematically to brief the Chancellor with arguments as to what policy should be. By then the Treasury was evolving from being purely a ministry of finance to being concerned with the economy as a whole, and Treasury control had become concerned with making the best possible use of resources, including industrial capacity, as well as with money. In 1919, when the Cabinet was concerned about reducing high levels of wartime expenditure, the Permanent Secretary of the Treasury, Sir Warren Fisher, argued that major

Treasury and defence of empire 73 economies could be achieved only by making changes in policy. He tried to make the Treasury the central department of government, coordinating policy through financial control, and from 1933 he took an active interest in the formulation of defence and foreign affairs. While he did not wish the Treasury to supplant the spending departments, he thought that Treasury officials should form ‘constructive views on policy questions’.6 In theory, defence policy was coordinated by the Committee of Imperial Defence, first created in 1904, and which in the interwar period had representatives of three independent defence services, the navy, the army and the air force, plus the Foreign Office (FO) and the Treasury. In practice, the lack of a Ministry of Defence left the Treasury with an important coordinating role through the control of expenditure. Even when a Ministry of Defence was established in 1947, the three defence services retained considerable autonomy until the Sandys reforms of 1957–8, and even later.7 Chancellors, briefed by their officials, continued to have an input into the formulation of policy for as long as the combined demands of the services were too great for the national economy to bear. The subsections of this chapter follow the evolution of Treasury control over defence expenditure. The next section deals with the period 1856–1914, when the Treasury was concerned solely with financial prudence. Further sections deal with the period 1914–1939, when the Treasury lost control of expenditure during the First World War, then regained it, and then with a similar cycle over the period 1939–1956.

1856–1914 Although the Treasury’s parsimony was expressed in financial terms down to 1914, it had an economic basis. Government expenditure on non-productive activities, like defence, was believed to divert money from private enterprise, the source of the increasing wealth (and taxable capacity) of the community. In a memorable dictum, Gladstone declared that ‘money should be left to fructify in the pockets of the taxpayer’.8 The recent debate between historians on the costs and benefits of the British Empire has some bearing on the wisdom or otherwise of Treasury parsimony. Lance Davis and Robert Huttenback, in a seminal work, calculated that the costs, particularly the taxation necessary for imperial defence, outweighed the benefits.9 Patrick O’Brien has supported this point of view, arguing that imperial defence led to an ‘inflated military establishment’ and diverted military resources from the principal threat to British security by the early twentieth-century Germany.10 On the other hand, Paul Kennedy and Avner Offer have countered that the cost of imperial defence was not particularly burdensome when compared with the defence establishments of other powers, given that Britain had a higher income per capita than other European countries. Moreover, Kennedy has pointed out that France and Russia, not Germany, were the principal

74 G. Peden threats to British security in the nineteenth century, and Offer has drawn attention to the fact that the empire was a strategic asset that served Britain well in the First World War, both in terms of raw materials and manufactures and in terms of military manpower.11 For the purposes of an examination of the Treasury’s influence, one may conclude that defence of empire was at least potentially a burden on the British economy and that there was a case for Treasury parsimony to minimize that burden. Defence expenditure was higher after the Crimean War than it had been before: £24.9 million in 1860 compared with £15.1 million in 1850. The suppression of the Indian mutiny (1857–9) and war with China (1856–60) had delayed economies in the defence of empire. However, Gladstone embarked on an economy campaign, and by 1870 defence expenditure was down to £21.5 million. It became harder for the Treasury to continue downward pressure on the defence estimates thereafter, as revenue rose and the cost of servicing the national debt was reduced, partly by debt redemption but mainly through a conversion operation in 1888 that reduced the interest rate payable on Consols, the most important gilt-edged stock. It was thus difficult for the Treasury to resist demands for increased expenditure during the naval scare originally got up by the journalist W. T. Stead in the Pall Mall Gazette in 1884, and by 1898 defence expenditure had reached £40.2 million. The Boer War proved to be very expensive, the cost peaking in 1902 at £123.3 million, and the defence estimates never returned to their 1898 level. In 1904, the Conservative Chancellor, Austen Chamberlain, told the Cabinet that ‘we must frankly admit that the financial resources of the United Kingdom are inadequate to do all that we should desire in the matter of Imperial defence’.12 However, a naval arms race with Germany frustrated the Treasury’s efforts to reduce defence expenditure, which rose from £58.2 million in 1908 to £72.5 million in 1913. It is difficult to work out how much was spent on the defence of empire, as opposed to the defence of the United Kingdom or its trade routes. About half of the army was deployed overseas, maintaining or expanding the empire, and the money voted for the army or the ordnance exceeded the money voted for the navy until 1896 and also during the Boer War and its aftermath. The Victorian and Edwardian navy tended to be expensive because it had different functions that, after the adoption of steam for major warships in 1850 and the introduction of the ironclad in 1860, required largely incompatible types of ships. Armoured vessels, with limited range without refuelling, were required in European waters. On the other hand, imperial policing was carried out mainly by unarmoured vessels, with longer range. Some ships, frigates or cruisers had a dual purpose, being suitable for scouting for the fleet, trade protection, and defence of empire, but there is no doubt that Britain’s world-wide commitments necessitated a much larger navy than those of powers whose interests were more concentrated. Gladstone argued in 1864 that steamships

Treasury and defence of empire 75 and the expanding electric telegraph system made it unnecessary to maintain as many ships overseas as hitherto, and the number was cut from 135 to 120 by 1868.13 Even so, as late as December 1904, an Admiralty paper submitted to Parliament admitted that ‘the principles, on which the present peace distribution of HM ships and the arrangements of their stations are based, date from a period when the electric telegraph did not exist and when wind was the motive power’.14 The Treasury, as the guardian of the British taxpayer, tried to impose as much of the cost of the defence of empire as possible on the colonial taxpayer and thereby provoked frequent disputes with the Colonial Office and between the British government and the colonies. It proved to be possible to extract contributions towards the cost of British forces from dependent colonies like India, Ceylon, Hong Kong and the Straits Settlements, but the self-governing colonies like Australia, New Zealand, Natal and Cape Colony contributed less, and Canada not at all. Even dependent colonies might be too poor to pay much towards the cost of military operations on their territory: for example, Sierra Leone paid only two-thirds of expenses incurred in 1898–9, and then only after a delay of several years. In the cases of Australia, New Zealand and Canada, the solution was to withdraw British troops, the process being initiated in the 1840s and completed by 1871; not even a Maori war could stay the Treasury’s demand for economy. India alone made a contribution to the defence of empire outside its own territory or adjacent waters.15 Two other factors impeded the Treasury’s quest for economy in the defence of empire. There were frequent wars: the Zulu War (1879), the second Afghan War (1879–81), the first Boer War (1880–1), the occupation of Egypt (1882), the conquest of the Sudan (1898) and the second Boer War (1899–1902), all of which were financed largely out of loans, with the cost to the taxpayer following only at an interval through servicing the national debt. From the 1860s, technical developments such as the introduction of the breech-loading rifle, machine guns, and greatly improved artillery made it difficult to argue against War Office proposals for re-equipment. On the other hand, the need to keep the annual estimates within what could be afforded within a balanced budget could force soldiers to make choices as to priorities. Considerable gains in efficiency seem to have been made between 1905 and 1912, while R. B. Haldane was Secretary of State for War, without any increase in the estimates.16 In the case of the Admiralty, continuous innovation in naval technology from 1860 meant that major warships were obsolescent about ten years after they had been built, and again it was difficult to argue against the need for new construction even if there were frequent battles over how many ships should be laid down. The Admiralty was not above trying to pull wool over the Treasury’s eyes. One officer, who had been on the staff of Naval Intelligence, recalled that he had been asked to compile a statement of the combined strengths of the French and

76 G. Peden Russian navies, with a view to wringing more money out of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He therefore included obsolete and useless vessels, but on that occasion the Chancellor, Sir William Harcourt (1892–5), was not deceived and struck out these vessels with his blue pencil.17 The Treasury’s parsimony appears to have led to better value for money in the 1860s and 1870s, when obsolete ships were decommissioned to release funds for new construction, than in the naval scares of the 1880s and 1890s, when the estimates increased rapidly. When Sir John Fisher was appointed first sea lord in 1904, with orders to reduce the estimates, he was able to identify no fewer than 154 ships that were too old to fight or too slow to run away and which he recommended should be scrapped.18

1914–1939 During the First World War, defence expenditure was financed out of votes of credit, the Treasury being empowered by Parliament to borrow as much as was required over and above tax receipts. The defence departments were thereby released from the constraint of balanced budgets and the Treasury exercised little control over war-related expenditure. As a consequence, prices of munitions rose by more than they need have done as different services competed for the same scarce industrial resources. In the long run, the Treasury’s position in Whitehall was to be strengthened after the war, when balanced budgets and severe economy in public expenditure became politically necessary, both to curb inflation and to cut taxes.19 During the war, although the Chancellor took part in Cabinet discussions of strategy, he was unable to prevent a radical shift away from pre-war plans, whereby Britain’s military effort would have been limited to sending the existing expeditionary force to France, and, as in previous wars, her wealth would be used to finance her allies’ armies. In the First World War, Britain attempted to maintain both a mass army and to subsidize her allies. Opposition to conscription was led by the Chancellor, Reginald McKenna, and the President of the Board of Trade, Walter Runciman, on the grounds that further diversion of labour from industry than had already occurred through voluntary recruitment would limit Britain’s ability to produce munitions and would cripple exports, and thereby Britain’s ability to finance essential imports. The arguments used by McKenna when presenting his case to a Cabinet committee on war policy in August 1915 had been drafted by a young economist, John Maynard Keynes, who had been recruited from Cambridge to serve as a Treasury official. The Treasury case was that Britain could wage war for ten years if industry were not depleted of labour, but that conscription would lead to national bankruptcy. The Minister of Munitions, Lloyd George, and his supporters believed that an enlarged army of 70 divisions was necessary to prevent defeat, and hoped that victory could be won by the end of 1916, before bankruptcy occurred.20 The conscriptionists’ case prevailed, with the consequence that Britain became increasingly dependent

Treasury and defence of empire 77 upon imports of munitions from the United States, for which she could only pay by the temporary expedient of borrowing dollars, first from the American public and then, after the entry of the United States into the war in 1917, from the American government. Over the world as a whole, Britain’s overseas assets were reduced and short-term indebtedness increased, leaving sterling vulnerable to a loss of confidence. Moreover, Britain lost export markets, some of them permanently, with long-term damage to the economy.21 After the war, the Treasury’s view that industrial investment and exports must have first call on national resources was accepted by the Cabinet, reinforcing the pressure for economy in all forms of public expenditure, including defence.22 In August 1919, the Cabinet, at the urging of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Austen Chamberlain, decided that the defence departments should assume when preparing their estimates for future expenditure that ‘the British Empire will not be engaged in any great war during the next ten years, and that no Expeditionary Force is required for this purpose.’23 Historians for long commonly assumed that, as a result of this decision, the Treasury held the ‘whip hand’ in disputes with the defence departments whenever any request for increased expenditure was put forward.24 However, John Ferris has convincingly argued that, in the cases of the Admiralty and the Air Ministry, it was only after 1924 that service policies came to be dominated by the Treasury.25 The War Office intended to reproduce the pre-war army at an estimated annual cost of £62 million in 1920; the Treasury managed to bring this figure down to £45 million, following a Cabinet decision at the end of 1920 to evacuate Iran and to halve the garrisons in Egypt, Palestine and Iraq.26 On the other hand, the search for economies in imperial defence gave the Royal Air Force (RAF) the opportunity to show that air power could maintain order in Iraq and elsewhere more cheaply than ground forces alone could do.27 The Cabinet’s decision in 1919 that the size of the navy should not exceed that of the pre-war, one-power standard (which excluded comparison with the United States) was interpreted six different ways by the Admiralty between 1919 and 1925, each interpretation pointing towards a different policy, and the net result of which was that Britain maintained a battle fleet equal to that of the United States and 167 per cent of that of Japan.28 It fell to Winston Churchill, as Chancellor of the Exchequer from 1924 to 1929, to attempt to curb the expenditure of the department that he had headed as first lord from 1911 to 1915. Following the decision not to renew the Anglo-Japanese alliance in 1922, the Admiralty’s plans assumed that the main British fleet might have to move to the Far East to protect British interests there, and that therefore there should be a large, fortified, naval base at Singapore, together with adequate stocks of fuel along the route from Britain, as well as a submarine base at Hong Kong. Churchill professed in 1924 to believe that there was not the ‘slightest chance’ of war with Japan ‘in our lifetime’ (a prophecy that did not find

78 G. Peden its way into his memoirs) and argued that the only war worth fighting in the Far East would be one to prevent an invasion of Australia. In Churchill’s view, a war with Japan over Hong Kong would last for years, reducing Britain to bankruptcy and exposing the empire to threats from unfriendly powers.29 He thought that it was not necessary for the defences at Singapore to be complete for another 15–20 years and believed that ‘a squadron of battle-cruisers or a fast division of battleships’ could act as an effective deterrent; in the event of war, this force would avoid battle until the superior Japanese forces had been reduced by submarines, mines, aircraft or coastal defences. These ideas helped to shape Treasury views on the Singapore strategy for the rest of the interwar period, besides anticipating Churchill’s policy in 1941.30 Meanwhile, in March 1925, Churchill secured a ruling from the Committee of Imperial Defence that the navy should not prepare for a campaign in the Far East before 1935; in 1927 and 1928, he cut the cruiser programme; and in the latter year he persuaded the Committee of Imperial Defence and the Cabinet to restate the ten-year rule so that, at any given date, it would be assumed that there would be no major war for ten years.31 This ten-year rule was not abrogated until March 1932, after Japan had invaded Manchuria the previous September. Meanwhile, although work at Singapore had proceeded slowly, delayed in part by disputes over whether the base should be defended by guns or aircraft, construction was too far advanced for the incoming Labour government and its impeccably orthodox Chancellor of the Exchequer, Philip Snowden, to cancel it in 1929. However, the dominions were persuaded at the Imperial Conference in 1930 to accept a postponement of further work on the docks and on the base’s defences, pending a further review in 1935.32 Even when agreeing to end the ten-year rule, the Cabinet accepted the point made by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Neville Chamberlain, that defence expenditure should not be increased without regard to the risk to the country’s financial stability. The slump and international financial crisis of 1931 had brought about the fall of the Labour government and the election of a National Government committed to taking Britain safely through the economic crisis. The balanced budget remained the test of good financial housekeeping, leading to severe economy in all forms of government expenditure: 1932 was the low point in the defence estimates, and the 1929/30 level of defence expenditure, £113 million, was not reached again until 1934/5. The pace of rearmament thereafter was restricted by the Treasury so long as it was Cabinet policy to give economic stability priority over armed defence. Policymakers had to balance two risks: if rearmament were too rapid it might undermine the economy by diverting production away from exports; if it were too slow Britain might not be ready for war if and when it came. The report of the Chiefof-Staff’s (COS) sub-committee on planning for a war with Germany had assumed in 1937 that Germany would be less well placed than Britain and

Treasury and defence of empire 79 France to fight a long war, and for this reason the Treasury claimed that financial stability was a ‘fourth arm of defence’. It was expected that Britain would have to rely more on her own financial resources than in the First World War, because during the depression she had failed to maintain full repayments on war debts to the United States and she had been included in the provisions of the Johnson Act of 1934 which prohibited new loans to any government that was in default. From 1937, however, a rowing adverse balance of payments on current account, followed from 1938 by a fall in the gold reserves and depreciation of sterling against the dollar – all indicated a strain on the economy and a decline in foreign confidence in Britain’s financial stability. Treasury control over the defence departments’ expenditure began to weaken in 1937, with the passage of the Defence Loans Act, which removed the constraint of the balanced budget, but it was not until the spring of 1939 that the Treasury ceased to be a major influence shaping strategy.33 Fisher and Chamberlain took active parts in a review of the defence policy in 1933 and 1934, Fisher in the official Defence Requirements SubCommittee, generally known by its acronym, the DRC, and Chamberlain in the ministerial committee which considered its report. The DRC comprised the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Maurice Hankey (chairman); the COS of the three defence services: Sir Ernle Chatfield, the first sea lord; Sir Archibald Montgomery-Massingberd, the Chief of Imperial General Staff, Sir Edward Ellington, the chief of air staff; Sir Robert Vansittart, permanent under-secretary of the FO, and Fisher. According to a recent study, the recommendations of the DRC ‘largely determined the path that British strategic policy took until 1939’.34 The DRC identified Germany as the ultimate potential enemy against whom long-term defence policy should be planned, while recommending immediate defensive measures against Japan.35 However, it is difficult to accept that it determined the path of defence policy, particularly as it related to the defence of empire, whatever the report’s significance for foreign policy. As Table 4.1 shows, the DRC’s recommendations would have preserved the existing pattern of annual defence expenditure on the air force, army and navy, with the air force having the smallest share and the navy the biggest. Actual expenditure over the financial years 1934/5 to 1938/9 was much greater than what had been envisaged in 1934, owing to increasing awareness of the extent of the danger posed by potential enemies and the urgency with which the country should rearm. There was also a striking shift in the distribution of expenditure between the armed services, with the air force emerging as the clear winner. This change of emphasis reflected mainly widespread fear in Britain of air attack.36 However, Treasury influence also helped to shape the course of defence policy. Chamberlain was an exceptionally powerful chancellor, being heir apparent of the Conservative party, besides having a strong personality and a clear, logical mind. During the DRC’s discussions Fisher

80 G. Peden Table 4.1 Distribution of expenditure by defence departments from 1933/34 to 1938/39 Financial year

Annual total (£ms)

Percentage shares Air Force

Army

Navy

DRC report 1934/5 1935/6 1936/7 1937/8 1938/9

118.5 124.6 128.9 130.6 132.0

14.9 15.0 15.8 16.3 16.1

37.7 36.0 35.1 34.8 34.6

47.5 48.9 49.1 48.9 49.3

Actual expenditure 1933/4 1934/5 1935/6 1936/7 1937/8 1938/9

107.9 113.9 137.0 186.1 262.1 382.5

15.6 15.5 20.0 26.9 31.4 35.0

34.8 34.9 32.6 29.5 29.7 31.7

49.6 49.7 47.3 43.6 38.9 33.3

Sources: First Defence Requirements Report, 28 February 1934, CAB 16/109, TNA, and Statistical Abstract for the United Kingdom for each of the fifteen years 1924 to 1938 (Cmd. 6232), P.P. 1939–40, x, 367. Note Because of rounding up or down, the percentage figures do not always add up to 100.

and Vansittart had unsuccessfully urged greater expansion of the RAF than Ellington had asked for, and the DRC report had recommended ten additional squadrons to complete the 52-squadron Home Defence scheme of 1923; ten additional squadrons of aeroplanes and four of flying boats for service in the Far East, and 20 additional squadrons for the Fleet Air Arm. The report stated that a further 25 squadrons would be necessary to meet ‘all eventual requirements’, but these were not part of the ‘worst deficiencies’ to be remedied by 1939, although they should be reconsidered if Germany carried out rapid expansion of her air force.37 When the DRC report was discussed by ministers, Chamberlain produced an alternative proposal for 38 additional squadrons instead of ten for the Home Defence Force, but with only three additional squadrons for the Far East, and with Fleet Air Arm requirements being met by making Home Defence and Fleet Air Arm squadrons interchangeable. A Cabinet sub-committee on the allocation of air forces concluded in July 1934 that this last suggestion was impracticable and instead recommended 33 additional squadrons for Home Defence, four for the Far East and four and a half for the Fleet Air Arm.38 On balance, the Treasury view that air force expansion should be for home defence rather than the defence of empire was accepted, and this pattern was subsequently reinforced as British air rearmament lagged behind Germany’s. For its part, the Treasury exercised much lighter

Treasury and defence of empire 81 control over Air Ministry expenditure than over that of the Admiralty or, much more so, of the War Office. The Air Ministry was even able to persist with the development of strategic bombers despite instruction from the Cabinet at the end of 1937 to give priority to fighter defence.39 Chamberlain had intended to find extra money for air force expansion by cuts or delays in the army and navy programmes. In particular, echoing Churchill’s earlier ideas, he thought that, while the navy base at Singapore must be completed, it should be used at present only for submarines and other light craft, and the idea of sending out a fleet of capital ships capable of containing the Japanese fleet or meeting it in battle must be postponed.40 Fisher and Chamberlain believed that Britain must try to restore good relations with Japan, but the Admiralty and the FO doubted whether this could be done without offending the United States, with whom good relations were paramount, and Treasury attempts to influence foreign policy in the direction of securing an understanding with Japan failed.41 Work on the naval base at Singapore went ahead, with Treasury support from 1934, and plans to send capital ships to the Far East in the event of war with Japan continued to be drawn up. Although the Admiralty was unable to secure Treasury or Cabinet agreement to a two-power standard, shipbuilding and gun-making capacity, not finance, determined the speed with which the navy’s new construction programmes were carried out from 1936, although, of course, industrial capacity would have been greater had naval expenditure not been reduced by Churchill and Snowden between 1924 and 1931.42 Under the terms of the London Naval Treaty of 1930, Britain could not lay down new capital ships until January 1937. However, the Treasury agreed to steps being taken to speed the construction of the new King George V class, two being laid down in the last three months of the financial year 1936/7 and three more at the beginning of the financial year 1937/8, or five in all in the calendar year 1937, compared with one, admittedly very large, capital ship laid down that year by Japan.43 Admiralty expenditure almost doubled between 1933/4 and 1937/8, from £53 million to £102 million. One consequence of the rapidly expanding air and naval programmes was to put pressure on the army. In 1934, Chamberlain secured a cut in the army’s DRC programme from £40 million to £20 million, with the result that the army’s deficiencies would take more than five years to repair.44 Then, in January 1937, faced with defence programmes that were getting ahead of industrial capacity, the Treasury advised Chamberlain that Treasury control should be restored by setting a maximum figure for defence expenditure over the next five years, fixing a ‘ration’ for each defence department. The outcome was a major review of policy conducted by Sir Thomas Inskip, who had been appointed minister for coordination of defence the previous year, with Hankey drafting much of Inskip’s interim report of 15 December 1937. Chatfield, who was chairman of the COS Committee as well as first sea lord, was another major

82 G. Peden influence on the report. He accepted the Treasury’s argument that evergrowing defence programmes would lead to national bankruptcy and believed that the country could not afford an army prepared for war on the European conflict in addition to the navy and air force essential for the security of the United Kingdom and the empire. Both Chatfield and Hankey thought that the role of the army should be confined to the military requirements of the empire. The influence of the Treasury on Inskip’s interim report lay in persuading him and his advisers that the defence forces being created by rearmament should not exceed what could be maintained for a long period – since the purpose of rearmament was to deter Germany, not to prepare for war at a given date – and strategic priorities were determined outside the Treasury.45 Inskip’s interim report stated that the cornerstone of imperial defence policy must be to maintain the security of the United Kingdom, where the empire’s main strength in terms of manpower and industrial capacity lay. It followed, he said, that the first and major effort should be directed to protection of the United Kingdom against attack and to preserving the trade routes for essential imports of food and raw materials. The third objective should be maintenance of forces for the defence of British overseas territories against attack by sea, land or air; this objective was less important than the first two, since so long as the United Kingdom was secure ‘we may hope in time to repair any losses or defeats suffered elsewhere’. A fourth objective, which could be provided only after the other three had been met, was cooperation in the defence of the territories ‘of any allies we may have in war’.46 These recommendations, accepted by the Cabinet, laid down that the army’s annual estimates were to be drawn up on the assumption that an expeditionary force would not be committed to a European campaign at the beginning of a war. Inskip’s second report of 8 February 1938, which fixed the defence department’s financial rations, stated that the army was to be equipped for ‘an Eastern theatre’, which the War Office interpreted as the defence of Egypt against Italy. It was claimed that the change in the role and composition of the army’s field units would make possible substantial reductions in the provision of tanks and in reserves of ammunition compared with what would be required for European operations.47 The Treasury was not content with this recommendation, however, one official commenting that the army had been relieved of the requirement to fight in Europe only for the FO to conjure up a terrifying picture of an equally arduous African campaign. At the suggestion of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, now Sir John Simon, the Cabinet decided that the army should be prepared ‘for general purposes’ rather than a particular campaign. This decision enabled the Treasury to hold up War Office proposals that would exceed what was required for a force of two infantry and one armoured division, with equipment and reserves on a European scale, but for defensive purposes only, plus two infantry divisions to be ready in 40 days and a further

Treasury and defence of empire 83 two to be ready after four months after the outbreak of war.48 It was not until February 1939 that the Cabinet agreed to prepare the Regular Army for a European campaign at the outset of war and not until April 1939 that it decided that an enlarged Territorial Army should likewise be prepared to follow 12 months later. Michael Howard, in his seminal work, The Continental Commitment, argued that the defence of empire led to the dissipation of British strength.49 However, it was the air force, preparing for war with Germany, not Britain’s wider responsibilities, that diverted scarce industrial resources from preparing the army for a continental commitment. Britain’s forces round the empire tended to be the last to receive up-todate equipment. The blame for inadequacy of the empire’s defences could also be laid at the door of the dominions, which carried on the nineteenth-century practice of leaving the main burden of imperial defence to the United Kingdom.50 It can be argued that British rearmament could have proceeded much faster had it not been held up down to 1938 by a policy, supported by the Board of Trade as well as the Treasury, of not interfering with normal trade. However, supporters of this view tend to come from the United States, a country that, because of its rich endowment of natural resources, has much less reason than the United Kingdom to worry about its balance of payments, and therefore about the diversion of industrial output from exports.51 By April 1939, as the balance of payments deficit on current account increased and as the country’s gold reserves decreased, the Treasury warned the COS that if they were under the impression that Britain was as well able as in 1914 to conduct a long war, they were burying their heads in the sand.52

1939–1956 The Treasury’s prediction that Britain would have difficulty financing a long war was borne out in the Second World War. The Treasury tried to continue its coordinating role but found it difficult to sustain exports or to preserve gold and dollar reserves, even during the ‘Phoney War’, and quite impossible once Churchill had become prime minister on 10 May 1940, determined to pursue victory at any cost. Under Churchill, the Chancellor was, for a time, not even a member of the War Cabinet. The Treasury’s task was to scrape together as many dollars as possible through the sale of British overseas assets, or otherwise, until after Franklin D. Roosevelt had won his third presidential election, in November 1940, and felt that he could take the risk of pushing the Lend-Lease Act through Congress in March 1941. Even thereafter, Britain had to pay for orders placed before the Act was passed, and the Americans varied the extent to which goods were supplied free under Lend-Lease, so as to ensure that Britain’s gold and dollar reserves were kept low, thereby keeping Britain in a state

84 G. Peden of dependence. Moreover, Britain had to pay for supplies from the rest of the world, including the empire and Commonwealth, which she did by piling up debts known as sterling balances, which were to contribute to sterling’s weakness after the war.53 Keynes, who was advising the Chancellor, pointed out in May 1945 that a large part of military expenditure leading to this indebtedness had been unrelated to the war against Germany, being for the purposes of fighting Japan, policing the Middle East or maintaining lines of communication. He warned that lack of restraint on overseas expenditure was increasing Britain’s dependence upon the United States to the point where an attempt to do without an American aid after the war would necessitate ‘withdrawal, for the time being, from the position of a first-class Power in the outside world’.54 After the Lend-Lease Act was abruptly cancelled at the end of the war with Japan in August, Keynes was sent to Washington to negotiate the AngloAmerican Loan Agreement, which gave Britain a brief breathing space but did not prevent repeated balance-of-payments crises as Britain effected a transition from a war economy.55 Post-war chancellors tried to reduce Britain’s commitments to the defence of empire to a level that would not impinge adversely on the economy. In February 1946, Hugh Dalton circulated to the Cabinet a memorandum, drafted by Keynes, in which it was estimated that, on current trends, military expenditure outside Europe might cost anything from £600 million to £750 million in the three years 1946–8, compared with the American line of credit of £937 million, which was expected to last the six years 1946–51. Keynes posed the question: ‘How do we propose to reply to the Egyptian demand that we take our troops out of Egypt? Is it appreciated that we are paying the cost of keeping them there by borrowing it from Egypt?’56 Dalton hoped that if his Cabinet colleagues accepted that Britain lacked the resources to keep open the Mediterranean route in time of war, they would also agree that troops need not be maintained in the Suez Canal Zone or the rest of the Middle East. However, although the Prime Minister, Clement Attlee, talked of withdrawing to a line from Lagos to Kenya, Ernest Bevin, the foreign secretary, strongly supported the COS when they argued that Britain must remain a Mediterranean power. During 1946 and the first half of 1947, when the government’s hopes of economic recovery focused on overcoming the shortage of industrial and agricultural workers, Bevin obstinately resisted any reduction in Britain’s armed forces or overseas commitments, and such was the strength of his position in the Labour government that his view prevailed until after a failed attempt at making sterling convertible in July 1947 highlighted the weakness of Britain’s position. In September, the Cabinet’s Defence Committee agreed to a reduction in the strength of the armed forces from 1,217,000 to 713,000 by March 1949, a step that was said to involve ‘serious risks and political consequences’, although the strength of the armed forces in mid-1939 had been only 480,000.57

Treasury and defence of empire 85 The Treasury’s attempts at reducing the resources devoted to defence were reversed in 1950 as a result of the outbreak of the Korean War in June that year. To the dismay of Treasury officials, Hugh Gaitskell, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, was in favour of rearmament, to show the United States that Britain was a reliable ally. He took the lead in persuading the Cabinet to accept in January 1951 a £4,700 million programme for 1951/2 to 1953/4, although only six months earlier the Cabinet had been told that £3,400 million over three years was the maximum physically possible without additional controls over the economy. Unfortunately, expectations that American aid would overcome the balance-of-payments constraint were disappointed, and a severe sterling crisis followed in 1951–2, mainly as a result of the rise in import prices that resulted from rearmament in other countries, principally the United States. What rearmament did was to divert British industry from exports just as the effects of renewed German competition began to be felt.58 The consequent weakening of the overstretched British economy in the 1950s shows how rearmament – even with controls over the economy – can reduce a country’s capacity to support the armed forces that it is creating. The proportion of Britain’s gross domestic product devoted to defence expenditure had risen from 5.8 per cent in 1949/50 to 8.7 per cent in 1952/3 and was still as high as 7.9 per cent in 1954/5 and 7.2 per cent in 1956/7; in 1938/9, it had been about 8 per cent.59 The aftermath of rearmament was a painful period of adjustment for the armed forces, as Treasury control was gradually reasserted and defence departments had to cut back on their programmes. The Treasury was not alone in thinking that the burden of overseas defence expenditure continued to be a source of weakness for the balance of payments.60 Among the economies was a withdrawal from the Suez Canal Zone. The COS themselves had come round to the view by 1952 that, without willing Egyptian cooperation, the base there was more of a liability than an asset. With R. A. Butler, chancellor of the exchequer, warning about Britain’s fragile external financial position, and the need to cut defence expenditure, the Chiefs favoured running down the base and transferring some of its functions to Cyprus.61 An agreement to withdraw British troops from Egypt was signed in October 1954, and the last men left in June 1956. The Suez crisis, following the nationalization of the Canal by the Egyptian dictator, Colonel Nasser, in July 1956, revealed the extent to which the weakness of sterling could undermine the efforts of the armed forces. Britain and France, acting in collusion with Israel, tried to topple Nasser, starting with air attacks on 31 October, followed by the landing of an Anglo-French expeditionary force at Port Said on 5 November. However, the following day the United States used Britain’s need for American support for sterling to insist on a ceasefire, and Britain and France were compelled to withdraw their forces in December. Treasury officials had warned the Chancellor, Harold Macmillan, and the Prime

86 G. Peden Minister, Anthony Eden, in April that foreign confidence in sterling was so weak that pressure for devaluation might become irresistible at some point between August and November. Inflationary pressures, and in particular, demands for higher wages, were creating doubt about British industry’s ability to compete in international markets, and the Suez crisis added to the uncertainty. Macmillan was told more than once by Treasury officials in August and September that it was vital that Britain should not act against Egypt without American support. On the basis of informal talks that he had in America in September, Macmillan seems to have believed that American support would be forthcoming, and when it was not, he felt that he had no option but to advise the Cabinet to acquiesce in American demands. British vulnerability to American pressure was greater than it might have been, because Treasury officials and the Bank of England had been kept in the dark about the government’s intention to invade Egypt and had consequently not approached the International Monetary Fund (IMF) for a standby credit beforehand, as the French had done. Moreover, Britain was due to make her annual repayment under the Anglo-American Loan Agreement of 1945 in December. Without American support, there was no prospect of a successful application to the IMF for a credit to offset heavy selling of sterling and a consequent fall in Britain’s gold and dollar reserves. The alternative would have been to allow sterling to float, but in an era of fixed exchange rates, such action would have been regarded as the equivalent of devaluation. There had been a devaluation of sterling as recently as 1949, and another one would probably have led to the break-up of the sterling area, which at the time was regarded as an important bond holding most of the Commonwealth together.62

Conclusion The principal function of the Treasury in relation to defence was to warn ministers of the financial and, from 1915, the economic consequences of proposals for increased expenditure. In 1937, the Inskip report noted that: In considering whether we can afford this or that programme, the first question asked is how much the programme will cost; and the cost of the programme is then related to the sums which can be made available from Exchequer resources, from taxation, or exceptionally from the proceeds of loans. But the fact that the problem is considered in terms of money, must not be allowed to obscure the fact that our real resources consist not of money, i.e., paper pounds, which are nothing more than a symbol, but of our man power, and productive capacity, our power to maintain our credit, and the general balance of our trade.63

Treasury and defence of empire 87 Twenty years later, the 1957 Defence White Paper stated: Britain’s influence in the world depends first and foremost on the health of her internal economy and the success of her export trade. Without these, military power cannot in the long run be supported. It is therefore in the true interests of defence that the claims of military expenditure should be considered in conjunction with the need to maintain the country’s financial and economic strength.64 The Inskip report has not been well regarded by military historians because it was overtaken by events. It was designed to plan defence expenditure in future years in a way that would ensure that the British economy would not be undermined by the process of rearmament over five years or by creating armed forces that would be too large to maintain in the long term. It was not designed as a plan for war in 1939. The 1957 Defence White Paper had its controversial aspects in relation to defence policy, but few would doubt that the British economy was disadvantaged in the early 1950s from having to bear a greater proportion of its national product devoted to defence than other European countries.65 Long-run deterrence, which was the aim of British defence policy in the 1950s, had to take account of what defences the country could afford to sustain indefinitely. Treasury control was originally designed to ensure that the defence departments were as economical as possible. From 1919, the Treasury engaged in debate on what policy should be, and, although Treasury interventions must often have been intensely irritating to other departments, the lack of an effective ministry of defence created a need for some body in Whitehall to ensure that strategists were thinking clearly about priorities.

Notes 1 P. Burroughs, ‘Defence and imperial disunity’, in A. Porter (ed.), The Oxford History of the British Empire, vol. III, The Nineteenth Century (Oxford, 1999), 320–45, at 320, 327–8, 332–3. 2 A. Clayton, ‘ “Deceptive might”: imperial defence and security, 1900–1968’, in J. M. Brown and W. R. Louis (eds), The Oxford History of the British Empire, vol. IV, The Twentieth Century (Oxford, 1999), 280–305, at 294. 3 See, for example, C. Barnett, Britain and Her Army (London, 1970), 421, and B. Bond, British Military Policy between the Two World Wars (Oxford, 1980), 39, 135–6. 4 B. M. Gough, ‘The RN and the British Empire’ and D. Killingray, ‘Imperial defence’, in R. W. Winks (ed.), The Oxford History of the British Empire, vol. V, Historiography (Oxford, 1999), 327–41 and 342–53. 5 What follows is based on G. C. Peden, ‘From cheap government to efficient government: the political economy of public expenditure in the UK, 1832–1914’, in D. Winch and P. K. O’Brien (eds), The Political Economy of British Historical Experience, 1688–1914 (Oxford, 2002), 351–78, and G. C. Peden, The Treasury and British Public Policy, 1906–1959 (Oxford, 2000). 6 G. C. Peden, ‘Sir Warren Fisher and British rearmament against Germany’, English Historical Review, 94 (1979), 29–47, at 30.

88 G. Peden 7 See F. A. Johnson, Defence by Committee: The Origins and Early Development of the British Committee of Imperial Defence, 1885–1959 (London, 1960); F. A. Johnson, Defence by Ministry: The British Ministry of Defence 1944–1974 (New York, 1980). 8 E. Bridges, Treasury Control (London, 1950), 6. 9 L. E. Davis and R. A. Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire: The Political Economy of British Imperialism, 1860–1912 (Cambridge, 1986). 10 P. K. O’Brien, ‘The costs and benefits of British imperialism 1846–1914’, Past and Present, 120 (1988), 163–200, at 193, 199. 11 P. Kennedy, ‘The costs and benefits of British imperialism 1846–1914’, Past and Present, 125 (1989), 186–92; A. Offer, ‘The British Empire, 1870–1914: a waste of money?’, Economic History Review, 2nd series, 46 (1993), 215–38. 12 J. T. Sumida, In Defence of Naval Supremacy: Finance, Technology, and British Naval Policy (London, 1993), 24–5. 13 J. F. Beeler, British Naval Policy in the Gladstone–Disraeli Era, 1866–1880 (Stanford, 1997), 6–8, 34–5. 14 Distribution and Mobilization of the Fleet (Cd. 2335), Parliamentary Papers (PP) 1905, vol. XLVIII, 176–81. 15 Davis and Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 145–60. 16 E. Spiers, The Late Victorian Army, 1868–1902 (Manchester, 1992); E. Spiers, Haldane: An Army Reformer (Edinburgh, 1980). 17 Sir Seymour Fortescue, Looking Back (London, 1920), cited in T. C. Campbell, ‘Sound finance: Gladstone and British government finance, 1880–1895’, Ph.D. (London, 2004), 193. 18 A. J. Marder, The Anatomy of British Sea Power: A History of British Naval Policy in the Pre-Dreadnought Era, 1880–1905 (London, 1940), 491. 19 K. Burk, ‘The Treasury: from impotence to power’, in K. Burk (ed.), War and the State: The Transformation of British Government, 1914–1919 (London, 1982), 84–107. 20 D. French, British Strategy and War Aims 1914–1916 (London, 1986), 74, 116–22, 131; R. Skidelsky, John Maynard Keynes: Hopes Betrayed, 1883–1920 (London, 1983), 305–11. 21 B. W. E. Alford, Britain and the World Economy since 1880 (London: Longman, 1996), 107–9; A. S. Milward, The Economic Effects of the World Ward on Britain (London, 1970), 46. 22 Peden, The Treasury and British Public Policy, 121–2, 168–9. 23 N. H. Gibbs, History of the Second World War: Grand Strategy, vol. I (London, 1976), 3–5. 24 The expression ‘whip hand’ is from S. Roskill, Naval Policy between the Wars, vol. I (London, 1968), 215. 25 J. Ferris, The Evolution of British Strategic Policy, 1919–26 (Basingstoke, 1989), 15–30. 26 Peden, The Treasury and British Public Policy, 172. 27 D. Omissi, Air Power and Colonial Control: the RAF, 1919–1939 (Manchester, 1990). 28 J. Ferris, ‘Treasury control, the ten year rule and British service policies, 1919–1924’, Historical Journal, 30 (1987), 859–83, at 861, 871. 29 Churchill to Stanley Baldwin (prime minister), 15 December 1924, in M. Gilbert, Winston S. Churchill, vol. V, Companion, part 1 (London, 1979), 303–7. 30 R. O’Neill, ‘Churchill, Japan, and British security in the Pacific: 1904–1942’, in R. Blake and W. R. Louis (eds), Churchill (Oxford, 1993), 275–89, at 278–9, 281, 285–6; G. C. Peden, ‘Winston Churchill, Neville Chamberlain and the defence of empire’, in J. B. Hattendorf and M. H. Murfett (eds), The Limitations of Military Power: Essays presented to Professor Norman Gibbs on his Eightieth Birthday (Basingstoke, 1990), 160–72 and 165–7.

Treasury and defence of empire 89 31 Peden, The Treasury and British Public Policy, 214–15. 32 J. Neidpath, The Singapore Naval Base and the Defence of Britain’s Eastern Empire, 1919–1941 (Oxford, 1981), 103–21. 33 G. C. Peden, British Rearmament and the Treasury, 1932–1939 (Edinburgh, 1979). 34 K. Neilson, ‘The Defence Requirements Sub-Committee, British Strategic Foreign Policy, Neville Chamberlain and the Path to Appeasement’, English Historical Review, 118 (2003), 651–84, at 653. This article helpfully reviews the huge literature on the DRC. 35 Gibbs, History of the Second World War, 93–8. 36 Uri Bialer, The Shadow of the Bomber: The Fear of Air Attack and British Politics 1932–1939 (London, 1980). 37 DRC minutes, 30 January, and 16 and 26 February 1934, and DRC report, paras. 28–9, 28 February 1934, CAB 16/109, The National Archives of the UK, London (TNA). 38 DCM (32) 120, 20 June 1934, CAB 27/511; CP 193 (34), 16 July 1934, CAB 27/514, TNA. 39 M. Smith, British Air Strategy between the Wars (Oxford, 1984); Peden, British Rearmament, 130–4, 151–78, 183. 40 DCM (32), 120, para. 15. 41 G. Bennett, ‘British policy in the Far East 1933–1936: Treasury and FO’, Modern Asian Studies, 26 (1992), 545–68; G. Kennedy, Anglo-American Strategic Relations and the Far East 1933–1939 (London, 2002), 123–5, 134, 136–8, 146–8, 173–7, 180–2. 42 C. M. Bell, The Royal Navy, Seapower and Strategy between the Wars (Basingstoke, 2000), 59–60, 77–90, 182–3; G. A. H. Gordon, British Seapower and Procurement between the Wars: a Reappraisal of Rearmament (Basingstoke, 1988). 43 Peden, British Rearmament, 166. For example, the Admiralty had reserved space for one capital ship at John Brown’s as early as March 1936, and permission to start work was given in November that year, although the ship was one of those authorised for the 1937/1938 financial year; H. Peebles, Warshipbuilding on the Clyde: Naval Orders and the Prosperity of the Clyde Shipbuilding Industry, 1889–1939 (Edinburgh, 1987), 146. The total displacement of the five King George V class vessels was 175,000 tons; the Japanese Yamato class, at 65,000 tons each, were the largest battleships ever built. 44 Bond, British Military Policy, 199–208. 45 Peden, British Rearmament, 40–2, 64–5, 122–3, 137–8. 46 ‘Defence Expenditure in Future Years’, CP 316 (37), CAB 24/273, TNA, paras. 41–4. 47 CP 24 (38), CAB 24/274, TNA. 48 Peden, British Rearmament, 143–4. 49 M. Howard, The Continental Commitment: The Dilemma of British Defence Policy in the Era of the Two World Wars (London, 1972), 100. 50 G. C. Peden, ‘The burden of imperial defence and the continental commitment reconsidered’, Historical Journal, 27 (1984), 405–23. 51 R. P. Shay, British Rearmament in the Thirties: Politics and Profits (Princeton, 1977); J. Ruggiero, Neville Chamberlain: Pride, Prejudice, and Politics (Westport, 1999). 52 G. C. Peden, ‘A matter of timing: the economic background to British foreign Policy, 1937–1939’, History, 69 (1984), 15–28, at 17. See also R. A. C. Parker, ‘The pound sterling, the American Treasury and British preparations for war, 1938–1939’, English Historical Review, 98 (1983), 261–79. 53 Peden, The Treasury and British Public Policy, 303–7, 328–38. 54 D. E. Moggridge (ed.), Collected Writings of John Maynard Keynes, vol. XXIV (Basingstoke and Cambridge, 1979), 256–95, at 275.

90 G. Peden 55 See A. Cairncross, Years of Recovery: British Economic Policy 1945–51 (London, 1985). 56 Moggridge (ed.), Collected Writings of John Maynard Keynes, vol. XXVII (1980), 465–81, at 480. 57 A. Bullock, Ernest Bevin: Foreign Secretary 1945–1951 (London, 1983), 239–45; G. C. Peden, ‘Economic aspects of British perceptions of power on the eve of the Cold War’, in J. Becker and F. Knipping (eds), Power in Europe? Great Britain, France, Italy, and Germany in a Postwar World (Berlin, 1986), 237–61, at 250. 58 Cairncross, Years of Recovery (London, 1985), 214–25, 228–32. 59 L. Pliatzky, Getting and Spending: Public Expenditure, Employment and Inflation (Oxford, 1984), 15; Peden, ‘Matter of timing’, 25. 60 A. Shonfield, British Economic Policy since the War (Harmondsworth, Middlesex, 1958), 89–98, 102–7; S. Strange, Sterling and British Policy (Oxford, 1971), ch. 6. 61 M. Carver, British Defence Policy since 1945 (London, 1992), 28–9. 62 See L. Johnman, ‘Defending the pound: the economics of the Suez crisis’, in T. Gorst, L. Johnman and W. S. Lucas (eds), Postwar Britain, 1945–1964: Themes and Perspectives (London, 1989); D. B. Kunz, The Economic Diplomacy of the Suez Crisis (Chapel Hill, 1991); Peden, The Treasury and British Public Policy, 446–7. 63 CP 316 (37), CAB 24/273, TNA. 64 Defence: Outline of Future Policy (Cmnd 124), PP 1956–57, vol. XXIII, 489–502, para. 6. 65 NATO Information Service, NATO Facts and Figures (Brussels, 1976), 294.

5

The British Army and the empire, 1856–1956 David French

The British did not maintain a single army to defend their empire, they maintained several. The roles of the forces raised in the Dominions will be examined by Brian Farrell in a later chapter. This chapter will explore the functions of the other land forces that the British raised – the British army proper that was recruited exclusively in the United Kingdom, the British–Indian army, the direct descendant of the army of the East India Company, and the various much-smaller forces such as the Royal West African Frontier Force (RWAFF) and the King’s African Rifles that the British raised in their various colonies. In the century between the end of the Crimean War and the Suez crisis, these forces performed at least six major functions. They helped to break down primary resistance to British rule, they represented British authority by showing the flag, they acted as a reserve force of last resort to assist the civil power to maintain law and order, they garrisoned the numerous naval bases and coaling stations, which formed the backbone of the Royal Navy’s (RN) global reach, they acted as a deterrent to tribal incursions and Russian aggression along the North West Frontier of India and, very occasionally, they took part in global wars. The modernisation of the British army did not begin after the Crimean War. It was a process that started in the 1830s, for, as Hew Strachan and others have shown, much of the evidence suggesting that the army had fallen into torpor after Waterloo, and was rudely awoken by the Crimean War, was biased. It was collected by radical politicians eager to find a stick with which to beat the system of aristocratic government, and they were not too scrupulous about how they went about it.1 But one perennial problem that both pre-Crimean reformers and those who followed them in the late 1850s and early 1860s had not solved was how to recruit sufficient rank and file. Soldiers enlisted for a variety of reasons. Some had fallen out with their family and friends and wanted to start a new life. Others wanted to travel abroad. Some were attracted by the bright uniform. Many were unemployed and hungry. But there were powerful countervailing forces that discouraged men from coming forward. A soldier’s pay compared badly with that of all but the worst-paid agricultural labourer.2 Barracks

92 D. French were overcrowded, inhospitable and often unsanitary.3 Above all, the demands of imperial soldiering meant that a man was likely to have to spend most of his colour service, fixed at ten years in 1847 in exile overseas, far from his family and friends. Although some senior Non-commissioned officers (NCO) did serve for 21 years and so received a pension, most men left the army in their late twenties or early thirties, often broken in health and usually without the knowledge of a trade that would enable them to earn more than the barest living as a civilian. The recruiting system could barely find the requisite number of men in normal times. It failed ignominiously in an emergency. This became apparent in March 1855. The demands of the Crimean War meant that the army needed 90,000 men, but it could only raise half that number, and that too only by taking the unusual, and expensive, step of offering recruits a large bounty and thereby attracting men from the militia into the line. But this was tantamount to robbing Peter to pay Paul. The expeditionary force sent to the Crimea may have been filled up but only at the price of denuding the home defence army. Between 1861 and 1867, two Royal Commissions investigated the shortcomings of the existing system but failed to recommend more than tinkering with it. It took the shock administered by Prussia’s victories over Austria in 1866 and France during 1870–1, together with the advent of a Liberal government determined to reduce the army estimates and ensure that the taxpayer got value for the money, to open the way to major reforms.4 The Liberal’s reforms came in two tranches; the first was introduced between 1868 and 1874 by Edward Cardwell and the second between 1880 and 1881 by his Liberal successor, Hugh Childers. The Cardwell–Childers reforms created an army that was designed to garrison the British Empire, to be cheaper than its predecessor and to have the capacity to expand rapidly on the outbreak of a major war. Short service, for seven years with the colours and five in the Army Reserve, and the reduction in the number of soldiers serving overseas were intended to attract more recruits by removing the fear that soldiers would spend most of their adult lives in colonial exile. Henceforth, the white settlement colonies would have to raise their own militia for local defence. The Army Reserve was intended to reduce the estimates by cutting the size of the pension bill, for most men left the army in their mid- or late-twenties, still young enough to take up another occupation. And it also gave the army the power of expansion it had lacked in the past. If reservists were recalled to the colours and used to fill up the establishment of home service battalions, the War Office could have at its disposal a rapid reaction force that could be sent overseas in an emergency. The success of this innovation was shown in 1882 when the War Office succeeded in despatching a force of 35,000 troops to Egypt between June and August. But even that was dwarfed by its ability to despatch 112,000 regulars to South Africa between October 1899 and January 1900.

The British Army and the empire 93 In more normal times, the provision of trained soldiers for units serving in colonial garrisons was solved by linking regular battalions in pairs. Each pair of battalions was then giving a permanent depot where its recruits enlisted and were trained. One battalion was supposed to serve at home and would supply trained drafts for its linked battalion overseas. After 1881, battalions usually did not spend more than 16 years overseas, although individual officers and other ranks would not normally serve abroad for more than eight years. The regulars were also linked through their depot with the part-time soldiers of their local militia and Volunteer (after 1908 Territorial Force) battalions, the whole forming a single regiment.5 The Indian mutiny had revealed similarly serious shortcomings in Britain’s military arrangements in India. On the eve of the mutiny, the garrison of British India was composed of a handful of British regiments and a much larger number of regiments of the East India Company’s Army. Although the Company had raised a handful of purely British units, most of its regiments consisted of locally recruited sepoy soldiers led by British officers. On the eve of the Mutiny in May 1857, there were only 40,000 British troops stationed in India compared to about 300,000 Indians. Although the mutiny was largely confined to the sepoy regiments of the Bengal army, the mutineers seemed to come so close to expelling the British from India that, after the Mutiny, the Crown felt that it had no option other than to take direct responsibility for the governance of India and control of India’s military resources. In 1858, the Viceroy of India and the India Office argued in favour of raising a separate European army for service only in India. But their case was fatally undermined when many of the European troops of the Company’s army mutinied when they were compulsorily transferred to the land forces of the British Crown. Henceforth, European troops in India were drawn from amongst ordinary British line regiments posted on a temporary basis to India. Command authority in each Indian Army unit resided in the hands of British officers attached to the Indian Staff Corps, men who expected to serve with the Indian Army throughout their careers. Indians could rise to non-commissioned rank as Viceroy’s Commissioned Officers, but it was not until after the First World War that they could hope to hold the Queen’s Commission.6 In theory, India offered Britain an almost limitless supply of soldiers that it could employ in Asia. In practice, however, Britain’s ability to mobilise India’s military resources was constrained by several factors. The first was that the British were determined that the costs of military occupation should fall upon the Indian taxpayer, not upon his British counterpart. But the government’s ability to raise taxes in India was not limitless. If it pressed too hard, it knew that it would provoke unrest which would require an expensive increase in the forces of law and order. Second, after 1858 the British were determined that they would always have enough British troops on hand to suppress another mutiny. Consequently, they fixed the ratio of British to Indian soldiers at approximately one to two.

94 D. French The size of the Company’s army was drastically reduced, and by the mid1860s there were 120,000 Indians in the three Presidency armies of Bombay, Calcutta and Madras and 60,000 British soldiers. The third measure that the British took to minimise the chances of future large-scale mutinies was that they deliberately raised Indian regiments on a local basis and from amongst a variety of caste and religious groups. Doing this, they hoped to ensure that their sepoys felt loyalty to their regiment and to their caste, but not to the army as a whole, in the hope that this would reduce the possibility that large numbers of soldiers would combine around a common grievance. The British developed an elaborate theory of ‘martial races’ that dictated that certain social groups and religious minorities, usually from amongst the least-westernised groups in Indian society, were better fitted than others to the profession of soldiering. In particular, they recruited from amongst Gurkhas, Sikhs, Rajputs and Dogras in preference to any groups from Madras, Bengal or Bombay.7 After the initial period of conquest, which was concluded by 1918, the British maintained no European troops in Africa other than their garrison in Egypt and a couple of infantry battalions in the Sudan. Elsewhere in Africa, they raised local forces and used them as gendarmerie to impose and maintain their control. Just as in India, they developed and applied a ‘martial race’ theory, preferring to recruit peasants from groups outside the mainstream of indigenous society.8 Such men, they believed, could be more easily moulded into loyal, obedient and disciplined soldiers, because they were unsullied by European education. The largest of these forces were the RWAFF and the King’s African Rifles. The RWAFF was established in 1898. In the interwar period, it maintained one company in Gambia, two companies in Sierra Leone, one battalion in the Gold Coast and four battalions in Nigeria. The King’s African Rifles, formed in 1902, operated in the East African territories. It had one battalion in Kenya, two in Tanganyika, one in Uganda and another divided between Somaliland and Nyasaland. Following the mutiny of Egyptian Army regiments in Khartoum in 1924, the British formed a separate small army in the Sudan, the Sudan Defence Force.9 As in the Indian Army, units were led by British officers. But unlike in India, officers were seconded from British regiments and served for only a comparatively short time before returning to them. The climate and the threat of disease in tropical Africa made prolonged service with African units unattractive to Europeans, but the offer of higher pay, greater responsibility and generous leave meant that African units were rarely short of British officers. The African rank and file were attracted by the promise of regular wages, a uniform, and at times, the possibility of loot. Formal discipline was probably more draconian than in Indian regiments, and flogging was not finally abolished in the British African army until 1946.10 But it would be wrong to suggest that the British relied solely or even largely on formal disciplinary sanctions to keep their soldiers in line. The basic building block of the British army, and its Indian and colonial

The British Army and the empire 95 counter-parts, was the battalion. A battalion consisted of about 1,000 officers and men. This structure created communities in which everyone was likely to know each other, probably by name, and certainly by sight. Such a structure promoted strong unit cohesion and esprit de corps and it was that which the military authorities really relied upon to maintain discipline and morale. They did so by deliberately going out of their way to promote a distinctive identity for each unit by conferring upon it all of the trappings of special standards, badges, uniform, embellishments, ceremonies and traditions.11 The community feeling that they created was immensely valuable when units were stationed for many weary years in uncomfortable cantonments thousands of miles from home. It was further enhanced because most regimental officers and the rank and file they commanded could expect to serve their entire career with the same regiment. This bred a close sense of identity between officers and other ranks that did something to soften the harsh edges of the army’s formal disciplinary system, particularly when officers exhibited, as they usually did, a sense of paternal concern for their men.12 Both before and after the Crimean War, regimental officers took the lead in trying to create wellbehaved soldiers less by the imposition harsh physical discipline and more by providing an environment that encouraged their men to avoid the temptations of vice and diverted their surplus energies and time into organised team games and ‘rational’ recreations.13 Regimental life in colonial cantonments was also characterised by an obsessive concern with cleanliness and order, and soldiers spent many weary hours each week cleaning their kit, clothing and rooms. This had a severely practical purpose, for disease killed far more soldiers in the empire than bullets or shells ever did. The military authorities were determined that soldiers would live in small islands of cleanliness in that they believed that it was the general filth that characterised so many of the colonies.14 In India, this had been achieved by the late 1880s. Garrisons usually inhabited their own, isolated cantonments, near, but generally outside of major centres of civilian population. Great attention was paid to ensuring a clean water supply and adequate sanitation to take away waste products. Attention to such matters paid dividends in terms of safeguarding the health and well-being of colonial garrisons.15 At Gibraltar, for example, the health of the garrison and their civilian neighbours, as measured by the local infant mortality rate, was roughly comparable until the mid-1880s. Thereafter, the military authorities began to improve the sanitation of the cantonment. In particular, they improved the quality of drinking water provided for troops and their families. The civilian population did not enjoy similar benefits. The result was that whereas the infant mortality rate for soldiers’ children fell sharply, that of civilian population fell much more slowly.16 Commanders in the field were slower to learn these lessons. Until the Boer War, many remained convinced that losses from disease were an

96 D. French inevitable consequence of going on campaign. The results of their insouciance were starkly revealed shortly after Lord Roberts’ army occupied Bloemfontein in March 1900. The readiness of many regimental officers to ignore even elementary sanitary precautions meant that the army was crippled for several weeks by an outbreak of typhoid fever.17 But, lessons were learned. Forty years later, at the battle of Alamein, the British army’s sanitary discipline was so superior to that of the Axis armies that its sick rate was less than half that of Rommel’s German troops.18 Between 1872 and 1899, the British and Indian armies took part in about three dozen major campaigns and many more minor ones. Most were fought to break down resistance to British hegemony or to punish indigenous groups living on the fringes of the empire and who had the temerity to challenge it. Space constraints make it impossible to provide a comprehensive account of them here, and indeed, many still await good modern studies based on the extant archival sources.19 But certain common features do stand out. The most obvious problem that the British confronted was that the enemies they fought were often wildly different. One result of that was only in 1896, with the publication of Sir Charles Callwell’s Small Wars that the British army acquired its own manual explaining how to conduct operations on the periphery of the empire. The British were also frequently handicapped because their enemies usually had a better knowledge of the local terrain than they did. Given the variety of enemies they confronted and the topographical difficulties they encountered, intelligence gathering was supremely important. But, winning the information war was often difficult, for the War Office’s Intelligence Branch was under-funded, and so field commanders had to improvise their own arrangements. Just how they did this remains a question that requires further study, but they seem to have relied upon local spies, scouts and informants. Because they often lacked accurate maps, they also had to employ numerous reconnaissance parties to discover the position of waterholes, rivers and crossing points.20 Forces fighting on the edge of the empire usually did so at the end of long and tenuous lines of communications. They also often had to battle against dangerous climate and unfamiliar diseases. These factors in turn shaped how the British conducted their operations. In Ashante, during 1873–4, for example, Sir Garnet Wolseley knew that he had to advance quickly to the enemy’s capital, for if he tarried, his European troops would succumb to disease.21 Long lines of communications also had to be guarded, which could make colonial soldiering a manpower-intensive undertaking. During the Boer War, the British deployed a maximum of 450,000 men, but only 10 per cent were available for mobile operations chasing Boer Commandos. The rest were employed protecting the army’s supply lines.22 The British were not invariably successful in their colonial wars. The Zulus defeated a British column at Isandlwana in 1879, and the Boers

The British Army and the empire 97 defeated another at Majuba Hill in 1881. The enemy often held the strategic advantage, for it was sometimes difficult for the British to identify their centre of gravity, the location or capability from which they derived their strength and will to fight, and whose destruction and capture would persuade them to make peace on British terms. The British often opted to direct their offensive against their enemy’s capital. If they defended it, the British might then be able to make them stand and fight and use their superior firepower to destroy them. It worked for Wolseley when he advanced on Kumasi, the capital of Ashante, just as it did a decade later when his army landed in Egypt and threatened Cairo. On both occasions, his enemies offered themselves up to a quick defeat when they fought in front on their capitals. It also worked in the Sudan in 1898, when Kitchener’s advance on Khartoum, and his decision to bombard the tomb of the Mahadi, was sufficient to persuade the Mahdist army to immolate itself by mounting a frontal attack on his army.23 But it did not work in South Africa when a portion of the Boer forces continued to wage a guerrilla war for nearly two years after the capture of Bloemfontein and Pretoria in 1900.24 But if their enemies sometimes had a significant strategic advantage, the British often, but not always, had some tactical advantages. Their discipline was at the least equal to that of their enemies, and often superior. And more often than not, they possessed superior fire arms. Indeed, one of the distinguishing features of the British army was its eagerness to make use the latest products of western technology to compensate for its numerical inferiority. These included the heliograph (first used in the Second Afghan War), the field telegraph, hot air balloons, railways and steam gunboats. They also took advantage of the latest developments in modern medicine to overcome tropical diseases such as malaria that would otherwise have decimated their ranks.25 After 1919, they added armoured cars, motor vehicles and aircraft to their inventory in the hope that they would enable them to carry out their preferred policy of striking at their colonial enemies relentlessly and swiftly even more effectively.26 The result of the army’s reliance on high technology was shown most starkly at the battle of Omdurman in 1898. Kitchener’s forces were transported to the city by a combination of railways and barges drawn down the River Nile by steam-powered gun boats. They then expended half a million rounds of ammunition, some of it from maxim machine guns, to kill 11,000 of the Dervish army of 52,000. Kitchener’s forces lost 48 dead.27 However, occasionally, the British did not have it quite so much their own way. The fact that the Boers were excellent marksmen armed with modern European rifles is well known. But what is less well known is that during the Tirah campaign on the North-West Frontier of India in 1897, the British were disconcerted to discover that their Pathan opponents were equipped with breech-loading rifles that were every bit as good as their own and that they knew how to use them.28

98 D. French The morale of the British troops engaged in these small wars of empire was sustained by a mixture of patriotism, regimental loyalty and a deep sense of their own racial and moral superiority. Officers had been imbued at their public school with a shared code of beliefs and values that one historian has called a ‘self-sacrificial warriorhood’.29 Both officer and other ranks were usually convinced that the indigenous peoples they were fighting were their moral inferiors and were liable to become unnerved by the spectacle of British troops advancing steadily on them.30 They rarely had many qualms of conscience when ordered to raze the society they were bent on conquering. In 1879, Lord Chelmsford, for example, justified his policy of burning Zulu kraals, killing their cattle and allowing his soldiers to kill Zulu prisoners by insisting that ‘I am satisfied that the more the Zulu nation at large feels the strain brought upon them by the war, the more anxious will they be to see it brought to an end’.31 However, the guerrilla phase of the Second Anglo-Boer War, perhaps because their opponents were white and so could not be easily dismissed as racial inferiors, evoked a different response from some soldiers. In South Africa, some officers became increasingly uncomfortable when ordered to burn Boer farms to prevent the commandos from using them as sources of food and intelligence and to herd their unfortunate inhabitants into concentration camps where many died from epidemic diseases. They saw the Boers as epitomising the same rural virtues whose disappearance from British society they so much regretted.32 But many of their colleagues had fewer qualms about imposing a scorched earth policy on the Boer republics. They shared Lord Roberts’ conviction that unless the Boer people as a whole were made to suffer for the depredations of those still under arms, the war would continue. By the spring of 1902, it had worked. The remaining Boer guerrillas surrendered, finally recognising that they faced the stark choice of either continuing to resist the imposition of British rule or seeing the very society that they were fighting to preserve utterly crushed.33 Colonial soldiering took its toll on the British as well as their opponents. In the late nineteenth century, the suicide rate amongst soldiers in the United Kingdom was about three times higher than that amongst the civilian population and four times higher if they were serving in India.34 In 1909, a War Office spokesman told the House of Commons that an average of 50–60 soldiers committed suicide annually.35 Although it was not until the First World War that army doctors began to recognise what they would then label ‘shell-shock’, it is likely that many soldiers who were discharged from the army suffering from diseases diagnosed variously as ‘disordered action of the heart’, rheumatism, neurasthenia and general muscular debility were suffering from what today would be called battle exhaustion.36 Once the empire had been conquered, it had to be garrisoned. The largest of these garrisons was in India, where about one-third of the British

The British Army and the empire 99 army was normally stationed. Together with the Indian Army, these troops existed to perform two functions, to assist the civil power when called upon and to constitute a field army that could repulse any threats, either from Russia, the Afghans or the tribesmen on the North-West Frontier who acknowledged no higher authority. The British administration in India was usually confident that they could deal successfully with one of these threats. What gave them nightmares was the possibility that tribal unrest on the frontier, or a threat from India or Afghanistan, might coincide with unrest in the interior of India and stretch their exiguous forces beyond their limits.37 It was this possibility that became the focus of an intense debate amongst British military planners about how best to defend India. By 1884, the Russians had occupied Turkestan and were building the Transcaspian Railway. When it was complete, Russian troops could be brought directly to the border of Afghanistan. In Delhi, British staff officers calculated that the Russians might soon be able to invade India with 95,000 troops and that the British would have to reinforce India with 100,000 more men to stop them. How to stop them became the focus of a vigorous debate in the late nineteenth century. Options considered included amphibious operations in the Black Sea, a counter offensive through Persia or an advance into Afghanistan to hold a line inside Afghanistan along the Hindu Kush mountains. These arguments became powerful tools in the hands of successive Commanders-in-Chief of the Indian Army when they tried to extract more money from the clutches of the Treasury in the late nineteenth century at a time when it was also under pressure from the Admiralty to increase naval spending.38 Outside India, the British army maintained garrisons at no fewer than 20 overseas stations by 1898. They spanned the globe from Halifax, Nova Scotia, where 1,800 men were stationed, to Hong Kong, where 1,167 men were based.39 When soldiers were not busy training, or cleaning their cantonments, uniforms and equipment, they were probably on parade. Parades were not merely intended to occupy the time of idle soldiers. They also served an important imperial purpose. Colourful uniforms, flying flags and all the panoply of military ceremonies were vital factors underpinning the British Empire. By projecting an image of strength, they hid its slender reality, for there was always an enormous discrepancy between the population of a colony and its British garrison.40 On the eve of the First World War, for example, India had a population of about 300 million and a British garrison of 77,000 soldiers, Egypt had a population of about 12.5 million and a British garrison of between 4,000–5,000 British soldiers, and the Gold Coast, with a population of about 1.6 million, had a locally raised garrison of about 1500 troops and a handful of British officers.41 The British Empire was administered on a shoestring and the military was no exception. The British were always reluctant to raise large numbers of troops because an expensive garrison could make a colony unprofitable. Each colony was required to meet the cost of its own

100 D. French local defence, and consequently, the forces at the disposal of a colonial administration were always the smallest and cheapest that could still offer an impression of security. Colonial government only worked because a minority of the indigenous population in each colony was willing to cooperate actively with the usually tiny cadre of British administrators sent to govern them and because the remainder were willing to acquiesce in British rule. If the tax burden needed to support the administration became too heavy, acquiescence was likely to melt away.42 Whenever possible, the British extracted obedience by trading on their reputation for invincibility. But when local cooperation and acquiescence did break down, troops were summoned to act as a reserve force of last resort to assist the civil power to maintain law and order.43 As the sometimes savage British reaction to the Indian Mutiny showed, when their rule was threatened by serious revolt, they could act ruthlessly to reassert their domination. The idea that swift and decisive military action was the only practical response to outright rebellion was embedded in British colonial thought remained a constant long after 1857. But given their exiguous military resources, it could not be employed on an everyday basis. And if the British were to maintain at least the facade that their rule was based on justice, force had to be employed within some kind of legal framework. Duties ‘in aid of the civil power’ were rarely popular with the troops, not least because it confronted them with uncomfortable tactical and legal conundrums. Ideally, the military preferred to deploy troops in such large numbers that their very presence would overawe rioters and prevent further trouble. But in practice, that was not always possible. In Britain, if unrest became violent, an officer in command of troops on the spot was faced with the decision as to whether or not he should open fire to restore order. If he did not, and the riot got out of hand, he could be court-martialled for neglecting his duty. If he did order him men to open fire and civilians died as a result, he could be tried before a civil tribunal for murder.44 The law in India and elsewhere gave soldiers more protection from civil prosecution. But, as the fate of Brigadier-General Dyer, who ordered troops to open fire on a peaceful and unarmed crowd at Amritsar in 1919, showed, an officer’s career and reputation could still be forfeited if he made a mistake.45 During the two world wars, the land forces of the empire made a significant contribution to the British war effort. During the First World War, the British raised about 1.5 million soldiers and non-combatant labourers in India and one million soldiers and auxiliaries in Africa. During the Second World War, about 2.5 million Indians served overseas, a figure roughly comparable to the manpower contribution of the white dominions combined. However, these bare statistics conceal important differences in the ways in which the British employed imperial ground forces. Before 1914, the cardinal principle of British military policy in Africa was that, although

The British Army and the empire 101 Africans could be used on the lines of communication, they should not be used as combat troops in ‘white men’s wars’. Armed and disciplined black soldiers might threaten white supremacy once they returned home. Thus, when the governor of Nigeria offered Nigerian troops for service in South Africa in 1900, his offer was firmly rejected. In the First World War, large numbers of African soldiers from East and West Africa took part in the operations to conquer the German colonial empire. But so serious was the imperial crisis that confronted the British in both the world wars that in 1914, the colour bar against using non-white troops in Europe was broken. In 1914, India sent a mixed force to East Africa to protect the Zanzibar–Mombasa–Nairobi railway, a division to Mesopotamia, and for the first time it also sent troops to France, a force of two infantry and two cavalry divisions arriving at Marseilles in September and October. But the Indian Army had been designed to fight small colonial wars, not the kind of mass industrial warfare the Indians encountered when they arrived in France. Within a matter of months, the heavy casualties that were inseparable from the war on the Western Front threatened to destroy the intricate clan and family networks and the paternal relationship between British officers and the sepoys upon which the army’s discipline and morale was based. By the end of 1915, the Indian infantry had been withdrawn from France, although the cavalry, who had been less heavily engaged, remained. For the remainder of the war, most Indian soldiers served in the Middle East and Africa where they were unlikely to suffer the kinds of catastrophic casualties that threatened to wreck their morale.46 Initially, in both Africa and India, men enlisted because of the attractive wages they were offered. But the supply of willing military labour soon dried up. This was unsurprising. By 1915–16, news had reached India of the high casualties suffered by the Indian Corps in France. At the same time, the death rate, largely due to disease and malnutrition, amongst African soldiers and members of the various Carrier Corps employed on the lines of communication in East West Africa rose by between 10 and 20 per cent. Consequently, by 1916–17, the British administration had to use every bit of their influence with local notables to persuade them to encourage more men to come forward. And when cajoling and persuasion failed, as it did increasingly in East and West Africa, they increasingly resorted to forced conscription and methods to raise the men they required.47 Having seen the African troop’s ability and loyalty during the First World War, the British had less hesitation about using them outside their own colonies in the Second World War. Between 1940 and 1941, they employed troops from East and West Africa to conquer the Italian Empire in East Africa. Similarly, Indian troops again saw service in Africa, where they too took part in the conquest of the Italian Empire and also in Italy itself, where three Indian divisions were deployed between 1943 and 1945. But it was in Burma that African and Indian soldiers made their most significant contribution to the imperial war effort during the Second

102 D. French World War. By January 1945, the combat formations of Slim’s XIV Army consisted of three African divisions, no fewer than seven Indian divisions, but only two British divisions. The reconquest of Burma would have been impossible without the part played by these colonial forces.48 But the experience of fighting large-scale conventional operations was an aberration for most British soldiers. They were far more likely after 1919, and more especially after 1945, to find themselves committed to a series of counter-insurgency campaigns in which companies or platoons, rather than the brigades or divisions, were the basic tactical units.49 Some were on a relatively small scale and were over quickly. But others, such as Ireland between 1919 and 1921,50 Palestine between the periods 1936–9 and 1945–8,51 Malaya between 1948 and 1960 and Kenya between 1952 and 1956, spilled over into full-scale counter-insurgency campaigns and tied down large numbers of troops for years on end. On each occasion, troops were employed against a variety of colonial nationalist movements in operations intended to buy the government in London time in which to resolve its political difficulties.52 Before 1914, the British had often been able to employ Indian troops to conduct operations in the empire. But after the First World War, their habit of doing so and then presenting the Indian taxpayer with the bill ran into growing and effective political opposition in India. In 1919, Indian army units were scattered across the Middle East in Iraq, Egypt, Palestine and on the shores of the Black Sea. But the very rigour with which the British had mobilised Indian resources during the First World War had compelled them to make political concessions to the Indian people, and nationalist politicians soon used their new power to insist that India should no longer bear the costs incurred when Indian troops were used outside India for wider British purposes.53 Trenchard’s policy of ‘air policing’ temporarily defused the issue, and a compromise was reached between the British Raj and its Indian nationalist opponents. Henceforth, six to eight Indian army units would be used to supplement the British garrisons in Aden, Iraq, Ceylon, Malaya, Hong Kong and North China, and India would provide more in emergency, and the costs would be split between the Indian and British taxpayers. Furthermore, in the 1920s, they began a cautious policy of Indianisation, granting commissions to a small number of Indians in selected regiments and announced that their eventual aim was to grant Indians full control of the army. For another decade, the Indian taxpayer still bore the cost of all troops, both British and Indian, stationed inside India, but in 1933, even that began to change and for the first time, the British taxpayer began to subsidise the Indian defence budget. In the process of negotiating Indian independence, the British tried hard to retain some kind of control over the subcontinent’s armed forces. They were willing, for example, to admit India to the Commonwealth in 1949, even though it was a republic, in the hope that India would then

The British Army and the empire 103 commit troops to Commonwealth-organised military operations. But the continuing dispute between India and Pakistan over Kashmir rendered their efforts futile.54 Henceforth, the British could no longer employ the Indian army east of Suez and had to look elsewhere to find the troops they needed to sustain their empire. In part, they solved this problem by retaining conscription and sending their own men overseas. They also tried to mobilise the resources of their remaining imperial possessions. After Indian independence, they retained the right to raise troops in Nepal, and some policy-makers also seriously contemplated drawing upon the resources of their African colonies.55 However, the latter was never really a practical option. The African colonies were too poor to pay for an expanded military establishment, and Britain itself could find neither the money nor the large cadre of white officers and NCOs to make good their deficiencies. Although some African and Fijian troops were sent to Malaya in the early 1950s, by 1953 it was firmly established once again that the forces in each colony would be paid for solely by that colony, would belong to that colony and could not be used as part of a unified imperial reserve unless the British exchequer paid for them.56 The role of the army in the empire’s post-1945 emergencies has so far attracted remarkably little attention from academic military historians. This may be because historians of the British Empire have insisted that there is nothing much for them to study. Jack Gallagher has asserted that the British were not driven from their empire after 1945 by successful military uprisings.57 That may be so, but it does not gainsay the fact that the demise of the empire was accompanied by a great deal of military activity and that much of the army spent the post-war period stationed in the empire. Between 1945 and 1956, the British army took part in no fewer than 20 operations outside Europe. They ranged from the suppression or riots in Hong Kong and periodic border disputes on the frontiers of the Aden protectorate to major counter-insurgency campaigns in Malaya and Kenya and conventional wars in Korea and at Suez. In 1954, the British army consisted of 11 divisions. Four were stationed in West Germany, two brigades were stationed in the United Kingdom as part of the strategic reserve and the remainder were garrisoning Britain’s remaining colonial possessions.58 The academic analysis of these operations is distinctly uneven. While there is a growing body of academic literature on some aspects of the post-1945 colonial emergencies, particularly policing, propaganda and intelligence,59 work on the role and behaviour of the army still relies heavily on published secondary sources. The subject has hardly been historicised.60 British post-war, counter-insurgency operations were not invariably successful. In Palestine, the army failed to suppress the Zionist insurrection largely because they were operating in a political vacuum. The Labour government failed to devise a clear political goal around which the army could develop a coherent military strategy. In Malaya and

104 D. French Kenya they succeeded, partly because the political goal was clearly defined and partly because coordination between political ends and military means was achieved, not just at the highest level of government in the colony but also at regional and district level. The result was that when British did depart, they did so only after they had suppressed the armed groups challenging them, and in both cases, they left behind proWestern governments. On the ground, the army was slow to formalise its counter-insurgency practices into a formal doctrine, but some habits became common. Intelligence was of critical importance if the army was to find the insurgents it was trying to suppress, so close cooperation between the police and troops was essential. Without timely contact intelligence, the troops often had no option other than to mount largescale cordon and search operations, which usually did little more than antagonise the very people the security authorities wanted to win over to their cause. The extent to which soldiers on the ground, be it in Palestine, Malaya or Kenya, remembered the fate of Brigadier-General Dyer and adhered to the principle of applying minimum force remains unresolved.61 But it was the Middle East, and more particularly Egypt, that was the epicentre of Britain’s military commitments outside Europe in the decade after 1945. Britain had good strategic reasons for wishing to remain in the Middle East. Not only was it the source of most of their oil supplies, but British planners assumed that if the Third World War began, the Soviet Army would quickly overrun Western Europe. Given their massive inferiority on the ground, the only way that the western powers could hope to defeat the Soviets was by mounting massive air attacks on their military and industrial infrastructure, and for these to be effective, they had to have airfields in the Middle East.62 This was the reason why the British were willing to bargain hard with the Egyptians to renew their base rights in the Suez Canal zone. But the Egyptians did not want British bases on their soil at any price. Rather than negotiate, they mounted a guerrilla campaign to drive the British out. By 1953, the British had between 70,000 and 80,000 troops, including the whole of their Strategic Reserve, in the Canal Zone, merely to protect the base facilities. The resulting stalemate showed the limits of military power. The Egyptians could not inflict a military defeat on the army. But, confined to their camps and under a state of virtual siege, the British knew that if the Cold War ever heated up, the base would be unusable. The explosion by the Soviets of their first Hbomb in August 1953 finally convinced them that the base was a military white elephant. In 1954, they agreed that they would evacuate the last of their troops by 1956.63 But that did not mean that the British had also abandoned their intention of defending the region against Soviet aggression or using it to mount counter-strikes against the Soviets. But henceforth, they hoped to minimise the commitment of ground forces to the region by allying themselves with

The British Army and the empire 105 the ‘Northern Tier’ of states, Turkey, Iraq and Pakistan, in the Baghdad Pact. The Pact gave them the right to base bombers even nearer to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republic’s (USSR) southern frontier.64 However, they had reckoned without the new Egyptian leader, Colonel Nasser. The British acted in collusion with the French and Israelis to invade Egypt in 1956 not merely because Nasser’s nationalisation of the Suez Canal threatened British oil supplies, but because Nasser’s wider political agenda threatened to undermine British influence throughout the whole of the Middle East. The resulting fiasco highlighted the fundamental limitation of British land power in the imperial context. It showed that Britain’s land forces had only been sufficient to sustain the empire because, at least before 1945, they had operated in an auspicious international context. The stability of the British Empire had rested upon the willingness of the ruled to acquiesce in their own subjugation. Britain’s exiguous land forces had been adequate to the tasks they had faced because British diplomatists had been able to strike a series of accommodations with their Great Power rivals to maintain a hands-off attitude to each others’ colonial possessions. Before 1914, this had led them to sign an alliance with Japan in 1902 and ententes with France in 1904 and Russia in 1907. Between the two world wars, the empire was sustained because Russia and the United States had withdrawn into isolation, the German fleet had been scuttled at Scapa Flow in 1919, and no power was strong enough to dominate continental Europe. In the absence of such agreements or circumstances, the British would have soon discovered that they lacked the manpower to defend the empire and that the cost of raising forces that were adequate to do so would have made the whole imperial enterprise unprofitable.65 After 1945, the imperatives of imperial defence led them towards increasingly close collaboration with the United States. The fact that in 1956 the British no longer possessed the kind of rapid reaction force that the Cardwell–Childers reforms had given them, and which had allowed them to conquer Egypt in a matter of weeks in 1882, was only part of the reason why they faced defeat at Suez. Far more important was the fact that the international context had been transformed. The kind of aggressive imperialism that the British had practised so successfully in the late nineteenth century was simply no longer internationally acceptable. The Eisenhower administration had no more love for Nasser than did the British. The active role they played in the covert operations that toppled Dr Mussadiq, the Arab nationalist premier of Iraq in August 1953, also showed that they were quite willing to behave imperially in the Middle East.66 But what they were not prepared to do themselves, or to support the British in doing, was to employ naked force in a way that was bound to alienate the goodwill of every Arab government in the region. Suez was not the last occasion when the British employed land power to protect or project their

106 D. French interests outside Europe. But it was the last time they did so without ensuring that they had the active or tacit support of their superpower ally.

Notes 1 Hew Strachan, Wellington’s Legacy. The Reform of the British army 1830–54 (Manchester, 1984); P. Burrows, ‘Crime and punishment in the British army, 1815–1870’, English Historical Review, 100 (1985): 545–71. 2 C. Pulsifer, ‘Beyond the Queen’s Shilling: reflections on the pay of other ranks in the Victorian British Army’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, 80 (2002): 326–34. 3 A. R. Skelley, The Victorian Army at Hom: The Recruitment and Terms and Conditions of the British Regular, 1859–1899 (London, 1977), 243–9. 4 R. L. Blancho, ‘Army recruiting reforms, 1861–67’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, 46 (1968): 217–24; T. F. Gallagher, ‘British military thinking and the coming of the Franco-Prussian War’, Military Affairs, 39 (1975): 19. 5 E. M. Spiers, The Army and Society, 1815–1914 (London, 1980), 177–235. 6 T. A. Heathcote, The Military in British India. The Development of British Land Forces in South Asia, 1600–1947 (Manchester, 1995), 90–125; P. Stanley, White Mutiny. British Military Culture in India, 1825 to 1875 (London, 1998). 7 K. Roy, ‘The construction of regiments in the Indian army: 1859–1913’, War in History, 8 (2001): 127–48; K. Roy, ‘Logistics and the construction of loyalty: the welfare mechanism in the Indian army 1859–1913’ in P. S. Gupta and A. Deshpande (eds), The British Raj and its Indian Armed Forces, 1857–1939 (Delhi, 2002), 98–124. 8 J. Barrett, ‘The rank and file of the colonial army in Nigeria, 1914–1918’, Journal of Modern African Studies, 15 (1977): 105–15. 9 A. Clayton, The British Empire as Superpower, 1919–39 (London, 1986), 40–2; D. Killingray, ‘The idea of a British Imperial Army’, Journal of African History, 20 (1979): 421–36. 10 D. Killingray, ‘The “Rod of Empire”: the debate over corporal punishment in the British African Colonial Forces, 1888–1946’, Journal of African History, 35 (1994): 201–16. 11 J. Keegan, ‘Inventing military traditions’, in C. Wrigley (ed.), Warfare, Diplomacy and Politics. Essays in Honour of A. J. P. Taylor (London, 1986), 58–75. 12 P. Burroughs, An unreformed army? 1815–1868’, in D. Chandler and I. Beckett (eds), The Oxford Illustrated History of the British Army (Oxford, 1994), 160–88. 13 K. Hendrickson, ‘A kinder, gentler British army: mid-Victorian experiments in the management of vice at Gibraltar and Aldershot’, War and Society, 14 (1996): 21–33; J. D. Campbell, ‘ “Training for sport is training for war”: sport and the transformation of the British army, 1860–1914’, International Journal of the History of Sport, 17 (2000): 21–58; R. Hess, ‘ “A healing hegemony: Florence Nightingale, the British Army in India and a ‘want of . . .exercise’ ” ’, International Journal of the History of Sport, 15 (1998): 1–17; S. Wood, ‘Temperance and its rewards in the British army’, in M. Harding (ed.), The Victorian Soldier. Studies in the History of the British Army 1816–1914 (London, 1993), 86–96. 14 D. Arnold, Colonizing the Body. State Medicine and Epidemic Disease in NineteenthCentury India (Berkeley, CA, 1993); M. Harrison, Public Health in British India. Anglo-Indian Preventive Medicine 1859–1914 (Cambridge, 1994); E. M. Collingham, Imperial Bodies. The Physical Experience of the Raj, 1800–1947 (London, 2001). 15 S. Guha, ‘Nutrition, sanitation, hygiene, and the likelihood of death: the British army in India, c.1870–1920’, Population Studies, 47 (1993): 385–401; M. Harrison,

The British Army and the empire 107

16 17 18 19

20 21 22 23 24

25

26 27 28 29 30 31

32 33

‘Medicine and the management of modern warfare’, History of Science, 34 (1996): 379–410. L. A. Sawchuk, S. D. A. Burke, and J. Padiak, ‘A matter of privilege: infant mortality in the garrison town of Gibraltar, 1870–1899’, Journal of Family History, 27 (2002): 399–429. S. Pagaard, ‘Disease and the British army in South Africa, 1899–1900’, Military Affairs, 50 (1986): 71–6. M. Harrison, Medicine and Victory. British Military Medicine in the Second World War (Oxford, 2004), 84. At the moment, the essential introductions are H. Bailes, ‘Technology and Imperialism: a case study of the Victorian Army in Africa’, Victorian Studies, 24 (1980): 84–104; B. J. Bond (ed.), Victorian Military Campaigns (London, 1967). A recent popular compendium based on published sources is I. Hernon, Britain’s forgotten Wars. Colonial Campaigns of the Nineteenth Century (Stroud, Gloucester, 2003). Lieutenant Commander A. C. Ashcroft, ‘As Britain returns to an expeditionary strategy, do we have anything to learn from the Victorians?’, Defence Studies, 1 (2001): 75–89, and, for a slightly later period, Brian Robson’s Crisis on the Frontier: The Third Afghan War and the Campaign in Waziristan 1919–20 (Staplehurst, 2004), show the riches that await historians willing to delve deep into the archival sources. E. M. Spiers, The Late Victorian Army (Manchester, 1992), 285. S. Miller, Lord Methuen and the British Army: Failure and Redemption (London, 1999), 15–22. I. F. W. Beckett, Modern Insurgencies and Counter-Insurgencies: Guerrillas and their Opponents since 1750 (London, 2001), 33. E. M. Spiers (ed.), Sudan: The Reconquest Reappraised (London, 1998). The Boer War is probably the most intensively researched of all of Britain’s late nineteenth-century colonial wars. See: T. Pakenham, The Boer War (London, 1979); B. Nasson, The South African War 1899–1902 (London, 1999); K. Surridge, Managing the South African War, 1899–1902 (London, 1998); D. Judd and K. Surridge, The Boer War (London, 2002); A. Wessels (ed.), Lord Roberts and the War in South Africa, 1899–1902 (Gloucester, 2000). I. F. W. Beckett, ‘Victorians at war: war, technology and change’, Journal of the Society of Army Historical Research, 81 (2003): 330–8; H. Bailes, ‘Technology and tactics in the British army, 1866–1900’, in R. Haycock and K. Neilson (eds), Men, Machines and War (Waterloo, ON, 1988), 21–48; G. R. Winton, ‘The British Army, mechanisation and a new transport system, 1900–1914’, Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, 78 (2000): 197–212. W. M. Ryan, ‘The influence of the imperial frontier on British doctrines of mechanized warfare’, Albion, 15 (1983): 123–42. Spiers (ed.), Sudan; Spiers, Wars of Intervention: a case study – the reconquest of the sudan, 1896–98 (London, 1998). T. R. Moreman, The Army in India and the Development of Frontier Warfare, 1849–1947 (London, 1998), 53–67. J. A. Mangan, ‘Duty unto death: English masculinity and militarism in the age of the new imperialism’, International Journal of the History of Sport, 12 (1995): 10. Spiers, Late Victorian Army, 298–9. M. Lieven, ‘ “Butchering the Brutes all over the place”: total war and massacre in Zululand, 1879’, History, 84 (1999): 620–1. See also I. Knight, The National Army Museum Book of the Zulu War (London, 2004); J. P. Laband (ed.), Lord Chelmsford’s Zululand Campaign 1878–1879 (Gloucester, 1994). K. Surridge, ‘ “All you soldiers are what we call pro-Boer”: the military critique of the South African War, 1899–1902’, History, 82 (1997): 582–600. Nasson, The South African, 210–33; Judd & Surridge, The Boer War, 187–96.

108 D. French 34 W. H. Millar ‘Statistics of death by suicide among Her Majesty’s British troops serving at home and abroad during the ten years 1862–1871’, Journal of the Statistical Society of London, 37 (1874): 187–92. 35 The Times, 19 Nov. 1890 and 25 June 1909; R. Edmondson, John Bull’s Army From Within: Facts, Figures, and a Human Document from one who has been ‘through the mill’ (London, 1907), 93–7. 36 E. Jones and S. Wessely, ‘The origins of British military psychiatry before the First World War’, War and Society, 19 (2001): 91–108; E. Jones and S. Wessely, ‘Psychiatric battle casualties: an intra- and inter-war comparison’, British Journal of Psychiatry, 178 (2001): 242–7. 37 K. Jeffery, ‘ “An English barracks in an oriental sea”?: India in the aftermath of the First World War’, Modern Asian Studies, 15 (1981): 369–70. 38 M. Yapp, ‘British perceptions of the Russian threat to India’, Modern Asian Studies, 21 (1987): 647–65; A. Preston, ‘Sir Charles MacGregor and the defence of India, 1857–1887’, Historical Journal, 12 (1969): 58–77; A. Preston, ‘Frustrated great gamesmanship: Sir Garnet Wolseley’s plans for war against Russia, 1873–1880’, International History Review, 2 (1980): 239–65; R. A. Johnson, ‘ “Russians at the gates of India”? planning for the defence of India, 1885–1900’, Journal of Military History, 67 (2003): 697–744 39 P. Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’ in A. Porter (ed.), The Oxford History of the British Empire. Vol. 3. The Nineteenth Century (Oxford, 1999), 321. 40 Clayton, The British Empire as Superpower, 11–13. 41 D. French, ‘The Dardanelles, Mecca and Kut: prestige as a factor in British Eastern strategy, 1914–1916’, War and Society, 5 (1987): 45–7; D. Killingray, ‘Repercussions of World War One in the Gold Coast’, Journal of African History, 19 (1978): 39. 42 J. Cell, ‘Colonial rule’, in J. M. Brown and Wm. Roger Louis (eds), The Oxford History of the British Empire. Vol. 4. The Twentieth Century (Oxford, 1999), 232–54; A. H. M. Kirk-Greene, ‘The thin white line: the size of the British colonial service in Africa’, African Affairs, 79 (1980): 25–44. 43 D. G. Boyce, ‘From Assaye to Assaye: reflections on British government, force and moral authority in India’, Journal of Military History 63 (1999): 643–68. 44 C. Townshend, ‘Military force and civil authority in the UK, 1914–1921’, Journal of British Studies, 28 (1989): 262–92; M. F. Noone Jr, ‘Tort claims in counterinsurgency operations: the British experience in Ireland, 1919–1921’, Journal of Military History, 57 (1993): 89–109. 45 I am most grateful to Mr Simeon Shoul, who is completing a doctoral thesis on the British army’s operations in aid of the civil power in the empire between the wars, for giving me the benefit of his knowledge and understanding of this point. 46 D. Omissi (ed.), Indian Voices of the Great War. Soldier’s Letters, 1914–1918 (London, 1999). 47 G. W. T. Hughes, ‘African manpower statistics for the British Forces in East Africa, 1914–1918’, Journal of African History, 19 (1978): 101–16; D. Savage and J. Forbes Munro, ‘Carrier corps recruitment in the British East Africa protectorate 1914–1918’, Journal of African History, 2 (1966): 313–43; T. Tai-Yong, ‘An imperial home front: Punjab and the First World War’, Journal of Military History, 64 (2000): 371–410. 48 D. Killingray, ‘The idea of a British imperial army’, Journal of African History, 20 (1979): 430–3; D. Killingray, ‘Military and labour recruitment in the Gold Coast during the Second World War’, Journal of African History, 23 (1982): 83–95; J. Hamilton, ‘African colonial forces’, in D. Smurthwaite (ed.), The Forgotten War: The British Army in the Far East 1941–1945 (London, 1992), 67–77; M. Hickey, The Unforgettable Army. Slim’s XIV Army in Burma (Tunbridge Wells, 1992).

British Army and the empire 109 49 J. van Wingen and H. K. Tillema, ‘British military intervention after World War Two: militance in a second-rank power’, Journal of Peace Research, 17 (1980): 291–303 provides an almost complete list of these operations for the period after 1945. 50 C. Townshend, The British Campaign in Ireland 1919–21. The Development of Political and Military Policies (Oxford, 1975); P. Hart, The IRA and its Enemies. Violence and Community in Cork, 1916–1923 (Oxford, 1998). 51 D. A. Charters, The British Army and Jewish Insurgency in Palestine, 1945–47 (London, 1989); C. Townshend, ‘The defence of Palestine: insurrection and public security, 1936–1939’, English Historical Review, 103 (1988): 917–49; M. Kolinsky, ‘The collapse and restoration of public security’, in M. J. Cohen and M. Kolinsky (eds), Britain and the Middle East in the 1930’s: Security Problems, 1935–39 (London, 1992), 147–68. 52 F. Furedi, ‘Creating a breathing space: the political management of colonial emergencies’, in R. Holland (ed.), Emergencies and Disorders in the European Empires after 1945 (London, 1994), 89–106. 53 Jeffery, ‘An English barracks’, 372–86. 54 Anita Inder Singh, ‘Imperial Defence and the transfer of power in India, 1946–47’, International History Review, 4 (1982): 475–87; Anita Inder Singh, ‘Keeping India in the Commonwealth: British political and military aims, 1947–49’, Journal of Contemporary History, 20 (1985): 469–81. 55 R. Gregorian, The British Army, the Gurkhas and Cold War Strategy in the Far East, 1947 to 1954 (London, 2002). 56 C. A. Crocker, ‘Military Dependence: the colonial legacy in Africa’, Journal of Modern African Studies, 12 (1974): 277–81; Killingray, ‘The idea of a British Imperial Army’, 433; A. Nissimi, ‘The illusion of power in Kenya: strategy, decolonisation, and the British base, 1946–61’, International History Review, 23 (2001): 827–8. 57 J. Gallagher, The Decline, Revival and Fall of the British Empire (Cambridge, 1982), 73–4. 58 M. Dockrill, British Defence Since 1945 (Oxford, 1988), 51. 59 See, for example, D. M. Anderson and D. Killingray (eds), Policing and Decolonisation. Politics, Nationalism and the Police, 1917–1965 (Manchester, 1992); R. Holland (ed.), Emergencies and Disorders in the European Empires after 1945 (London, 1994); S. L. Carruthers, Winning Hearts and Minds. British Governments, the Media and Colonial Counter-Insurgency 1944–1960 (Leicester, 1995). The journal Intelligence and National Security is also publishing a growing number of articles about the role of intelligence in Britain’s counter-insurgency operations. 60 Among the best such works are General Sir W. J. Jackson, Withdrawal from Empire (London, 1986); G. Blaxland, The Regiments Depart: A History of the British Army, 1945 to 1970 (London, 1971). Significant and welcome exceptions to this generalisation, and books that are firmly grounded in the extant archives, are Charters, The British Army and the Jewish Insurgency in Palestine and Gregorian, The British Army, the Gurkhas (London, 1989). 61 See T. R. Mockatis, British Counterinsurgency, 1919–60 (London, 1990) and J. Newsinger, British Counterinsurgency from Palestine to Northern Ireland (London, 2002) for the opposing views. 62 M. J. Cohen, ‘The strategic role of the Middle East after the war’, in M. J. Cohen and M. Kolinsky (eds), Demise of the British Empire in the Middle East: Britain’s Responses to Nationalist Movements, 1943–1955 (London, 1998), 23–37. 63 R. Ovendale, ‘Egypt and the Suez Base agreement’, in J. W. Young (ed.), The Foreign Policy of Churchill’s Peacetime Administration 1951–1955 (Leicester, 1988), 135–58.

110 D. French 64 A. Jalal, ‘Towards the Baghdad Pact: South Asia and Middle East Defence in the Cold War, 1947–1955’, International History Review, 11 (1989): 409–33; B. Holden-Reid, ‘The “Northern Tier” and the Baghdad Pact’, in J. W. Young (ed.), The Foreign Policy of Churchill’s Peacetime Administration 1951–1955 (Leicester, 1988), 159–79. 65 Wm. Roger Louis and R. Robinson, ‘The imperialism on decolonisation’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 22 (1994): 462–511; J. Darwin, Britain and Decolonisation: The Retreat from Empire in the Post-War World (London, 1988). 66 M. J. Gasiorowski, ‘The 1953 coup d’etat in Iran’, International Journal of Middle East Studies, 19 (1987): 261–86.

6

The Royal Navy and the defence of empire, 1856–1918 Andrew Lambert

In November 1901, the First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord Selbourne, minuted the Cabinet that: ‘Its Credit and its Navy seem to me to be the two main pillars of power on which the strength of this country rests, and each is essential to the other’. For Selbourne and his contemporaries, ‘this country’ was an imperial construct, not an insular geographical fact. The same point had been made 200 years earlier; nothing had changed in the interval,1 nor would the underlying realities be altered by the end of formal empire. Britain remained a major international capitalist economy with a powerful navy. This understanding gives a particular significance to the role of the Royal Navy (RN) in ‘Imperial Defence’. This phrase is loaded with meanings that have prompted some to argue that no such thing existed;2 others have extended the concept of empire, while this chapter will argue that the term ‘defence’ is highly, and in many ways, deliberately, misleading.

What kind of empire? While this is not the place to debate the nature of the British Empire, it is important to establish what was included within this construct and what was considered worth defending. There have been two major structural explanations for the pattern of imperial development in this period, those of Robinson and Gallagher, and of Cain and Hopkins.3 While the former stressed the strategic imperatives, the dominance of India and direction from the Centre by an ‘Official mind’, the latter preferred to rebuild the economic picture, stressing the primacy of ‘Gentlemanly Capitalism’, the City of London and finance, in British Imperial policy. The importance of these two texts lies as much in the debate they prompted as their core arguments.4 The two strands of thinking are not mutually exclusive, and for this purpose we may find it more profitable to see how their perspectives can illuminate our subject. Both stress the relative unimportance of land, the value of markets, and the use of naval force to secure them. Critically, both theories use the concept of an ‘informal’ empire to widen the reach of British power and the range of countries where the power of the

112 A. Lambert RN was critical to the defence of what was considered ‘empire’. By exploiting both models, we can develop an altogether more holistic view of ‘Imperial Defence’ than has been used in earlier studies.5 Trade and market access were the critical imperial concerns, not land or people. Consequently, the word empire is problematic: it possesses connotations and meanings that are hardly compatible with the British emphasis on access and markets, investment, and opportunity. The territory of the British Empire should not be seen in the same light as the Roman empires of domination and control created by contemporary continental powers. British policy-makers saw no purpose in controlling land and people and had no difficulty with the concept of a looser federation or the ultimate relaxation of colonial ties. However, there were always exceptions, the most obvious of which was India, before 1857 a privately run continental empire that was both a market and an imperial base. India undermines any attempt to build a simple theoretical model of the British Imperial idea but, significantly, not the strategic explanation offered in this chapter of how it was secured. After the loss of the American Colonies in 1783, Britain showed a marked reluctance to engage in further large-scale imperial projects and for the first half of the nineteenth century focussed on imperial assets, naval bases, and key trade connections, otherwise unattractive outposts at Malta, Hong Kong, and Aden enabled the RN to support trade. Other assets, notably Australia and New Zealand were secured to preclude French settlement, while in South Africa and India open frontiers exerted a variety of pull factors. The connection between trade, policy, and power is nowhere better developed than in John Wong’s Deadly Dreams: Opium and the ‘Arrow’ War (1856–1860). Examining the Far Eastern policy of the Palmerston Ministries Wong uncovers an aggressive commercial agenda, pushing the free trade concept into hitherto closed or restricted markets, using the Navy by turns as executor or persuader. This is the ultimate corrective to older one-dimensional gunboats, and c. Wong shows Britain as an aggressive commercial empire, prepared to use the flotilla of coast-attack gunboats left over from the Crimean War to drive a fiscal stake into the heart of Chinese exclusionism. At the same time, heavily armed warships carried ‘trade’ missions to Siam and Japan. The message was clear: trade or perish.6 As Cain and Hopkins rightly stress, the power of the centre was immense. Commerce and force went hand in hand. Nor was this a novel fact. As Daniel Baugh has emphasised, the British fought and won the wars of the eighteenth century primarily through economic attrition and expected to apply the same system in 1914.7 For imperial London, the key to external policy was, at its simplest, how to keep Europe quiet and stable so that Britain and her capitalists could focus efforts on commercial expansion elsewhere. The city was prepared to pay a heavy premium for this stability and took a leading role in the

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 113 navalist agitation of the 1890s, which culminated in the Spencer programme of 1894.8 The diplomatic policy of imperial Britain has recently been reconsidered by John Charmley, who has criticised the inflexibly anti-German and overly committed Continental policy of the pre-1914 Liberal Government. He considers this marked a major change in British policy, away from one which regarded imperial interests as primary, and restrained Britain to a naval and financial role in any Continental conflict.9 While there was a tendency to construct an apolitical consensus on defence issues, modern scholarship is asking new questions. As the main parties diverged on imperial issues, there is no reason to assume they converged on the defence of empire. Furthermore, there was rarely anything like a ‘party’ position, as Rhodri Williams demonstrated in: Defending the Empire: The Conservative Party and British Defence Policy 1899–1915.10 The Conservatives began the shift of defence priorities from imperial to European, the modernisation of the army and the navy, and the foundation of the politico-military coordinating body, significantly named the ‘Committee of Imperial Defence’. The central figure in Conservative defence policy and founder of the Committee of Imperial Defence (CID), Prime Minister Arthur Balfour, shares a biographer with the leading naval figure of the generation, Lord Fisher.11 Further studies of internal party debates on defence, and policy-makers, particularly those working at the political/naval interface will be of real value. The inner dynamics of Asquith’s pre-1914 government deserve a fresh study, along with the political and imperial ideas of key ministers.

A question of perspective By far, the largest literature on imperial defence concerns the implications of the growth of responsible dominion government for defence issues. This perspective has been well handled in national and dominionbased studies by Preston, Gordon, and McGibbon,12 while Nicholas Lambert’s more specific Australia’s Naval Heritage: Imperial Strategy and the Australia Station 1880–190913 provides an excellent collection of documents, the lucid and well-balanced introduction demonstrates the irrelevance of strategic threat to discussions of Australian naval requirements. In reality, all dominion-based studies suffer from a degree of unreality, in part a product of the political basis of the debates they cover, and in part, of the strategic realities that such debates blatantly ignored. The powerful nationalist trend in Australian and Canadian history, closely linked to ongoing debates about the future role of the British Crown in national life, has been set back of late, notably by John Moses and Christopher Pugsleys’ edited volume The German Empire and Britain’s Pacific Dominions, 1871–1919 which argues for an altogether homogeneous concept of empire, based on self-interest. By examining German ambition and

114 A. Lambert contemporary Australasian opinion on the threat it posed, these essays stress the essential role of the empire in securing the dominions.14 Nicholas Tracey’s The Collective Naval Defence of the Empire, 1900–1940 provides extensive documentation on the period up to 1918, illustrating the Admiralty’s clear commitment to common naval training, equipment, signals and systems, even if dominion political pressures made distinct services inevitable.15 In reality, the greatest, perhaps the only, threat to the British Empire between 1856 and 1918 came from Europe. The emergence of a European hegemonic bloc, similar to the Napoleonic superstate, was the worst-case scenario for British war-planning, the seizure of Antwerp and the River Scheldt by such a hegemon, the only cast iron casus belli in British political life. With the main danger lying close to the centre, not on the peripheries, the British state necessarily focussed its attention on Europe, because while Europe was stable British interests were secure. No continental power would unilaterally attack Britain or her outlying dependencies while their rivals were in a position to exploit the inevitable problems. Fortunately for the British economy, the same forces that secured the British Islands from invasion, the major battle fleets were also the key to the defence of the wider world. There was, as the Admiralty rather baldly stated throughout the nineteenth century, only one ocean, and a dominant Fleet would secure the Empire the ability to use that ocean (and deny the ocean to other powers) better by blockading the enemy in European harbours than chasing isolated cruisers across the open oceans in an age before wireless. This reality was understood by contemporary analysts, notably the historian Sir John Laughton. Between the mid-1860s and the end of the Edwardian era, Laughton harnessed history to the development of national strategy and his powerful review articles providing the strategic education for British officers and a famous American strategic thinker, Captain Alfred Thayer Mahan USN.16

British strategy It should be stressed from the outset that British strategy was central not peripheral, powerful, not petty. After 1861, British imperial strategy shifted away from the stationed forces, both land and sea, of the previous sixty years towards mobile, centrally controlled units advocated that year by the Mills Committee and urged as an economy measure by William Gladstone, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. With suitable local facilities and good communications, naval forces stationed locally could be reduced in quality, for example, replacing front-line fighting ships with gunboats adequate to meet the widespread local demands placed on the navy. Powerful units could be dispatched from Britain or the Mediterranean to reinforce the periphery. In late 1864, Gladstone renewed his call for a ‘Flying Squadron’ strategy, but Prime Minister Palmerston and

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 115 the Cabinet rejected the proposal. When Gladstone became Liberal party leader and then Prime Minister in late 1868, this ‘Flying Squadron’ strategy was adopted with almost an unseemly haste, as an economy measure.17 The First Lord of the Admiralty summed up the new policy: The diminution of the force permanently maintained in distant seas will enable my Lords to send a cruising squadron of frigates and corvettes to visit the stations from time to time, and my Lords anticipate that much benefit to the naval service will be derived from this policy.18 Within days, a ‘Flying Squadron’ was on its way to Australasia.19 However, it should be stressed that the possibility of war with Russia in 1878 and 1885 was deterred by the assembly of a power projection fleet at Spithead, not the local defences of the British Empire.20 While the Russians feared for St. Petersburg, Australia and India were safe. Similarly, the Trent crisis of 1861 had demonstrated that Britain could not station forces in Canada to meet the US Army. She had to rely on deterrence. Her global empire could not be secured against serious attack by local defences. This was a matter of basic economics and political expediency. Britain would not pay for a high level of local defence, nor would her colonies. The only strategy that combined real power, global reach, and relative economy was one based on the offensive strength of the RN. Throughout the nineteenth century, the RN had the power to destroy any rival navy, securing British interests, and releasing the fleet for further offensive operations, including an economic blockade, the seizure of overseas or isolated territories as diplomatic assets, and attacks on major cities. The war would be fought with a limited commitment of manpower and money; while it could not destroy a major power, it would exhaust their military and economic resources and ultimately break their political will. Sea power gave Britain the ability to attack an enemy at their weakest or most sensitive point rather than simply countering an attack at the point it crossed the imperial frontier. A maritime striking force could be dispatched from the centre of the empire, staging through the global chain of bases, to project power against any rival. Because so many accounts equate defence with the territory and focus on a local balance, this global concept has been largely overlooked. Only viewing the empire as an oceanic construct will reveal the consistencies. Because the British never wrote down their core strategic doctrine in the period 1815–1914, many historians have argued that there was no strategy. This is not correct. The British retained the strategy of the Napoleonic wars and consistently upgraded to integrate new technologies and political realities. Between 1856 and 1865, the strategy shifted from stationed forces to a centrally controlled ‘expeditionary’ strategy. The long-term success of British strategy is obvious. Between 1814 and 1914,

116 A. Lambert no major power attacked Britain. While rival powers could identify areas of relative British weakness, the North-West frontier of India, Canada, and oceanic trade – none could develop a strategy that could coerce Britain. By contrast, Britain did have a strategy that could deter her rivals, and consequently, the reality of British power was written in stone, at Cherbourg, Cronstadt, New York, and Wilhelmshaven.21

What sort of navy? To carry out this global role, the RN needed a dominant sea control battle fleet, forces to provide local support to the civil power at the margins of empire and the ability to attack and destroy first class fortresses. In the main, historians have failed to address these disparate issues. Studies of naval policy were for many years dominated by the works of Arthur J. Marder,22 but they were only concerned with European issues leading up the inevitable war in 1914 and takes to easily the idea that the strategic redistribution of the early twentieth century was a ‘retreat’. While Britain had a unique global chain of bases with dry docks, cable communications, and coal stocks, the fleet could be redeployed with relative ease, as it would be after 1918. Ruddock Mackay’s biography of Fisher provided a new standard work on the most important British Naval officer of the era, while important works by Jon Sumida and Nicholas Lambert have overturned Marder’s judgements in important areas, notably technology and strategic policy.23 Their work places the Fisher era in a more global perspective, stressing that it was the need for powerful imperial and European naval squadrons, not simply the threat posed by the German fleet, that forced John Fisher to make radical changes in all aspects of policy. These new insights begin the process of returning the empire to the core of naval history. The next stage will be to assess the overall policy performance in the light of the growing centralisation of defence in the era of the Committee of Imperial Defence. The best study of naval policy in this period is Beeler’s British Naval Policy in the Gladstone–Disraeli Era, 1866–1880 of 1997.24 In a work of remarkable depth, based on exemplary research, Beeler comprehensively demolishes the old myths about the ‘Dark Ages of the Admiralty’, lack of strategic planning, and inconsistent policy-making that had been allowed to stand far too long. The RN, working with limited budgets, under constant pressure for cuts managed to maintain a force equally capable of dominating European waters and securing oceanic trade in the distant oceans. The key to this new version is Beeler’s ability to go beyond the documents and develop a broader grasp of the issues. The RN did not create policy papers and strategies like European armies and therefore should not be studied in the same way. Beeler has also edited Professor Donald Schurmans’ 1955 Cambridge PhD thesis for publication as Imperial Defence 1868–1887 in 2000.25 This, the most detailed examination of the

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 117 issues in print, was written by a scholar who had spent his career examining the question and mastering the ideas of the key thinkers who influenced its development. Schurman’s Education of a Navy and Julian S Corbett are the key texts for this process. The appearance of a festschrift for Professor Schurman in 1997 allowed a new generation to add their thoughts to his legacy.26 John Beeler stresses the central role of deterrence in imperial strategy between 1856 and 1905. Beeler shows how the RN secured the empire by blockading enemy fleets at home or destroying them inside their arsenals. The empire was secured by superiority in modern, first-class warships, a unique chain of bases, and the capacity to project power to all corners of the globe. Even at the height of the Anglo-German Naval race, as Nicholas Lambert points out, the Admiralty was developing a Pacific strategy involving Dominion Navies and a new approach, the ‘fleet unit’ concept. The first such unit was an all new Royal Australian Navy: New Zealand bought the British a battlecruiser and the Canadians did a lot of talking. Even so, British strategy at the outbreak of war in 1914 was resolutely maritime. The British Government only accepted a continental strategy in late 1915, as David French demonstrates. He demolishes another major strand of the ‘continentalist’ argument by showing that the choice was seen as a massive gamble, relying on dominion manpower to win the war in Europe before Britain ran out of money. Ultimately, American intervention provided the resources and manpower to finish the job, but Britain had not become a continental power, just another in the long line of sea-powers forced to go ashore in strength to finish off a rival land power. In truth, the empire was the dominant issue, and the threat posed by Germany was, for all its seriousness, a temporary aberration. Once Germany had been defeated, the British wanted to re-establish a European balance so that they could get back to their core activity of trade and empire, and when they rebuilt their forces post-war, it was new ships and bases they wanted, not armoured divisions. Only through the possession of overwhelming naval power could the British Empire be defended, but even then by deterrence rather than war-fighting. While there is a rich harvest of literature dealing with the Victorian Navy, much of it published in the period 1890–1914, a golden age for all manner of heavy blue-bound books on history, strategy and memoir, a treasure trove that still requires its modern analyst, there is only one substantial operational narrative. William Laird Clowes’ seven-volume The RN: A History from the Earliest Times devotes the final volume to the period 1857–1900.27 Although Clowes recognised the importance of administration, exploration, and technology, his main concern was a narrative of operational history, minor wars, logistics, naval brigade support for the army and the odd natural disaster. Many of these conflicts were ‘imperial’, but few could be considered ‘defence’. Together with lists of officers holding the senior posts and other data, the book is a vital tool, only truly appreciated by those who ask what the RN was doing in 1901. The need

118 A. Lambert for a substantial modern narrative history of the twentieth-century Navy, World Wars apart, is pressing. Only through a long view of operational patterns, deployments, and stations, linked to the wider fields of imperial diplomatic and economic history will the naval role in the defence of empire become clear. Until then, we are left with tantalising vignettes, their true meaning obscured by the lack of context. One area where a significant body of research has been undertaken, with impressive results, is the design history of the Navy’s instruments, the fighting ships, and their technology. This process has been led and assessed by Naval Architect David Brown.28 While much time and effort was expended producing papers to explain Admiralty policy, and a significant proportion of these remain in the archives, a more reliable analytical tool can be found in the major spending decisions. A careful examination of any warship design should reveal much of the strategy that was in place at the time it was ordered. Strategy and policy are not made on paper. The production of papers was both cheap and easy: they were often only part of a wider process and were written for purposes which are far from obvious to the modern reader. By contrast, the expenditure of money on ships, infrastructure, and personnel are the acid test of strategy and policy. The ships, their deployment, and operation can be read as easily as a file of papers, but they provide evidence of far greater weight. For example, the Naval Defence Act of 1889 provided a combination of ship types which, when analysed, inform the careful reader that Britain was re-asserting her sea control strategy, that she expected to blockade her main enemy, France, with a fleet of oceangoing battleships capable of fighting on the open ocean, supported by a large force of cruisers, for close blockade and commerce protection, with torpedo gunboats to counter the threat posed by French flotilla craft. Distant waters were catered for with a pair of second-class battleships and some modified cruisers. By examining naval design over a longer period, it is possible to see how these ships differed from those that had preceded them, but also to place them in the continuum of British battle fleet–based sea control.29 Further value was derived from the policy of naming ships to link the Navy with the colonies; the Australian station had seven ships with ‘local’ names, or heroic pasts, usually Nelson, Trafalgar, and the Armada. In 1889, the new battleships were the Royal Sovereign class, named for Collingwood’s flagship at Trafalgar. By 1916, another class was re-using these names, just in time for Jutland where many ships bore Nelsonic names. This careful attention to the past reinforced the deterrent value of naval demonstrations. Royal Navy warships were normally designed with imperial concerns in mind. Their range, seaworthiness, and habitability reflected possible use for global tasks. These features become apparent when compared with similar ships in rival fleets. Although it was once normal to criticise British

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 119 warship designs, the latest research has done much to revive the reputations of ship designers, shipbuilders, and the Admiralty.30 In the 1850s, the RN radically reformed the career structure for ratings. Hitherto, sailors had signed on for the commission of the ships and were released after three years. In early 1853, a Committee recommended that seamen should enter the RN for a term, with twenty years of ‘Continuous and General Service’ qualifying for a pension. The pension was a retainer so that the sailor could be recalled in the event of war.31 These new ratings would be naval specialists distinct from merchant seaman. The new system would also generate a reserve, and to reinforce the effect, other seafaring men were drawn into the reserve, direct from the merchant service. In 1857, a regulation uniform for all sailors was introduced, emphasising their new professional status as warship sailors. It also helped to build the unique identity of the seamen, who by the high Victorian age had been transformed from a colourful rogue into a model of working-class rectitude. The fact that these men now served longer raised the average age of naval ratings, while improved pay, promotion, and transferable skills made a naval career, hitherto a short-term choice, more attractive to settled and ambitious men. In 1859 the Royal Naval Reserve was added to Continuous Service, creating the modern naval career structure for ratings. The reservists were regularly drilled. In 1914, the RN mobilised the largest fleet the world had ever seen, entirely from its own resources in a matter of days. With continuous service, the use of physical punishment declined, and in 1866 it was effectively suspended. The all-volunteer, long service ratings were basic material from which the RN was built, and the Petty Officers who led them were the backbone of excellence. These men enabled the RN to deploy effectively across the globe, with trained and experienced personnel rather than the short service, conscripts who made up much of the manpower in other navies. In view of the distances involved, such men, like their army counterparts, were essential for an imperial force. For a fresh insight into the officer corps, Andrew Gordon’s The Rules of Game is invaluable, stressing the increasingly rigid command systems and lack of scope for individual initiative in the telegraph- and semaphore-controlled navy of the late nineteenth century. His denouement at Jutland shows the limits of men and education after a century without a major war.32 In some ways, that was the price of success: successful deterrence in the long term leads to a lack of contact with real war.

Decline It is important to recognise the impact of the declinist/continentalist literature of the 1960s and 1970s on historical understanding of imperial issues. With empire and naval power consigned to the dustbin of history, many scholars were anxious to explain the process. Assuming the decline

120 A. Lambert in manufacturing output, imperial possession and naval strength, when set alongside membership of North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) and the European Economic Community (EEC), indicated a process of managed decline and overriding European concerns that they were unduly hasty in seeking out the long-term causes of decline and backdating the decline of British power. In the early 1970s, Michael Howard’s The Continental Commitment and Correlli Barnett’s The Collapse of British Power provided key elements to the first major text of the modern, naval history revival, Paul Kennedy’s The Rise and Fall of British Naval Mastery of 1976. Arguing that the story had come to a close, Kennedy linked naval power with economic activity, with the emphasis on industrial output to explain the process of his title. The naval defence of empire was not a priority, empire was over; Europe and the near continent were the key issues. For the period under review, the strategic redistribution of the Fisher era was portrayed, using a contemporary metaphor, as the recall of the legions, with the obvious implication that it indicated decline and presaged fall. This school of thought downplayed the importance of extra-European concerns in the making of British policy and of the Navy in British security. The immense human cost of the First World War on land only added to a sense of naval irrelevance. Fortunately, more recent work, notably by Avner Offer, has redressed this balance, while the end of the Cold War has shifted the contemporary strategic picture back towards global capabilities and sea-based power. Now that current national strategy is essentially computerised, Corbett33 the past will be read in a very different way. The gloom of the 1970s has passed: the bipolar world with an obsessive focus on the inner German frontier is only a memory, and historians have to consider new questions. Some have even dared to argue that the empire was not such a bad thing.34

Defence coordination Global empires only work if they are well organised and exploit their strengths; if they try to be strong everywhere, they collapse under the weight of their defences. Like other successful empires, the British relied on superior communications to secure an advantage over rivals and to enable the centre to direct the periphery. In 1800, Mail Packets had been the fastest strategic communication system, but the Government was quick to exploit the new power of steam for strategic communications. By 1830, naval steamers linked Britain with the Mediterranean every month. Within a decade, private companies were being subsidised to carry Government mail on oceanic routes, notably Cunard on the Atlantic and Peninsula & Orient across the Indian Ocean.35 These and other mail companies continued to provide shipping services, auxiliary warships, and naval reserve postings throughout the period. However, steamships were soon overtaken

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 121 by a far faster system – the submarine telegraph cable. Developed in the 1840s, the cable immediately attracted naval interest. It was first used to link Dover and Calais in 1851 and rapidly created a new type of global power. By 1855, a line connected London with Balaklava. Effective realtime or near-real-time global communication improved central control, reducing local freedom of action and allowing centrally directed forces to reinforce any region under threat or counter-attack where the enemy was vulnerable. The spread of the system was dramatic: North America was connected by 1867, India by 1870, Australia and Japan by 1872, Brazil in 1873, and the rest of the world quickly thereafter. Links between the dominant Eastern Telegraph Company and the Government were close, and in times of crisis, notably the occupation of Egypt in 1882, the company went beyond what might be expected of a commercial concern.36 The Zulu War of 1878 was one of the first significant conflicts in which strategic communications were used to shift forces, with a new cable being laid from Aden to Durban to improve central control.37 Empire, however defined, was now defended as a single unit, rather than as a series of geographically and intellectually distinct areas. In 1899, it took only two months to lay 3,000 miles of cable from the Cape Verde Islands to Cape Town for the South African War. Little wonder the French considered the cable network more important to British power than the navy.38 These developments, although essentially commercial, were aided, directed, and influenced by the application of Government funds. At every stage, speed and reliability were enhanced, improving the ability of the centre to control the periphery, and more significantly, of the centre to direct forces from the centre or other parts of the periphery to reinforce a threatened area. In this way, the empire, formal and informal, was welded into a single strategic entity.39 Improved communications were especially useful to Britain, because Britain alone had the capability to use the information to move her forces across the globe. She could also deny such communications to an enemy. As Britain controlled the sea, and almost all the submarine cables, and cable-laying tonnage, enemy cables could be cut or re-used. In 1914, Britain had a global communications strategy – built on command of the sea.40 The information edge that Britain developed in the nineteenth century, through her dominance of systems and the sea, facilitated the next step – the growth of communications intelligence gathering. These advantages meant that the effective power of British forces grew rather than their size, because improved central control reduced the need for local forces. After 1815, Britain applied substantial financial and technical assets to the provision of superior long-distance communications, pioneering oceanic steamships and submarine telegraph cables. However, the effective exploitation of epochal developments in ship, weapon, and communication technology relied on a relatively unnoticed element in the totality of imperial defence infrastructure. The dry dock was the pivot around which British Imperial strategy was transformed between 1860 and

122 A. Lambert 1890. They were the basic requirements for sustained local operations.41 The spread of docking accommodation between 1860 and 1890 was driven by technical change, commercial pressure, and strategic need. Dry docks would enable the RN to send squadrons to any part of the globe and maintain them there. They were vital to the effective use of naval units. In areas of overwhelming strategic need, where economic activity was inadequate to support them, docks were built in Imperial Fortresses of Bermuda, Gibraltar, and Malta. Elsewhere, the Navy encouraged the construction of commercial docks, providing government financial assistance to ensure they were configured for, and gave priority to warships. The emergence of an effective policy followed a period of haphazard development at the outer reaches of empire.42 To exploit new opportunities to act on a global scale, the British state required a London-based system for defence coordination, initially, in the 1880s the Colonial Defence Committee and from 1920 the Committee of Imperial Defence. This process is examined in Nicholas d’Ombrain’s essential War Machinery and High Policy: Defence Administration in Peacetime Britain: 1902–1914.43 d’Ombrains’ emphasis that the CID failed to settle and direct national strategy and policy has been challenged by Avner Offer in The First World War: An Agrarian Interpretation which contends that a well-developed maritime economic warfare strategy was in place in 1914.44 The Anglo-Saxon and dominion ideas that underpinned these prewar plans were consistent with the long-term trends in British strategy and the failure to prepare a continental army before August 1914. If we accept the logic of Offer’s study, as many have, a long-term British strategy for the defence of her vital interests emerges. These interests came in two distinct categories: purely strategic threats posed by European hegemonic powers, especially those that violated the independence and integrity of Belgium, and global economic security, for investments, trade, and shipping. Developing a consistent and, before 1914, effective strategy that could support British diplomacy in securing these ends on low estimates was a work of genius. It ensured that when the guns started firing, the British were ready for global war and the rest of Europe was still living with the delusion that the conflicts would be over by Christmas. Despite this, Britain failed to deter Germany in 1914 because the threat of an economic war of exhaustion was not one the Germans recognised as vital, as Offer observes, it was ‘not visible enough’.45

Deterrence So far, this chapter has focussed on areas where the literature has addressed the key questions. However, there remains a major gap at the heart of the subject. There is no overall concept of British strategy for the period into which the naval component can be integrated. The whole is less than the sum of its parts.

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 123 The British concept of imperial defence was based on the need to avoid war: to this end it relied on a global strategic vision, using highly mobile, centrally controlled forces that could counter any attack on British interests, metropolitan or imperial, by attacking the most vulnerable point of the aggressors’ own possessions. It was a deterrent strategy. The security of British possessions and dominions was underpinned by the threat that any attack on British interests would provoke an overwhelming naval response, including the destruction of vital commercial, political, and naval assets, economic exhaustion, and exposure to other powers. The key to this strategy was the ability to mount a realistic threat and to ensure any aggressor, real or potential, understood the limits of British tolerance. The ‘Trent Crisis’ of 1861 demonstrated that Britain did not need to station forces in Canada to meet the US Army. Instead, Britain could rely on deterrence.46 In 1878 and 1885, Russian threats to Turkey and Afghanistan were deterred by the assembly of a power-projection fleet at Spithead, not the local defences of the British Empire.47 While the Russians feared for St. Petersburg, Sydney and Melbourne were safe. Britain’s global empire could not be secured against serious attack by local defences. This was a matter of basic economics and political expediency. Britain would not pay for a high level of local defence, nor would her colonies. The only strategy that combined real power, global reach, and relative economy was one based on the offensive strength of the RN. Throughout the nineteenth century, the RN had the power to destroy any rival navy, securing British interests and releasing the fleet for further offensive operations, including economic blockades, seizure of overseas or isolated territories as diplomatic assets, and attacks on major cities. British thinking envisaged a war of limited commitment of manpower and money, husbanding resources and strength for another twenty-five-year conflict like that with revolutionary and Napoleonic Europe. While this strategy could not destroy a major power, it would exhaust their military and economic resources and ultimately break their political will. Sea power gave Britain the ability to attack an enemy at their weakest or most sensitive point, rather than simply countering an attack at the point it crossed the imperial frontier. Mastery of global communications and the development of suitable base facilities, especially dry docks, ensured that a maritime striking force could be dispatched from the centre of the empire, staging through the global chain of bases, to project power against any rival, in any theatre. That this did not have to be done between 1856 and 1914 reflects the success of centrally directed deterrence in reducing the threat to the empire. From the ‘Trent’ through Fashoda to the two Moroccan crises, Britain consistently and coherently employed carefully signalled deterrence to secure her interests and avoid war. This concept provides the only analytical tool capable of explaining long-term success, low budgets, and the

124 A. Lambert resolution of specific case studies. It also has the benefit of making the Baltic far more important in the history of ‘Imperial Defence’ than any British overseas territory. The RN did not ‘defend’ the empire, it applied pressure wherever a potential enemy was most exposed. From the St. George’s Day Review in 1856 that celebrated the role of Britain’s right arm in the winning of the ‘Crimean’ War, a global conflict that had exposed Russia’s weakness through maritime campaigns and economic warfare,48 to the Fleet Review of July 1914, the assembly of a vast fleet on the coast of Britain was a gesture of enormous power and irresistible diplomatic weight. It only required to be used with skill to secure the compliance of any rational state.

Global strategy – common doctrine From the 1850s, the British developed a global strategy that worked; typically they only began to reduce it to theory afterwards. John Colomb’s work of 1867, which emphasised sea communications was a key document, which was understood by key policy-makers like Admiral Sir Alexander Milne49 and G S Clarke, and developed through the growth of historical understanding, begun by John Knox Laughton culminating in Julian Corbett’s key works. Corbett added a touch of political and economic realism injected by his close contact with the Admiralty regime of Sir John Fisher 1904–1910. While his 1911 text Some Principles of Maritime Strategy is the strategic primer, England in the Mediterranean and England in the Seven Year’s War are the Grand Strategic, and The Campaign of Trafalgar the strategic case study. These were the teaching texts of Edwardian imperial defence, given as lectures at the Army Staff College and the Naval War Course, before being published. Increasingly influenced by a sophisticated understanding of Clausewitz and the wealth of historical learning now made available, Corbett provided his countrymen with the intellectual tools to build a modern warfighting system, and, by no coincidence this is precisely what they did. Avner Offer has demonstrated that pre-war work by men like CIDS Secretary Maurice Hankey and successive Directors of the Naval Intelligence Division Britain went to war in 1914 better prepared for a global conflict than any other power. A better understanding of the key policy-makers of the pre-1914 period would help to broaden our understanding of the problems of imperial defence. Stephen Roskill’s biography of Hankey50 is a beginning, but a modern study of George Sydenham Clarke who exercised a key role in imperial defence from the 1880s to the First World War would be a major addition to the literature. At various times an Engineer, Fortress builder, Secretary to the Colonial Defence Committee and then the Committee of Imperial Defence, a Colonial Governor, and maritime strategist Clarke’s contemporary writings and a lucid, if not very revealing memoir,

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 125 illuminate an important element in the thinking of the period and suggest that more might be found in his career.51 Clarke was among the first to integrate the concept of coast defence, a military task, with the reality of RN global primacy to produce a scale of coastal fortification appropriate to the real needs of the empire, and necessarily far below that deemed essential by careerist military engineers, alarmist domestic politicians, and nervous colonial legislatures. His work helped to make the defence of empire more rational and efficient by the beginning of the twentieth century. Similarly, the wider field of pre-1900 defence cooperation provides opportunities for wider research. Having settled the global strategy of a world empire, there remains the question of how the RN carried on the day-to-day business of securing, extending, and integrating the empire, formal or otherwise, into a cohesive unit. The growing recognition that indigenous peoples had their own perspective on the process, and that British presence was far from cohesive, has produced a more sophisticated understanding of the RN in action. Barry Gough’s Gunboat Frontier: British Maritime Ascendancy and Northwest Coast Indians, 1846–1890 of 198452 examined the British Columbia experience, while Jane Samson’s Imperial Benevolence: Making British Authority in the Pacific Islands53 stretches the concept to examine the underlying ideologies of the naval officers and their conflict with other Europeans in a region where formal control was not established. In his essay ‘Profit and Power: Informal Empire, the Navy and Latin America’, Gough overtly links naval history with the Cain and Hopkins debate on gentlemanly capitalism through a regional study. It is highly significant that this paper appeared in a collection debating the new approach to imperial history.54 Naval historians have to take their ideas and join in wider debates rather than rest content with exchanging ideas among themselves. Empires, however defined, are about control. The progress of maritime empire was nowhere more obvious than in the process of chart-making. The RN was the primary agency for making the oceans of the world, and their vital sailing routes British. By drawing the charts and filling them with suitably imperial names, Britain took possession of the seas, reduced the connecting spaces between her trading entrepots, colonial outposts, and the metropole, improving the speed and profitability of the system. The same process was equally significant in opening up the oceans of the world, and more especially the complex coastal waters of rival powers, and key choke points, to facilitate the offensive coastal operations that were the basis of British war-planning for a European conflict, and on which the whole structure of deterrence rested. Older histories of naval surveying, notably the Admiral Day chronicle the achievement but have little to say about the purpose of the activity.55 While the literature on hydrography is large, a few examples will have to suffice. Lambert provides a case study of the role of chart-making in British strategy.56 Andrew David’s

126 A. Lambert The Voyage of HMS Herald 1852–1861 continues a strong run of work on Australian charting and stresses a variety of imperial, colonial, and scientific themes, notably the importance of new steam shipping routes.57 Often dressed up as high-minded services to civilisation, maritime safety or science, the British hydrographic effort was, in truth, part of the great project to reduce the world to order, to impose British ideas, values and control where necessary, and ensure access to contested waters, be they choke points like the Danish narrows or oceanic steam ship routes like the Torres Strait. Deep ocean research was pioneered to enable the laying of that quintessentially British imperial project, the oceanic submarine telegraph cable. That hydrographic knowledge and skills were critical to serious warplanning was soon recognised, and by the 1850s, the hydrographer was the leading source of strategic advice and a key player in many aspects of naval policy and planning. Surveying Officers were the key planners at all levels of war in the nineteenth century, notably for operational planning in the Baltic and the Black Sea during the Crimean War.58 In addition to the more obvious information, such as charts of naval bases and strategic narrows, the RN also developed an understanding of oceanic phenomena that would influence operations, notably tides, currents, and wind patterns. The first fully reliable set of tidal data for the English Channel in the 1840s was the key element in planning against a possible French invasion. All officers were requested to report any information they considered useful to the hydrographer; the entire officer corps was drawn into the work of marine science in 1849 when the Admiralty issued: A Manual of Scientific Enquiry prepared for the use of Her Majesty’s Navy: and adapted for Travellers in General. Authors drawn from the scientific elite, including Darwin, provided guidance on methods of observation and recording for all relevant branches of science: astronomy, magnetism, hydrography, tides, geography, geology, earthquakes, mineralogy, meteorology, atmospheric waves, zoology, botany, ethnology, medicine, and statistics. It was written for men of ‘good intelligence and fair acquirement’. A hint of pecuniary reward was held out to encourage application. In addition to the exact sciences, social and ethnographic evidence should be acquired. The potential results of issuing the volume were immense; the Admiralty had ‘cruisers in every sea; and where the ships of the navy are not present, it sometimes happens that the vessels of the merchant are conducted with much intelligence and enterprise’.59 It did not need to be said that such information had a direct naval utility. The mixture of high science and practical naval intelligence-gathering enshrined in the Manual demonstrated the wider ambitions of the Admiralty. Foreign ports were to be assessed, their docks, repair facilities, engineering works, coal stocks, tides and other key aspects recorded. Charts were to be made, and the example supplied included a fort, in case the strategic purpose should escape the less-gifted officer. Unknown coasts and seas

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 127 were to be analysed.60 In the age of steam, navies and steam ship companies sought certainty. The RN provided HMS Challenger for a pioneering three-year oceanographic voyage in 1872, the multi-disciplinary research team pioneering the modern study of oceanography. This was science in the service of empire, knowledge for profit and for war. While the science and the voyage of the Challenger have been studied, the imperial benefits await their analyst. The intellectual attainments required to examine such diverse issues have been resolved in the US.61 The central role of naval science deserves to be better integrated with the study of science, knowledge, power, trade and strategy of the empire.

Imperial bases While most accounts of British bases follow John Colomb’s focus on coal supplies, these were less important than the infrastructure. From the 1740s, when the first extra-European examples were built at Bombay, the real indicator of imperial might was the growth of local and metropolitan partnerships to construct and maintain dry dock accommodation. Docks were far more costly than coal and from the 1840s became the litmus test of imperial defence. Docks enabled the colonies and dominions to show their commitment to the critical naval defence of empire and increase the presence of British naval forces while also securing a very useful commercial asset. That such docks were also located at cable communication centres and offered access to engineering facilities made them unequalled force multipliers – Britain could operate ships around the globe and sustain them. The truly ‘Imperial’ parts of the empire were, by the 1870s, very limited. Only Malta, Gibraltar, and Bermuda were imperial bases, naval fortresses entirely funded by the imperial Government. Other bases were partnerships, like Sydney, Auckland, Halifax, Esquimault, Hong Kong, Cape Town, and Bombay (Mumbai). These partnerships were clearly and consistently established.62

Consequences In 1914, the British Empire went to war to uphold the European balance. The pre-war strategic planning worked, the empire quickly slipped into gear, and by Christmas the conflict had been confined to the European theatre, German communications were cut, her cruisers were annihilated, and her colonies swept up and turned to imperial use. The human, material, and industrial resources of the world were harnessed to the war in Europe; it was a truly remarkable performance, the master narrative of which was very properly carried in Julian Corbett’s neglected masterpiece Naval Operations. Despite the pre–war planning, Britain’s commitment to the First World War soon escalated such that Britain ended up providing not only the

128 A. Lambert greatest part of the naval, financial, and industrial power of the alliance, as had been expected, but also a very substantial part of the military force as well. A major problem for attempts to comprehend the nature of naval role before 1914 has been the tendency to treat the period as little more than the inevitable build-up to the total war being waged during 1916–1917. This approach misses the key point that British interests and policy were directed towards the avoidance of such a catastrophe and that August 1914 represented the failure of British policy. Similarly, the very success of pre–war planning for imperial defence, and the ease with which the oceans were cleared of German cruisers, has diverted attention from the quality of the effort and the long-term basis of such planning. The threat of cruiser warfare on the open oceans was taken very seriously throughout this period. Fortunately, the answer remained constant. Once steam power became essential for oceanic warfare, suitable cruiser squadrons with superior communication facilities and docking accommodation would have been quite adequate against any conceivable combination of French, Russian, or German ships: all three countries lacked the ships, bases, and facilities for a serious campaign. Between 1914 and 1918, the RN had remarkably little to do outside Europe, the war was over by Christmas. Paul Halpern’s A Naval History of the World War One provides a fine summary of these campaigns, while the first of Hew Strachan’s three-volume The First World War places the Pacific and African theatres in a broader context.63

Conclusions The main lines of argument about the role of the RN in the ‘defence of Empire’ revolve around the relative importance of European and imperial issues, their interdependence, and the fluid nature of British strategy. Since the end of the Cold War, historians have begun to revisit this area, with empires and their upkeep becoming a major interest. Although excellent work has been done by the scholars highlighted in this essay, there is much more left to be done if we are to understand how the RN helped to secure a unique global empire of trade and investment. Before we try to create neat constructs that link the past with the present, we must be very careful to understand why those who were making the big decisions acted as they did, to see them in their own context, rather than judge them by our standards. Hindsight is a powerful analytical tool, but it is no substitute for understanding. Naval historians have to exploit the current interest in empires to join the debates, bringing their own unique insights and resources to bear. The balance between the local and colonial-/dominion-based studies and those focussed on the centre needs to be redressed, naval policy and strategy needs to be integrated with other aspects of Britain’s overall international position, from diplomacy and trade to Entente arrangements and

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 129 communications technology. Fortunately, we have a rich legacy of work on which to build, and many important contributors to these debates are currently at work in the field. Naval historians have to ask better questions. The key requirement is to understand the British Empire as a unique institution with its own distinct strategy and strategic culture. The defence of empire was not an issue of peripheries and local problems, nor was it the subject so hotly debated by vote-hungry dominion leaders and their historians. Ultimately, it was about using the sea for trade and communications, deterrence, and war-fighting. The RN ensured that a global empire of trade and capital could use the sea. Between 1856 and 1918, the RN met these demands in peace and, when all else failed, in war. While the Imperial Government and the dominions were willing and able to pay for naval mastery, the empire was safe. The empire was the dominant concern of the British state issue and central to defence planning throughout the period under review. The First World War, for all the cost and horror of the European land war, was a temporary aberration. Once Germany had been defeated, the British wanted to re-establish a European balance so that they could get back to their core activity of trade and empire, and when they rebuilt their forces post-war, it was new ships and bases they wanted, not armoured divisions. Only through the possession of overwhelming naval power could the empire be defended, and even then by deterrence rather than war-fighting. Despite this, the political leadership accepted the Washington and London Naval Disarmament Treaties which ended British naval superiority and reduced Britain’s international standing. In the late 1930s, Britain lacked the naval power to deter and the reserves to fight a major war. Continentalists argued that sea power was a waning asset in the twentieth century. In truth, the Washington Treaty process, by unilaterally reducing the size of the RN and increasing its age, while air and land forces remained unlimited, destroyed the deterrent basis of imperial strategy. Britain, having acquired a global empire, wanted nothing more than to be left alone to enjoy it. A dominant RN was the insurance policy on the property, failure to keep up the payments resulted in overstretch, weakness, and ultimately in a series of disasters between November 1941 and the March 1942. Sea power and strategy secured the British Empire for 200 years. In the post-imperial era, this simple fact was largely ignored. Now the tide has turned: it is time to put the RN back at the centre of British and imperial history.

Notes 1 D.G. Boyce (ed.), The Crisis of British Power: The Imperial and Naval Papers of the Second Earl of Selbourne, 1895–1910 (London, 1990), 129–130; B. Gough, ‘Profit and Power: Informal Empire, the Navy and Latin America’ in R.E. Dumett (ed.), The New Debate on Empire (London, 1999), 63–81.

130 A. Lambert 2 R.A. Preston, Canada and “Imperial Defense”: A Study of the Origins of the British Commonwealth’s Defense Organisation, 1867–1919 (Durham, NC, 1967) argues this point in the title and throughout the book. 3 R. Robinson and J. Gallagher, Africa and the Victorians: The Climax of Imperialism on the Dark Continent (London, 1961); P. Cain and A. Hopkins, British Imperialism: Innovation and Enterprise: 1688–1914 (London, 1993). 4 See Dumett, Gentlemanly Capitalism and British Imperialism: The New Debate on Empire. 5 Naval history has to reach out and join in these debates, exploiting the rich opportunities provided by a sudden surge of interest and ensure that the central importance of the RN is recognised. 6 J. Wong, Deadly Dreams: Opium and the ‘Arrow’ War (1856–1860) (Cambridge, 1998); G.S. Graham, The China Station: War and Diplomacy 1830–1860 (Oxford, 1978) remains useful. 7 D. Baugh, ‘Great Britain’s Blue Water Policy, 1689–1815’, International History Review, 10 (1988): 33–58; Baugh, ‘British Strategy during the First World War in the Context of Four Centuries: Blue-Water versus Continental Commitment’ in D.M. Masterson (ed.), Naval History: The Sixth Symposium of the U.S. Naval Academy (Wilmington, 1987), 85–110. 8 S.R.B. Smith, ‘Public Opinion, the Navy and the City of London: The Drive for British Naval Expansion in the Late Nineteenth Century’, War & Society, 9 (1991): 29–50. 9 J. Charmley, Splendid Isolation? Britain and the Balance of Power 1874–1914 (London, 1999). 10 R. Williams, Defending the Empire: The Conservative Party and British Defence Policy 1899–1915 (Yale, 1991). 11 R. Mackay, Balfour: Intellectual Statesman (Oxford, 1985). 12 I. McGibbon, The Path to Gallipoli: Defending New Zealand 1840–1915 (Auckland, 1991). 13 N. Lambert, Australia’s Naval Heritage: Imperial Strategy and the Australia Station 1880–1909 (Canberra, 1998). 14 J. Moses and C. Pugsley (eds), The German Empire and Britain’s Pacific Dominions, 1871–1919 (Claremont, California, 2000). 15 N. Tracy (ed.), The Collective Naval Defence of the Empire, 1900–1940 (Aldershot, 1997). 16 A.D. Lambert, The Foundations of Naval History: Sir John Laughton, the RN and the Historical Profession (London, 1997) examines the growth of a serious investigation of the naval past, alongside the growth of national strategic concerns and the historical profession. 17 J.F. Beeler, British Naval Policy in the Gladstone–Disraeli Era, 1866–1880 (Stanford, 1997), 35–37 and Table 1. 18 Childers draft letter to Earl Clarendon, The Foreign Secretary 23 January 1869 in J. Hattendorf et al. (eds), British Naval Documents 1204–1960 (London, 1993), 593–595. 19 F. Egerton, Admiral Sir Geoffrey Phipps Hornby (London, 1896), 145–150. 20 A.D. Lambert, ‘Great Britain and the Baltic, 1809–1890’ in Rystad et al. (eds), In Quest of Trade and Security: The Baltic in Great Power Politics, Part One 1500–1900 (Lund, 1994), 297–334. 21 A.D. Lambert, ‘Australia, the Trent Crisis of 1861 and the Strategy of Imperial Defence’, in D. Stevens and J. Reeve (eds), Southern Trident: Strategy, History and the Rise of Australian Naval Power (Crows Nest NSW, 2001), 99–118. 22 A.J. Marder, An Anatomy of British Sea Power: Naval Policy in the Pre Dreadnought Era (London, 1940); A.J. Marder, From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow: The RN in the Fisher Era, 5 volumes (Oxford, 1961–1970).

Royal Navy and the defence of empire 131 23 R.F. Mackay, Fisher of Kilverstone (Oxford, 1973), 374–378; J.T. Sumida, In Defence of Naval Supremacy: Finance, Technology and British Naval Policy 1889–1914 (London, 1989), 338; N.A. Lambert, Sir John Fisher’s Naval Revolution (Columbia, SC, 1999). 24 J. Beeler, British Naval Policy in the Gladstone-Disraeli Era, 1866–1880 (Stanford, 1997). 25 J. Beeler (ed.), D. Schurman, Imperial Defence 1868–1887 (London, 2000). 26 Keith Neilson and Greg Kennedy (eds), Far Flung Lines: Studies in Imperial Defence in Honour of Donald Mackenzie Schurman (London, 1997). 27 London 1903. Clowes died the following year. The book was reprinted in 1996–1997. For a recent assessment of Clowes’s work, see A.D. Lambert, ‘Reflections of a History of the RN’, The Naval Review (October 1997): 392–399. 28 D.K. Brown, From Warrior to Dreadnought (London, 1997) and D.K. Brown, The Grand Fleet (London, 1999) cover this period and offer a wealth of insight for the non-technical layman. 29 D.J. Lyon and R. Winfield, The Steam and Sail Navy List 1815–1889 (London, 2004). 30 J. Beeler, The Birth of the Battleship: British Capital Ship Design 1870–1881 (Rochester, 2001) is a very good example of a case study exploiting the full range of archival sources. 31 For a full-length discussion of this problem and solution, see R. Taylor, Manning the RN: The Reform of the Recruiting System, 1847–1861. University of London Unpublished MA thesis; E.L. Rasor, Reform in the RN: A Social History of the Lower Deck, 1850 to 1880 (Hamden Conn, 1976) provides a wider context. J. Wells, The RN: An Illustrated Social History 1870–1982 (Gloucester, 1994) provides an overall narrative of the period. 32 A. Gordon, The Rules of the Game: Jutland and British Naval Command (London, 1996). 33 The Fundamentals of British Naval Doctrine BR 1806 (London, 1995), and subsequent editions. The impact of Corbett’s Some Principles of Maritime Strategy of 1911 on this text is profound. 34 N. Fergusson, Empire (London, 2004) is also a major series on Channel Four Television. 35 A.D. Lambert, ‘The Introduction of Steam’ in R. Gardiner (ed.), Steam, Steel and Shellfire: The Steam Warship 1815–1905 (London, 1992). 36 H. Barty-King, Girdle Round the Earth: The Story of Cable and Wireless (London, 1979), 73–74. Eastern Telegraph was one of the constituent parts of the modern company. 37 P.M. Kennedy, ‘Imperial Cable Communications and Strategy, 1870–1914’, English Historical Review, 86 (1971). 38 Ibid., 748. 39 For an example of an imperial defence asset that linked the disparate elements of the system, see S.J.A. Earle, A Question of Defence: The Story of Green Hill Fort, Thursday Island (Thursday Island, 1993). This small fort covered the key shipping route and coal depot in the Torres Straits. It was built and manned by the Queensland Government, with the Imperial government providing guns. 40 D.R. Headrick, The Invisible Weapon: Telecommunications and International Politics, 1851–1945 (New York, 1991); N. Lambert, ‘Transformation and Technology in the Fisher Era: The Impact of the Communications Revolution’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 27 (2004): 272–297. 41 G.S. Graham, Great Britain and the Indian Ocean 1810–1850 (Oxford, 1967), 305–328. 42 A.D. Lambert, ‘Wirtschafliche macht, technologischer Vorsprung und Imperiale Stärke: Grossbritannien als einzigartige globale macht 1860 bis 1890’ in

132 A. Lambert

43 44 45 46

47 48 49 50 51

52

53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

M. Epkenhansand G.P. Gross (eds), Das Militär und der Aufbruch in die Moderne 1860 bis 1890 (München, 2003). N. d’Ombrain, War Machinery and High Policy: Defence Administration in Peacetime Britain: 1902–1914 (Oxford, 1973). A. Offer, The First World War: An Agrarian Interpretation (Oxford, 1989). Ibid., 404. A.D. Lambert, ‘Winning without Fighting: British Grand Strategy and Its Application to the US, 1815–1865’ in B.A. Lee and K.F. Walling (eds), Strategic Logic and Political Rationality: Essays in Honor of Michael Handel (London, 2003), 164–193. A.D. Lambert, ‘Great Britain and the Baltic, 1809–1890’ in Rystad et al. (eds) In Quest of Trade and Security: The Baltic in Great Power Politics. Part One 1500–1900, 297–334. A.D. Lambert, The Crimean War: British Grand Strategy against Russia, 1853–1856 (Manchester, 1990). J. Beeler (ed.), Letters and Papers of Admiral Sir A. Milne. Vol. I (Aldershot, 2004). S.W. Roskill, Hankey – Man of Secrets. Volume I 1877–1916 (London, 1970). G.S. Clarke, Fortification (London, 1890 and 1907); G.S. Clarke, Imperial Defence (London, 1897), G.S. Clarke, The Navy and the Nation (with James Thursfield) (London, 1897); G.S. Clarke, My Working Life (London, 1927); G.S. Clarke, Studies of an Imperialist (London, 1927). B. Gough, Gunboat Frontier: British Maritime Ascendancy and Northwest Coast Indians, 1846–1890 (Vancouver, 1984). See also D.L. Smith (ed.), A Tour of Duty in the Pacific Northwest: E A Porcher and HMS Sparrowhawk, 1865–1868 (Fairbanks, Alaska, 2000). J. Samson, Imperial Benevolence: Making British Authority in the Pacific Islands (Hawaii,1998). R.E. Dumett (ed.), Gentlemanly Capitalism and British Imperialism: The New Debate on Empire (London, 1999), 68–81. A. Day, The Admiralty Hydrographic Service: 1795–1919 (London, 1967), 266–269, 326 for the Baltic issues. A.D. Lambert, ‘ “This is all we want”. Great Britain and the Baltic Approaches 1815–1914’, in J. Sevaldsen (ed.), Britain and Denmark: Political, Economic and Cultural Relations in the 19th and 20th Centuries (Copenhagen, 2003), 147–169. A. David, The Voyage of HMS Herald 1852–1861 (Melbourne, 1995). See Lambert 1990 for Captains Sulivan and Spratt. Sir J. Herschel (ed.), Admiralty Manual (London, 1849), iv. There were several later editions. M. Deacon, Scientists and the Sea 1650–1900: A study of Marine Science (London, 1971), 290–292. G.E. Weir, An Ocean in Common: American Naval Officers, Scientists and the Ocean Environment (Texas, 2001). A.D. Lambert, ‘Wirtschafliche macht, technologischer Vorsprung und Imperiale Stärke: Grossbritannien als einzigartige globale macht 1860 bis 1890’, 243–268. P. Halpern, A Naval History of the World War One (Annapolis, 1994); H. Strachan, The First World War: Volume 1 To Arms (Oxford, 2001).

7

The Royal Navy and imperial defence, 1919–1956 Greg Kennedy

Following the end of the First World War, the Royal Navy (RN) was the world’s most powerful naval force. It led in most areas of important technological innovation and modern ship numbers; its combat experience in the new environments of air and underwater warfare was unsurpassed; problems of manning and manpower management had been handled with efficiency during the unprecedented expansion of the force during the war. A web of naval bases and shore installations, supported by the world’s most advanced communications network, created an unsurpassed global supply, repair and replenishment system able to sustain RN operations anywhere at anytime. The intelligence system, which directed the positioning of both fleets and individual units, was one of the most advanced in the world, gleaning information from human, cable and radio sources; and, finally, doctrinal and training methods, while not always recognized as such, were the most advanced in the world.1 Therefore, from a purely naval point of view, the strategic situation regarding the RN’s utility as a tool of empire seemed to rival that of the glory days of the years immediately following 1815: global supremacy. However, the shifting sands upon which international relations were based after 1919 had a decisive impact on the utility of naval power as a tool for British strategic planning on an imperial scale.2 The creation of such uncertainty about the use of force and the place of the British Empire within this New World Order created many questions then as to the size and capabilities, as well as areas of operations, for the RN in its traditional defence of the realm role in the interwar.3 World financial crises4 call for collective security measures for the maintenance of world peace,5 and a deeply ingrained desire for peace at almost any price in the British public and political sectors (were many fervently wished to believe that there would never be another World War) added to the political pitfalls surrounding the fate of the RN in that period.6 Finally, in the aftermath of the First World War, the dominion partners within the Imperial system were enthused with a new sense of nationhood and independence, as well as obligation. Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa all maintained a certain degree of belief in the idea that Great Britain now owed

134 G. Kennedy them something for their role in the war and that something was a greater autonomy in defence and foreign affairs matters, as well as a greater role in imperial decisions on such matters. The reality of the interwar period for the RN was that it was still as important a political and strategic element in the game of international relations than it ever had been, but there were some questions as to its viability as an operational deterrent or threat in its role as guardian of the status of the British Empire and its integrity.7 The commencement of a second major European war in 1939 seriously undermined the utility of the political and diplomatic system of coercion and deterrence that Britain had used, predominantly in concert with naval, economic, and industrial power, to maintain an imperial status quo. After September 1939, if the empire were to survive, the RN would have to be rebuilt to the scale of a global, two-ocean navy once more, and powerful naval allies would have to be wooed into a security cooperation system that had maritime power as its basis.8 The escalation of the war from a general European war to a global conflict in December 1941 made the achievement of both of those outcomes less dependent on British resources and will alone. The Japanese attack on America ensured that the Anglo-American naval alliance, seen by many throughout the interwar as the only guarantor of world peace, was made a reality. The role for the RN throughout the rest of the war was then simplified, as far as imperial defence was concerned: to be operationally effective in non-European waters and to act on a significant scale in the necessary regions of the world that ensured both friend and foe alike and recognized the strategic rights of the British Empire in the post-war world.9 In the post–Second World War world, the RN once more found itself working in a changed international system: the Cold War. Questions of the utility naval power in the atomic age, as well as the uncertainty of just what the British Empire was to be after 1945, created much uncertainty for the Royal Navy: where was it to operate; what missions would it perform; and what were the objectives in imperial defence to be achieved through the use of maritime power?10 By 1956, with the loss of India, the British withdrawal from the Middle East underway, and British imperial interests in the Far East in dispute, the RN had come to the end of its time as the protector of formal empire. In 1919, the technical supremacy of the RN was seen as a key component of its ability to defend the British Empire. Submarines and aircraft were the two new technologies that poised the greatest future threat to imperial lines of communications. However, no obvious enemy was present in 1919 with any substantial naval order of battle that possessed enough of those two weapons in ample supply to threaten RN dominance. And, while professional naval officers within the RN speculated on what their service’s future threats might be, the environment for long-term acquisition and building programmes of any sort of vessel was bleak. Public opinion, fed a steady diet of sensationalist reporting, viewed the battleship as one of the

The Royal Navy and imperial defence 135 causes of the First World War. Calls for the limitation of naval arms, in an attempt to pre-empt any future arms race that might lead once more to catastrophe, put severe pressure on politicians and budgeters in Britain and the Empire, to say nothing of the costs of having to pay for the First World War itself. The concept of freezing all spending on new battleship building was viewed by the Admiralty as a possible solution to maintaining technological superiority in battleships, given that the RN held the technical and numerical superiority over all other navies in that class.11 Political desires to reduce defence spending became manifest in the Ten Year Rule put forward by the Cabinet to the Admiralty in 1920 in the belief that there would be no major war in the next ten years, thus effectively freezing Admiralty estimates. The US Navy (USN) was scheduled to produce a battleship force equal to the RN’s, according to its 1916 naval construction program, but there was no sign in 1920 of that potential threat achieving the reality of parity. Japan was still an ally, according to the Anglo-Japanese Treaty, and it possessed some new, modern battleships. The Italian fleet was not a threat nor was that nation likely to build a large battlefleet any time soon, so long as it did not perceive any French construction program being a serious threat to the balance of power in the Mediterranean. The German fleet was destroyed and the Russian fleet ineffective and obsolete.12 With no serious naval threat present, British naval policy-makers were free to consider a battleship-building holiday as a means of allowing future building programs to focus on cruisers, the true guardians of imperial lines of communications. In 1921, the first steps were taken to attempt to marry naval policy and disarmament diplomacy as a method of ensuring imperial security. The 1921/1922 Washington Naval Conference demonstrated the imperial imperatives governing the RN’s situation, particularly the importance of the Far East in future imperial defence planning. Rear-Admiral Sir A.E.M. Chatfield, the Assistant Chief of Naval Staff and Admiralty representative to the Washington Naval Conference, wrote to his friend Vice-Admiral Sir Roger Keyes (who became Deputy Chief of Naval Staff in November 1921) on 28 October 1921, I am not enamoured of my task in this expedition. There is no doubt that if the Political Horizon is cleared up by the Diplomatists, the sailors will find no difficulty in arriving at a basis for limitation and no sailor wants to associate himself with a rigorous cutting down of the Navy even if it is relative and proportionate, at any rate I don’t. We stand also in an exceedingly difficult position in regard to American and Japanese Naval officers. We stand to offend either by the amount we associate with one or the other and the Japs at any rate will try and claim us as their ally and friend. Sitting on the fence is uncomfortable and we may be forced into an unpleasant position. However I expect we shall manage alright!13

136 G. Kennedy The results of that conference saw British policy-makers accept the United States’ right to a navy equal to the RN in size and quality, while the Japanese, French, and Italians were forced to accept lesser limits: the infamous 5–5–3–1.75–1.75 ratio in battleships.14 The discussions drifted apart on issues concerning cruiser strength and capabilities, due in large part to the RN’s need for this flexible class of vessel for imperial defence roles. Arguing its need to police vastly greater sea lines of communications, the Admiralty was unwilling to consider dropping its cruiser strength below 70 vessels in that class. As well, the RN desired a large number of smaller cruisers, of 6,000 tons or less with guns no bigger than six inch, as this type of cruiser was seen as being the most useful for imperial defence missions. This was in opposition to American and Japanese desires for bigger 10,000 ton, eight-inch-gun cruisers, a type more suitable for powers with fewer bases and a doctrine that utilized cruisers as part of a battle fleet. More important than the numerical or technical advantages that were won at the conference, however, were the new international relationships that existed for the RN after the Washington process was over. Under advisement of the Foreign Office, pressure from dominions such as Canada, and because of the greater importance now placed on the Anglo-American strategic relationship, the Washington Naval Conference brought to an end the long-standing maritime alliance which was the Anglo-Japanese Treaty system. Under Article 19 of the Treaty, Britain would not be allowed to develop any extensive system of bases in the Far East, apart from Singapore. As well, as part of the Nine Power and Four Power agreements which were a part of the Washington system, Britain agreed to an established power-sharing arrangement in China, all mechanisms aimed at ensuring a peaceful international situation governing the future development of that nation while protecting Japanese, British, and American interests in the region, along with other lesserEuropean naval powers. British naval supremacy, in combination, would have to serve to protect British imperial interests in the post-war world. The Washington Treaty and its associated elements gave the RN the assured position of the world’s greatest naval power, a prerequisite for effective imperial defence.15 Throughout the rest of the 1920s, the Admiralty continued an ambitious naval policy. British politicians acknowledged the need for a strong, viable naval service in order to give authority to imperial policies in the Middle East and Far East.16 The addition of new aircraft carriers and cruisers to the fleet were in response to the need for the RN to be able to project power in the far-flung reaches of the empire. Showing the flag and maintaining the image of a nation willing to protect its empire through the use of naval power and the newest weapons of naval warfare was a prime concern of both politicians and the Admiralty alike.17 Despite the challenges of air power to the RN’s traditional role as the prime enabler of imperial defence, the Admiralty remained the dominant service for the

The Royal Navy and imperial defence 137 provision of that task. Admiral Keyes informed Rear-Admiral Chatfield in October 1921 that, “You will find that we have at last started to officially attack the Air Ministry but only indirectly at present through the Geddes Committee”.18 By 1926, in the Review of Defence Policy, the RN’s continued centrality to imperial defence was upheld. The Review called for a strong navy, built to Washington Treaty standards and “air development should be continuously watched with a view to ensuring that full opportunity should be taken of utilizing air power towards the maintenance of sea passage”. being key factors in any successful imperial defence strategy.19 In October 1926, the First Sea Lord, Admiral David Earl Beatty, speaking at his last Imperial Conference, declared that in an age of no specific maritime threat, effective imperial defence would only be assured: if strategic freedom of movement was delivered through the maintenance of sea communications; if the Far East, the most vulnerable area of the empire, was protected through the completion of a first-rate naval base at Singapore; and last, that all trade routes and ports that composed this global communication and transportation system were protected effectively from any naval and air attack.20 Naval treaties and building programmes were not the only way in which the RN attempted to mould its forces for the defence of empire in the 1920s. In fact, throughout the 1920s and 1930s, the RN played a vital and proactive role in putting forward a vision of empire based on naval/martial power, as well as promoted the connection between the dominion navies and the RN. In the interwar period, the RN supported, both politically and physically, a number of high-level missions. These took the form of important ships, such as the HOOD, parading British technological superiority to ports around the world. Equally, important personages, such as Admirals of the Fleet, Lord Jellicoe and Earl Beatty, or the Secretary of the Committee of Imperial Defence, Sir Maurice Hankey, and countless minor officials and politicians, could be found journeying to the far-flung corners of the empire to spread the word from the core that the dominions were vital to the RN and indeed the Empire’s entire defence scheme. Without the dominions and the squadrons of lighter ships and support vessels, the trained crews, the naval facilities and the willingness in time of war to once more contribute fiscally to an increase in British naval power, the RN’s global capability and sustainability would be badly impaired.21 Books, art works, periodicals, speaking tours, and cinema were all various forms of media that the RN used and supported in the interwar period to try and get such messages of strength, empire, and maritime power to the disparate corners of the empire. And while this role as symbol of empire is often acknowledged, it seldom gets the serious scholarly study it deserves. Tied to this lack of any understanding of the post-World War, one RN’s views of empire is the paucity of works on that generation of senior naval

138 G. Kennedy officer and their views of utility of the British Empire. There is as yet no full-length monograph that analyses the writings, correspondence, and policy statements of the senior naval officers of this period to show just how imperial they really were. What schools of empire existed in the RN? Were they all of one band in this world view? How conscious and successful were the various methods of propaganda in support of imperial naval strength? Were these aimed primarily at friends and allies to encourage cooperation or were they part of a deterrence strategy and thus primarily aimed at potential and real enemies? And it is here, in the area of studies of the RN’s influence on culture and ideas of empire that there is much work still to do. Little is written about what senior RN officers and civil servants thought empire was in this interwar period, or, what they thought the outcomes of such exercises in propaganda were.22 The RN’s participation in the naval disarmament conferences which followed the Washington conference were primarily aimed at safeguarding issues directly related to imperial defence. The aim of the Admiralty during the 1927 Geneva Conference was to try and ensure an adequate number of heavy and light cruisers were left in place for protecting the far-flung imperial lines of communication. The 1930 London Naval Conference saw the RN attempt to craft a global limitation on capital ships while at the same time limit such ship types as submarines, the greatest threat then in existence to those sea lines of communication. Aircraft carriers, an emerging threat to the traditional cruisers used to police sea lanes, were also seen as a threat that the Admiralty wished to restrict. However, the advantage to be found in the Pacific through the use of such a weapon system in covering the vast expanses forced the RN to acknowledge the need to allow a higher percentage of that type of vessel that had earlier been appreciated. The resulting restrictions on aircraft carriers and cruisers of both types were not seen at that time as being detrimental to the RN’s mission with regard to safeguarding those imperial highways.23 So long as a balance of power existed between Britain, its formal and potential allies, and any possible aggressors, the British Empire’s ability to mobilize resources in time of crisis was still intact. However, if the balance of naval forces in European waters posed any added restrictions on the RN’s ability to send major fleet units to the Indian and Pacific Oceans, problems could occur. However, safeguarding British strategic interests at that level was recognized as being primarily a role of British diplomacy. If the international system changed to such an extent that Britain began to acquire a greater number of naval powers as potential adversaries, then British naval power would have to be increased. This was the core naval aspect of discussions of the Defence Requirements Sub-Committee of the Committee of Imperial Defence (CID) in the period 1932–1934.24 By 1935, with the rise of both German and Italian seapower and the continuing willingness of Japan to pursue its own expansionist policy in the Far East, the RN was forced to sponsor a twin path in order to achieve

The Royal Navy and imperial defence 139 some level of imperial security. Both policies were an attempt by the RN, along with other parts of the British strategic, foreign policy-making elite, to buy time for the construction of a new, more powerful fleet whose size and capability would allow the RN to wage war on two fronts: the Far East and Europe.25 The first policy path was to support certain aspects of appeasement towards all the aggressor powers. Influenced by various factions such as the Dominions, the Treasury (who did not want to pay for such a large increase in naval spending as was dictated by the need for a modern imperial navy), and key political figures such as Neville Chamberlain, the RN was willing to concede various political issues in order to ensure that (a) war did not occur before the RN was modernized and expanded, and (b) that the RN did not find itself having to conduct operations on three fronts simultaneously.26 In order to be able to balance imperial defence requirements against the need to be ready to act decisively in European waters, the RN was forced by circumstances to use the political path as a means of providing the necessary time required to prepare a truly global fleet. As part of that preparation, bases were expanded around the world, infrastructure in Britain, in terms of production capability and ship construction facilities, were increased, and requests for the dominions to increase their contributions to the greater naval good were made.27 The smaller squadrons, such as the West Indies Squadron and the China Squadron, were not increased in any significant fashion, in order that the maximum effort and resources could be brought to bear on preparing the main fleet. Aircraft carriers, modern heavy and light cruisers, with enhanced anti-aircraft batteries, were two of the main areas of effort, as were the laying down of a new generation of battleships. In all these matters of ship design and construction, the Japanese navy was as great an influence as the German or Italian fleets, if not greater. Fears about Japanese super-battleships, superior naval aircraft, and a significant submarine threat were key elements in the Admiralty planning-process for any future theatres of operations.28 However, the threat of a German or Italian action in European waters taking place simultaneously with major naval operations in the Far East was not the only nightmare scenario for the RN. The fear of having to fight a major naval war in the Pacific was a nightmare for Admiralty planners in 1937, given the distances involved, the logistics strain supplying those operations would have on fuel oil, ammunition and man power levels, the lack of fleet units available, the age of many of those units available, and the growing evidence that airpower was going to be a major factor in the Far Eastern theatre as shown by the use of the weapon by Japan in its war with China.29 Some meager attempts were made in the 1920s and 1930s to get regional players, such as China and India, to increase their naval capabilities, but these were never seriously developed options (it is unfortunate that the current literature is devoid of any modern scholarly study of the British attempts to increase India and Chinese naval capability in the

140 G. Kennedy interwar). This great fear of overstretch was, however, only a reality if the RN had to stand alone against the feared triple threat. Even that dreaded scenario was manageable if a reliable naval ally could be found. The second option for the RN was to actively search for strong naval allies, albeit not always in an obvious, open, or formal manner. Such an open relationship, such as a naval pact or treaty, could have acted as the catalyst to cause the expansionist powers (especially Japan) to use their naval forces in a pre-emptive fashion. Three nations were available in the interwar for the RN to forge a professional alliance with. One of them, the Soviet Union posited multiple political and strategic problems for any possible Anglo-Soviet naval understanding. Apart from a political aversion within some parts of the British strategic, foreign policy-making elite to forming such an alliance, the reality of geopolitics also threw up hurdles to any Anglo-Soviet naval agreement. While an Anglo-Soviet naval partnership would have made it possible to exert pressure not only on the resurgent German naval threat but also on the more distant Japanese, the price for such an alignment was too great a political toll to pay. Such political limitations did not prevent the RN from helping the Soviet Navy in the late 1930s from improving its operational capability and infrastructure. Plans for various ship types, guns and mountings, administrative processes, engines, as well as actual copies of some of the material were all aspects of RN support. The main strategic consideration for such help was the Admiralty’s belief that a stronger Soviet navy would keep Germany occupied in the Baltic and thus limit the resources available to the Kriegsmarine to attempt to sever the imperial life-lines of empire to the British Isles. Equally, a resurgent Soviet navy in the Pacific would likewise provide a counterweight to the Imperial Japanese Navy’s ideas regarding expansion.30 However, the Soviet equation in the RN’s appreciation of world events was uncertain to say the least. Secure relations were much more likely to be found through an association with the French fleet and the USN. The French Fleet was seen by the RN as a very valuable necessity for safeguarding that jugular of empire: the Mediterranean. In 1935, during the preparation for the London Naval Conference of that year, the Admiralty, along with the FO clarified the British position towards French naval power. It is fully realized that it is our policy to remain on good terms with France, but the Naval Staff emphasise that the French naval strength provides, and will provide, the measure for the strength of the strongest European naval Power and that the present position of France may be assumed by a Power whose interests are opposed to ours. There are reasons why a long naval agreement is highly desirable and so our foreign policy must envisage, from the point of view of naval security, our relationships for a long time ahead . . . . If we are to accept definitely that it is an impossible financial task to build up a sufficient naval strength to face the strongest European Power when we

The Royal Navy and imperial defence 141 are already engaged with Japan, that is a “Two-Power Standard”, we must also accept the fact that the Admiralty cannot guarantee thee security of our vital sea communications in Home Waters against attack by sea. It seems that we must either trust to a naval combination with some other Power to give us security at sea against such aggression, or we must keep the balance of our forces remaining in Europe sufficiently strong to prove an effective deterrent to any interference, namely, a “One-Power Standard . . .”31 The RN’s concerns about whether or not Italy was a serious threat astride one of the most important sea lanes of communication for the provision of imperial security were highlighted during the Spanish Civil War and the years 1936–1937 in particular. By 1938, with Japan at war with China and German actions threatening to plunge Europe into war again, the RN was compelled to admit that if the Admiralty were going to have the forces available to send to the Far East to provide “durable security” for the entire British Empire, The French Marine would have to provide the majority of heavy fleet units in the Mediterranean.32 The RN would provide light units, basing facilities and intelligence-sharing to the French, but the Mediterranean element of the British Empire would have to be protected by French maritime power in any three-front war. As Sir Ernle Chatfield, First Sea Lord in 1938, explained to British politicians, If we were faced with such a war [against Germany, Italy, and Japan], it would be better to lose the eastern Empire by fighting than by default. In the first case, it would be an honourable defeat; in the second case, it would be a disgrace.33 Chatfield’s willingness to rely on The French Marine to protect British imperial interests was not the only naval alliance that the RN hoped to work to good benefit in the event of a global war. By 1937, and with the growth of Japanese expansion and aggression in China, the RN looked more and more towards the USN to help with the deterrence, and, if it came to war, in the defeat of the Imperial Japanese Navy (IJN). Throughout the period from 1933–1939, the RN became more and more indirectly reliant on the growing American maritime power. This reliance was not simply a need for ships and naval forces to be signed by treaty or pact to act in the defence of British imperial interests in the Far East. Instead, fearful of provoking the IJN into an even more hostile position with regard to western powers maintaining substantial naval forces in the Far East, the RN increased its informal ties to the USN. By creating these informal ties, through shared intelligence, codes, technology, plans, ship designs, and political information, the RN used its perceived close relationship with the USN to attempt to deter the Japanese from using naval power to change the balance of power in the Far East.34 As tensions

142 G. Kennedy in the Far East grew throughout 1938 and 1939, the RN became even more anxious to ensure American naval support if Japan attacked British interests in the region. While Australia, India, New Zealand, and South Africa were asked to prepare their naval forces for a higher level of operation with the RN, in order to protect the Indian Ocean- and Pacific-sea lines of communication, it was American naval power that was seen as being more important for any RN success, especially in offensive operations, if British forces were forced to meet the IJN while the RN was involved in operations in Europe.35 Plans for allowing the American Far Eastern Fleet to use Singapore in time of war, as well as requests for American naval units to operate openly from the British base in time of peace (acting as a signal to the Japanese of the closeness of the Anglo-American naval relationship), were all part of the RN’s attempts to bolster its ability to safeguard Britain’s Far Eastern position.36 By March 1939, the American Chief of Naval Operations (CNO) was reported to the Admiralty as declaring: he [CNO] does not consider it likely that the United States would be at war with Japan without the United Kingdom being equally at war with the Japanese, this perhaps explains why the Navy Department do not seem particularly nervous about fortifying Guam.37 Following the outbreak of the general war in Europe, in September 1939, and the resulting drain on RN ships, particularly with regard to light vessels such as cruisers and destroyers, the USN served a vital role in helping set up an informal system of using its own light forces in the Far East to provide some of the patrols, in an informal manner, that nowabsent RN vessels would have done. With the fall of France in June 1940 and the loss of The French Marine for any further operations, the USN continued to grow in importance for Britain’s Far Eastern imperial defence. Efforts to create an open and formal naval alliance, the American, British, Dutch, Australia (ABDA) negotiations, met with success by early 1941, with USN forces being the key element in the operational capabilities of the group. As well, in an attempt to re-create the success of the blockade of the First World War, initially in European waters with operations aimed at Germany and Italy and later, in early 1941, against Japan, the USN was an integral part of the setting up and maintenance of the success of the naval blockade constituted to protect the British Empire.38 The initial stages of the Second World War witnessed the RN performing its traditional role of guardian of the global sea lines of communication that poured material, manpower, and fiscal strength into the British Empire’s war effort. Canadian warships joined with Atlantic units of the RN, while Australian, New Zealand, South African and Indian crews and vessels patrolled the Mediterranean, Indian, and Pacific oceans in order to ensure the safe passage of vital war stocks.39 And while the Empire brought all its naval might to bear, the course of the war in Europe proved to be all that

The Royal Navy and imperial defence 143 the RN and its associates could do. Increasingly, the protection of the Far Eastern elements of the empire fell to the USN, which was willing to fill the role of deterrent to any Japanese plans to exploit the RN’s weakened state for its own advantage. However, on 7 December 1941, even that deterrent failed. Japan, understanding the strategic maritime linkage between the United States and British Empire, meant that it would have to defeat the USN as well as the RN if it was to pick the low-hanging fruit of the British Empire of the Far East for itself and attacked the American fleet in Pearl Harbor. From that moment on, and after the destruction of Force Z off Singapore, the RN was the junior partner in naval operations in the Pacific. If it was to protect British imperial interests in that region, its actions would have to be as much diplomatic as they were military, and they would have to be aimed as much at its naval partner, the USN, as they were against the IJN. By 1943, it was very clear to the Admiralty that American naval power was the dominant force in the war in the Pacific. That power gave great credence that the United States would play the determining role in both the creation and implementation of the post-war system of defence in the Far East. Therefore, after naval supremacy was assured in the European theatre of operations, the RN turned its attentions to the Pacific “doing its share”. The Admiralty recognized that if the USN was seen to have been the only substantial force to have waged war against Japan, Britain would be placed in a far weaker position in the post-war negotiations concerning how that region would be organized and run. In particular, the retention of Singapore, continued good relations with Australia and New Zealand, the re-establishment of Britain’s financial dominance in Hong Kong, as well as the forging of a new set of relations with a more powerful China, all meant that the British war effort had to make an impact in the Pacific. And the best tool for that job was the RN. In Washington, the RN’s representatives to the various joint planning committees pushed American naval and political leaders into allowing the RN to take on a greater role in the naval operations being conducted in the Pacific. Against some strong opposition, this condition was achieved. Once the political battles had been won, it was up to the operational commanders of the British Pacific Fleet (BPF) to ensure that the RN performed well and that the entire world, especially the Americans, would know about it. The performance of the BPF during the last two years of the war in the Pacific achieved its objective. Despite inferior equipment, especially in carrier aviation, few vessels, a lack of basing, overstretched supply lines, and a lack of an underway replenishment system that would allow it to maintain the operational tempo of the USN, the RN did what it was asked to do to the best of its ability. Its close professional ties and sterling performance won Britain a major role in the re-organization of the region in the post-war period thereby protecting Britain’s imperial interests in the Far East.40 The end of the Second World War, the second global naval war fought by the RN in thirty-one years, saw an operationally effective, modern,

144 G. Kennedy powerful force in place by 1945. Carrier aviation and submarines were two areas of weakness however, a situation that would have some impact on the RN’s post–Cold War operational capabilities but little on operations designed for Imperial Defence in the post-war world. More important for the RN and its imperial defence role were three non-naval factors: the existence of the atomic bomb; financial restrictions on a war-ravaged Britain, and a greater sense of nationalism extant throughout the Empire due to the imperial war effort.41 The advent of the atomic bomb created a challenge to the RN as being the only British service that could achieve strategic effect. The Royal Air Force (RAF), now able to claim the ability to destroy whole cities with one aircraft, once more challenged the RN as to which service would have pride of place in any funding. That funding was now extremely limited and the rationale for why the RN needed the lion’s share would have to be carefully crafted. Finally, with the loss of India and restricted basing right in the dominions, the RN’s ability to sustain operations at a high tempo was impaired. If RN ships were to serve around the world, the question asked was: why could not Australian, New Zealand, or Canadian forces take on a greater presence, particularly in the Pacific? The swift downsizing of the naval forces of those nations did not allow, however, for any creation of a global, imperial navy. That restricted circumstance was obvious during operations in the Korean War. While major RN and dominion naval forces operated constantly throughout the entire war, the strain on replenishment and supply highlighted the limitations at the operational level now facing the RN. With a long supply line from the Indian Ocean and few logistic vessels available, the RN was still very reliant on support at all levels from the USN.42 However, Korean War operations were not RN imperial roles in the new post-war world. Those were UN- or NATO-styled operations all linked to large-scale, conventional war scenarios. The RN’s imperial defence role in the period from 1945 to 1956 was to be found predominantly in small ship actions, patrols, humanitarian aid, and the other assorted tasks that only naval power can perform so effectively but which scholars chose to ignore due to their lack of battle and derring-do. Scholars who wish to understand the operational reality of that period and the influence of empire on those operations have some work still to do. Thus, the literature on the imperial nature of RN operations from 1949 to 1956 is almost non-existent, apart from small studies of RN operations during the Suez Crisis of 1956 itself.43 However, the reality for the RN of this period was that it very much still thought in terms of imperial defence. While, as some could rightly argue, the “imperial angle” was one which allowed another budget line to be presented to the Treasury, such a limited view of the place of imperial defence in the post-war RN psyche would be mistaken. The RN as an institution still very much believed its job was to defend the global interests of greater Britain, no matter what condition that collective might be in. Admiralty policy,

The Royal Navy and imperial defence 145 planning, and strategic documents of all types from that era are littered with this belief. That corporate identity, the RN’s view of imperial defence in the mid-1950s, is best described at length by one of the RN’s greatest First Sea Lords and a man who understood the RN’s place in the imperial defence system exactly, Lord Chatfield: In imperial defence it is not enough merely to defend the approaches to these islands, or even the North Atlantic. Our defence must be worldwide. It is often not understood that there are coastal areas in which we cannot act against the enemy – their coastal areas – and that they have similar difficulty in acting against ours. It is those areas which the mine and the submarine render dangerous. Those areas of ours must be defended by anti-mine and anti-submarine ships, minesweepers and frigates; and they must be assisted by coastal aircraft. As time goes on and weapons improve, these coastal areas are always increasing. But outside them lie the great oceans, and in those oceans we have to hold the seas and defend our merchant ships. It is impossible to do that merely by being what is called “on the defensive”. There has been a lot of talk lately on this subject, and people have been saying how sad it is that the Navy is becoming a defensive service. But the Navy always has been a defensive service to defend the seas against an enemy. There is nothing offensive about it. That is why, I think, it is respected by our countrymen, in particular – at least, it has been in the past. But although it is becoming a commonplace to speak about defence, thee defence of the seas is not like a military defence, where men sit in trenches and wait for the enemy to attack them. It is an offensive defensive. The Navy’s defensive is an offensive defensive. To pursue the enemy all over the world until it finds him and destroys him – that is the role of the Navy in maritime defence . . .44 Defence of global interests, of an empire, was not a dead concept in the RN by 1956. Indeed, the idea of empire and the values of law, order, justice, and righteousness were as strong as ever for the senior service and their ethos of what they were defending. The British Empire was not just a territorial or geographic possession for the RN. Seldom it was in the history of that service. It was much an intellectual and philosophical belief system as anything, and it was that image of values, of good, that the RN still saw itself as a defender by 1956.

Notes 1 Paul G. Halpern, A Naval History of World War I (Annapolis, MD, 1994); David French, “The Royal Navy and the Defense of the British Empire, 1914–1918”, in Keith Neilson and Elizabeth Jane Errington, eds, Navies and Global Defense: Theories and Strategy (Westport, CT, 1995).

146 G. Kennedy 2 The best summary of all these post-war changes to the international system is found in Zara Steiner, The Lights That Failed: European International History, 1919–1933 (Oxford, 2005); Patrick Finney, ed., Palgrave Advances in International History (London, 2005); Stephen W. Roskill, Naval Policy Between the Wars, Vol. 1 (London, 1968); Malcolm H. Murfett, “Look Back in Anger: The Western Powers and the Washington Conference of 1921–1922”, in B.J.C. McKercher, ed., Arms Limitation and Disarmament: Restraints on War, 1899–1939 (Westport, CT, 1992), pp. 83–104. 3 Christopher M. Bell, The Royal Navy, Seapower and Strategy Between the Wars (London, 2000); Keith Neilson, Britain, Soviet Russia and the Collapse of the Versailles Order, 1919–1939 (Cambridge, 2006); Keith Neilson and Greg Kennedy, eds, Far Flung Lines: Studies in Imperial Defence in Honour of Donald Mackenzie Schurman (London, 1997). 4 C.I. Hamilton, “Expanding Naval Powers: Admiralty Private Secretaries and Private Offices, 1800–1945”, War in History, 10 (2003), pp. 127–156; C.I. Hamilton, “British Naval Policy, Policy-makers and Financial Control, 1860–1945”, War in History, 12 (2005), pp. 371–395; G.C. Peden, The Treasury and British Public Policy (Oxford, 2000); G.C. Peden, British Rearmament and the Treasury (Edinburgh, 1979); Clavin, Patricia, The Failure of Economic Diplomacy: Britain, Germany, France and the United States, 1931–36 (Basingstoke, 1996). 5 Greg Kennedy, Anglo-American Strategic Relations and the Far East, 1933–1939 (London, 2002); Joseph A. Maiolo, The Royal Navy and Nazi Germany, 1933–1939: A Study in Appeasement and the Origins of the Second World War (London, 1998); Arthur J. Marder, Old Friends, New Enemies: The Royal Navy and the Imperial Japanese Navy (Oxford, 1981); Antony Best, Britain, Japan and Pearl Harbor: Avoiding War in East Asia, 1936–1941 (London, 1995); Carolyn J. Kitching, Britain and the Geneva Disarmament Conference (Basingstoke, 2003); Tadashi Kuramatsu, “The Geneva Conference of 1927: The British Preparation for the Conference, December 1926 to June 1927”, Journal of Strategic Studies, 19 (1996), pp. 104–121; P. Haggie, Britannia at Bay: The Defence of the British Empire Against Japan, 1931–1941 (Oxford, 1981). 6 Richard Fanning, “The Coolidge Conference of 1927: Disarmament in Disarry” in McKercher, Arms Limitation. pp. 64–79; Christopher Hall, Britain, America and Arms Control, 1921–1937 (London, 1987); Gaines Post Jr, “Mad Dogs and Englishmen: British Rearmament, Deterrence and Appeasement, 1934–35”, Armed Forces and Society, 14 (1988), pp. 329–357; Carolyn J. Kitching, Britain and the Problem of International Disarmament, 1919–1934 (London, 1999). 7 W.R. Louis, British Strategy in the Far East, 1919–1939 (Oxford, 1971): Ian Cowman, Dominion and Decline: Anglo-American Naval Relations in the Pacific, 1937–1941 (Oxford, 1996); P.J. Cain and A.G. Hopkins, British Imperialism: Crisis and Deconstruction 1914–1990 (London, 1993); James Belich, Making Peoples: A History of the New Zealanders, 2 vols (Auckland, 2001); John Gooch, “The Politics of Strategy: Great Britain, Australia and the War Against Japan”, War in History, 10 (2003) pp. 424–447; Lorna Lloyd, “ ‘Us and Them’: The Changing Nature of Commonwealth Diplomacy, 1880–1973”, Commonwealth and Comparative Politics, 39 (2001), pp. 9–30; Paul Twomey, “Small Power Security Through Great Power Arms Control? – Australian Perceptions of Disarmament, 1919–1930”, War and Society, 8 (1990), pp. 71–99; John D. Meehan, “Steering Clear of Great Britain: Canada’s Debate over Collective Security in the Far Eastern Crisis of 1937”, The International History Review, 25 (2003), pp. 253–281. 8 John B. Hattendorf ed., Naval Strategy and Policy in the Mediterranean, Past, Present and Future (London, 2000), pp. 51–147; Reynolds M. Salerno, Vital Crossroads: Mediterranean Origins of the Second World War, 1935–1940 (Ithaca, NY, and

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London, 2002); Robert Mallett, The Italian Navy and Fascist Expansionism 1935–1940 (London, 1998); G. Bruce Strang, “Imperial Dreams: The MussoliniLaval Accords of January 1935”, Historical Journal, 44 (2002), pp. 799–809; Brock Millman, The Ill-Made Alliance: Anglo-Turkish Relations, 1934–1940 (Montreal, 1998); W.C. Mills, “The Nyon Conference: Neville Chamberlain, Anthony Eden, and the Appeasement of Italy in 1937”, International History Review, 15 (1993), pp. 1–22. Jon Robb-Webb, “ ‘Light Two Lanterns, the British are Coming by Sea’: Royal Navy Participation in the Pacific 1944–1945”, in Greg Kennedy, ed., British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 1900–2000 (London, 2005), pp. 128–153; Kevin Smith, Conflict over Convoys: Anglo-American Logistics Diplomacy in the Second World War (Cambridge, 1996). Richard Moore, The Royal Navy and Nuclear Weapons (London, 2001); J. Lewis, Changing Direction: British Military Planning for Postwar Strategic Defence, 1942–47 (London, 1988); Ian Speller, The Role of Amphibious Warfare in British Defence Policy, 1945–56 (London, 2001). Jon T. Sumida, “British Naval Procuement and Technological Change, 1919–39” in Philip P. O’Brien, ed., Technology and Naval Combat in the Twentieth Century and Beyond (London, 2002), pp. 128–148; John Ferris, “The Last Decade of British Maritime Spremacy, 1919–1929”, Keith Neilson and Greg Kennedy, eds, Far Flung Lines, pp. 63–82. John B. Hattendorf ed., Naval Strategy and Policy in the Mediterranean; Greg Kennedy, “Depression and Security: Aspects Influencing the United States Navy During the Hoover Administration”, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 6 (1995), pp. 342–372; Ferris, John Robert, Men, Money, and Diplomacy. The Evolution of British Strategic Foreign Policy, 1919–1926 (Ithaca, NY, 1989); B.R. Sullivan, “A Fleet in Being: The Rise and Fall of Italian Seapower, 1861–1943”, The International History Review, 10 (1988), pp. 111–132; S. Morewood, “Anglo-Italian Rivalry in the Mediterranean and Middle East, 1935–1940” in R. Boyce and E.M. Robertson, eds, Paths to War: New Essays on the Origins of the Second World War (London, 1989); Keith Neilson, “The Anglo-Japanese Alliance and British Strategic Foreign Policy, 1902–1914” in O’Brien, Phillips Payson, ed., The Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 1902–1922 (London, 2004), pp. 48–64. Letter from Chatfield to Keyes, 28 October 1921 in Paul Halpern ed., The Keyes Papers: Selections from the Private and Official Correspondence of Admiral of the Fleet Baron Keyes of Zeeburge, Vol. II, 1919–1938 (London, 1979) p. 57. On the Washington Naval Conference 1921–1922 and various aspects of imperial defence issues, see, Erik Goldstein and John Maurer, eds, “Special Issue on the Washington Conference, 1921–1922: Naval Rivalry, East Asian Stability and the Road to Pearl Harbor”, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 4 (1993); John Ferris, “ ‘The Greatest Power on Earth’: Great Britain in the 1920s”, The International History Review, 13 (1991), pp. 726–750. O’Brien, Phillips Payson, ed., The Anglo-Japanese Alliance, 1902–1922 (London, 2004). J. Blatt, “The Parity that Meant Superiority: French Naval Policy Towards Italy at the Washington Naval Conference, 1921–22, and Interwar French Foreign Policy”, French Historical Studies, 12 (1981), pp. 54–72; B.R. Sullivan, “Italian Naval Power and the Washington Disarmament Conference of 1921–1922”, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 4 (1993), pp. 87–101. Phillips P. O’Brien, British and American Naval Power: Politics and Policies, 1900–1936 (Westport, 1998). Letter from Chatfield to Keyes, 28 October 1921 in Paul Halpern, ed., The Keyes Papers: Selections from the Private and Official Correspondence of Admiral of the Fleet Baron Keyes of Zeeburge, Vol. II, 1919–1938, p. 57.

148 G. Kennedy 19 Bryan M. Ranft, “Admiral David Earl Beatty (1919–1927)”, in Malcolm H. Murfett, ed., The First Sea Lords: From Fisher to Mountbatten (Westport, 1995), p. 138. 20 B.M. Ranft, ed., The Beatty Papers, vol. 2 (London, 1993), Doc. 192. 21 Ralph Harrington, “ ‘The Mighty Hood’: Navy, Empire, War at Sea and the British National Imagination, 1920–60”, Journal of Contemporary History, 38 (2003), pp. 171–185; Christopher M. Bell, The Royal Navy, Seapower and Strategy Between the Wars, pp. 162–180; John M. MacKenzie, Propaganda and Empire (Manchester, 1986); J.A. Mangan, ed., Making Imperial Mentalities: Socialisation and British Imperialism (Manchester, 1990); Anthony Clayton, The British Empire as a Superpower, 1919–39 (Athens, 1986), pp. 1–15; Richard English and Michael Kenny, “Public Intellectuals and the Question of British Decline”, British Journal of Politics and International Relations 3 (2001), pp. 259–283; Ann Trotter, “The Dominions and Imperial Defence: Hankey’s Tour in 1934”, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 2 (1973), pp. 318–332. It is interesting to note that some of the recent flavours of the week, in terms of the study of British imperialism and self-perception, David Cannadine, Orientalism: How the British saw their Empire (London, 2000); Bernard Porter, The AbsentMinded Imperialists: What the British Really Thought About Empire (Oxford, 2004); Niall Ferguson, Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World (London, 2003) have no significant references to this relationship at all, revealing just how much help “serious” scholars of the British empire need to be corrected by those who can rightfully mix military/naval aspects of the British imperial experience into this wider framework and methodological approach. 22 Here, the model that students of the interwar intellectual mind of the RN could follow with good effect is that set out by Donald M. Schurman, The Education of a Navy: The Development of British Naval Strategic Thought, 1867–1914 (London, 1965); Andrew Lambert, The Foundations of Naval History: John Knox Laughton, the Royal Navy and the Historical Profession (London, 1998); Jon T. Sumida, Inventing Grand Strategy and Teaching Command: The Classic Works of Alfred Thayer Mahan Reconsidered (Baltimore, MD, 1997); Peter Hore, ed., Patrick Blackett: Sailor, Scientist, Socialist (London, 2003). Modern works that attempt to grapple with the ideas of identity and culture in the British Imperial world often make no attempt to involve the military/naval aspects: see Linda Colley, “The difficulties of empire: present, past and future”, Historical Research, 79 (2006), pp. 367–382; John Gascoigne, “The Expanding Historiography of British Imperialism”, Historical Journal, 49 (2006), pp. 577–592; Richard Price, “One Big Thing: Britain, Its Empire, and Their Imperial Culture”, Journal of British Studies, 45 (2006), pp. 602–627. 23 Joseph Moretz, The Royal Navy and the Capital Ship in the Interwar Period: An Operational Perspective (London, 2002); Andrew Field, Royal Navy Strategy in the Far East, 1919–1939: Planning for War Against Japan (London, 2004), pp. 97–123; G. Till, Air Power in the Royal Navy, 1914–1945 (London, 1979); B. Ranft, ed., Technical Change and British Naval Policy, 1860–1939 (London, 1977); Philip P. O’Brien, ed., Technology and Naval Combat in the Twentieth Century and Beyond (London, 2002); W. Murray and A.R. Millett, eds, Military Innovation in the Interwar Period (Cambridge, 1996); D. Edgerton, Science, Technology and British Industrial Decline, 1870–1970 (Cambridge, 1996); Ian Speller, ed., The Royal Navy and Maritime Power in the Twentieth Century (London, 2005). 24 Keith Neilson, “The Defence Requirements Sub-Committee, British Strategic Foreign Policy, Neville Chamberlain and the Path to Appeasement”, English Historical Review, 118 (2003), pp. 651–684; Steven Morewood, “Protecting the Jugular Vein of Empire; The Suez Canal in British Defence Strategy, 1919–1941”, War in Society, 10 (1992), pp. 81–107; Donald F. Bittner, “Britannia’s

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25

26

27

28

29

Sheathed Sword: The Royal Marines and Amphibious Warfare in the Interwar Years – A Passive Response”, The Journal of Military History, 55 (1991). pp. 345–364. Charles Bloch, “Great Britain, German Rearmament, and the Naval Agreement of 1935”, in Hans W. Gatke, ed., European Diplomacy Between Two Wars, 1919–39 (Chicago, IL, 1972); D.C. Watt, “Anglo-German Naval Agreement of 1935: An Interim Judgment”, Journal of Military History, 28 (1956), pp. 155–175; R.A. Best, “The Anglo-German Naval Agreement of 1935: An Aspect of Appeasement”, Naval War College Review, 34 (1981), pp. 68–85; Williamson Murray, “The Role of Italy in British Strategy, 1938–1939”, Journal of the Royal United Services Institute, 124 (1979), pp. 13–32, R.A. Salerno, “Multilateral Strategy and Diplomacy: The Anglo-German Naval Agreement and the Mediterranean Crisis, 1935–1936”, Journal of Strategic Studies, 17 (1994), pp. 42–60; E. Grove, “A War Fleet Built for Peace: British Naval Rearmament in the 1930s and the Dilemma of Deterrence Versus Defence”, Naval War College Review, 44 (1991), pp. 3–16; Richard Harding, The Royal Navy, 1930–2000: Innovation and Defence (London, 2005). Patricia Clavin, The Failure of Economic Diplomacy, pp. 55–80; R.F. Holland, Britain and the Commonwealth Alliance, 1918–1939 (London, 1981); Ian M. Drummond, British Economic Policy and the Empire, 1919–1939 (London, 1972); Philip Williamson, National Crisis and National Government: British Politics, the Economy and Empire, 1926–1932 (Cambridge, 1992); J. Henry Richardson, British Economic Foreign Policy (London, 1936); Greg Kennedy, “ ‘Rat in Power’: Neville Chamberlain and the Creation of British Foreign Policy, 1931–1939” in Thomas Otte, ed., Makers of British Foreign Policy. From Pitt to Thatcher (Basingstoke, 2002), pp. 173–189; Michael Roi, Alternative to Appeasement: Sir Robert Vansittart and Alliance Diplomacy (Westport, 1997). At this point, there is still no overarching, scholarly study of the investment and upgrades to the global basing structure required by the RN in the interwar. Individual studies exist, most of them focused on Singapore. But none look comprehensively at the political, fiscal, economic, technical, and military aspects of the entire basing system. L. Pratt, East of Malta, West of Suez: Britain’s Mediterranean Crisis, 1936–39 (Cambridge, 1975); R. Pritchard, Far Eastern Influences upon British Strategy Towards the Great Powers, 1937–1939 (London, 1987); Nicholas Tarling, Britain, Southeast Asia and the Onset of the Pacific War (Cambridge, 1996); Antony Best, British Intelligence and the Japanese Challenge in Asia, 1914–1941 (London, 2002); Greg Kennedy, “Symbol of Imperial Defence: The Role of Singapore in British and American Far Eastern Strategic Relations, 1933–1941”, in Brian P. Farrell and Sandy Hunter, eds, Sixty Years On: The Fall of Singapore Revisited (Singapore, 2002); G.A.H. Gordon, British Seapower and Procurement Between the Wars; A Reappraisal of Rearmament (London, 1988); Nicholas Tracy, ed., The Collective Naval Defence of the Empire, 1900–1940 (London, 1997), pp. 425–604. Christopher Bell, “ ‘Our Most Exposed Outpost’: Hong Kong and British Far Eastern Strategy, 1921–1941”, Journal of Military History, 60 (1996), pp. 61–88; Christopher Bell, “The ‘Singapore Strategy’ and the Deterrence of Japan: Winston Churchill, the Admiralty and the Dispatch of Force Z”, English Historical Review, 116 (2001), pp. 604–634; Antony Best, “Constructing an Image: British Intelligence and Whitehall’s Perception of Japan, 1931–1939”, Intelligence and National Security, 11 (1996), pp. 345–364; Timothy Wilford, “Watching the North Pacific: British and Commonwealth Intelligence before Pearl Harbor”, Intelligence and National Security, 17 (2002), pp. 131–164. Geoffrey Till, “Maritime Airpower in the Interwar Period: The Information Dimension”, Journal of Strategic Studies, 27 (2004), pp. 298–323; Ong Chit

150 G. Kennedy

30

31 32 33 34 35

36

37 38 39

Chung, Operation Matador: Britain’s War Plans Against the Japanese, 1918–1941 (Singapore, 1997); Jon Sumida, “The Royal Navy and Technological Change, 1915–1945”, in Ronald Haycock and Keith Neilson, eds, Men, Machines, and War (Waterloo, ON, 1988); Orest Babij, “The Advisory Committee on Trade Questions in Time of War”, The Northern Mariner, 7 (1997) pp. 1–10; Orest Babij, “The Royal Navy and Inter-war Plans for War Against Japan: The Problem of Oil Supply”, in Greg Kennedy, ed., The Merchant Marine in International Affairs, 1850–1950 (London, 2000), pp. 84–106; I.M. Gow, “The Royal Navy and Japan, 1921–1941”, in Ian Gow and Yoichi Hirama, eds, The History of Anglo-Japanese Relations, 1600–2000, vol. III: The Military Dimension (London, 2003), pp. 109–126. Greg Kennedy, “Becoming Reliant on the Kindness of Strangers: Britain’s Strategic Foreign Policy, Naval Arms Limitation and the Soviet Factor, 1935–1937”, War in History, 11 (2004), pp. 79–105; Keith Neilson, Britain, Soviet Russia and the Collapse of the Versailles Order, 166–212; David K. Varey, “The Politics of Naval Aid: The Foreign Office, the Admiralty, and Anglo-Soviet Technical Cooperation, 1936–37”, Diplomacy and Statecraft, 14 (2003), pp. 50–68. Tracy, Collective Naval Defence of Empire, pp. 484–485; Sean Greenwood, “ ‘Caligula’s Horse’ Revisted: Sir Thomas Inskip as Minister for the Co-ordination of Defence, 1936–1939”, Journal of Strategic Studies, 17 (1994), pp. 17–38. Salerno, Vital Crossroads, pp. 101–102; Greg Kennedy, Intelligence and National Security (2006). Ibid., pp. 101–102; Paul G. Halpern, “French and Italian Naval Policy in the Mediterranean, 1898–1945”, in Hattendorf, ed., Naval Strategy and Policy in the Mediterranean, pp. 78–106. Kennedy, Anglo-American Strategic Relations and the Far East, 1933–1939. Ian Cowman, Dominion and Decline, pp. 25–36; Merrill Bartlett and Robert William Love, Jr, “Anglo-American Naval Diplomacy and the British Pacific Fleet, 1942–1945” American Neptune, 42 (1982), pp. 203–216; David A. Day, “Promise and Performance: Britain’s Pacific Pledge, 1943–45”, War and Society, 4 (1986), pp. 71–93; Thomas Hall, “ ‘Mere Drops in the Ocean’: The Politics and Planning of the Contribution of the British Commonwealth to the Final Defeat of Japan, 1944–45”, Diplomacy & Statecraft, 16 (2005), pp. 93–115; Christopher Bell, “Winston Churchill, Pacific Security, and the Limits of British Power, 1921–41”, in John H. Mauer, ed., Churchill and Strategic Dilemmas before the World Wars: Essays in Honor of Michael I. Handel (London and Portland, OR, 2003), pp. 51–87. Greg Kennedy, “Symbol of Imperial Defence: The Role of Singapore in British and American Far Eastern Strategic Relations, 1933–1941”, in Brian P. Farrell and Sandy Hunter, eds, Sixty Years On; Greg Kennedy, “What Worth the Americans? The British Strategic Foreign Policy-making Elite’s View of American Maritime Power in the Far East, 1933–1941”, in Greg Kennedy, ed., British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 1900–2000 (London, 2005), pp. 90–118; Galen Roger Perras, “ ‘Our Position in the Far East Would be Stronger Without this Unsatisfactory Commitment’: Britain and the Reinforcement of Hong Kong, 1941”, Canadian Journal of History, 30 (1995), pp. 232–259. Greg Kennedy, “What Worth the Americans?”, p. 103. W.N. Medlicott, History of the Second World War, The Economic Blockade, Vols. I & II (London, 1959); CAB 96/4, War Cabinet, Far Eastern Committee, FE(41) Paper 217, Feb. 1941. David Stevens, ed., The Royal Australian Navy in World War II (Sydney, 1996); G. Hermon Gill, “The Official History of Australia in the War of 1939–1945”, Royal Australian Navy, 1939–1945 (Canberra, 1957, 1968) 2 Vols; T.R. Frame, J.V.P. Goldrick, and P.D. Jones, Reflections on the Royal Australian Navy (Sydney,

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1991); Marc Milner, North Atlantic Run (Toronto, 1985); J. Boutilier, ed., The RCN in Retrospect (Vancouver, 1982); W.A.B. Douglas, ed., The RCN in Transition (Vancouver, 1988); Ian McGibbon, Blue-water Rationale, The Naval Defence of New Zealand 1914–1942 (Wellington, 1991); W. David McIntyre, New Zealand Prepares for War, Defence Policy, 1919–39 (Christchurch, 1988). Good works combining the nationalistic naval histories with the core histories of the British Empire and RN as central to those nation’s naval development are areas where graduate students from the United Kingdom and abroad could still make significant contributions to the understanding of the maritime nature of the pre-Commonwealth world. Michael A. Simpson, A Life of Admiral of the Fleet, Andrew Cunningham: A Twentieth Century Naval Leader (London, 2004), pp. 188–208; Michael A. Simpson, The Somerville Papers (Aldershot, 1995); H.P. Willmott, Grave of a Dozen Schemes (Annapolis, MD, 1996); Nicholas Evan Sarantakes, “ ‘One Last Crusade’: The British Pacific Fleet and its Impact on the Anglo-American Alliance”, English Historical Review, 12 (2005), pp. 429–466. Ian Speller, The Role of Amphibious Warfare in British Defence Policy; Eric Grove, Vanguard to Trident: British Naval Policy Since World War II (London, 1987); N.A.M. Rodger, Naval Power in the Twentieth Century (Basingstoke, 1996); S. Dockrill, Britain’s Retreat from Suez: The Choice Between Europe and the World? (Basingstoke, 2002); G. Till, Seapower at the Millennium (Stroud, 2001); Admiralty Board Memo, June 1949, in John B. Hattendorf, R.J.B. Knight, A.W.H. Pearsall, N.A.M. Rodger, and Geoffrey Till, eds, British Naval Documents, 1204–1960 (Aldershot, 1993), pp. 803–808. Peter Nash, “The Royal Navy in Korea: Replenishment and Sustainability”, in Kennedy, ed., British Naval Strategy East of Suez, pp. 154–178; Norman Friedman, “Electronics and the Royal Navy”, in Harding, ed., The Royal Navy, pp. 246–286; Malcolm Llewellyn Jones, “The Royal Navy and the Challenge of the Fast Submarine, 1945–1954”, in Harding, ed., The Royal Navy, pp. 135–170; C. Hampshire, The Royal Navy Since 1945 (London, 1990); Letter from Vice-Admiral W.W. Davis, Vice-Chief of Naval Staff, to Admiral, the Earl Mountbatten of Burma, Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean, 12 February 1955, in Hattendorf, Knight, Pearsall, Rodger, and Till, eds, British Naval Documents, pp. 814–816. David Stevens, “The British Naval Role East of Suez: An Australian Perspective”, in Kennedy, ed., British Naval Strategy East of Suez, pp. 221–243; K. Hack, Defence and Decolonisation in Southeast Asia: Britain, Malaya and Singapore, 1941–68 (Richmond, 2001); M.H. Murfett, In Jeopardy: The Royal Navy and British Far Eastern Defence Policy, 1945–1951 (Kuala Lumpur, 1995); Geoffrey Till, “Quarantine Operations: The Royal Navy and the Palestine Patrol”, in Speller, ed., The Royal Navy and Maritime Power in the Twentieth Century, pp. 129–147. “A speech by Lord Chatfield, House of Lords, 2 December 1954” in Hattendorf, Knight, Pearsall, Rodger, and Till, eds., British Naval Documents, pp. 814.

8

The RAF in imperial defence, 1919–1956 James S. Corum

In the last decades of the British Empire, from the end of the First World War to the Suez crisis of 1956, airpower played an important role in imperial defence policy and in every military operation in the empire. While air operations in defence of the British imperial interests were always secondary to the mission of defending Britain and Western Europe, they were still a major part of the RAF mission. Indeed, imperial defence played a major role in the evolution of the RAF force structure and development as the RAF forces overseas evolved over the 36 years from the end of the First World War to the final gasp of the empire at Suez. At the start of the period under study, the RAF was little more than a force to support the senior services in the traditional mission of keeping control in the Asian, African and Middle Eastern colonies. However, after the Second World War, military roles were reversed and the RAF became the priority service in grand strategic terms of protecting British interests, and the army and navy were now cast into the supporting roles. By the 1950s, maintaining RAF bases in strategic locations around the periphery of the Soviet Union became one of the primary justifications for maintaining an imperial presence. Of the many great changes brought about by the First World War, the appearance of airpower as a major instrument of warfare was among the most important. From fairly humble beginnings as reconnaissance forces, air forces had quickly evolved into powerful military arms capable of providing accurate intelligence, close support to ground troops, interdiction of enemy logistics and, finally, weapons with the capability of bombing cities and industries far behind the fighting front. There was no doubt in the minds of the British political and military leaders that airpower would play an important role in any future military operations. However, it did not follow that airpower’s important role in military operations would assure the survival of the RAF as an independent service. In the immediate aftermath of the war, both the army and the navy staffs, with strong agreement in the cabinet, wanted to see the RAF disestablished as an independent service, and its squadrons revert to the army and navy, who would, to be sure, maintain strong air arms – but firmly under

The RAF in imperial defence 153 the control of the army and navy staffs. Air Marshal Hugh Trenchard, who had briefly served as the first chief of the air staff before taking command of Britain’s heavy bomber force in 1918, again assumed command of the RAF after the war and had to immediately fight to preserve the RAF as an independent service. Trenchard believed that air power, especially in the form of strategic bombers, would be the decisive weapon in future conflicts and that only a truly independent air force, commanded by airmen, could mould modern airpower and exploit its potential as a decisive weapon of warfare. Trenchard believed that the disestablishment of the RAF would be a strategic mistake of the first order and set out to find a means to justify an independent air force. Trenchard was not an especially articulate man, and even if he were, it would have been difficult to change the positions of the army and navy staffs on the issue. Trenchard was, however, a gifted bureaucratic infighter and knew that, given time, the RAF could justify its independence to the government. Trenchard asked the army and navy staffs for a year’s grace period to develop a peacetime organization plan for the RAF with the final decision on that service’s independence to come after the air staff could propose a detailed post-war plan.1 In 1919, the air staff argued that the RAF would be Britain’s first line of defence in the next war. As true as this statement was to be proven two decades later, the post-First World War government was sceptical of such claims.2 Trenchard and the air staff had to come up with a mission for the RAF that would appeal to the government. Keeping in mind the stringent financial conditions in post-war Britain and the urgent requirement to demobilize and still provide security for the empire at the lowest possible price, Trenchard set out to create an air force that would, at first, be more of a cadre force than the decisive force he envisioned. Growth and development of the RAF could come only after service independence could be assured.

The air control policy One of the Britain’s most urgent post-war defence requirements was to bring order to several expensive new colonial obligations in the form of League of Nations mandates to govern Palestine, Transjordan and Iraq. At the same time that the armed forces were ordered to assume a costly burden of military occupation in regions rife with violent internal conflicts, the government had to demobilize the wartime forces and to economize by any means possible. This seemed an almost impossible task at the time as the army and RAF were engaged in some large colonial conflicts that flared up in the immediate post-war period. Afghanistan and the Northwest Frontier of India had remained fairly quiet during the First World War, thanks to a pro-British Emir of Afghanistan. But in 1919, the Emir was assassinated, and the new Emir was pushed into conflict with Britain by Afghani factions. As border clashes escalated into a conflict

154 J.S. Corum known as the Third Afghan War, RAF fighters supported Indian army ground troops fighting on the Northwest Frontier and Handley Page bombers bombed Kabul to demonstrate Britain’s new ability to reach deep into hostile territory and exact a quick punishment for border incursions. This began a period of major operations by the Indian Army against several border tribes, and the RAF squadrons in India saw constant combat.3 The British Government also faced major conflicts on other fronts as the new British mandate in Iraq exploded in 1920 in what was to be the largest campaign faced by the interwar British army. The 60,200 British troops and 2 RAF squadrons in Iraq were hard pressed to simply hold on, so Britain was forced to dispatch an additional 19 battalions and 2 additional RAF squadrons to finally suppress the rebellion.4 During the fighting in Iraq, the RAF performed well in conducting constant reconnaissance and bombing missions in support of the army and was able to supply surrounded garrisons by air and quickly evacuate casualties.5 After a year of heavy fighting, the rebellion was suppressed at the British cost of 1,040 soldiers killed and missing and 1,228 wounded, with an estimated 8,450 dead Iraqi rebels.6 The financial cost of the enterprise shocked the British Government. In order to maintain control of a minor colonial mandate with only moderate strategic value, British military operations had cost the treasury £40 million, considerably more than Britain had spent in supporting the Arab revolt against the Turks in the First World War. The RAF’s performance in India and Iraq provided considerable evidence of the usefulness of air power in colonial operations. The effectiveness of a few aircraft in putting down a minor rebellion in British Somaliland in 1919–1920 provided Trenchard and the air staff with additional evidence to support an independent mission for the RAF.7 The British Government had estimated that destroying the rebel ‘Mad Mullah’s’ forces might require a large campaign costing over one million pounds, but, in the final reckoning, the short campaign in which the RAF had played the central role ended up costing only £77,000. This was an argument for air power that played exceptionally well in the colonial and war ministry and with the exchequer.8 Trenchard argued that the RAF could police several of Britain’s troublesome new colonies through ‘air control’, namely using aircraft as the primary means of employing force against bandits and rebellious tribes. Strikes by aircraft would take the place of punitive expeditions by ground forces that had traditionally been used to punish tribes for banditry and small-scale rebellion.9 Simply put, punitive expeditions were a form of corporate punishment usually meant to punish and deter troublesome tribes by destroying their villages, crops and livestock and inflicting casualties upon tribal warriors. The punitive expeditions and corporate punishment of hostile tribes was standard practice not only in the British Empire

The RAF in imperial defence 155 but in all the colonial empires. In Britain’s colonial wars, a punitive expedition might vary from a platoon of the Camel Corps riding against one village to months-long operations on the Northwest Frontier carried out by thousands of soldiers. Air control meant substituting aerial bombardment for the traditional ground punitive expedition. Airplanes had the advantage of reaching the object of the punitive expedition, i.e. the tribal headquarters or main village, very quickly. Airplanes also possessed the capability to inflict serious harm upon rebellious natives. Since disruption and destruction was the goal of a punitive expedition, a small force of airplanes was preferred as it could inflict as much damage as a large, cumbersome and expensive ground force expedition and do it far more cheaply. Indeed, in the view of the colonial administrators, airpower was superior to ground forces because it could inflict punishment quickly. An immediate and sharp response to a hostile action gave the British a psychological advantage under typical conditions in which small numbers of colonial administrators and police were required to control large numbers of tribal peoples that were often kept quiet by the threat of force. With Iraq and the Northwest Frontier quieting down and the campaign in Somaliland successfully completed, Air Marshal Trenchard met with Colonial Secretary Winston Churchill at the Cairo Conference on Middle East Affairs in 1921 and formally proposed that the RAF take over the task of directing military operations in Iraq and that the primary British garrison for Iraq should be RAF squadrons.10 Trenchard asserted that a few RAF squadrons, supported by armoured car units and locally recruited troops, could keep order at a fraction of the cost of a large army garrison. The financial argument for air control was irresistible to Whitehall, so in October 1922, RAF Air Marshal John Salmond took over military command in Iraq. It was the first time that an airman had been placed in control of all military operations in a country.11 The RAF’s garrison for Iraq was initially eight squadrons of fighters and light bombers, such as multipurpose DH-9, supported by four RAF armoured car companies.12 These forces were, in turn, supported by 15,000 Iraqi troops and police, 5,000 of them under British command and being organized as an Iraqi Army. Iraqi forces were paid for by the Iraqi state.13 Through the 1920s and 1930s in Iraq and small colonies such as Aden, the RAF was able to quell minor tribal banditry by swiftly punishing the culprits from the air.14 The colonial air control policy later gave rise to some myths about the relative effectiveness of airpower that still persist.15 The first popular myth was the descriptions of colonial operations as purely air operations, which was rarely the case. Aside from very small police actions, such as bombing tribes in Aden to suppress cattle rustling, RAF colonial operations are best described as modern joint operations in which aircraft played a traditional supporting role to ground forces. In suppressing the sizeable Kurdish rebellions in Northern Iraq in the 1920s

156 J.S. Corum and 1930s or in fighting hostile tribes along India’s Northwest Frontier, most RAF sorties consisted of reconnaissance, transport and medical evacuation missions for the army as well as close air support. Another popular myth is that the RAF bombing campaigns were far more humane than the traditional punitive expeditions by ground forces, a view popularized by airpower advocates of the 1920s and 1930s. Indeed, at times the RAF carefully applied minimum force and provided rebel tribesmen with warnings and then carefully bombed the home of the tribal chief as a warning that the force levels would escalate unless the tribe and chief complied with British decrees.16 The later official reports of the RAF and the writings of its supporters maintained that the RAF’s air control methods were very humane, resulted in little loss of life and were always carried out with full warning.17 However, in many cases, no warnings were given and hostile tribes bombarded ruthlessly.18 Yet, at a time when there was little media presence and little communication on the frontiers of empire, British forces faced by hostile tribesmen could get away with ignoring the rules. However, it is only fair to say that the RAF employed airpower more humanely than other colonial powers, notably Spain and Italy, who used aircraft to drop poison gas on tribal rebels. Even in desperate situations, the RAF refrained from employing poison gas in colonial warfare.19 The tactical effectiveness of air control tended to decline over time, and this demonstrated some of the limits of airpower. The first time air strikes were employed, they tended to have an impressive psychological effect upon the population, as occurred in Somaliland in 1920. However, as air control methods became common practice in many colonies, the initial psychological effect soon wore off. Hostile tribes in Aden, on India’s Northwest Frontier, and in Kurdistan learned to camouflage their camps and dig air raid shelters for their villages when trouble broke out with the British. Tribes in Kurdistan set up a primitive warning system with observers and smoke signals to warn the most likely targets when British aircraft approached.20 In the later campaigns against the Kurdish leader Sheik Mahmud, the rebel capitol was heavily bombed for months as the rebels gamely fought on. Nor were the Arabs fighting the British in Palestine in the 1930s overawed by the RAF’s airpower capability. The two-year revolt in Palestine was finally ended not by military force but through a political deal and British compromise that limited Jewish immigration. In the final analysis, the RAF’s programme of colonial air control can be considered fairly effective. If aircraft could not do the job alone, they certainly acted as a tremendous force enhancement for military operations on the frontiers of the empire. RAF squadrons were very effective in reducing the numbers of ground troops required, and police and military operations supported by airpower were much more effective than in the pre-First World War era. In campaigns in India or Iraq, one or two aircraft could provide army and police forces the same level of reconnaissance support as

The RAF in imperial defence 157 a cavalry battalion. A few aircraft could provide fire support equal to an artillery battery, a major consideration for an army that tired to move artillery through the rugged terrain of the Iraqi desert or the Northwest Frontier. Moreover, aircraft could react to emergencies quickly. The heavy firepower that the aircraft could bring to the battle was a psychological shock to the enemy and a great morale boost for the British troops. The RAF also proved its utility in numerous small-scale transport operations. Modified DH-9 light bombers successfully evacuated the wounded during the Somaliland campaign of 1920, and during a crisis in Afghanistan during the winter of 1928–1929, RAF bombers based in India evacuated 586 people from Kabul.21 Airpower fully lived up to Trenchard’s promise to reduce the costs of policing the empire. The post-World War conditions favoured the RAF. When Trenchard proposed the air control policy, the RAF had a large stockpile of rugged two-seater fighters and light bombers left over from the World War. Aircraft such as the Bristol fighters and Dehaviland DH-9 light bombers were ideal for the observation and bombing missions that were the mainstay of RAF operations. Obsolescent biplanes were cheap, and required little support infrastructure and requirements for colonial operations were basic. There was no enemy air threat, and ground fire was rarely lethal in an era when the enemy had no anti-aircraft guns – and rarely even machine guns. Aircraft considered too obsolete for home defence or European operations were considered acceptable for colonial air control, so aircraft such as the Bristol fighter that first flew in 1917 were employed in the colonies into the late 1920s. Although the initial commitment to imperial defence in 1920 represented a large share of the RAF’s operational squadrons, the number of RAF units in the colonies remained relatively static during the 1920s and 1930s as the government dramatically expanded the RAF force at home after 1923. From then on, most aircraft ordered for the RAF went to home commands and units at home had first call on the latest models of aircraft while colonial forces soldiered on with old aircraft considered too obsolete for European operations. When war broke out in 1939, RAF units on India’s Northwest Frontier were equipped with Wapiti biplanes – long considered unsuitable for home use. Through the 1920s and 1930s, the RAF’s colonial operations represented a small share of the RAF budget and required only a few thousand personnel.

The RAF in the context of imperial strategy The interwar British governments and the RAF leadership can be faulted for failing to provide an air force even minimally adequate to meet the requirements to defend what were proclaimed to be some of the most strategic points in the empire. Indeed, as long as order was maintained within the colonies, there was little thought given to the requirements for external defence against conventional threats until much too late – a policy that had

158 J.S. Corum disastrous consequences for the empire during the first half of the Second World War. Britain considered the Mediterranean and Middle East to be vital strategic areas in which Britain required colonies and military bases in order to protect the vital sea route to India and the Far East. Loss of the great naval base at Malta or the Suez Canal to an enemy power would be seen as a catastrophic blow to British trade and imperial communications as sailing time to India and the Far East would be increased by several weeks. At the other end of the world, the naval base at Singapore, the largest single defence project of the interwar period, was viewed as the strategic keystone to defending Australia, New Zealand and Britain’s Asian colonies from any Japanese advances.22 Considering how important Malta, Egypt and Singapore were in British strategic thought and planning, it is surprising that relatively little was done to provide adequate air cover for these bases even after the threat from the Italian-German alliance and the Japanese had become acute. Hugh Trenchard, who served as Chief of the Air Staff until 1928, viewed the defence of vital strategic points as an important mission for the RAF. One of the RAF’s first major post-war deployments was to Egypt, where the RAF sent seven squadrons in 1920. Egypt was seen as crucial to defending the Mediterranean and Suez Canal as well as being a sensible base for an RAF reserve force that could quickly deploy to any trouble spots in the Middle East or Asia. Trenchard also argued for a major RAF role in the defence of Singapore as the building programme got underway in the 1920s. After the First World War, Britain dropped its alliance with Japan and increasingly viewed that nation as a major potential threat to British colonies and British dominions. With Japan a likely future enemy, the 1921 Imperial Conference agreed that Singapore was the key point in the Pacific and proposed spending £11 million to build a major naval base and to fortify it against any fleet attack. In 1926, the navy and air staffs engaged in a major dispute about the most effective means of protecting the fleet base, with the Admiralty favouring 15″ guns and the air staff arguing that a force of torpedo bombers would be cheaper and more effective.23 Eventually, a compromise was reached and the naval base would be defended by a combination of heavy guns and airplanes, and the RAF developed the Vildebeest torpedo bomber, which came on line in the early 1930s. Still, the air component for the defence of Singapore and Malaya consisted of a mere handful of obsolescent aircraft until the very eve of war in the Pacific. In the early 1930s, as Hitler came to power in Germany and Japan’s militaristic and aggressive intentions became evident, Britain began to rearm. Under every rearmament plan, the RAF played an increasing large role in defence planning and won an ever-increasing share of the budget. Spurred on by Germany’s creation of a new air force in 1935, aerial rearmament went into full swing with Britain’s 1935 RAF expansion scheme that set a goal of a home air force of 1,736 front-line aircraft and an

The RAF in imperial defence 159 increase of the RAF’s overseas forces to 37 squadrons.24 However, the British aircraft industry could not increase production fast enough to come even close to meeting the RAF’s rearmament plans. The new aircraft produced after 1935 went almost exclusively to the Bomber Command and Fighter Command at home, with Singapore, the Middle East and the Mediterranean getting only a few obsolete aircraft – but none of the newer models. Air defence of the strategic points in the empire was not forgotten, but it was shifted to a relatively low priority. At the outbreak of the war with Italy in 1940 and with Japan in 1941, the RAF was unable to provide an adequate defence of Egypt or Singapore. The vital base at Malta did not even receive a token defence. Although the Committee of Imperial Defence had studied the defence of Malta in the 1930s and decided that Malta required 172 anti-aircraft guns, 24 searchlights and four fighter squadrons for an adequate defence against the Italian air force based on nearby Sicily, in June 1940, the island had a mere 42 antiaircraft guns and no fighter squadrons for its defence.25 The development of a serious air defence system for Singapore and Malaya only got underway in 1940–1941 and came too little and too late to effectively confront the Japanese onslaught. When the Pacific War began on 7 December 1941, RAF and Commonwealth air forces had only 181 operational aircraft available to meet a much larger Japanese force – and almost all the RAF aircraft were older machines. Some aircraft in Malaya, such as the hapless American Brewster Buffalo fighter, were deemed too inferior to serve in Europe but were thought sufficient to take on the Japanese. Indeed, a major part of the RAF’s Singapore’s defence force consisted of 36 venerable biplane Vildebeest torpedo bombers, now a decade old. The superb Japanese Zero fighters quickly swept the RAF’s motley collection of aircraft out of the sky as Japanese ground forces overran Malaya and Singapore in a few weeks in Britain’s single greatest imperial defeat.26 One of the great strategic opportunities that Britain failed to exploit was the chance to develop a modern air transport system to link the empire together. Geographically, the British colonies and dominions were well situated to make long-distance air routes an attractive means to transport people rapidly from Britain to far-flung outposts. The RAF pioneered some air routes right after the First World War, and air service from Cairo to Baghdad was opened in 1921. However, the British Government was reluctant to subsidize civilian air transport to the degree necessary to develop large and efficient cargo and passenger aircraft. Germany and the US provided generous subsidies to develop civilian air transport and quickly moved ahead of Britain in every aspect of civil aviation. By the early 1930s, the Americans were building the DC-2 and DC-3 transports, and Germany was manufacturing the Junkers Ju 52. All of these transport craft were capable of carrying three tons of passengers or freight safely over long distances. Britain was unable to produce any aircraft to compare with the American and German transports.

160 J.S. Corum German and American aviation subsidies also paid for the development of long-distance and night-flying technology – another capability that British civil aviation lacked. From the late 1920s on, the German and American passenger planes routinely flew at night with the aid of radio navigation systems. At the same time, British civil aircraft were limited to daytime flights. These were capabilities that translated directly into military capabilities. By the late 1930s, the German and American air forces had adapted the civil aviation navigation technology for military use, and the German and American bombers were able to fly fairly effectively over long distances, in bad weather or at night. In contrast, the RAF Bomber Command remained mostly a daytime and fair weather force. In 1937, RAF aircraft and stations lacked direction-finding equipment and only half of the RAF Bomber Command stations had meteorological sections, and none had a ‘blind landing’ (Lorenz-type) system – all technologies that had been used in Germany and the US since the late 1920s.27 Because of sustained and generous government support for civil air transport through the 1920s and 1930s, the US Army Air Corps and the German Luftwaffe were able to develop specialized and highly trained military transport forces by the late 1930s – forces that proved invaluable for supporting military operations in the Second World War. In contrast, the RAF went to war in 1939 without a specialized transport force and was forced to improvise a military air transport system using obsolete bombers. Luckily, the RAF was able to acquire large numbers of modern specialized transport aircraft from the US during the Second World War. However, during the first half of the war, the RAF possessed little in the way of air transport means or capability.

The Commonwealth and airpower 1919–1939 Yet another missed opportunity in the interwar period was the failure to develop an effective system of military and civil aviation cooperation among the Commonwealth nations. While the Commonwealth was an important political entity, in terms of making strategy or enhancing military cooperation, it was little more than a very loose consultation body. This was difficult enough for British strategists to deal with during the 1920s when there were no urgent threats to Britain or the dominions. However, as major threats arose in the 1930s, the failure of the Commonwealth nations to cooperate and coordinate airpower strategy, aircraft production and aircrew training put the survival of the British Empire at grave risk once war began. The First World War enhanced the status and role of the imperial dominions and fundamentally changed the nature of the British Empire. The independent dominions of Canada, Australia, South Africa and New Zealand created large and effective armies and played an important role

The RAF in imperial defence 161 in every fighting front. The World War also advanced the industrialization of the independent dominions and created the basis for a modern military-industrial infrastructure that included establishing local military and civil aviation industries. Conscious of the crucial role they had played in winning the final victory, the governments of the dominion states insisted on renegotiating their position within the framework of imperial defence and strategy. No longer would imperial defence strategy be crafted in London with dominion states informed after the fact. After 1918, the Commonwealth states demanded the right to sit at the table as full partners rather than the loyal and cooperative subordinates they had been before 1914.28 A series of imperial defence and policy conferences in the 1920s set the tone for the Commonwealth cooperation with the British military for the defence of the empire. Most of the imperial discussions concerned ground and naval forces, but the role of airpower was an important consideration as well and would become increasingly important through the 1920s and 1930s. British Government proposals for a single imperial navy and air force set forth in the 1921 and 1923 imperial conferences were non-starters as far as the Commonwealth nations were concerned. Every Commonwealth state insisted that it would maintain independent services whose equipment would be compatible with the British as much as possible. Key issues, however, were left open. The role of the Commonwealth nations in the Pacific was left unclear, as were the military command arrangements. Most importantly, the degree of support that Australia and New Zealand might provide to the Singapore naval base was left open. During the 1920s, Britain and the Commonwealth often worked at cross-purposes in terms of imperial defence strategy. Britain saw Commonwealth defence planning in terms of getting Commonwealth nations to pay more for their defence, and Commonwealth nations saw the Singapore strategy and traditional reliance upon the RN as a means to pay less. In the immediate aftermath of the First World War, the independent dominions also had their demobilization and economic issues to deal with and were reluctant to be associated with any military schemes that might involve them in any new imperial adventures or commitments. Britain’s attempt to bring the Commonwealth nations into supporting Britain’s scheme to intervene in Turkey in 1922 during the Charnak crisis sowed a degree of mistrust between the Commonwealth governments and the British Government that remained into the 1930s. During the First World War, all the dominions established air forces and basic infrastructures for flight training, aircraft maintenance and even aircraft construction. Indeed, a large proportion of the Royal Flying Corps came from the dominions. Australia, for example, fielded its own squadrons for service with the Royal Flying Corps in the Mideast and France. After the war, Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa established small air forces. With the RN serving as the first line of imperial defence, building air

162 J.S. Corum forces was a low priority, and for most of the interwar period, the dominion air forces were mere training cadres and not in any position to support the RAF in imperial operations.29 The RAF did, however, establish a programme to bring dominion air force officers with short-service commissions into the RAF. After flight training and experience with RAF units, they would return to their own air forces. It was a simple and inexpensive means to keep the dominion air forces closely linked to the RAF. By the mid-1930s, with Hitler swiftly rearming Germany and moving towards an alliance with Italy, and a rapidly modernizing Japan becoming openly aggressive, the threats to British and Commonwealth security became acute. While Britain initiated a major aerial rearmament programme, the Commonwealth nations were generally reluctant to rearm and build up their air forces. In 1936, Air Commodore Arthur Tedder, the then chief of training for the RAF, authored a memo that proposed a scheme to set up an aircrew training programme for Commonwealth air force personnel in Canada and other Commonwealth nations. This sensible proposal did not find favour with Canadian Prime Minister King, who was reluctant to involve Canada in any imperial defence schemes. Tedder’s proposal, which later developed into the incredibly successful British Commonwealth Air Training Plan of the Second World War, was finally approved by the Commonwealth nations in April 1939, with training to begin in September 1939.30 Of all the Commonwealth nations, only Australia made any serious attempt to build up its air force. The rise of an aggressive and militant Japan forced Australia to begin to rearm and to initiate closer defence cooperation with Britain. Japan’s withdrawal in 1934 from the limits of the Washington Naval Agreements, the rapid growth of the Japanese armed forces and the brutal invasion of China in 1937 made the Japanese threat very clear to the Pacific Ocean powers. In 1937, the British Government promised that a powerful RN fleet would be dispatched to Singapore immediately if the Japanese threatened to move south.31 However sincere the British pledge to defend the Pacific dominions, the Australians understood that European and home defence would be Britain’s top priority and British resources might not be adequate to deal with simultaneous conflicts in Europe and the Pacific. With the British aircraft industry in the throes of rearmament, the Australians accurately predicted that Britain would not be able to supply adequate numbers of aircraft for a rapidly growing Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF). To provide for their own requirements, the Australians created their own aircraft manufacturing company, the Commonwealth Aircraft Corporation (CAC) in 1936. Furthermore, the CAC decided that its first production airplane would not be British but rather a version of the North American NA-33 trainer.32 Turning to the Americans for aircraft was another indication of Australia’s lack of confidence that Britain could uphold her vast imperial defence commitments. The Australian assessment was correct. From 1936

The RAF in imperial defence 163 to 1941, British industry was unable to manufacture adequate numbers of modern aircraft for its own forces, and unless the dominions went to America for aircraft or produced their own, they would be stuck with whatever obsolete aircraft that the RAF could spare them. By 1938, the Australians saw the situation as acute as the RAAF’s primary fighters were then obsolete open-cockpit Bristol Bulldog and Hawker Demon biplanes. Upset at the slow pace of delivery of British aircraft, the Australians turned to the Americans with an order for 50 Lockheed Hudsons to serve as modern reconnaissance-bomber planes.33 As the crisis in the Pacific worsened, Australia turned increasingly to an informal alliance with America in Pacific defence planning and ordered increasing numbers of aircraft from the US. In 1941, Australia began receiving aircraft under the American Lend-Lease programme as its air force expanded. Although Australia, like all the Western powers, was unprepared to meet the Japanese onslaught in 1941 and suffered initial sharp reverses, the build up of the RAAF had progressed to the point that it recovered quickly. Through 1942 and 1943, the RAAF, rapidly growing in size and effectiveness, played an important role in stopping the Japanese and turning the tide in New Guinea and the South Pacific theatres. Credit for this accomplishment lies with the foundations for aerial rearmament laid down in the 1930s. Another notably missed opportunity to develop imperial airpower was the failure to develop an Indian air force. In 1932, the Government of India established an air force that consisted of a flight of army cooperation biplanes. However, the Indian Government had little interest in developing an air force, and by 1939, the Indian Air Force consisted of a single squadron of obsolete Wapiti biplanes with a manning of 16 officers and 662 men. Two years later, at the outbreak of the Pacific War, the Indian Air Force was able to contribute only a small detachment of obsolete army cooperation aircraft to participate in the Allied debacle in Burma. The Government of India had ample financial resources to have created a modern and balanced air force, at least capable of defending Indian borders and vital bases. The Indian Government’s lack of interest in airpower meant that India was virtually defenceless in the air against Japanese attacks in 1942. From small beginnings, the imperial and Commonwealth contribution to the Allied air effort in the Second World War was substantial. During the war, the Commonwealth nations developed large and capable air forces under their own command and also contributed tens of thousands of aircrew to man the RAF’s squadrons. The Commonwealth Air Training Plan was one of the most successful of the wartime programmes, and it played a decisive role in winning air superiority for the Allies. Canada and Australia also became important aircraft manufacturing centres. However, the first half of the war was a bleak period for the RAF and Commonwealth air forces because of the very weak efforts to build a Commonwealth and imperial foundation for airpower in the 1920s and 1930s.

164 J.S. Corum

The RAF and the empire after the Second World War The outlook for Britain and the empire in the period right after the Second World War was, in many respects, more difficult than the postFirst World War era. For one thing, the exertions of the Second World War had strained Britain’s financial and economic resources to the maximum, and the need to demobilize the wartime armed forces and cut imperial defence expenditures was urgent. At the same time, all of the colonial powers faced a powerful wave of nationalism. Nationalist groups in Europe’s Asian and Middle Eastern colonies were considerably better organized than before the Second World War. In a devastated Western Europe, Britain and the US faced an aggressive and well-armed Soviet Union that was eager to exploit every opportunity to expand communist influence. In Greece, where thousands of British troops tried to maintain order and support the Greek Government, the Cold War turned hot as a powerful communist insurgency was supported by the Soviets through Yugoslavia. The new strategic realities required a complete reassessment of Britain’s empire and Britain’s role as a world power. In military and strategic terms, Britain had been eclipsed by the US and was now in the position of a junior partner, dependent on American loans and aid to adjust to the post-war economy. The positive side was that the US no longer remained aloof from European affairs and was willing to assume a major role in defending Western Europe and to work with Britain to contain communism in Greece. With Germany and Japan defeated and facing only a small Soviet navy, there was now little reason to maintain a large RN. The strategic relationship with the dominions had also changed. By 1945, Canada and Australia had become significant military powers in their own right, and the new realities began to change the nature of imperial relationships before the war had ended. During the Second World War, the US, whose navy was now vastly larger than the RN, assumed responsibility for the defence of Australia and New Zealand, and this relationship was formalized by agreements after the war. The development of the atomic bomb during the Second World War was an issue that could not be ignored in post-war strategic planning. With or without American help, Britain decided that it would maintain its great power status by developing its own nuclear weapons. As the RAF had created a superb strategic bombing force during the war, it was the logical force to deliver nuclear weapons. Because it was assumed that the next war might come quickly and with little warning, the only force that could respond with appropriate speed was the RAF. So the RAF, the Cinderella service before the war, eclipsed the RN as Britain’s first line of defence and became the primary military means of containing the Soviet Union. Developing new jet aircraft capable of delivering nuclear weapons became a top priority for defence research and development after the war. Despite the

The RAF in imperial defence 165 protests of the RN, the battle fleet that had been the pride of the armed forces was now replaced by the RAF’s strategic bomber force in the budget planning for Britain’s defence requirements. In financial terms, the empire had become, for the most part, an enormous liability after 1945. The military cost of British home defence and imperial commitments in a disorderly post-war world were enormous. In 1946–1947, the British armed forces budget was £1,091 million and took up 15 per cent of Britain’s GNP. The chancellor called for drastic cuts in the defence budget with a goal of spending £750 million in 1947–1948.34 The cost of maintaining large imperial garrisons was well beyond Britain’s capability, and in early 1946, the government took the painful but necessary decision to grant independence to India, Ceylon and Burma no later than 1948. The first post-war imperial problem for Britain’s armed forces was to reestablish British and Western rule in colonies that had been overrun and occupied by the Japanese in 1941–1942. Since Southeast Asia was primarily a British theatre of war, large British and Commonwealth forces were engaged in reoccupation of Malaya, the Dutch East Indies and French Indochina. The reoccupation of Malaya had been carefully planned and went ahead smoothly. In September 1945, the RAF occupied airfields in Indochina without incident. However, the British commitment to this theatre was shortlived as the French were able to bring in forces within a few weeks. Much more problematic was the reoccupation of the Dutch East Indies. As the Netherlands would be unable to stand up sufficient military forces to take control of their colony until late 1946, the British had to assume responsibility for securing and administering the vast Dutch Asian Empire for more than a year. The situation was complicated by the Indonesian nationalists declaring independence as the Japanese surrendered. This meant that the British army and RAF had to intervene in a politically explosive situation. In Sumatra, where the nationalists were not well organized, the reoccupation proceeded without incident. But in Java, where the nationalists had their primary power base, large-scale fighting broke out between the British forces and Indonesians in October–November 1945. The RAF deployed hundreds of aircraft to Indonesia as RAF Thunderbolts, Mosquitoes and Beaufighters provided close air support to British ground troops and bombed the rebel centres of power. The heaviest combat took place in the city of Surabaya, and RAF bombing inflicted heavy casualties upon the Indonesians as well as heavy damage to the city.35 The RAF support to the Dutch empire in Asia, an ultimately futile enterprise, was one of the several significant burdens the RAF had to bear immediately after the Second World War.

The RAF in post-war imperial strategy The post-war COS were firmly committed to maintaining Britain’s position as a global world power, and to them, this implied keeping the

166 J.S. Corum empire intact. The British defence chiefs met the new post-war challenges with a mixture of hard-headed realism, such as understanding the need to contain the Soviet expansionism, with an often emotional response, such as their preference to maintain the pre-war colonial system despite the economic costs. Britain’s service chiefs all had extensive experience in imperial operations and found it hard to conceive of a declining empire. For example, the RAF’s post-war chief, Air Chief Marshal Arthur Tedder (Chief of the Air Staff 1946–1950) had served as a squadron commander in the Middle East in 1922–1923 and as an air officer commanding Far East 1936–1938. Air Chief Marshal John Slessor (Chief of the Air Staff 1950–1953) had served as a flight commander in India in 1921–1923 and as a wing commander on the North West Frontier 1936–1937. While the Indian subcontinent was abandoned with great reluctance, the RAF and other service chiefs continued to argue strongly for keeping a strong imperial presence in the Middle East even though the primary strategic reason for maintaining Middle Eastern colonies – protecting communications with India – was no longer relevant after India’s independence. The rapidly changing post-war political conditions forced the British service chiefs and the air staffs to jump from one basing strategy to another. Immediately after the war, maintaining air bases in Egypt was considered to be a strategic necessity. However, as negotiations with the Egyptians for post-war bases were not very promising, in late 1946, the service chiefs began to look at Palestine as a major base for British forces in the Middle East.36 In the next year, as Palestine blew up into full revolt, another series of basing proposals were considered including stationing the RAF in Libya and East Africa. In the interim, the Suez Canal Zone became the primary British base in the Middle East. However, constant friction with the Egyptians made that an increasingly untenable proposition. Finally, the British service chiefs decided that Cyprus was best suited as a base location to maintain military and political influence in the Middle East. Britain’s imperial military infrastructure was considerably more than the nation could reasonably afford. Britain could afford to have a capable air force with nuclear weapons and modern bombers or a large conventional army and navy to maintain imperial influence – but not both. With 15 per cent of the British GNP devoted to military spending in 1946, the need to cut defence spending was urgent. In early 1946, when the British government committed itself to the development and production of nuclear weapons, the inevitable result was a reduction of imperial military commitments.37 Development of a modern jet bomber force that could deliver such nuclear weapons was also a complex technical undertaking that would require years of lead time and the long-term commitment of a large proportion of the military budget. In 1948, the RAF issued the operational requirements for a series of four-engined jet bombers, and the first of these, the Valiants, became operational in 1955. The Valiant bombers would quickly be followed by the more capable Vulcans and Victors. A

The RAF in imperial defence 167 force of 240 bombers was envisioned, and this force would form the core of British military striking power.38 After the decision for Indian independence was made in early 1946, the desire of the military chiefs to maintain the vestiges of empire in the Middle East was justified as part of the strategy of containing communism. The consequences of British military withdrawal from the Middle East were described in dire terms by RAF Chief of Staff Arthur Tedder in 1949, ‘The UK armed forces were the only stabilizing influence in areas of immense economic consequence to the Western World.’ Tedder also noted that withdrawal from the region ‘could hardly fail to lead to the disintegration of the Commonwealth and the eventual fall of Africa to communism’.39 From 1946 to 1956, the primary justification for maintaining an imperial presence in the Middle East and Mediterranean was to provide secure bases for RAF bombers able to strike the Soviet Union in case of war. Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Field-Marshal Lord Alanbrooke, first made this argument to the Defence Committee in April 1946.40 Air Marshal Tedder further developed this argument for imperialism in terms of the Anglo-American alliance. Tedder pointed out that in case of war with the Soviets, the first force that the US could deploy would be its strategic bombers, and the Americans would need secure bases from which to operate. Britain was in a position to provide such bases in the Mediterranean and Middle East, and the British service chiefs argued for a continued occupation of Libya and development of air bases there.41 This proposal was well received by the Americans during the AngloAmerican defence conferences in late 1947. At the time, the newly formed USAF Strategic Air Command was looking for suitable locations in the Mediterranean and Middle East to base their heavy B-36 bombers, which were capable of carrying nuclear weapons for long distances and the offer of British bases was very welcome. However, with Britain pulling out of Palestine and Egypt, Britain had few good base locations to offer the Americans. By 1950, the Americans finalized agreements with the French to build strategic bomber bases in Morocco, and Wheelus Field in Libya became a US air base in the 1950s and with strategic bombers stationed there until the late 1960s. Partly because of a shortage of British personnel and resources, and partly because of the close bonds forged in wartime, the post-war British government and service chiefs were ready to share imperial responsibilities in the Mediterranean and Middle East with the Americans. For their part, the American military and political leadership accepted the position of their British counterparts that Britain’s continued presence in the region was a positive and stabilizing factor. In early 1947, citing a lack of resources, the British government asked the Americans to take over the mission of supporting the Greek government, at that time desperately engaged in a civil war with the communists. In March 1947, the Americans responded with the Truman Doctrine and quickly poured in funds, equipment and

168 J.S. Corum military advisors for the Greek armed forces. While the US military took over the primary responsibility to support the Greeks, the RAF mission that had been training the Royal Hellenic Air Force remained in the country and worked alongside the Americans to create a Greek air force until the conflict ended in 1950. The British/American strategic cooperation in Greece helped accelerate the development of a collective defence strategy that would cover all of Europe and the Mediterranean. The Greek endeavour was also important as the first real victory in the struggle to contain communism.42 The enormous technological advances of the Second World War and the high cost of the new technologies had a central bearing on the strategy for RAF overseas basing. In the 1920s and 1930s, building RAF bases was neither difficult nor expensive. All the RAF aircraft of that era required for operations was a relatively flat and dry grass or dirt surface. Add a small operations tower and a few simple wooden hangers and one had a fully functioning RAF base. However, the heavy bombers developed during the war and the new jet aircraft coming into the RAF inventory in the late 1940s required a completely different approach to building air bases. The Lancaster bomber of the Second World War and the Lincoln heavy bomber developed at the close of the war required long concrete runways capable of bearing heavy loads. The new generation of jet fighters and bombers envisioned in the late 1940s required even longer runways than the heaviest Second World War aircraft. A 1949 study by the Air Staff noted that airfields for jet bombers under development would required a load classification to bear aircraft weighing 180,000–200,000 lb and would have to be 3,000 yards long and 150 yards wide with taxiways of at least 75 yards wide. In short, existing RAF bases would have to be rebuilt in order to operate effectively, and building any new air base would be a time-consuming and expensive undertaking.43 The engineering requirements alone as well as the costs of building a minimal infrastructure for jet aircraft required a long planning time. Even with a more generous budget, which was not realistic under the post-war conditions, the Air Staff would now have to think carefully about sitting each air base. Another issue that had to be considered in establishing major air bases was base security. With violent nationalist movements active throughout the Middle East and Asia, RAF bases became a lucrative target for groups trying to force the British and Western powers out of their countries. When the British pulled out of their Egyptian bases shortly after the war and relocated forces to the Suez Canal Zone, Egyptian nationalists initiated a campaign of attacks against the British bases and personnel. In 1951, when the Egyptians abrogated the 1936 Anglo/Egyptian basing treaty, the Canal Zone faced outright insurrection with riots by Egyptians and attacks on British convoys. Thousands of Egyptian workers at the Canal Zone’s military bases, including most of the skilled workers, walked off the job, and Britain could only maintain the bases by an emergency airlift of 2,000

The RAF in imperial defence 169 technicians and tradesmen from the UK.44 From that time until the final withdrawal of British forces from the Canal Zone in 1956, the large British establishment in the Canal Zone was under constant threat of attack by the Egyptians.45 The hope to establish Palestine as a major post-war RAF base of operations also ran into local violence and terrorism. Starting in January 1946, Jewish nationalists attacked RAF radar installations and depots. In February 1946, a well-planned attack put the important radar station on Mount Carmel out of action. A week later, Jewish terrorists attacked three RAF bases and destroyed 20 aircraft in carefully coordinated attacks. The RAF had to rush in reinforcements to protect the bases, and RAF ground crew were all armed and trained for ground defence.46 During the insurgency in Cyprus, which began in 1955 and lasted until 1959, the RAF again became a prime target for terrorist attacks by local nationalists. In several instances, Greek civilian employees of the RAF were able to smuggle bombs into tightly guarded bases and destroy aircraft parked on the field or undergoing maintenance. Several RAF personnel were killed by terrorist attacks carried out by Greek Cypriot nationalists. Eventually, the RAF and British army had to bring in over 20,000 troops to deal with the insurgency and secure the air bases which the British depended upon as their major strategic presence in the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East.47

Brushfire wars and counterinsurgency operations Although strategically and economically necessary, the slow and rather reluctant withdrawal from empire was punctuated by considerable violence, usually in the form of nationalist insurgencies. Along with the fairly large-scale RAF operations conducted in Malaya from 1948 to 1960, the RAF was also required to support a large number of small operations against insurgent movements in other colonies. The Cyprus insurgency (1955–1959) should have been foreseen by the Colonial Ministry, and local colonial officials had reported on the rising tide of Greek nationalism in Britain’s key Mediterranean colony for several years. But, as was often the case, the situation was ignored until the shooting started. The Greek Cypriot nationalists fielded only a small insurgent force that never numbered over 250 active fighters and never assembled in large groups to provide a good target for ground or air forces. The Cypriot insurgents did not aim for military victory but rather to create enough trouble to weaken the British will to stay. The Greek Cypriot insurgents conducted a campaign of constant bombings, assassinations and small ambushes, and they had the advantage of being able to melt into a Greek population that overwhelmingly supported their efforts. As in Malaya, the RAF supported army operations with Whirlwind and Sycamore helicopters and also employed light aircraft for observation. But such tactics were much less effective against small groups that employed primarily terrorist tactics and could find sanctuary among the civilian population.48

170 J.S. Corum The remote British colony of Aden also faced a round of tribal rebellions in 1947–1949 that required a campaign that resembled the campaigns of the interwar era with local forces supported by RAF armoured cars tracking the rebels and the punitive bombing of rebel villages carried out by Lincoln heavy bombers and Tempest VI fighter bombers of No. 8 Squadron.49 The Mau Mau rebellion in Kenya (1952–1955) was a major colonial military operation but fought primarily with local troops and resources. In this case, the major airpower contribution to defeating the guerrillas was made not by the RAF but instead by the light civilian aircraft of the Kenya Police Reserve Wing that flew constant low-level observation patrols over the rebel regions. As in the French colonial wars of the era, Harvard trainers modified to carry light bombs and machine guns proved to be the most effective close strike aircraft. In 1954, the RAF Transport Command was employed to transport the 49th Brigade from Britain to support counterinsurgency operations. In the later stages of the campaign, RAF Lincoln bombers relentlessly blasted known rebel strongholds with thousands of 500-lb bombs. In this case, area bombing seems to have had a significant morale effect upon the already desperate Mau Mau remnants, and the last large guerrilla groups soon surrendered.50 The RAF operations in the fight against communist rebels in Malaya from 1948 to 1960 stand out as a model of effective use of airpower in counterinsurgency. In contrast to operations before the Second World War, there was no attempt to provide an ‘air control’ solution to defeat the insurgents. The ability of the RAF to strike targets with airpower was largely irrelevant to the kind of war fought by the Malayan insurgents as the rebels rarely concentrated their forces in large units or fought conventional battles which would have exposed them to air strikes. It was a war of small insurgent units, hidden in the jungle or villages, relentlessly attacking the British or loyalist Malayans by means of terrorism and ambush and small attacks. Large operations mounted by the British army early in the campaign could search the jungle sanctuaries of the rebels for days and rebels, organized into small units at home in the jungle, found that they could easily evade the slow and clumsy army units. The British eventually learned that small light infantry teams, highly trained in jungle operations, were the best force for tracking down and destroying the rebel bands. The most notable RAF contribution to the British success in Malaya was the RAF helicopter squadrons that enabled the light infantry and police units to operate for days, and even weeks, deep in the jungle. The RAF’s Sycamore and Whirlwind helicopters provided constant support in the form of troop lift, resupply and medical evacuation for the infantry and police. The 40 helicopters of RAF No. 3 Wing enabled the British and Malayan army and police the ability to keep the rebels under constant pressure.51 The RAF excelled in a variety of support operations for the ground forces. RAF Valetta and Dakota transports flying into small airstrips or

The RAF in imperial defence 171 airdropping supplies enabled the British/Malayan forces to establish and maintain small forts in jungle and mountain regions inaccessible by road. In short, the rebels no longer had any safe regions where they could establish bases. In addition to transport operations, RAF aircraft supported the government’s propaganda campaign by dropping millions of leaflets over the jungle urging the rebels to surrender. In a further refinement of the propaganda war, RAF Valetta transports fitted out with loudspeakers flew over areas of known rebel activity broadcasting messages from former rebels urging their comrades to accept government offers of amnesty. Indeed, the psychological warfare programme supported by the RAF was remarkably successful according to the many guerrillas who came in to surrender from 1953 onwards.52 In the final reckoning, the RAF was able to provide exceptionally effective support to the ground forces in Malaya with a relatively small commitment of forces. The RAF force in Malaya throughout the insurgency amounted to little more than a hundred aircraft, and most of the aircraft employed for reconnaissance, strike and transport were the older, pistonengined Spitfires, Tempests and Dakota transports and not the RAF’s latest jets. However, the older planes did the job well at a low operating cost. In strategic terms, Malaya gave the British an important victory in terms of Cold War containment strategy without detracting from the RAF’s higher priorities of European and home defence. To this day, the RAF operations in Malaya provide a useful example of how an air force can effectively support a counterinsurgency campaign without undermining its primary conventional war capabilities.

The Commonwealth contribution Despite Britain’s difficult post-war strategic position, there were some very positive developments in conducting imperial military operations. In contrast with the interwar period, the Commonwealth nations had emerged from the Second World War as considerable air powers in their own right.53 Under the new post-war realities, the Commonwealth nations were no longer interested in asserting their independence within an imperial context as the empire was visibly in decline. Instead, the Commonwealth nations now viewed their role in the Commonwealth more as peers than subordinates and were politically committed to supporting collective defence of the West. The disorder in Europe and the Middle East and Asia, coupled with the rising threat of communism, motivated the Commonwealth governments to closer cooperation with Britain to support imperial military operations. While Canada committed ground, naval and air forces to defend Europe, Australia took on much of the responsibility to establishing order in post-war Asia. Australian ground forces and the RAAF reoccupied the eastern half of the Dutch East Indies in the fall of 1945, and Australia took

172 J.S. Corum over the role of Commonwealth representation in the occupation of Japan. From 1945 to 1950, when it was committed to the war in Korea, No. 77 RAAF Squadron was stationed in Japan.54 When the Malayan insurgency heated up, the RAAF committed its No. 1 Squadron of Lincoln bombers and the Dakota transports of No. 38 Squadron to serve in that colony under RAF command.55 From 1952 to 1954, the jet fighters of Australia’s No. 78 Squadron were deployed to Malta, where they defended Britain’s primary Mediterranean base.56 Other Commonwealth nations and dominions also contributed to imperial operations. In the later stages of the Malayan campaign, the Royal New Zealand Air Force (RNZAF) deployed some aircraft to support counterinsurgency operations.57 The small, but very capable, Rhodesian Air Force deployed two squadrons of Vampire fighters to Aden in 1958 to help suppress the insurgency there. From 1959 to 1963, Rhodesian Canberra bombers were stationed on Cyprus, and Rhodesian Air Force transports augmented the RAF’s transport command during the deployment of British forces to Kuwait during the 1961 crisis.58 As noted, most of the Commonwealth air force deployments in support of post-war imperial operations were on a small scale, usually amounting to a couple of squadrons. However, the support provided by Commonwealth air forces had more than a symbolic or political value. Taken cumulatively, the participation of commonwealth contingents in many peripheral operations allowed the RAF to deploy more of its limited tactical forces in the 1950s and 1960s to the higher priority mission of NATO support. Furthermore, the deployment of Commonwealth air forces on active operations provided those air forces with useful experience that enhanced their value in the context of broader Western security capabilities.

Strategic transitions The RAF operations in the Suez campaign of 1956 were the last major operations carried out in an imperial context. Although the RAF performed well in supporting the Suez operation, the whole campaign can best be characterized as a strategic fiasco.59 With Britain helping establish NATO in 1949 and joining SEATO in 1954, the decade after the Second World War saw a dramatic strategic shift from an imperial strategy to a strategy within the context of collective defence. This shift did not, however, signal an end to the RAF’s imperial air operations. From 1963 to 1965, RAF squadrons supported Britain’s desultory campaign against rebels in Aden until the government decided that holding the old base there was no longer worth the trouble. From the late 1950s through the 1970s, the RAF was engaged in several small campaigns in Asia and the Middle East. RAF units successfully supported operations to defend Brunei against Indonesian aggression in the 1960s and in

The RAF in imperial defence 173 supporting the government of Oman against insurgents in the 1970s.60 These later campaigns, with the exception of the fighting in Aden, were not carried out to defend colonial possessions but rather to support proBritish regimes against primarily external threats. Even as the RAF’s commitment to imperial defence declined, its ability to conduct very effective small-scale interventions and to support friendly governments threatened by insurgency improved. The RAF operations in Brunei from 1962 to 1966, which drew heavily upon the RAF’s recent experience in Malaya, provide another model of the effective use of airpower in lowintensity conflict. Largely because of the effective RAF operations in support of Brunei’s government, the Indonesians dropped their claim to Brunei in 1966.61

Notes 1 Malcolm Smith, British Air Strategy Between the Wars (Oxford, 1984), 23. 2 Ibid., 21–22. 3 Charles Miller, Khyber: British India’s North West Frontier (New York, 1977), 311–332. 4 Mark Jacobsen, ‘Only by the Sword: British Counter-Insurgency in Iraq, 1920’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, 2 (1991): 351–352, 358. For an interesting account of RAF operations in Iraq in 1920, see Squadron leader G.C. Pirie, ‘Some Experiences of No 6 Squadron in the Iraq Insurrection, 1920’, RAF Air Power Review, 7 (2004): 1–12. 5 James S. Corum, ‘Air Control: Reassessing the History’, RAF Air Power Review, 4 (2001): 15–36; Jacobsen, ‘Only by the Sword: British Counter-Insurgency in Iraq, 1920’, 356–357. 6 Jacobsen, ‘Only by the Sword: British Counter-Insurgency in Iraq, 1920’, 357. 7 Flight-Lieutenant F.A. Skoulding, ‘With “Z” Unit in Somaliland’, The RAF Quarterly, 2 (1931): 387–396. 8 Smith, British Air Strategy Between the Wars, 28. 9 For a good example of a typical nineteenth/early twentieth century punitive operation in the British Empire, see Winston Churchill, The Story of the Malakand Field Force (New York, 1989), originally published 1898. The book is Churchill’s personal account of an expedition he participated in. 10 David Omissi, Air Power and Colonial Control: The RAF 1919–1939 (Manchester, 1990), 25–27. 11 Ibid., 31. 12 Ibid. 13 Major General H. Rowan-Robinson, ‘Iraq’, RUSI Journal, 78 (1932): 384. 14 See Philip Towle, Pilots and Rebels (London, 1989), 9–55, for a good overview of the RAF and air control doctrine in the interwar era. 15 On the myths promulgated about RAF air control, see Corum, ‘Air Control: Reassessing the History’, 22–23. 16 Ibid., 20–21. Later drafts of the RAF’s notes on air control stressed the humanitarian aspects of air control. Rebellious villages would be first warned that they would be bombed if they did not accede to government demands. Given time to evacuate the village, the aircraft would demolish the houses with bombs, not with the intention of destroying the village, but with the aim of disrupting daily life. 17 See Basil Liddell Hart, The British Way in Warfare (London, 1932), 139–161. Liddell Hart accepted all of the RAF’s positions on air control and was an

174 J.S. Corum

18

19 20 21 22

23 24 25 26 27 28 29

30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

enthusiastic supporter. As military correspondent for the Daily Telegraph, Liddell Hart was in a good position to influence the public and politicians. The draft of the RAF’s Notes on the Method of Employment of the Air Arm in Iraq proudly pointed out that ‘within 45 minutes a full-sized village . . . can be practically wiped out and a third of its inhabitants killed or injured by four or five planes which offer them no real target and no opportunity for glory or avarice’. Cited in Towle, Pilots and Rebels, 20. James Corum and Wray Johnson, Airpower and Small Wars (Lawrence, 2003), 66–73, 80–81. Omissi, Air Power and Colonial Control: The RAF 1919–1939, 119–121. Max Arthur, There Shall be Wings: The RAF: 1918 to the Present (London, 1984), 4. In March 1921, the Admiralty drew up a memorandum that outlined the possibility of a conflict with Japan and the British Empire. In case of such a war, the RN would require a major regional fleet base, and Admiral Jellicoe and the RN staff identified Singapore to be ‘the key to the British Naval position in the Pacific’ and urged that it be made impregnable. David Stevens (ed.), The Royal Australian Navy, Vol. 3 (Melbourne, 2001), 62. Corelli Barnett, The Collapse of British Power (Atlantic Highlands, NJ, 1986), 280–281. Sebastian Ritchie, Industry and Air Power: The Expansion of British Aircraft Production, 1935–1941 (London, 1997), 42–43. Major General I.S.O. Playfair, The Mediterranean and Middle East, Vol. 1 (London, 1954), 29–31. On the RAF in the defence of Singapore and Malaya, see Henry Probert, The Forgotten Air Force: The RAF in the War Against Japan 1941–1945 (London, 1995), 37–52, 311. Neville Jones, The Beginnings of Strategic Air Power (London, 1987), 111–113. Barnett, The Collapse of British Power, 174–177. In 1938, the South African Air Force consisted of a training school depot, one active squadron and a small reserve. The Royal Australian Air Force had 227 permanent officers, 1,853 airmen, 52 reserve officers and 346 reserve airmen, a training school, two depots and eight active squadrons. The RNZAF in 1938 had 36 officers, 160 enlisted men, 68 reserve officers, a training school and a small depot. See A.G. Boycott, The Elements of Imperial Defence (London, 1939), 193–197, 204, 216–217. Spencer Dunmore, Wings for Victory (Toronto, 1994), 24–33. Air Commodore Henry Probert, The Forgotten Air War: The RAF in the War Against Japan 1941–1945 (London, 1995), 9. Alan Stephens, The Royal Australian Air Force, Vol. 2 (Melbourne, 2001), 50–51. Ibid., 54. Corelli Barnett, The Lost Victory: British Dreams, British Realities 1945–1950 (New York, 1995), 76–77. Air Chief Marshal David Lee, Eastward: A History of the RAF in the Far East 1945–1972 (London, 1984), 38–51. Barnett, The Lost Victory: British Dreams, British Realities 1945–1950, 65–67. R.N. Rosecrance, Defense of the Realm: British Strategy in the Nuclear Epoch (New York, 1968), 37. Martin Navias, ‘Strengthening the Deterrent? The British Medium Bomber Force Debate, 1955–56’, The Journal of Strategic Studies, 11 (1988): 203–219. Barnett, The Lost Victory: British Dreams, British Realities 1945–1950, 97. Simon Ball, ‘Bomber Bases and British Strategy in the Middle East, 1945–1949’, Journal of Strategic Studies, 14 (1991): 515–533. Ibid., 519–520, 526. Corum and Johnson, Airpower and Small Wars, 99–102.

The RAF in imperial defence 175 43 Robin Higham, Bases of Air Strategy (UK, 1998), 235–236. 44 Air Chief Marshal David Lee, Wings in the Sun: A History of the RAF in the Mediterranean 1945–1986 (London, 1989), 45–47. 45 Ibid., 47–51. 46 Ibid., 16–231. 47 Ibid., 108–122. 48 Bruce Hoffman, British Air Power in Peripheral Conflict, 1919–1976 (Santa Monica, CA, 1989), 68–71. 49 Ibid., 72–75. 50 Ibid., 57–68. 51 Corum and Johnson, Airpower and Small Wars, 190–199. 52 Hoffman, British Air Power in Peripheral Conflict, 1919–1976, 54–57. 53 For example, the RAAF was a force of 5,620 aircraft and 173,622 men in August 1945. See Stephens, The Royal Australian Air Force, 173. 54 Ibid., 216. 55 Ibid., 246–250. 56 Ibid., 222–223. 57 Corum and Johnson, Airpower and Small Wars, 193. 58 Ibid., 296. 59 For a detailed account of RAF operations in the Suez Campaign, see Lee, Wings in the Sun: A History of the RAF in the Mediterranean 1945–1986, 74–107. 60 On the campaign in Brunei, see Hoffman, British Air Power in Peripheral Conflict, 1919–1976, 82–86. On the RAF operations in Aden and Oman, see Corum and Johnson, Airpower and Small Wars, 199–218. 61 Hoffman, British Air Power in Peripheral Conflict, 1919–1976, 83–86.

9

Tradition and system British intelligence and the old world order, 1715–1956 John Robert Ferris

This chapter assesses British intelligence between 1715 and 1956, with a focus on structure and evolution. It emphasises the relationship between power, strategy and intelligence, and systems and traditions – means by which people gather and assess data for specific purposes, against loose combinations of ideas and practices about how to do so if one must. British intelligence, responding to changes in supply and demand, began with systems, turned to traditions, and returned to systems. Progress was not linear. Technical failures or successes affected policy, in complex ways. Between 1715 and 1793, Britain was unique as a power, as was its need for news, but not its intelligence system. It was a European power, separated from the continent by water, with overseas possessions next to many strong peoples. Only internal subversion or a navy superior off its coasts, convoying a large army, or the two in tandem, could threaten its security, yet it had major and vulnerable interests in Hanover, the Low Countries and the world. Any squabble in Europe might concern Britain, though so too it could ignore major changes in power. Several countries could challenge it, but any great danger must involve France. The British state needed to exert power on the continent and the world and to block two great threats: first, a dynastic rival, the Jacobites, supported by enemies within and without, and second, the large fleets of two loose allies, France and Spain. These threats could be unleashed by the secret decision of a few men. That happened regularly. British authorities made intelligence their first line of defence against these threats. It fit the bill. Until 1745, contra-espionage against Jacobites was the great task of British intelligence. It guided the collection of diplomatic material, spurred the development of code-breaking and forced close coordination between sources. Spies monitored Jacobites abroad, as mail intercepts did the literate and political elite at home, routinely gathered through general warrants which allowed the opening of all letters containing ‘suspected treasonable correspondence’.1 External intelligence was divided. Colonial authorities and naval and military ones on campaign gathered whatever information they needed, through their own means. Strategic and diplomatic intelligence in Europe was collected with more centralisation,

Tradition and system 177 backed by a specialist agency, the Deciphering Branch, about five-men strong. The eighteenth century was the first great age for communications intelligence, and Britain a great practitioner. Everywhere, able code-breakers had easy access to foreign traffic, popped in the post or carried in despatch bags which could be opened easily and surreptitiously. For everyone, diplomatic dispatches were key to strategy or survival, in an integrated, opportunistic and multilateral system, where minor shifts in position by many states might reshape one’s position, and renversements des alliances overturn it. Because capabilities were clear and powerful, the intentions of foreign statesmen were unusually central to strategy and equally difficult to determine. Statesmen avidly sought to penetrate the uncertainty or security around these matters, especially in France, by combining code-breaking with human sources. Regularly, foreign ministers read all the traffic of ambassadors while negotiating with them. This advantage was doubled by Britain’s tendency to negotiate not in foreign capitals but London: thus, it read ambassador’s reports and their master’s retorts, while minimising the exposure of its own secrets. Statesmen routinely circulated and assessed solutions. They had ambassadors gather detailed intelligence by all sources, on specific matters such as the views of individual people or military preparations. Diplomats did such work as a matter of course. Thus, in 1737, the Foreign Secretary told the ambassador in Paris, he cannot be too alert in this critical conjuncture, and you will therefore have persons in the several ports of France to send you conattnadvices; and it might not be amiss if you employ’d proper persons all along the coast to be viewing and observing the motions of the Irish regiments, that upon the least appearance of anything that might give a jealousy, Your Excellency might send His Majesty notice of it. We shall have a considerable squadron at home, which if there should be any design of making any attempt either from France or Spain, will be able upon the least hint from Your Excellency, to dispose itself so as to defeat any enterprise of that kind.2 Officials working against their hosts produced most human intelligence, but all sorts of Britons abroad watched the Jacobites and thus foreign states. From 1760, Britain created a second system of espionage through the non-official means best able to acquire it, commercial sources. Richard Wolters, ‘His Majesty’s Agent at Rotterdam’, exploited its connections to mercantile ports abroad to gain broad coverage of political, financial and naval matters. By 1798, after France conquered the Netherlands, the Foreign Secretary noted the need to develop intelligence ‘through the means of some mercantile house at Hamburgh, whose correspondence with Holland might be constant and unsuspected’. Forms of political warfare, like propaganda, were normal tools of policy at home and abroad. Bribes to statesmen (frequently between £1,000 and £10,000)

178 J.R. Ferris stood second only to the subsidy of states as a diplomatic weapon in Central Europe.3 Between 1715 and 1793, espionage served Britain well, perhaps better than any other power in Europe, save in one area. Intelligence on maritime capabilities in peacetime, like the location of warships, was easy to find but not on operational matters in war. Limits to signals made warships at sea hard to contact or locate. Fleets were desperately ignorant of anything beyond visual range of their furthest frigates, fifteen miles by day and four at night.4 The difficulty in finding enemies or forcing them to battle made the Royal Navy (RN) play for safety at sea, keeping most of its warships in home waters, to block the gravest danger, that a strong enemy fleet might suddenly dominate those seas. This weakened its sea power elsewhere, at some cost between 1742 and 1763 and a high one in 1783. Intelligence mattered even more to Britain during the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic wars, though its enemy was able. Political warfare aided France in the Low Countries, Italy and Germany, while Napoleon Bonaparte processed operational and strategic information with unprecedented skill. Intelligence multiplied French power in Central Europe, just as it did British to the west, despite some failures. The value of code-breaking declined because diplomacy did. Between 1793 and 1812, Britain had increasingly few foreign ambassadors at home or for negotiations abroad. It offered greater bribes and subsidies than before to less effect. During 1797, William Pitt was willing to pay French ministers £450,000 to buy an acceptable peace, drawn from Indian revenues and secret service, ‘without the necessity of ever disclosing the transaction’. In 1803, Britain offered Jerome Bonaparte even more, to make his brother tolerate British control of Malta, so to salvage peace.5 British aid for French resistance to the revolution had some success, more than France had with revolutionaries in the UK. Spies provided accurate and trusted coverage on political and military matters. Authorities in Whitehall ran some agents in French-occupied territory, but most were controlled by officials stationed nearby, such as Richard Lamb, the consul in Frankfort, or Richard Wellesley in Spain.6 Four messengers were ‘constantly engaged at the hazard of their lives if discovered in conveying the correspondence to & from our Secret Agents abroad’.7 Between 1804 and 1812, Britain had more spies than diplomats in Europe. This material aided strategy and diplomacy less than it generally had done between 1715 and 1793, while British operational intelligence reached new peaks in absolute quality and relative superiority over its foe. In the peninsula, the Duke of Wellington ably and aggressively used a great system of military intelligence, combining cartography and cryptography and overlapping human sources for tactical, operational and strategic matters.8 This material was fundamental to his defensive success in 1810, his offensive one of 1812 and his triumph of 1813. Knowledge aided the RN even more as a force multiplier. It found a special solution to the general problems with communication and intelligence. Close blockade pinned enemy warships in

Tradition and system 179 port, which let the RN determine the location of almost all of them on the Atlantic coast of Europe and most in the Mediterranean Sea. Without close blockade, Britain might have lost the war. Its value lay no more in operations than intelligence, where it was almost the functional equivalent of Room 40 during the First World War. Whenever the enemy broke from blockade, intelligence became as difficult as ever, forcing even Horatio Nelson into bizarre evolutions during 1798 and 1804. Then, his best source of intelligence was his sea log, built up over thirty years of service, which let him predict meteorological and nautical conditions with unusual accuracy.9 The generation after 1815 was the Indian summer of eighteenthcentury British espionage. It focused above all on France, where the ambassador between 1815 and 1830, Lord Stuart de Rothesay, gathered news by all means, including spies. From 1824 to 1839, Britain also subsidised two Englishmen to report on opposition groups, whom officials could not routinely meet in this divided state. Statesmen read these reports, though most comments are unfriendly. The Foreign Secretary, Lord Palmerston, called them ‘worse than Trash’.10 Meanwhile, between 1793 and 1825, governments feared political threats from the lower orders at home, against which they relied on spies and the interception of mail.11 Between 1830 and 1846, Britain increasingly abandoned espionage against European states and its own citizens, including the only centralised part of its older system. It ceased the use of spies and general warrants at home. In the tumultuous years after 1815, postmasters regularly intercepted the mail of specific people and sometimes were told to ‘detain and open any letters’ to and from specific towns thought ‘to be of a suspicious nature, and likely to convey seditious or treasonable information, or to contain money likely to be applied for the purpose of promoting seditious or other Disturbances’. From 1830, far fewer intercepts were ordered, and these were more specific and less political.12 Meanwhile, political espionage stopped in Paris, because France lacked the will and means to threaten Britain and old agents provided little material, while new ambassadors disliked spying on their hosts and easily gathered information from liberal, bureaucratic and constitutional regimes, whether named monarchies or republics. Demand declined and supply failed. Britain abandoned its code-breaking agency, as did most European countries, partly for technical reasons. Diplomatic dispatches, moved by rapid and reliable couriers, were harder to purloin, while telegraph carried messages of lesser moment, covered by codes which could be broken only through new forms of technical expertise. That scarcely seemed worth the bother; therefore, neither did black chambers. The British one was of mediocre value after 1815. Though one authority regards changes in cryptanalysis as the difference between Palmerston’s successes of the 1830s and his failures of later years, that statesman may have gained more by sending letters which he wanted foreign leaders to

180 J.R. Ferris open than by reading their mail. Nor did Palmerston press to improve the system – his correspondence about code-breaking focused on pensions not directions. In this context, the embarrassment ministers felt at reading other gentlemen’s mail, and even more, being caught at it, killed the black chamber dead. Internal threats, independent princes or revolutionaries, however, made Indian authorities intercept mail for a decade longer and revive that practice a decade earlier than at home.13 These changes demand explanation. One has been found in attitudes. Throughout the Victorian era, Christopher Andrew suggests, British intelligence was hampered by a belief that gentlemen could not be spies.14 This point has force and limits. From 1830, British statesmen, never pure cynics even in the ancien regime, became increasingly high minded. Even so, few practices save cannibalism were beyond the pale for them, so long as they were not caught publicly in the act. Statesmen had differing appetites for the fruits of espionage. Some found the taste repugnant; others deemed it a delicacy beyond compare; most sampled the dish pragmatically, according to hunger or need. Changes in attitude explain part of the turn in British espionage but not all. Equally, its existing spy and code-breaking services failed, while Britain was secure. Given the break with Hanover, the constraints on French expansion, especially in the Low Countries, the fact other powers paid to maintain the status quo while Whitehall tolerated the greatest challenges to it, Italian and German nationalism, few squabbles on the continent seemed to endanger Britain while Europe survived its absence. Britain turned from being a European power with an overseas empire, to a world power based off Europe, but not of it. Overwhelming at sea, and on most imperial frontiers, it confronted no external threat, and even more, no internal one. No major state aimed to damage vital British interests or could – the greatest dangers between 1820 and 1890, French naval construction or a Russian threat to India, were small. So to threaten Britain, other countries must develop great capabilities, in time-consuming and obvious ways. The eighteenth-century problem of intelligence at sea remained, but was irrelevant, because no one cared or dared to challenge the RN. The rise of radio solved the threat which emerged around 1900, more through its impact on communication than intelligence, strengthening the strongest sea power, by letting it find its enemies and contain them. Even considering the events of 1854–71, the centre of world power, Europe, was stable. Capabilities were known. Most power in the system backed the status quo. Compared with the eighteenth century, major states had little at risk, less need for secret intelligence and more inhibitions about its collection. Most states moved from the practice, Britain slightly further than usual. Across Europe, statesmen were more open with each other and lied less: secrets were fewer and easier to uncover. One Prime Minister, Johnny Russell, told his Foreign Secretary, Lord Clarendon, ‘Your very interesting letters confirm what I always thought – that a hundred spies cannot ascertain so

Tradition and system 181 much as an English gentleman in whom Princes and Ministers believe that they can safely trust’.15 Personal friendships and the Coburg connection informed Britain of continental politics at the highest of levels. Uniquely in modern history, British statesmen did not fear an internal threat – not surprisingly, given the ease with which they weathered the Chartists or widened the franchise. They relied on detectives, despite doubts of their competence, to penetrate Irish political crime, but elsewhere in Britain abandoned the accoutrements of a political police. Only a bad regime required them, and they were good.16 Victorians had and felt less need for secret intelligence than British regimes in the eighteenth and twentieth centuries. Open sources illuminated most of their problems, but not all, including intelligence in wartime and on strategic dangers. Victorian governments collected information on these issues as a matter of course, but in odd ways, which shaped British intelligence until 1914. Basic information for strategic purposes was gathered through open sources and processed through permanent agencies, ultimately specialised ones. Secret intelligence was handled through a personalised system. Victorians often created bureaux to handle clandestine tasks for a few years or decades, but these vanished when that problem did. Prime ministers, foreign secretaries, viceroys of India, other colonial authorities and generals abroad, senior officials within the Admiralty, the FO, the Home Office, the War Office and the Government of India either ran these networks or gathered the information themselves. They directed collection in a loose and decentralised fashion, often leaving sources to guide themselves. Intelligence was assessed by the statesmen who acted on it. This organisation was more useful for imperial security than European diplomacy, a pattern which persisted to some extent until 1939, because it reflected British concerns. The system was haphazard, and its effect variable: sometimes, it provided material of extraordinary quality, being well suited to Lords Salisbury and Rosebery between 1885 and 1900, but usually its quality and influence were below the level normal between 1715 and 1793 or after 1914. Between 1840 and 1914, Britain abandoned political warfare in western countries, where ministers did not spy on their hosts. They did so in Russia and also in non-western states, where secret service funds routinely were used to bribe officials, though diplomats purported to dislike such actions.17 During the Russo-Turkish war in 1877, the minister in Istanbul, Henry Layard, reported that he had received useful information through ‘a little s.s. which I hope you will not grudge. . . . I have a great dislike for the employment of such men, but one is obliged to have recourse to them at such a time as the present’.18 All ministers knew how to conduct espionage, but many had scruples, and none had to do anything distasteful. In 1879–81, the minister in Washington worked with the Home Office in espionage against Fenian subversion, while the ambassador in Paris held that:

182 J.R. Ferris the best chance of dealing with such matters effectively and without political and diplomatic inconvenience, should be that the Agents for this purpose should be employed by the English Police Authorities, that these Agents should be ordered to keep clear of the Embassy, and that I should really and truly know nothing of them or their proceedings. Matters were accordingly settled, & I understand this arrangement to be still subsisting, and attach very great importance to the Embassy’s being bona fide entirely clear of all detective proceedings in France about these matters. Experience showed that it might have proved very inconvenient if a statement to this effect could not have been made in Parliament, although it was not actually made.19 This approach was filled with ambiguities. In 1901, the ambassador in St Petersburg, Charles Hardinge, ran a secret informant, ‘a high official at the Miny, for F.A. whose statements have on many occasions invariably proved correct’, acquiring information through his ‘indiscretion. . . . He has however to be managed carefully, and he cannot always be got to speak’. Hardinge thought the systematic Tsarist attempts to steal documents from his embassy not merely ‘medieval but . . . simply barbarous, and unworthy of any Government with any pretensions to be treated as that of a civilized country’.20 Yet, Victorians specialised in precisely this form of barbarism, which matched code-breaking in value. While the whole story is unknown, Britain commonly stole state papers in Russia and Turkey and occasionally in Bulgaria and China.21 During the negotiations at Paris which ended the Crimean war, the Foreign Secretary, Clarendon, ran a ‘secret source of intelligence’, in the Russian mission, able to acquire copies of its correspondence.22 A few years later, the Military Attaché at St Petersburg acquired much material on Russian policy in the Balkans, showing it ‘aims at the provocation of an insurrection which might possibly extend even to Constantinople. The formation of a Secret Panslavonic Society & the transmission of arms to Servia are only episodes in the intrigue’.23 Between 1874 and 1878, his successor stole documents which illuminated Tsarist policy in Asia. Such work went on, less spectacularly, in later decades.24 From 1880, many sources gave Britain major documents from the Porte. Ethics rarely constrained such actions. In 1910, however, when a Military Attaché wished to bribe officials to gain British firms advance information on Turkish military orders, the FO refused: ‘It would be doing work which would properly be done by the commercial firms interested themselves, and that it would tend to encourage them in lack of enterprise and initiative’.25 One should leave such initiative to Vickers and could. In the Victorian era, ambassadors became disassociated from espionage and consuls did not, while Military Attachés often became part-time spymasters. Intelligence turned from the eighteenth-century focus on diplomatic

Tradition and system 183 intentions, towards one on strategic planning, military capabilities, arms shipments and, from 1865, contra-espionage against imperial threats based throughout the world, especially Irish and Indian rebels. Between 1815 and 1914, consuls in Brest, Antwerp and New York remained the standard source of naval intelligence. In 1828, Wellington referred to ‘my secret agent at Brest (who is also the King’s consul there)’. Over the next eighty years, that consulate regularly received £50 per year for intelligence on France’s main naval base.26 In 1855, during the Crimean war, the Antwerp Legation was ordered to monitor contraband and American ships, and during the Pendjah crisis of 1885, to provide ‘prompt and timely information of any negotiations for the purchase by foreign agents of any British or other Ocean going Steamers’.27 In 1890, Lord Salisbury and his Permanent Under Secretary (PUS), Philip Currie, ordered all consuls in Black Sea ports to monitor signs of a Russian strike at Istanbul, through their own observations or any means they might employ.28 Nothing better characterised Victorian intelligence than the fact that a prime minister and PUS personally directed an espionage network consisting of British officials. Businessmen became a greater source than before. Many consuls were officials, merchants and members of old expatriate communities. The family of Charles Cattley, Britain’s intelligence chief in the Crimea during 1855, had lived in Russia for a century, while several generations of the Stephens family served as consuls and spies in Baku. Nor was faith limited to British businessmen. In 1821, one diplomat noted, ‘The first news always comes to Rothschild’. This family cooperated closely with another ambassador deeply involved in espionage, de Rothesay.29 During the war of 1877, the intelligence authority for the Army, John Simmonds, considered how to ‘obtain correct information from Russia of the preparations occurring in the Russian Dockyards in the event of the Consuls being withdrawn’. Probably British merchants would not do so, both by a sense of honour towards the Russian authorities and by fear of compromising their own interests in the event of discovery. . . . The most likely mode of getting the information required would be to interest the class of Jewish Bankers who have correspondents all through the country & are always well informed as to what is being done by the Government. The matter is one of much difficulty and delicacy and even danger to men who may be sent out at short notice and it is by no means certain that this last consideration apart those Bankers whose interests are really identified with those of the country would be willing to give information that would be prejudicial to Russia.30 British intelligence particularly relied on commercial links between India and Central Asia. By 1830, the East India Company ordered the Government of India to obtain ‘secretly from native merchants information of every event of political interest that may occur’ in Central Asia. While

184 J.R. Ferris serving as commissioner for Sind during the 1850s, Bartle Frere so used the commercial network of a major merchant.31 These sources, friendly towards Britain or hoping to curry its favour, provided most of India’s information on Central Asia and the personnel and cover for the central element of its intelligence system, the only permanent one retained by Victorian Britain, the ‘newswriters’, Indians abroad reporting news in the public domain – or bazaar gossip.32 From 1870, a new form of human intelligence entered the equation. Police detectives handled contra-espionage against political crime, sometimes aided by private ones. Pinkertons worked for the Bank of England against American forgers in the US and the UK. In 1914, it claimed, ‘We have always done and are doing the work for Scotland Yard’, and also ‘anarchistis sic work for the German, French and Italian Governments’. This source combined local expertise with uncertain loyalty. During the Boer War, the New York Consulate noted, The Customs Authorities treat manifests as confidential documents and tho’ I am employing Pinkerton & getting a certain amount of information from them, I do not feel sure that they are not in the pay of the S.A.R. at the same time. (The Naval Attaché) Captain Ottley made a suggestion that detectives might be sent out from England; do you think this would be feasible. There are a certain number who have a knowledge of New York but they would of course be known to some of Pinkerton’s people and to some of the New York police. It might be possible to send some detectives from Canada.33 Similar fears dogged British security during 1914–15, when Pinkertons became fundamental to imperial intelligence in the US.34 Between 1815 and 1880, military intelligence followed old models. Usually without specialised intelligence officers or offices, the RN and the British and Indian armies collected, synthesised and used data. Field intelligence followed the Peninsular pattern. During 1854–8, in Crimea and India, commanders integrated information and planning, while a civilian with local expertise, a consul or district officer, with a tiny staff, gathered and processed data. In peacetime, the collection of strategic data varied from the sporadic (Crimea) to the systematic (coastal charts). Assessment and planning occurred only when necessary, when senior officers from the best educated branch of either service correlated intelligence and strategy, almost as a form of applied mathematics. The Hydrographer’s Office coordinated intelligence and war planning for the RN as two aging engineers, John Burgoyne and John Simmonds, did for the army in 1854 and 1877, respectively.35 Military intelligence often failed in elementary ways, as with the surprise of the Indian ‘mutiny’ and the failure to take Sevastapol quickly or prepare for a winter campaign in Crimea, but it also could become excellent with rare speed.

Tradition and system 185 This system worked better than one might expect, but it faced problems beyond its power as a world political and economic system emerged, and the railway, steamship and telegraph revolutionised communications. They knit isolated areas into one world, where any problem affected them all, and their correlation created new ones. These problems affected no state more than Britain, the central arch of the world system; none could gain more from solving them or had to. Departments found hints to solutions from their experiences with the telegraph and information management, while Victorian civil services, the German General Staff and the practice of political statistics provided models of how bureaucracies could apply data processing to decision making. These solutions were applied through loosely coordinated steps over a thirty-year period. No one planned the outcome, but it suited British aims and means, at some cost. Every agency approached information in an administratively easy way for itself, which later complicated coordination. Firms made Britain the centre of world communications and information. This killed the regionalised structure of strategy and intelligence, and created a centralised one, worldwide. Statesmen used the system without knowing it existed and then strove to strengthen it. From 1880, to improve the collation and collection of information, and its use in real time, departments established specialist agencies: the Military Intelligence Department (MID), the Foreign Intelligence Committee (FIC) and the Indian Intelligence Branch. Characteristically, the latter stemmed from the belief that, for ‘the rapid commencement and vigorous prosecution of war in any direction’, the Indian Army needed ‘some organization . . . for collecting statistics, and for arranging in time of peace, the mass of important records which doubtless exist in the several offices of the Supreme and local Governments’ and a staff ‘able to transfer its functions to the field’.36 In this development, old growths constrained new ones. Only after years of effort, did the FIC take over assessment of coastal defences and warships from the Hydrographer and Director of Naval Construction. At first, its duties were purely factual to collect, classify and record with a complete index all information which has a naval character, or which may be of value during Naval operations. . . . When recording the source whence information is to be derived is invariably to be mentioned, so that the evidence may be weighed, and original documents sent for, when necessary. . . . The Committee will not be called upon to express their own opinions, or to record them, though they may often have to record the opinions of others; and they are to be careful to distinguish between facts and matters of opinion.37 This change improved collection, estimates and strategy. Around 1885, the MID and the Naval Intelligence Department (NID, successor to the

186 J.R. Ferris FIC) took on the duties of general staffs, including war planning, as statesmen saw the need for a reasoned and imperial strategy. The NID of seven officers and five clerks was ordered to ‘collect, sift and record and lay before the Board all information relating to maritime matters likely to be of use in war’ and develop operational plans. ‘The essence of its work is to be “Preparation for War” ’.38 The MID, a combination of general staff and assessment bureau, often worked directly for prime ministers and foreign secretaries, providing a more powerful and integrated system of collection, estimation and action than any other state of the time possessed, or Britain would know again until 1942, applied to imperial issues.39 After 1902, these bodies became general and naval staffs. The NID and MID, their other roles hived off, focused strictly on intelligence. Their influence in planning declined, but estimates were incorporated well into strategy, while collection improved. The Indian Intelligence Branch worked purely on intelligence, while in 1906, the FO was restructured so better to process information in diplomacy. Between 1880 and 1900, information processing and strategic decision making were transformed. Departments maximised the collection and collation of an increased mass of open and official information. Specialist bureaucracies, rather than engineers or statesmen, assessed information, which was better circulated. The FO sent consular reports direct to the Admiralty rather than waiting on covering letters. The NID and MID entered a ‘semi-official relationship’, ‘to avoid the delay and formality of official communications, & to facilitate free intercourse’. Yet, when the MID called for some coordination of collection, the NID noted ‘the military authorities will have little or no information to communicate to us since the enemy being on the water, the military forces will not be in contact with him’.40 Official and open sources were honed but not secret ones. The NID thought RN officers and Naval Attachés its ‘most trustworthy and important’ sources, followed by ‘Consuls who have served in the Navy’ and newspapers. The closest it sailed to secret sources was when a Naval Attaché turned a ‘strong glass’ on Russian warships from the window of the British consulate at Odessa.41 The British and Indian armies used secret sources more, but preferred official and open ones, and focused on topographical intelligence along imperial frontiers and training officers in field intelligence. In 1892, noted the MID, the original idea behind the Indian Intelligence Branch was ‘that its chief & all its members would be more or less explorers & provide material to collate’.42 ‘An Officer should not be sent in any position in which he may be compromised, & . . . if we are to employ spies we should get them from some other source, than the commissioned ranks of the Army’.43 The main exception to this rule actually illuminates it. The Survey of India did pass trained agents in and out of Central Asia but not for espionage against Russia. Rather, a systematic series of explorations between Russian and British territory were conducted by Indians, the ‘Pundits’, who had special

Tradition and system 187 training, worked under cover, and provided geographical data of strategic moment. Yet, they were not used to collect military intelligence, and the Survey exchanged its data with Russian geographers.44 Britain gained more knowledge by information than any state had ever done through intelligence and processed and used it better. It developed information superiority over all other states; this was not lost until 1950. This success defined the need for intelligence. Open sources answered most questions, leaving just a few hard and special cases of internal or external threats. These were handled by the responsible department: the Admiralty, working direct with consuls; the Foreign Secretary or PUS, working through the MID; the Irish Special Branch, Home Office, Indian Intelligence Branch or its provincial Special Branches, through detectives. Rarely did these units act together, except for imperial contra-espionage. In the 1870s, spies and detectives run by Canada, India, ambassadors and the Home Office monitored Fenian subversion.45 In the 1880s, detectives working for British authorities in Punjab and Egypt, and diplomats in Paris and St Petersburg, penetrated a farcical effort to rally internal and external enemies against the empire by Dalip Singh, claimant to the kingdom of Lahore.46 British authorities in many countries watched the shadows for a Muslim menace, especially Wahabism. The consul in Jeddah was charged with monitoring ‘the politico-religious movements, which starting from the head-quarters of Islam may soon reach the Muhammedans of India’.47 Britain addressed these problems case by case. This process, especially its failures, shaped the rise of intelligence. From 1890, the inability to detect Russian thrusts on Istanbul and India worried Britain. The attempts to overcome ignorance took its intelligence to the edge of its competence. Britain had some success against the first case, by making consuls in the Black Sea monitor Russian shipping, while linking the Mediterranean Fleet and its embassy in Istanbul by rapid and covert communications but not against the second.48 Simply to increase the number of newswriters was pointless, since Indian officials mistrusted them. Nor could secret agents easily pass to and from Turkistan. Few native officials of the Government of India could travel secretly through Central Asia, while Europeans were rather conspicuous in that area. These problems left Britain uncertain and open to Tsarist blackmail. New ones followed.49 Between 1898 and 1902, the European and world systems became one. A series of crises in Asia and Africa, some blamed on intelligence failures, triggered fears of danger which echoed until 1914. The threats were real but overstated. Despite them, Britain’s decline in power and the need to actively manage Europe so to keep it stable, divided and peaceful, Britain easily held its own and scored a great run of success in policy. Still, the tension reduced its tolerance for uncertainty and definition of menace and raised its demand for intelligence. Its concerns were unlike those of any other state, overwhelmingly imperial, whether about external or

188 J.R. Ferris internal threats, and maritime, indifferent to European diplomacy. Against occult and terrorist bodies, ‘not merely the bomb in Calcutta, Poona, etc., but the little nests of deviltry in Paris, New York and other centres’, even staunch Liberals advocated a political police.50 Fears of an internal– external threat sparked the origin of MI5, the Indian Criminal Intelligence Department (CID) and the ‘A’ agency. Old institutions and attitudes constrained new developments, which stemmed from a desire to solve known and particular problems, rather than general and unknown ones. Intelligence easily could tell authorities what they wanted to learn but not what they did not know they could know. Like Victorians, Edwardians were more willing to use intelligence than to collect it. Still, strategic problems and intelligence needs overlapped, and agencies created for one problem could evolve to handle others. Special Branch, initially focused on Irish revolutionaries, turned to monitor spies and revolutionaries around 1900. By 1910, it was authorised to work closely with MI5 on its ‘enquiries regarding the many alleged instances of foreign espionage and other suspicious incidents which are frequently brought to our notice’. William Melville, MI5’s first operative, had long service as a police detective. However, a true political police re-emerged only in 1914. Fear of Tsarist contacts with Indian revolutionaries, and the hope of reading Russian military traffic in war, underwrote the rise of the Indian codebreaking agency, but it soon focused on diplomatic traffic.51 Intelligence evolved as a group of loosely connected solutions to particular problems, defined more by personality than policy, which caused odd general results. Code-breaking emerged in India but not England and was used against China but not Germany. India had more intelligence officers abroad for contra-espionage than Britain had for espionage. The MID, the empire’s premier intelligence agency, the only one with a general mandate or expertise, had little secret funding of its own. Still, the developments were powerful. From 1900, Britain slowly came to collect human intelligence through specialist bureaus, not well coordinated, staffed by army, navy and police officers and focusing on strategy and security rather than diplomacy. It began with the ‘A’ agency, an import–export company, based in Antwerp, run by the MID, working in the arms trade, to monitor potential threats. It was followed by the establishment of a permanent field intelligence service in India, an outstation in Meshad to improve the monitoring of Russian Central Asia, a worldwide contra-espionage service by the CID, MI5 in Britain and a ‘secret service’ [later called MI1c, MI6 and the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS)].52 The British Army and Navy began to prepare for the use of radio intelligence in war. The Indian Army created a code-breaking agency, which had success against the diplomatic traffic of Persia and China, its material widely circulated in the Indian and British governments. Most of these agencies focused on threats, known or feared, which were hard to detect, like Indian revolutionaries or German warship construction.

Tradition and system 189 Ultimately, they became permanent and general purpose bureaus, but that effect was not the intent. Sources remained Victorian. When considering an espionage system for war with Germany, one minister noted, There are a good many Swedes in business who have married English wives, especially in Gothenburg where the tone and feeling is quite English, and there no doubt, among the class of agents and commercial travellers, who do a big business in Germany, some suitable material might be found.53 A leading source on German warships was the Director of Vickers, Commander Trevor Dawson, working through ‘special agencies’ and his own observations in war shipbuilding yards. Lloyds advised the Admiralty on how to monitor naval movements on the Kiel Canal.54 Modes of organisation drew and departed from Victorian forms. In 1903, the MID thought it obvious that we, from our geographical position, do not require in peace time elaborate espionage agencies in the interior of any European Country. Our peace requirements in the matter of secret service, unlike those of Continental nations having extensive land frontiers to guard, differ much from our War requirements; it is not necessary for us, as it is for them, to maintain an army of spies in our neighbour’s territory to report his slightest movements. . . . We require two distinct systems, one for peace, and one for war. In peace, ‘we should be able to obtain all the information and warning we require’ by the press, ‘a few intelligent observers’ at capitals and seaports and ‘special agents’ to watch military technology. During war, ‘agencies’ in neutral states, run by two ‘collectors’ (officers, perhaps assisted by diplomats), would control spies and cut-outs in enemy countries, sift their material and send it to Britain via ‘forwarders’, generally legations. The MID should establish such a system in advance.55 The FO agreed, and Britain moved on the idea, which aided the expansion of human intelligence from August 1914, so creating the third-party rule – that intelligence officers would not operate against their host state. Intelligence was moving from the Victorian tradition of espionage but had not broken from it. In particular, the system for diplomatic intelligence of 1914 was weaker than that of 1792 or 1875. This happened because open sources worked well; gentlemen working as and with gentlemen could gain most of the information Britain knew it needed. Its intelligence in Europe focused on technical naval matters. Edwardian diplomats had fewer intelligence triumphs than Victorian ones and less appreciation of what it could provide; here, Salisbury had no successors. While happy to use intelligence, diplomats aimed to avoid collecting it, a change in attitude stemming from the professionalisation of intelligence and diplomacy.

190 J.R. Ferris Diplomats agreed that consuls could collect intelligence in war, and through their usual sources, local detectives and businessmen, but many were reluctant to let them do so in peacetime.56 As PUS, even Hardinge wrote, ‘the paid agents of the Admiralty should do such work’. Commenting on the case of Colonel Redl, the next PUS, Arthur Nicolson, noted ‘the whole of this spy system is abhorrent, although no doubt it may be necessary to maintain it’.57 Edwardians also stole fewer documents from foreign governments than Victorians had done. Between 1870 and 1914, British intelligence was mediocre in Europe and excellent in the rest of the world. It stood in the middle of the pack on diplomatic matters, where powers under threat did better than leading ones. It was beneath the standard of Austria and France, which feasted on its weak codes, while Russia led the world in this practice and political warfare. In military intelligence and contra-espionage, Britain was strong. This was the one area of operational staff work where it matched France and Germany, aided by experience in small wars and the reconstruction of order of battle, and the creation of capabilities for aerial reconnaissance and signals intelligence. No state matched it in collecting and assessing strategic information. British intelligence was useless to policy during the July crisis, but well prepared for the Great War, its greatest test. In 1914, modes of intelligence crashed into each other. Acting in the Victorian tradition, consuls, colonial officials and army and navy officers handled most human intelligence, augmented by systems with tangled lines. India did as it wished in Asia, as soldiers did near every front and the NID everywhere. Canadian security, MI5, MI1c, the NID and the CID, all handled intelligence in the US. Ultimately, these problems were surmounted. Never before 1914, had even fifty Britons worked full time in intelligence at any time. In 1918, 20,000 did so (and perhaps only 60,000 in 1944). Britain built huge intelligence bureaucracies with unprecedented power in collection and assessment. It led the world in code-breaking, as the world entered the second great age of communications intelligence. Imperial agencies in the US cooperated to block German threats and used them to build alliances with American officials. William Wiseman, MI1c’s chief in Washington, became advisor to Woodrow Wilson. MI5 and the CID walled Britain and India from their enemies. Strategic intelligence was central to the success of blockade and to political warfare, attempted on a heroic scale, with mixed results. Propaganda aided British policy in the US, as did millions of pounds of secret service spending in Persia and Arabia. Bribery, however, failed in Bulgaria and Turkey. The British Army matched anyone in operational intelligence, while Room 40 multiplied the numerical strength of the RN, aiding strategic success at sea. British intelligence had failures, especially its inability to help naval operations, while its enemies exploited their superiority in the field over Russia. Still, Britain beat Germany in their intelligence struggle. By making blockade work without alienating Washington, and by

Tradition and system 191 influencing American elite and public opinion through censorship, propaganda and the Zimmerman Telegram, intelligence eased, and may have been essential, to British victory.58 Between 1919 and 1939, believing Britain confronted major threats, statesmen relied far more on intelligence than ever before in peacetime.59 Collection and assessment became bureaucratised, uniquely civilian, centralised and interdepartmental, and harnessed to information processing. Demand and supply grew. Agencies which had emerged before 1914 became permanent, nailed to each other and the old tradition in a ramshackle way, as statesmen tried to combine centralised and decentralised approaches. The personalised mode of ad hoc organisations collecting material on a narrow range of issues which went directly to decision makers at the top was replaced by specialised and general purpose agencies, reporting on everything all the time, especially the Government Code & Cypher School (GC&CS) and SIS, with perhaps 200 and sixty people, respectively, in 1938. This material was no longer analysed primarily by statesman but by military intelligence and the regional sections of the FO. The latter loosely controlled the SIS and the GC&CS, while the fighting services had smaller agencies, as did the Dominions and India. Though they collected more material on Europe than other continents, their primary focus was imperial security – in 1929, 10 per cent of imperial secret service funds were allocated to control tribes in Iraq and the Northwest frontier60 – closely followed by diplomacy, with military intelligence in the rear, a costly handicap in 1939–41. This system worked best with signals intelligence, little practiced before 1914 and without old baggage. The GC&CS and agencies of the Dominions, India, and the military services coordinated interception and cryptanalysis as well as any other state. In the 1920s, they led the world in code-breaking and ranked among the best practitioners of 1938. Still, resources were scarce, mistakes common and code-breaking against cable traffic became divided from wireless intelligence. These problems caused dangers in 1939–41, which Britain barely surmounted, aided by Poland and a remarkable ability to innovate. Greater problems emerged in human intelligence and security. The SIS led the former, covered by the Passport Control Service, a consular branch retained, so passport fees could augment the secret service fund. Yet, older traditions of intelligence persisted. PUS ran their networks, like Robert Vansittart’s ‘private detective’ agency. In Persia, Military Attachés ran spies until 1930; in China, SIS officers worked under consular cover. When seeking sources, officers turned to British businesses, forming partnerships with some, like the Anglo Petroleum Oil Corporation (APOC). When contemplating an SIS service in Iraq, an RAF officer noted, I cannot see the difficulty about cover, if it does not suit to make one a Military Attaché and the other an Air Force liaison officer or Imperial

192 J.R. Ferris Airways official, surely you can work them in as assistant Consuls or assistant political residents, missionaries, doctors working out some special thesis, archaeologists, or concession hunters of some kind even if the APOC or some other British firm cannot provide it. The head of that system controlled some agents through a local British businessman.61 SIS’s fallback ‘Z’ network of the 1930s also worked through commercial links. SIS used British firms or fishermen to collect intelligence throughout the Cold War. After 1918, fearing subversion by many internal and external enemies, Britain relied more than ever before on security services, which shaped British and imperial politics. MI5, focused on military security, and Special Branch, addressing political threats, were joined in 1929 under the Home Office, but every possession maintained its own service. That in India, perhaps the best in the empire, was well integrated with imperial intelligence. Otherwise, throughout Asia, intelligence and security were badly coordinated. Officials recognised the need, as one Indian Secretary wrote, for ‘a system of inter-connected Intelligence organisations effectively covering the whole area from Shanghai to the Middle East’, but instead, created a series of overcommitted and underpowered, agencies which failed dismally in 1940–1.62 Britain, wounded but formidable, was the bulwark of the status quo. Its interests remained imperial, which suited its power and intelligence. Despite a weakened hand, it played that game well until 1939. Alas, it also had to learn a new one, where it had to play to its weaknesses and could not use its strengths. In Europe, compared with the norm of 1815–1914, less power backed the status quo, more challenged it, and constant British management and support was needed to prevent meltdown. These conditions would have tested Britain at the peak of its power. They also denied it as one of its strongest cards since 1715, the ability simply to ignore great changes in Europe. Any such change must threaten its vital interests and many minor ones. Its power and intelligence were not well matched to this task. The status quo, stable until 1930 but then increasingly fragile, broke because of the revisionist’s tactical daring and strategic recklessness, the timidity and divisions of status quo powers, and errors in every capital. Unlike the case before 1914, British intelligence was intended to address the issues which caused this collapse. It had mixed success.63 In the 1920s, Britain was strong and its intelligence good, the best on earth. It could see the cards in its rival’s hands, after having picked the game. Code-breaking was its best source, backed by the SIS, which treated agents as a delivery system for stolen documents. It defined agents by that matter, with ‘A.1’ meaning the source had proven reliable and had access to high-level documents, some of which his controller had seen in the original. From 1933, however, power shifted, threats emerged, and Britain was thrown on the defensive while trying to reshape the status quo.

Tradition and system 193 It did so badly. A reactive power needs better intelligence than a strong and active one – so to understand what is happening, what to do and how it must be right on more things. It must know the active power’s intentions, the latter merely its own mind. This situation breeds uncertainty and worst case planning, doubly so when statesmen are second raters. Between 1933 and 1939, Britain needed great intelligence. What it received merely was good, at the top of the league table, but unsure on the intentions of the revisionist leaders, and most weak in Central Europe, the key battlefield of 1937–9. Ultimately, however, power, policy and leadership, not intelligence, caused British strategy to fail. So too for its success in the Second World War. The role of British intelligence in that victory has been oversold.64 Granted, it led the world in key modes of collection and analysis, which revolutionised intelligence. Ultra and Fortitude are justly renowned. Yet, during 1939–41, when Britain was most in peril, its intelligence was no better or more useful than its enemies. When that achieved maturity and superiority around 1942, the tide of material strength also turned heavily in favour of the Allies. Intelligence neither staved off disaster nor turned the tide, though afterwards it did cut the length and cost of victory. Britain was better in intelligence than any other power ever had been. Yet, that aided it against Hitler no more than Napoleon or Kaiser Wilhelm – which, of course, means it mattered. So too, intelligence remained an area of relative British advantage in the Cold War. Britain remained the senior member in the Anglo-American intelligence alliance until 1952, on par until 1959, and helped the US achieve excellence. Until the end of empire, Britain’s main intelligence concerns remained imperial. It retained a world focus when Britain lost world power. Intelligence multiplied British power but could not prevent its subtraction. Between 1715 and 1945, intelligence was driven by threat, particularly of an internal–external challenge to the regime. The eighteenth-century system, resting on a few specialised collectors, with assessment personalised, was a normal European one applied to unique circumstances. It was simple, strong, centralised in Europe and regionalised elsewhere. In the nineteenth century, Britain, the only world power, had a unique approach to these issues. It collected and processed information with more centralisation and power than before, and intelligence with less. Britain focused on the world, rather than Europe, with assessment but not collection handled by specialists. Its system between 1900 and 1956 was strong and singular, with many large and specialised collection and assessment bodies, focused on the world, with Europe its most important region. Except in the Victorian era, intelligence was centrally directed and coordinated, codebreaking was the greatest source, internal security the primary concern, and political warfare a leading tool of policy. Throughout, Britain made mistakes yet usually did well at intelligence, more often than any other state did. This relative British advantage was central to its strategy under the old world order.

194 J.R. Ferris

Notes 1 Paul S. Fritz, ‘The Anti-Jacobite Intelligence System of the English Ministers, 1715–1745’, The Historical Journal, 16 (1973): 265–89; Kenneth Ellis, The Post Office in the Eighteenth Century (London, 1958), ch. 6. 2 L.G. Wickham Legg, British Diplomatic Instructions, 1689–1789, Volume VI, France, 1727–1744, Camden Third Series, Vol. XLIII (London, 1930), 224; cf. Oscar Browning (ed.), Despatches from Paris, 1784–1790, Volume 1 (1784–1790), Camden Third Series, Vol. XVI (London, 1909), 99. 3 Frank Spencer (ed.), The Fourth Earl of Sandwich, Diplomatic Correspondence, 1763–1765 (Manchester, 1961), 105–7; Report of the Manuscripts of J.B. Fortescue, Esq., Preserved at Dropmore, Volume IV (London), 208; D.B. Horn, The British Diplomatic Service, 1689–1789 (Oxford, 1961), 259–83; Alfred Cobban, Ambassadors and Secret Agents, the Diplomacy of the First Earl of Malmesbury at the Hague (London, 1954). 4 For a useful account, cf. J.D. Alsop, ‘British Intelligence for the North Atlantic Theatre in the War of Spanish Succession’, Mariner’s Mirror, 77 (1991): 113–18. 5 Report of the Manuscripts of J.B. Fortescue, Esq., Preserved at Dropmore, Volume III (London, 1899), 369. 6 Elizabeth Sparrow, Secret Service: British Agents in France, 1792–1815 (London, 1999); Huw Davies, ‘British Intelligence in the Peninsular War’, PhD Dissertation, The University of Exeter, 2005. 7 Minute by ‘LH’, 13.3.21, FO 360/2. 8 Davies, ‘British Intelligence’, passim; Mark Urban, The Man Who Broke Napoleon’s Codes (London, 2002). 9 Michael Duffy, ‘British Naval Intelligence and Bonaparte’s Egyptian Expedition of 1789’, Mariner’s Mirror, 84 (1998): 279–91; Andrew Lambert, Nelson, Britannia’s God of War (London, 2004), 33. 10 Planta to Granville, 21.12.24, 25.3.1825, PRO 30/29/14/3, Backhouse to Granville, 18.6.33, PRO 30/29/14/7, Granville to Palmerston, 9.11.1835, PRO 30/29/14/7; PRO 30/29/6/8, passim. 11 Clive Emsley, ‘The Home Office and Its Sources of Information and Investigation’, The English Historical Review, 94 (1979): 532–61, and ‘Repression, “Terror” and the Rule of Law in England During the Decade of the French Revolution’, The English Historical Review, 100 (1985): 801–25; Bernard Porter, Plots and Paranoia, a History of Political Espionage in Britain, 1790–1988 (London, 1989), 24–88. 12 Home Office to General Post Office, 7.4.17, passim, HO 79/3; cf. HO 32/20, HO 151/7. 13 Ellis, The Post Office in the Eighteenth Century, Appendix 4; Emiliana P. Noether, ‘ “Morally Wrong” or “Politically Right”? Espionage in Her Majesty’s Post Office, 1844–45’, The Canadian Journal of History, 22 (1987): 41–54; John Ferris, ‘Before Room 40: The British Empire and Signals Intelligence, 1989–1914’, The Journal of Strategic Studies, 12 (1989). 14 Christopher Andrew, Secret Service, 137, passim. 15 Herbert Maxwell, The Life and Letters of George William Frederick Fourth Earl of Clarendon, K.G., G.C.B., Volume II (London, 1913), 282. 16 Elizabeth Malcolm, ‘Investigating the “Machinery of Murder”: Irish Detectives and Agrarian Outrages, 1847–70’, New Hibernia Review, 6 (2002): 73–91; Stefan Petrow, ‘The Rise of the Detective in London, 1869–1914’, Criminal Justice History, 14 (1993): 91–108; Porter, Plots and Paranoia, 81–120, passim. 17 For examples, cf. Lord Cromer’s correspondence for the 1880s in FO 633/5. 18 Layard to Tenterden, 24.10.77, FO 363/2. 19 Thornton to Tenterden, 23.12.79, FO 363/4; Lyons to Tenterden, 25.10.81, FO 363/2; Harcourt to Tenterden, nd, circa 10.81, FO 363/1.

Tradition and system 195 20 Hardinge to Bertie, 20.10.01, 28.11.01; Hardinge to Spring Rice, 28.3.06; Hardinge MSS, Vol. 3, Cambridge University Library. 21 Lascelles to Tenterden, 18.5.80, FO 363/1. 22 Clarendon to Palmerston, 28.2.56, 7.3.56, The Oriental Question, 1840–1900, Files from the Royal Archives, Windsor, UPA, Reel 20. 23 Loftus to Russell, 22.2.63, No 92, Most Confidential, ibid. 24 John Ferris, ‘Lord Salisbury, Secret Intelligence and British Policy Towards Russia and Central Asia, 1874–1878’, in John Ferris, Intelligence and Strategy, Selected Essays (London, 2005), 8–44. 25 White to Salisbury, 10.10.85, 16.7.87, FO 364/1; Military Attaché to Minister, Constantinople, 10.4.08, FO 195/2290; Samson to Lowther, 11.2.10, passim, FO 195/2335; HD 3/77, passim. 26 Arthur Wellesley Wellington, Despatches, Correspondence and Memoranda of Field Marshal Arthur Duke of Wellingtom, K.G., Second Series, Vol. V (London, 1873), 248; Horne to Tenterden, 18.11.76, FO 363/5. 27 Brussels Embassy to Antwerp Legation, 29.4.55, 20.11.55, 22.11.55, 7.3.85, FO 616/13. 28 Currie to Law, 12.5.90, passim, FO 95/775. 29 Lamb to Clanwilliam, 24.3.1821, FO 360/2; Robert Franklin, ‘Charles Stuart and the Secret Service’, The Rothschild Archive Review of the Year April 2000–March 2001 (London, 2001). 30 Unsigned memo, in Simmonds handwriting, Inspector General of Fortifications, circa 7.77, FO 358/2. 31 Secret Committee to Governors of Bengal, Madras and Bombay, 2.3.1830, De Gyfford papers, F. 213/31, India Office Records Library (IORL), British Library; John Martineau, The Life and Correspondence of the Right Hon. Sir Bartle Frere, Vol. 1 (London, 1895), 135–6. 32 John Ferris, ‘Penny Dreadful Literature: Britain, India and the Collection of Strategic Intelligence on Russia, 1825–1947’, The Fourth International Conference on Intelligence and Military Operations, The US Army War College, May 1989. 33 Sanderson to Pauncefoot, 23.12.99, passim, FO 281/34. 34 Pinkerton to Sherwood, 9.12.14, 12.12.14, Box 8, Pinkerton National Detective Agency papers, Library of Congress, Washington; cf. ‘Agency History, ForgeryBank of England Notes’, Box 70, ibid. 35 Stephen Harris, British Military Intelligence in the Crimean War (London, 1999). 36 Lt. Col. F.S. Roberts, QMG, 22.3.73, ‘Proposal for an Intelligence Branch to be Attached to Quartermaster Genl.’s Dept.’; Captain Collen, 17.6.76, ‘Memorandum on the Formation of an Intelligence Branch, Quartermaster General’s Department, India’, L/MIL 7/7793. 37 Departmental Minute, 1.11.82, ‘Report on Collecting and Recording Naval Information’, ADM 1/6772. 38 Ewan MacGregor, 1.87, ‘Instructions for the Director of Naval Intelligence’, ADM 1/6868A. 39 The best account of British military intelligence during the later nineteenth century is William Carpenter Beaver 11, ‘The Development of the Intelligence Division and Its Role in Aspects of Imperial Decision Making, 1854–1901’, PhD dissertation, Oxford University, 1976, and Thomas G. Fergusson, British Military Intelligence, 1870–1914, The Development of a Modern Intelligence Organisation (London, 1984). 40 Minute by Simpson, 14.11.88, ADM 1/6999; Foreign Intelligence Committee, Secretary’s Procedure and Memorandum Book, 1885, Greene Papers, National Maritime Museum, Greenwich; minute by Custance, 4.1.89, ADM 1/6992. 41 Ibid; Memorandum by Cyprian Bridge, DNI, ‘Summary of the Annual Report of the Naval Intelligence Department for 1888’, nd, ADM 231/15; Hardinge to

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42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

53 54

55 56

57 58

59 60 61 62 63 64

Sanderson, 26.6.02, Hardinge MSS, Vol. 26; Robert Mullins, ‘New Ways of Thinking: The Intelligence Function and Strategic Calculations in the Admiralty, 1882–1889’, Intelligence and National Security, 15 (2000): 77–97; and Matthew Allen, ‘Rear Admiral Reginald Custance: Director of Naval Intelligence, 1899–1902’, Mariner’s Mirror, 78 (1992): 61–75. Chapman to Elles, 25.11.92, WO 106/1. Chapman to Elles, 4.1.93, WO 106/1. Ferris, ‘Penny Dreadful Literature’, passim. J.A. Cole, Prince of Spies, Henry Le Caron (London, 1984). Surveillance material on Dalip Singh is contained in R/1/1/62, 65–7, 77, 79, 82, 90, 93. Durand to Jago, 27.7.88, R/1/1/98. FO 95/775, passim; cf. ADM 121/73. Ferris, ‘Penny Dreadful Literature’, passim. Morley to Minto, 21.5.08, Morley Papers, Vol. 3, D. 573. Ewart to Churchill, 27.4.10, HO 317/44; undated memoir by William Melville, KV 1/8; Ferris, ‘Before Room 40’, passim. Andrew, Secret Service, passim; Ferris, ‘Before Room 40’, passim; Richard Popplewell, Intelligence and Imperial Defence, British Intelligence and the Defence of the Indian Empire, 1904–1924 (London, 1995); John Chapman, ‘British Intelligence, 1900–1914’, War and History, 1.02: 60–81. Untitled memo by Rodd, Stockholm, 28.10.05, HD 3/128. ‘Secret Reports by Commander Sir A. Trevor Dawson, R.N., to Admiralty 1906–1914, as a Result of Visits Made to Continent at Request of First Lord of the Admiralty and as Collected Through Special Agencies’, MISC 73/1098, Imperial War Museum; Inglesfield to Baddeley, 10.10.09, ADM 116/940 B. Memorandum by MID, ‘SS in the Event of a European War’, circa 5.03, HD 3/124 Part 1. Rodd to Sanderson, 28.10.03, 3/05, Memorandum by Law, ‘Proposals for Intelligence Organisation’; HD 3/125 Part 1; ‘Separate Memo’ and untitled memo by Johnston, 17.10.05, HD 3/128; Minute by Drogheda, 14.10.12, 42972, FO 371/ 1557. Undated minute by Hardinge, but May 1909 by internal evidence, passim, FO 371/673; cf. 42972, passim, FO 371/1537; Morley to Minto, 31.12.1908, Morley papers, Vol. 3, D.573/3; Nicolson to Cartwright, 24.6.13, FO 800/367. John Ferris, ‘ “Now that the Milk Is Spilt”: Appeasement and the Archive on Intelligence’, in B.J.C. McKercher (ed.), Appeasement Reappraised (Cambridge, 2005), and ‘The Road to Bletchley Park: The British Experience with Signals Intelligence, 1890–1945’, Intelligence and National Security, 16 (2002): 53–84. Ibid. Minutes by AI, 21.12.26, 10.1.27, AIR 2/1196 S. 25865; Appendix to Finance Department, 14.1.31, R/1/4/1028. Dent to Carmichael, 4,11.27, AIR 23/433; Gerald Wheeler papers, typescript mss., Fifty Years in Asia, 152–3, Middle East Centre Archives, St. Antony’s College, Oxford. Zetland to Linlithgow, 27.6.39, Linlithgow MSS F 125/7, IORL. For longer assessments, cf. John Ferris, ‘Image and Accident: Intelligence and the Origins of the Second World War’, in Intelligence and Strategy, Selected Essays, passim, and ‘Now that the Milk Is Spilt’, passim. For discussions, cf. John Ferris, ‘The British Enigma: Britain, Signals Security and Cipher Machines, 1906–1953’, in Intelligence and Strategy, Selected Essays, 138–80, passim, and ‘Ralph Bennett and the State of Intelligence History: A Review Article’, Intelligence and National Security (1991).

10 The empire that prays together stays together Imperial defence and religion, 1857–1956 A. Hamish Ion Religion provided much of the colour, pageant and spectacle of the British Empire as well as its sounds and smells, through its church, mosque and temple bells and gongs, chants, dances, festivals, incense, music, pilgrimages, processions and rites of passage. Many in the Empire in the century after 1857 might have been indifferent to religion. However, few among its multi-million inhabitants from the QueenEmpress and Defender of the Faith at its apex to the frosty little Eskimo in the higher Arctic or the heated wizened Pundit in the lower Bengal could avoid contact with it. Yet, religion was always a subordinate issue in imperial defence. Nonetheless, the undertone of religion echoed right to the economic, military, political and cultural chambers of imperial defence’s heart. Usually, it lay subcutaneously dormant beneath the surface of colonial society until bitten into, as happened in the Indian Mutiny that burst out in 1857. Moreover, religion was often been used as a convenient scapegoat for imperial difficulties, by providing a simplistic shorthand explanation to obfuscate very complex issues at the core of the confrontations between the ruler and the ruled, for religion was usually intertwined with other potentially explosive imperial issues of which race, culture and language are three of the more obvious. Indeed, there were few questions and problems in imperial affairs, including matters of imperial defence, in which religious issues do not play some part, albeit at times only a small one. Religion has resonated in Irish affairs within and without the Pale from the Reformation onwards, its neigh whinnied within a mutinous Curragh nearly 400 years afterwards, and still its castrato echo reverberates against the forlorn rows of pews and confessionals in which a divided people are harangued from the pulpit to different unions before their Sunday dinners. The obvious strategic and geographical importance of Ireland to the defence of Britain has led many British enemies to exploit the religious animosity between Roman Catholics and Protestants in the emerald isle as one of the ways to bring about Britain’s discomfort, if not downfall. However, religion did not prevent Irishmen, both Roman Catholic and Protestant, from forming a large proportion of soldiers in the British Army during the nineteenth century. In

198 A.H. Ion itself, this indicated that the desire for employment, pay and food could take precedence over religious-inspired hostility. It was Britain’s luck that military service helped to blunt a religious problem with dangerous political ramifications that existed in the wider Irish civil society. Nevertheless, religious motivations have contributed to the wellspring of action that has led to political protest and independence movements not only in Ireland but also in southern Africa and many other parts within the British Empire and to countless wars against the British on the imperial frontiers. Among the attempts, for instance, to explain the origins of the Indian Mutiny was the widespread accusation that it was a direct result of Christian missionaries being allowed into India.1 On a lesser scale, British disdain of fetishism or ju-ju, based on the worship of the spirits of ancestors, can be seen as one of the contributing factor to the Benin War of 1897.2 This paper sets out to illuminate the problem of how religion impinged on imperial defence and how it was used to help to maintain the integrity of the Empire. This is an enormous topic, and space constraints mean that this essay will concentrate only on three aspects of religion and imperial defence: as a manifestation of soft power, as a necessary element of hard power and as a tool of political power. Moreover, so rich are the examples that can be used to illustrate these themes that this short paper will largely eschew the questions of religion and imperial defence in the settler colonies and White Dominions in favour of evidence drawn from Africa and South Asia. Christianity (the religion of the majority of the British) can be viewed conceptually as soft power. It was part of an arsenal of governmental, parliamentary, legal, cultural and sporting institutions, which projected the civilizing mission of the imperial power by utilizing moral suasion rather than military force or the economic power of trade to convince colonial peoples of the benefits and desirability of British overlordship. This manifested itself in the schools, hospitals, leprosia and social welfare institutions that were supported by British religious groups overseas. As well as serving a role in the Empire overseas, Christianity was also an influence in the education of many of those who, after matriculating from Church-founded public schools or universities in Britain or their counterparts in the Empire, went on to serve as soldiers and colonial administrators in Africa, Asia, Australasia, the Indian subcontinent and elsewhere. As well as soft power, religion can be seen as being an essential part of hard power, particularly in terms of recruiting into the military and the maintenance of morale within fighting units. Christian chaplains served with British and Dominion forces overseas, and many units like the Cameroonians, the famous Lowland regiment, had strong religious affiliations dating from their original raising. During the First World War, especially, Christian Churches both at home and in the Empire played a significant role in convincing young Christians to join the colours. However, Christian soldiers were only one part of the military forces of the British Empire. The Empire enclosed within its boundaries and confronted

The empire that prays together stays together 199 in its expansion a plethora of different religions. Ronald Hyam has pointed out that much of the periphery of Empire was occupied by Islam and engagement with Islam was a common preoccupation not only for the British in Africa and India but also for many other European empires including the Russians in Central Asia, the Dutch in the East Indies and the Americans in the Philippines.3 Yet, much of the hard power of British military strength depended on the British ability to recruit Muslims and other religionists into its local levies who were responsible for the normal internal defence of colonies and protectorates controlled by the civil authorities. While the Royal Navy (RN), Army and Royal Air Force (RAF) retained the ultimate responsibility for the defence of British territories overseas, the role of the British regular forces after 1895, except under unusual circumstances, was largely confined to being employed to defend maritime fortresses and coaling stations. Very often, these local forces were paid for out of locally raised taxes at no cost to the taxpayer in metropolitan Britain.4 It has been argued that from the Treaty of Berlin in 1878, India and the Indian Army became indispensable to Britain.5 The reason is clear from a remark that Lord Salisbury is reputed to have said in 1882 about India that it was ‘an English barrack in the Oriental seas from which we may draw any number of troops without paying for them’.6 While India might be regarded as the jewel in the imperial crown, its role was much more than decorative for it provided Britain with substantial military resources. The Indian taxpayer paid for not only the Indian Army which sent troops to promote and defend the British Empire from the Middle East to China, from Africa to the Pacific but also the support of British Army units stationed in India. Even so, the defence of India added greatly to Britain’s military burden, at least in terms of European military manpower deployed there. Yet, without India, the final fabric of the British Empire would not have otherwise been fashioned or maintained. While Indian troops played an important role in the small wars that were fought in Africa and Asia, it was during both the First and Second World Wars in many theatres of war that the Indian Army and India’s resources were decisive for Britain’s success. The success of the British in managing the religious issue in the Empire with its often ethnic and linguistic linkages to their advantage can be seen in the rainbow spectrum of religions and races that made up Slim’s troops in the 14th Army fighting the Japanese in Burma during the Second World War. As well as being an element in hard military power, religion was one tool to be found in the Pandora’s Box labelled ‘divide and rule’ which the imperial founders and guardians often opened and took out to employ. Winston Churchill is reputed to have said the ‘Hindu–Muslim feud [was] the bulwark of British rule in India’.7 As was the case in India, the issue of religion was often intertwined with ethnicity and race. J. R. Seeley, the nineteenth century historian, for instance, described the Papineau Rebellion in

200 A.H. Ion Lower Canada in 1838 as ‘the convulsion of despair of a sinking nationality’.8 The racial concerns of French Canadian nationalism are seen to be primary in a rebellion in which a religious subtext of Roman Catholic against Protestant can also be detected. The influence of the Roman Catholic Church on society and politics in French Canada during the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century was clearly significant. The Roman Catholic clergy used the pulpit to support the cause of the federalists in Lower Canada at the time of Canadian Confederation in 1867 and to oppose the federal government over conscription in 1917 and 1944. It took a Quiet Revolution in Quebec society and politics beginning in the 1950s to weaken the Roman Catholic Church’s influence in that province. Although the religious factor might play a subordinate role, it still was present in colonial and imperial affairs in those communities in which there was neither a common nationality nor religion but only common interest to help bind them together. Ever since the Durham Report of 1839 on Canada, the British have placed great faith in federal institutions (perhaps because they themselves do not have any direct experience of them). Federal institutions were seen in Canada as a means to create a sense of community that otherwise would not exist. With varying degrees of success or outright failure, the federal solution was attempted by the British in the Caribbean, in Central Africa and in Southeast Asia as well as Canada. In India, a federal solution was also contemplated as the Government of India Act of 1935 shows. It was the Second World War and the National Congress Party’s reaction to it that provoked Muslim League to advocate partition. Federation in the Indian case floundered on the issue of religion. The question of religion in imperial defence was not simply just a matter of ‘An’ then comes up the Regiment an’ pokes the ‘eathen out’.9 While, on occasion, there was little alternative but to teach the heathen a military lesson, mostly there was a realization that the religions within the British Empire had to be placated, manipulated, managed and controlled so that they would not serve to provide one of the sparks that set off a cataclysmic explosion such as that occurred in India with the Mutiny. Furthermore, Christianity was seen by many as having a civilizing influence on the peoples of the Empire. We turn now to investigate religion as an aspect of soft power.

I In the context of British imperialism, religion is normally considered in terms of Christian missions and empire.10 Even with this approach, the immediate difficulty for the historian is that the impact of Christianity and the response of indigenous peoples and their traditional religions and cultures to it varied widely with virtually all regions in the Empire having different experiences and reactions to it. Christianity was seen as the religion

The empire that prays together stays together 201 of the British imperialists and British missionaries often regarded as the religious agents of colonialism and Christianity. Indeed, during the 1870s, even the first Anglican African bishop in West Africa, Samuel Adjai Crowther, clearly acted and was treated as an unofficial consul for the British on the lower Niger. The Empire provided the atmosphere in which the quasi-establishment of the Christian religion could be contemplated. In 1895, Lord Rosebery underlined the importance of the missionary movement within his definition of liberal imperialism by suggesting that the development of the missionary enterprise was the fourth of the five elements implied by the term.11 Given the wide acceptance of the missionary endeavour as a legitimate part of the imperial effort, it should be no surprise that in many colonies in Africa and the West Indies, it was not unusual for the local Anglican bishop, in the days when a diocese paralleled the extent of the colonial territory, to be accorded a position of prestige in the religious sphere comparable to that of the Governor in the political realm.12 Moreover, during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, many Anglican missionaries came from a similar social and educational background to the colonial administrators and often had family connections not only to officers in the armed forces but also to politicians at home. It was not always the Church of England that served as the quasiestablished church; in Nyasaland (present day Malawi), for instance, this role was held by the Church of Scotland. Missionaries were not, however, a homogeneous group, and it is as difficult to generalize about their attitudes towards colonialism as it is about the responses of those who they aimed to convert to Christianity. Certainly, Christian missions cannot be overlooked in terms of imperial defence, for in littoral Africa, in insular Melanesia and, especially, in riverain China, protection of missionaries became an irksome, if also unwanted, task for the RN and Army. This was seen as part of imperial duties that were conceived of in terms of local defence requirements such as the problems posed by Chinese piracy, African slavery, Polynesian blackbirding and diplomatic visiting. At times, the exuberance of young naval officers in demanding satisfactory reciprocation for outrages committed against missionaries might embarrass the government in Westminster. This was true with the attack by the gunboat, HMS Algerine, on the Anping forts guarding Tainan in 1868 in response to Chinese harassment of English Presbyterian missionaries and merchants. Nevertheless, when the British government itself faced a crisis, it was not loath in appealing to the patriotism of missionaries to offer their special cultural or linguistic knowledge to assist the government as was the case with missionaries in China, Japan and Korea who joined the officer ranks of the Chinese Labour Corps during the First World War. Furthermore, many missionary children, of whom Field Marshal Viscount Montgomery, the son of a sometime missionary bishop of Tasmania and long-time secretary of Society of the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts (SPG), is the

202 A.H. Ion most famous, made a contribution to imperial defence by serving in the armed forces. Members of the armed forces also sometimes participated in supporting the missionary movement. So, often willing to contribute to charitable and humanitarian endeavours, RN personnel helped to start and to support Christian missions such as the Loochoo Naval Mission at Naha, the capital of the Ryukyu Islands, in the late 1840s and early 1850s and the English Church Mission in Korea founded in 1889 by Bishop Charles Corfe, long-time naval chaplain and friend of Queen Victoria’s sailor son, the Duke of Edinburgh. Yet, naval personnel could also look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on missionaries. Philip Colomb, the naval strategist and intellectual, noted in 1873 in his memoirs of slave catching in the Indian Ocean that ‘very few naval men can clear themselves from that general prejudice against missions and missionaries which is decidedly current in the service, and which, rightly or wrongly founded, sways our general opinion’.13 Missionary work, however, was not restricted to nonChristians. Few major ports in the Empire were without their Mission to Seamen whose efforts were directed to help cater to the spirituals needs of those in the merchant marine. Wherever there was an English-speaking community, from the remote Bonin Islands to the rocky Labrador shore and most places in between, a Christian priest could be found ready to cater to the needs of locals and visitors. As this indicates, part of the missionary effort was channelled to help Britons overseas. Whether it was to help Britons or to convert non-Christians to Christianity, it is patently evident, however, that the manifold activities of the voluntary British missionary movement were supported by hundreds of thousands of British people from every walk and station of life. Although the major denominations in England and Scotland had virtually all become involved in overseas missionary work during the nineteenth century, if not earlier, the number of missionary societies remained barely more than a handful until the last three decades of the century. During that time, there was an exponential growth in missionary organizations reflecting a wide array of different Christian theological and philanthropic interests as well as the energy of new groups such as the Student Christian Movement and the Student Volunteer Missionary Union to channel people and money into overseas missions. The presence of thousands of missionaries in the towns and countryside throughout the Empire undoubtedly had an influence on shaping British views of it. The enormous canon of literature and reports published in church magazines and journals did constitute a major source of information about many parts of the Empire. The missionary movement expanded as the onward mark of British power generated the spread of British civilization. Its decline, as the twentieth century progressed, can be taken as an early harbinger of the declining national resources and flagging energy underpinning Britain’s overseas endeavours.

The empire that prays together stays together 203 The realm of ideas, especially religious ones, is not easily transmitted across cultural divides as other aspects of a culture, such as sports, fashion, food and drink, which are less culturally challenging. Indeed, sports and missionary work often joined together as in the case of C. T. Studd, the famous cricketer and member of the Cambridge Seven who joined the China Inland Mission in 1885, Walter Weston of the Church Missionary Society who introduced mountaineering as a leisure sport into Japan, and Eric Liddell, the Flying Scotsman and Olympic runner, who served as a London Missionary Society missionary in China until his premature death while a prisoner of the Japanese during the Second World War. Spreading Western elementary school education and improving local health conditions was seen in the pioneering work of Mary Slessor in the Calabar region of Nigeria during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. At approximately the same time, Hannah Riddell of the Church Missionary Society won lasting national fame in Japan as one of the major pioneers of the care and treatment of lepers in that country. As teachers in mission schools and kindergartens, as specialized social workers, as medical doctors and nurses or as evangelists in rural or urban settings, single women came to be the backbone of the overseas missionary movement although their male clerical counterparts tended to receive most of the attention. In the early twentieth century, Bishop Henry Montgomery, the Field Marshal’s father and missionary statesman, divided the non-Christian races into three classes in which: there are the intellectual nations with or without sacred books; the races more or less civilised which possess vitality, and are increasing in number; and, lastly, those who are not necessarily lower in civilisation, but who seem to be dying out.14 The negative cultural implications of Christianity, for those parts of the Empire with sophisticated traditional cultures (India is a prime example and clearly in the first case), have had an immense impact on political, social and religious developments in them. The response of India to Christianity (or its perceived threat to Indian culture) led to a profound Indian effort to restore, rejuvenate or re-invent political, social and religious forms from the beginning of the nineteenth century onwards. Africa fell into Bishop Montgomery’s second case, and it was in different parts of Africa that Montgomery felt two greatest tasks in Africa devolved upon the two great Church of England missionary societies, Church Missionary Society (CMS) and the SPG. These tasks were: in the north, for the CMS to fight Islam in the only region that Islam was growing by building a string of mission stations from the Niger to Khartoum in order to stop the southern advance of Islam; in the south, the SPG had ‘to help the Church in South Africa to make the Bantu races into a Christian force, and to

204 A.H. Ion prevent any of those racial struggles which are becoming so serious a menace in the US’.15 To Montgomery, the racial problem in the US was far more serious than the Irish or the Boer or the Indian question in the British Empire. He saw, however, that it was the SPG and the Anglican Church’s role to ameliorate racial tensions in South Africa. It is not surprising, therefore, to find either Trevor Huddleston, while serving as a priest in South Africa in the 1950s being a leader in the anti-apartheid movement, or Desmond Tutu, the Anglican Archbishop of Capetown who was greatly influenced by Huddleston, playing such a large role in helping to ameliorate racial tensions in the late twentieth century South Africa. As Bishop of Masasi during the early 1960s, Huddleston worked closely with Julius Nyerere on the development of national independence for Tanzania. Canon Max Warren, the long-time Secretary of the CMS, quoted Dennis Osadebay, the founder of the Ibo State Union, as writing in 1947 that: the missionary has made the African soil fertile for the growth of imperialism . . . (but) he has equally helped to lay the foundations for the present spirit of nationalism. . . . When African historians come to write their own account of the adventure of Africa with imperialism, they will write of the missionaries as the greatest friends the Africans had.16 The impact of the missionary movement, therefore, can be viewed as a two-edged sword for both Britain as an imperial power and for the indigenous nationalist. It is no wonder, then, the role of missionary movement in the emergence of modern Africa can be controversial. For Bishop Montgomery, in the early twentieth century, the third class of non-Christians were those who belonged to races that supposedly were dying out, and these were found in Melanesia, among the hill tribes of India and the aborigines of Japan. The destruction of weaker cultures, like those of the Canadian aboriginal First Nations or New Zealand Maoris, remains a potent political issue to the present for governments and Christian Churches. The rapid success of Christian missionaries during the 1830s and 1840s in converting the majority of Maoris to Christianity hastened the decline of the traditional tribal society and contributed indirectly to the Maori Wars of the mid-century. While the challenges to missionary work might vary, as the nineteenth century progressed, a common pattern of missionary work developed in order to combat the problems of missionary work. The inherent difficulties of direct evangelization and the minefields of reciprocal misinterpretations and misunderstandings across cultural boundaries which could immediately confront the naïve preacher led the missionary movement to put most effort into evangelistic work within a more defined environment. By the mid-nineteenth century, the missionary movement had placed its emphasis on education and training which resulted in the building of churches, schools, hospitals and other specialized

The empire that prays together stays together 205 institutions like leprosia and garden homes for tuberculosis sufferers. As civilization was equated in the nineteenth century with European civilization, it also meant that missionaries also attempted to inculcate Western manners and behaviour into potential converts. The opportunities of obtaining a Western-style education in mission schools attracted many Africans and Asians who might, otherwise, have chosen to have no contact with missionaries. The influence of Christian social thought has been evident in the political ideas of post-independence African leaders such as Kenneth Kaunda of Zambia and Julius Nyerere of Tanzania who received their early education in mission schools,17 but as the case of the Chinese statesman, Zhou Enlai, revealed, attending a mission school does not necessarily lead to a Christian result. Moreover, mission school education, because it increased awareness of rights of people in the outside world, could also serve as the breeding ground for those who might later argue for political change or even independence. Kwame Nkrumah, the first President of Ghana, received his early education at a Roman Catholic school and later taught there. He drew support for the independence of Ghana from ex-servicemen, journalists, elementary school teachers and literate people who had some primary school education, that is, people who had often had a similar early exposure to Christian education. During the late nineteenth century, for those who lived by the shores of Lake Nyasa on the Calabar coast or in the hills of the Santal Parganas, the mission school offered the only place where a Western-style education could be obtained. Teaching provided missionaries (both male and female) with familiar work conducted in a controlled atmosphere. An important pioneer endeavour, which served as a model that others quickly emulated, was made by Alexander Duff, a Church of Scotland missionary, who established in Calcutta in the 1830s a higher education institution in which English was the language of instruction with the aim of not only producing an educated Christian population but also of bringing the Christian Gospel to the Indian intellectual elite who could hardly be reached any other way.18 The missionary educational effort was not solely directed towards the elite, for it also aimed to encourage literacy among ordinary people so that they could read the Christian literature, which the British and Foreign Bible Society helped to make available in a multitude of different languages. Other organizations looked to helping the poor and deprived throughout the Empire and beyond; the social work of the Salvation Army was extended from the slums of the East End of London to those of the East End of Tokyo with few slums left untouched along the imperial trade routes in-between. This modernizing strategy on the part of missions was rooted in the belief that Western culture was superior to all others and that European economic, social, and political organizations should be taken as standards of civilization. Some doubt, albeit largely fleeting, was cast outside of the missionary world, however, about the assumption that subject races had the potential

206 A.H. Ion to achieve civilization by the grisly events of the Indian Mutiny and the 1865 Morant Bay rebellion in Jamaica. By the late nineteenth century, the spread of Darwinian and Spencerian evolutionary thought was providing non-Christian religionists, already primed with traditional religious arguments against Christianity, with new ammunition from Western sources to criticize Christianity and the widely espoused view of Christians and missionaries that it was the essence of Western civilization. Further, growing awareness of and the systematic study of other great religions such as Buddhism, Hinduism and Islam, which was often stimulated by missionaries’ own efforts to try to understand the nature of the opposition of those religions to Christianity, contributed to sow doubt in the minds of some Christians about the innate superiority of Christianity over other religions and the necessity to convert non-Christians to it. At the turn of the century, Lord George Curzon, the Viceroy of India, was one of those who bitterly opposed those who thought that the only hope for Indians lay in their conversion to Christianity and transformation into brown Englishmen. Curzon felt that Indians should adhere to their own religions and ‘to preserve what he called the “idiosyncrasies of native thought and custom”, while encouraging Indians to assimilate Western ideas into their own culture’.19 Christianity, however, was the religion of the British and, despite the reservations of those like Curzon, as such was present wherever the Union flag flew. A major blow to Christian prestige was selfinflicted by the slaughter between civilized Christian nations during the First World War, which naturally served to weaken the appeal of Christianity as the religion of Western civilization for non-Christians. Missionaries accepted the general idea of the British Empire as a providential force for good, although many were prepared to take issue with imperial authorities when larger humanitarianism interests were compromised. This was especially true in the West Indies, West and South Africa and the Pacific Islands where missionaries sought to protect and enhance native rights against planter, settler and trader interests in the years after the abolition of slavery in the British Empire in 1834. Once the abolition of slavery had been achieved, Christian figures like Thomas Fowel Buxton actively campaigned for a government-sponsored humanitarian development expedition to the Niger River (which ultimately came to grief in 1842) that was aimed at regenerating West Africa, after its long devastation by the slave trade, through the development of a legitimate commerce in cotton and other agricultural products by independent Africans. The humanitarian efforts and influence of evangelical missionaries in India can also be seen in the reform campaigns to bring about an end to sati (the ritual self-immolation by widows) and female infanticide. Any such challenges were not taken into account when David Livingstone, the famous Scottish missionary-explorer of Africa, addressed a missionary meeting in the Senate House in Cambridge in December 1857. While Livingstone’s appeal led directly to the establishment of the

The empire that prays together stays together 207 Universities Mission to Central Africa the next year, this meeting also proved to be a turning point in the British public image of the missionary and the overseas missionary endeavour from Britain, for it led to large numbers of Oxbridge graduates being attracted to overseas missionary work not only to Africa but also to all other parts of the world. The result was the stock of missionary dramatically rose as the late nineteenth century advanced. The death of Bishop Charles Frederick Mackenzie from malaria while journeying on the Ruo River in 1862, the murder of Bishop John Coleridge Patterson by Nukapu islanders of the Santa Cruz group in 1871 as well as Livingstone’s own death in 1873 provided mid-Victorians with missionary heroes who sacrificed their lives for their Christian beliefs. Livingstone was a complex and flawed figure whose legacy both as a missionary and as an explorer is controversial. He was fired by a belief that opening up Africa to the twin benefits of legitimate commerce and Christianity was the most effective solution to the African slave trade and the key to the continent’s material development. Among the critics of this view was Philip Colomb of the RN. Colomb saw that the packaging of Christianity and civilization had led to the disasters of the early years of the Universities Mission to Central Africa.20 According to Colomb, the calamities that attended this mission’s early efforts in central Africa also stemmed from the poor planning and muddled thinking of missionaries and their enthusiastic supporters at home in trying to establish a mission hundreds of miles from their supply base on the coast; by missionaries taking sides in the tribal warfare that surrounded them and because of the devastating effects of drought on that part of central Africa into which the missionaries ventured. In Colomb’s view, the slave trade and Arab slave traders were responsible for very few of the problems that missionaries had to confront. Further, even if missionaries were successful in bringing about the end of the slave trade in central Africa, they needed to supply the freed slaves with the means to earn a living which freedom alone could not provide. Colomb felt that a civil mission could be launched into African territory with the object of instituting settled government, just laws and the spread of practical knowledge among the indigenous population, but he also felt that such a mission might have to maintain itself by force of arms. He saw that Rajah Brooke’s settlement of Sarawak as a successful example of this; in part, because Brooke did not sacrifice any part of his theory of government when he was compelled to use warlike measure to preserve order. Clearly, such a civil mission was primarily civilizing and secondarily religious, with its lay governor supreme and the missionary subordinate. Colomb had never heard of a purely religious civil mission, such as had been first proposed for the Universities Mission to Central Africa, ever being successful ‘except perhaps in China, missions to barbarous independent tribes become almost inevitably politico-religious, with the evil results hinted at’.21

208 A.H. Ion As well as commerce, civilization and Christianity, missionaries in some cases saw that imperialism could bring protection. It could supply the stability and law and order under which missions might better thrive. In 1875, Fiji became a Crown Colony at the urging of Wesleyan Methodist Missionary Society missionaries; in 1884, southern Bechuanaland became a protectorate at the urging of London Missionary Society missionaries; in 1889, Scottish missionaries belonging to the Free Church and Church of Scotland supported the formation of a protectorate over Nyasaland; and in 1894, Church Missionary Society missionaries and their supporters were instrumental in the declaration of a full protectorate over Uganda. This process was fulfilling what Colomb had earlier perceived that the prospect of missions flourishing improved when the responsibility for law and order was taken out of their hands and the missionary subordinate to the lay governor. In Nyasaland, the beginning of the series of separate expeditions and campaigns that collectively form the so-called Slavers’ War between 1888 and 1896 caused by the clash of interest between the African Lakes Company (whose originally shareholders were almost entirely supporters of Scottish missions in Central Africa) and missionaries in Livingstonia Mission and Yao tribe slaveraiding chiefs as Company and missionaries’ chiefs pushed their influence north of Lake Nyasa towards Lake Tanganyika. The security situation in Nyasaland led directly to the raising of the indigenous tribesmen of Nyasaland as fighting troops leading to the formation of the Central African Rifles (the predecessor of the famous King’s African Rifles). Among the first troops raised were Atonga from the shores of Lake Nyasa. This tribe had been long victimized by slavers and was coming under the influence of the Livingstonia Mission. With the end of slavery and active pacification efforts by the Central Africa Rifles, the Livingstonia Mission enjoyed very considerable growth in number of converts through the 1890s. Yet, resentment there was against the actions of the British that came to the fore in Nyasaland with a bloody rising in 1915 led by John Chilembwe, an African Baptist minister and advocate of a Christianity independent of missionaries, who protested at working conditions at the coffee plantation close to his mission station and at the loss of life among African troops in the First World War. If the growth of Christianity in Nyasaland came with the establishment of a British protectorate, which brought the Army and peace, religious turmoil in Uganda also contributed to the establishment of a British protectorate there. The situation in Uganda was complicated not only by the clash between Muslim and Christian interests but also by a division among Christian missionaries between the British Protestant CMS representing the evangelical wing of Church of England and the French Roman Catholic White Fathers (Père Blancs) who believed that to be civilized was to be French and Catholic. Religious rivalry of this sort was not unknown elsewhere; Keith Sinclair has noted in the case of New Zealand in the

The empire that prays together stays together 209 mid-nineteenth century that the bitter recrimination between Wesleyan Methodist and CMS missionaries helped to vitiate Christian efforts to safeguard Maori interests.22 Yet, it was not only the two Protestant denominations who were vying to convert the Maori for the Roman Catholic missionaries were also at work in New Zealand, and apparently the Maoris ‘greatly enjoyed’ the triangular theological controversy that arose between the three Christian groups.23 In Uganda, the playing off of missionary groups against each other was largely brought to an end when Sudanese and local troops raised by Frederick Lugard, who had previously been engaged in trying to stamp out the slave trade in Nyasaland before moving north to Buganda at the end of 1890, were used by the Imperial British East Africa Company to secure British interests and with it the Protestants became the dominant religious faction. Yet, as Max Warren pointed out in 1967, ‘the Church-State settlement imposed by Captain Lugard in Buganda in 1891 has remained for over seventy years a cause of unease’.24 Despite the future religious problems that his actions might cause, Lugard continued on to further imperial adventures in Nigeria and West Africa including helping to form the locally raised Rifles for service against the Ashanti and to maintain the peace in Nigeria where Muslim and Christian spheres met. These units were the predecessors of those West African forces that distinguished themselves in the fighting in Burma during the Second World War. In 1959, A. P. Thornton writing about the debate over the expansion of empire in the 1880s pointed out that many of those who objected vehemently to spirited policies of overseas expansion were strong humanitarians, and how humanitarianism or Christianity itself – both of them nothing if not spirited policies – could be exported to savage lands save in military baggage-cars, and maintained there safely save by imperial garrisons, was as yet far from plain.25 While Nyasaland and Uganda are both places where the Army brought peace, Christianity in the Empire (at least before the First World War) also benefited from its identification of missionaries and British colonial power. However, it was not military power or even peace that was required for missionaries to proselytize non-Christians successfully but rather, as was shown in the case of Korea, the identification between Christianity and nationalism in which the protection of culture and language loomed large.

II There were occasions when Christianity and, more usually, other religions became significant factors in overall strategic considerations of imperial defence.

210 A.H. Ion Indeed, nowhere was the religious issue more evident in the British Empire than in India whose religions were almost as varied and numerous as its languages. Although the majority of Indians were either Hindus or Muslims, there were significant numbers of Buddhists, Christians, Sikhs and Jains. In 1892, Sir Charles Dilke and Spenser Wilkinson pointed out that the supremacy of the English rests only to a limited extent upon their own superior force. It is made possible by the divisions among the natives. To a great extent our ascendancy is ‘moral’, resting, that is, upon character and self-confidence. To this confidence the natives bow. It has produced in them a corresponding belief in the omnipotence of Great Britain.26 Yet, it was also fortunate for the British that there were numbers of Indians who saw soldiering as an honourable profession and were prepared to join the colours. Prior to 1914, the majority of recruits for the Indian Army were drawn from the so-called fighting classes, which included Dogras, Garhwalis, Jats, Kumanonis, Madrasis, Mahrattas, Hindustani Muslims, Punjabi Muslims, Rajputana Muslims, Pathans, Rajputs and Sikhs. North India was a particularly strong recruiting area with Sikhs contributing very large numbers to both the cavalry and infantry and Gurkhas (Hindus, recruited outside of India in Nepal) also providing large numbers. However, it was Muslims recruited both in the south and the north of India as well as from tribes beyond the Northwest Frontier who provided the largest proportion to both cavalry and infantry.27 In 1919, widespread demonstrations in the Punjab, even before the disgraceful atrocity of the Amritsar Massacre, were the cause of particular worry to the British authorities because the Punjab provided a disproportionately large number of troops both Sikhs and Muslims for the Indian Army.28 Yet, despite the fact that Britain went to war against a Muslim Ottoman Empire, Muslim troops in African and Indian units remained loyal to the British cause. The pool of Indian manpower that the British could draw on was relatively limited; as late as 1937, D. H. Cole held that the fighting classes in India amounted to no more than 40 million people and that 60 per cent of combatant troops in the Indian Army came from the Punjab, while Bengal with a population greater than that of Britain only provided some 7,000 troops out of a total of 683,000 Indian troops.29 Affection and loyalty to the British in terms of joining the armed forces in wartime had, at least, in terms of the expansion of the Indian Army during the Second World War much to do with the desire for regular pay and membership in an honourable profession rather than hatred of a distant enemy.30 However, the British rulers in India can be seen to be exploiting a relative small group of warrior classes largely drawn from religious minorities to help them maintain military control over the religious majority. Nevertheless, this military exploitation is softened by a

The empire that prays together stays together 211 romantic gloss that permeated much of the British encounter with the warring classes in India and which was nowhere more pronounced than on the Northwest Frontier. A gloss, however blush-rose it was, that can safely be said to be largely one-sided. From Alexander the Great to Field Marshal Alexander of Tunis and a great scroll of names in between them, military and also political careers were made or unmade on the Northwest Frontier. Akbar S. Ahmed has pointed out that the colonial encounter there was reduced to the nature of a cricket match in which both sides – the British and the Pathan – played by a sportsmanlike set of rules and stressed that above all, the Frontier represented a male world and its masculine symbols a system that translated easily into classic public school life . . . absence of the ‘Mem-Sahib’ that gave life on the Frontier its special public-schoolboy flavour, and their presence in large numbers after the opening of the Suez Canal late last century has been considered as the final ethnic and social barrier between Indians and the British.31 This same male world of public school adventure was not restricted to Northwest Frontier and its Scouts but can be found in campaigns against the Mad Mullah in Somaliland during the first quarter of the twentieth century. In this, the Indian Army played a part. The King’s African Rifles (formed by the amalgamation of the Central African and Ugandan Rifles) drew many of its early British officers, like William Manning, its first Inspector General and later a distinguished colonial governor in Africa and Ceylon, from the Indian Army as well as many of its NCOs. Under Manning, the askaris were used in punitive expeditions often against large numbers of skilful tribesmen in remote and unmapped regions. The troops themselves were drawn from the same tribes, armed with out-of-date rifles, possessed of marksmanship probably little superior to that of the men they fought and led only by a handful of British officers, these disciplined askaris controlled many thousands of their own kind as the effective instrument of British power.32 In his fascinating autobiography, Hugh Boustead, who served in the Camel Corps in the Sudan during the interwar years, wrote that the family atmosphere of the company, the manliness and intense sense of fun of the Sudanese soldier and his complete reliance on his officer produced a feeling of affection between the British company commander and his men which formed one of the main charms of African service with an irregular corps.33

212 A.H. Ion As H. C. Jackson, a long-time Sudan civil servant, writing in retirement in the early 1950s pointed out about the Sudanese that their main concern was to live without fear, to practice their religion without interference, and to keep for their own use what they had earned or grown, free from the depredations of robbers or unjust taxgatherers. They could not forget the old unhappy days of bloodshed, extortion and famine, and were grateful to the British for the prosperity they enjoyed and the security in which they could now pass their lives.34 The mutual respect, knowledge of Arabic, and care not to trample on the religious and cultural sensitivities of Sudanese troops allowed Boustead during the Abyssinian campaign to lead his Frontier battalion with considerable success against numerically superior Italian forces. The linguistic experience of soldiering in the Sudan could be easily transferred as the empire shrank to the Arabian Peninsula itself, from the Sudan Defence Force to the Bedouin Hadhrami Legion. Muslim troops and Arabic language formed a pool of manpower, which could be transferred from one part of the empire to another. Among the most famous to have served with Arab troops was Glubb Pasha (Lt. General Sir John Glubb) whose name is associated with the Jordanian Arab Legion, which he commanded from 1939 until his dismissal by King Hussein in February 1956. While Glubb commanded a Jordanian rather than a British force (although it contained a number of British officers on secondment), the Arab Legion under his command served alongside British troops during the Iraq and Syrian campaigns of 1941 and helped to guard British military installations all over the Middle East during the Second World War. While the Arab Legion drew recruits from settled parts of Jordan, Glubb also adopted a policy of bedouinization drawing recruits from bedouin tribes as far afield as southern Iraq and Kuwait. As opposed to the town dweller, the loyalty of the bedouin was a personal one to their clan, their tribe and their sheikh. In the Arab Legion, their loyalty was to King of Jordan, a direct descendant of the Prophet Muhammad. As such the bedouin element was much less prone to the political intrigue, which has bedevilled other Arab armies since 1945 and rallied to King Hussein during the attempted coup of 1957 and again in 1970 and 1971 in the fighting against Palestine Liberation Organization commandos. In looking at Glubb, James Lunt has pointed out that his philosophy stemmed from his faith, which was based on the power of love. For him, as for the simplest bedouin camel-herd, God was ever-present, all-seeing and all-beneficent. The Arabs knew he was a devout man and respected him the more for it. His soldiers were never mere names or numbers. They were always individuals.35

The empire that prays together stays together 213 In a real sense, religious differences, provided mutual respect existed among men of faith, proved no barrier to the recruitment of Arabs or Sudanese or Nigerians into British controlled forces. Just as there was a marked tendency among Anglican missionaries during the late nineteenth century to seek out groups, often belonging to dying cultures like the Ainu of remote Hokkaido or the Tayal of Taiwan who were unsullied by impact of modernization and urbanization, or the nineteenth century soldiering counterpart drawn to the Northwest Frontier with its public school boy adventuring against the wily scheming Pathans, so the late imperial soldiers and administrators, like Glubb or Boustead, found themselves most attune with the bedouin of the desert or the Furs of Darfur. These were peoples still largely untouched by the polluting influences of the modern town and urban culture but still possessing from earlier times a manly warrior tradition. Where there was little respect for religious beliefs, religion could act as a potent force against military occupation as was the case with the resistance of the Karen hill tribesmen, many of whom were influenced by Christianity, to the Japanese in Burma. While the Indian Army and Indian troops were seen as imperial policemen to be sent to quell the emergency in both Mesopotamia and East Africa at the beginning of the First World War, the experience of fighting von Lettow-Vorbeck revealed that the King’s African Rifles and other African regiments could perform well in military operations more sophisticated than punitive expeditions against recalcitrant tribesmen. It was not, of course, until the Second World War that African troops were employed outside of Africa. In the fighting in Burma against the Japanese, African troops proved to be very capable in the jungle warfare. As David French has pointed out, it was during the Second World War that Britain relied more than ever before upon the manpower of the Empire. In the course of the war, Britain, the Dominions and the Empire mobilized 103 divisions or their equivalents of which only 49 were raised in Britain and 54 were raised in India, West Africa and the Dominions.36 By providing Britain with the manpower to stave off defeat in the Second World War and to defeat ultimately its enemies, the Empire more than proved its worth.

III Religion also played a political role in the empire, which impinged on imperial defence. It was important, in many cases, to try to prevent religion from becoming the emotional focus that could lead to an intensification of conflict. This was true even in an apparently stable country like late nineteenth century Canada. The relatively minor 1885 Riel Rebellion in the Canadian Northwest had within it the potential of creating serious difficulties for Canadian confederation had Louis Riel, its Metis leader, chosen to fan Roman Catholic–Protestant antipathies and French and

214 A.H. Ion English hostilities by projecting himself as a Francophone Roman Catholic martyr unjustly persecuted by a largely Anglophone Protestant Federal government led by Sir John A. Macdonald, a statesman born in Scotland. Happily, for the Canadian government, atheistic statements by Riel alienated many of the Roman Catholic clergy in Quebec. Only a small imperial force was needed to pacify the Canadian Northwest and to capture Riel whose subsequent execution remains a controversial issue in Canadian history. Canadian federal governments ran great political risks, however, in going against the Roman Catholic clergy in Quebec whose particularistic proclivities were opposed to any Canadian physical participation in imperial defence. This the Liberal government of Wilfrid Laurier had realized at the time of the Boer War, and the Conservative government of Robert Borden found out during the Conscription Crisis in 1917. As well as Canada, religion was a political factor in other parts of the empire including the strategically crucial British mandate of Palestine after the First World War. Rudyard Kipling considered Palestine so important a region that he described it as ‘the buckle on the belt of the world’,37 whose Holy Places were sacred to Christians, Jews and Muslims alike and where British rule both there and elsewhere in the Middle East faced grave difficulties, if the problems of Palestine became a PanMuslim affair.38 While political and religious turmoil marked British rule in Palestine down to 1948, it was not religion that was Britain’s undoing in the Middle East. It was the secular political revolution in the Middle East that came out of the 1948 Arab–Israeli War, which first manifested itself in the Egyptian Revolution of 1952 that challenged Britain’s position there. The empire had provided British administrators and soldiers with opportunities to manage religion, but the Egyptian revolution brought a changing direction to the wind of morning blowing in the Middle East. Ironically, it was not Pan-Muslimism but rather a secular Pan-Arabism espoused by Colonel Nasser of Egypt that proved the undoing of Britain. The debacle of the Suez Intervention of 1957 revealed Britain to be out of touch with the new political reality in the Middle East. The revolutions in Syria and Iraq following hard on that of Egypt destroyed governments in place since the end of the First World War and with it the outside dominance of Britain and France in that region. The new regimes were led by military officers and educated townspeople who had been brought up under what they perceived to have been the iron heel of foreign imperialism and saw salvation through the implementation of secular political agendas at home and anti-imperialism abroad. It would have to wait for the Iranian Revolution of 1979 before religion was brought back to the forefront in Middle Eastern politics. While this might have marked the return to a more familiar grounding for Middle Eastern politics, the passing of the imperial age meant that the pool of British military and administrative knowledge of how to deal with

The empire that prays together stays together 215 Islam, which had accumulated with the imperial experience, had also largely disappeared. If it was new secular factors rather than religion that challenged that Britain’s post-Second World War position in the Middle East, it was religion that finally broke up British India. The recalcitrant attitude of the National Congress Party towards the war effort against the Axis powers caused the wartime Viceroy of India, Field Marshal Sir Archibald Wavell, actively to promote cooperation between Indian Muslims and the British authorities because of the realization that a disproportionate percentage of the Indian Army was Muslim.39 Imperial defence concerns caused by the Japanese danger to India led him to do this in spite of both the Muslim League’s call for Britain ‘to divide and quit’ India and the fact that British India was on the verge of cleaving itself apart on the independent fissure lines between Hindus and Muslims. Once the war had ended, high expectations of early independence meant that it was difficult to go back on past understandings. Military considerations also meant that the British authorities had little room to manoeuvre in obtaining a political solution to the issue of divide or not. There was a belief among the British authorities that the loyalty of the Indian Civil Service and the Indian Army could not be trusted in carrying out British orders. Yet, it was not the Indian Civil Service and Indian Army that ultimately was important in deciding whether or not India that the British left behind was partitioned or not, it was the British. As has been shown, as early as 1892, Charles Dilke stressed that British ascendancy was moral and rested on character and self-confidence. It was self-confidence that the British lacked in India after the war; the will to rule had evaporated. The defence of British India ultimately did not rest with the Indian Army but with the British armed forces. British soldiers in India had no stomach for maintaining peace and order there; they only wanted to go home.40 It was left to Lord Mountbatten, the last Viceroy, to reach what settlement he could. As it had in 1857, so religion in 1947 brought turmoil to India. It was Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs who were now pitted against each other, and this time the Christian British washed their hands of the religious bloodshed that marked the end of their rule of the subcontinent. In its times of greatest crisis, Britain was able to mobilize the manpower resources of the Empire for its defence and in doing so greatly adding to its military strength and hard power. In times of peace, locally raised levies in Africa, India and China allowed Britain to maintain law and order in its Empire without the need for a very large British standing army. In large part, this was only possible because of the ability of Britain to accommodate men of different religions and customs within locally raised levies. While Christianity was the religion of most Britons and was considered by many as being an essential part of British civilization, non-Christians were happily accepted as soldiers (sometimes for

216 A.H. Ion the protection of Christian work, as in Nyasaland) and Christian sensitivities were not allowed to interfere. What the missionary movement did provide through its evangelistic, educational, medical and social work was reinforcement for the efficacy of British civilization and institutions in the minds of colonial peoples, and in doing so, it enhanced the imperial power through soft power. At the same time, Christian missions can also be seen as contributing to the growth of nationalism among colonial peoples, which was not necessarily in the interest of Britain as the imperial overlord. If decolonization meant that the predominantly Muslim regiments in the British imperial forces in Africa and India disappeared, the retrenchment of the British Army has also meant that the Cameroonians and so many other regiments raised in England and Scotland in times when Christianity was an important force in national life have also gone. The religious tapestry of the overseas Empire helped weave the protective shroud of imperial defence in the 100 years between the Indian Mutiny and Suez on which British trade, prestige and power was sustained. Its wool and woof also made the military saga of Empire that more colourful, adventurous and inspiring.

Notes 1 Max Warren, Social History and Christian Mission (London, 1967), 72. 2 See Ian Hernon, Britain’s Forgotten Wars: Colonial Campaigns of the 19th Century (Thrupp, 2003), 405–424. 3 Ronald Hyam, Britain’s Imperial Century, 1815–1914: A Study of Empire and Expansion (Basingstoke, 3rd. edition, 2002), 330–331. 4 James Lunt, Imperial Sunset: Frontier Soldiering in the 20th Century (London, 1981), 205. 5 Eric Goddard, ‘The Indian Army – Company and Raj’, Asian Affairs, 63 (New Series Vol. VII), Part III (October 1976): 263–276, 263. 6 Gordon Johnson, ‘Indian Independence (1) Taking the strain, (2) Cutting the knot’, Asian Affairs, XVI (Old Series Vol. 72), Part III (October 1985): 254–264, 257. 7 James Lawrence, Raj: The Making and the Unmaking of British India (London, 1997), 540, quoted in Sean M. Maloney, Canada and UN Peacekeeping: Cold War by Other Means, 1945–1970 (St Catherines, 2003), 23. 8 J. R. Seeley, The Expansion of England, edited and with an introduction by John Gross (Chicago and London, 1971), 43. 9 Rudyard Kipling, ‘The Eathen’, quoted in Angela Partington, The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations (Oxford, 1992), 398. 10 See, for instance, Norman Etherington, ‘Missions and Empire’, in Robin W. Winks, ed., The Oxford History of the British Empire. Volume V: Historiography (Oxford, 2001), 303–314. 11 The other elements being: first, the maintenance of the Empire; second, the opening of new areas for our surplus population; third, the suppression of the slave trade, and fifth, the development of British commerce. 12 Warren, Social History and Christian Mission, 30. 13 Captain Colomb, R. N., Slave-Catching in the Indian Ocean: A Record of Naval Experiences (London, 1968, originally published in 1873), 403. 14 Henry H. Montgomery, Foreign Missions (London, 1908), 83.

The empire that prays together stays together 217 15 Ibid., 98. 16 Warren, Social History and Christian Mission, 131. 17 Peter Hinchliff, ‘Africa’, in John McManners, ed., The Oxford Illustrated History of Christianity (Oxford, 1992), 455–487, 486. 18 Stephen Neill, A History of Christian Missions (Harmondsworth, 1964), 254. 19 David Gilmour, ‘Empire and the East: The Orientalism of Lord Curzon’, Asian Affairs, vol. XXVI (Old Series vol. 82), Part III (October 1995): 270–277, 272. 20 Colomb, Slave-Catching in the Indian Ocean, 410–432. 21 Ibid., 411. 22 Keith Sinclair, The Origins of the Maori Wars (Wellington, 1957), 222–223. 23 Keith Sinclair, A History of New Zealand (Harmondsworth, 1959), 42. 24 Warren, Social History and Christian Mission, 31. 25 A. P. Thornton, The Imperial Idea and Its Enemies: A Study in British Power (London, 1959), 50. 26 Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke and Spenser Wilkinson, Imperial Defence (London, 1892), 101–102. 27 Sir Stanley Reed and S. T. Sheppard, eds, The Indian Year Book 1929 (Bombay and Calcutta, 1929), 281. 28 Denis Judd, The Lion and the Tiger: The Rise and Fall of the British Raj, 1600–1947 (Oxford, 2004), 136–137. 29 D. H. Cole, Imperial Military Geography (London, 1924), 353–354. 30 Judd, The Lion and the Tiger, 154. 31 Akbar S. Ahmed, ‘An Aspect of the Colonial Encounter in the North-West Frontier Province’, Asian Affairs, Vol. IX (Old Series Vol. 65), Part III (October 1978): 319–327, 325. 32 Lieutenant-Colonel H. Moyse-Bartlett, The King’s African Rifles: A Study in the Military History of East and Central Africa, 1890–1945 (Aldershot, 1956), 684. 33 Hugh Boustead, The Wind of Morning: The Autobiography of Hugh Boustead (London, 1971), 78. 34 H. C. Jackson, The Fighting Sudanese (London, 1954), 32. 35 James Lunt, ‘Glubb Pasha’, Asian Affairs, vol. XVIII (Old Series Vol. 74), Part II (June 1987): 129–137, 137. 36 David French, The British Way in Warfare 1688–2000 (London, 1990), 205. 37 Kipling quoted in Cole, Imperial Military Geography, 326. 38 Ibid., 327. 39 Judd, The Lion and the Tiger, 161. 40 Ibid., 168–169.

11 Propaganda and the defence of empire, 1856–1956 Stephen Badsey

Propaganda was not a word, or even an idea, that came readily to the defenders of the British Empire during 1856–1956, particularly during the first half of our period. A search of the National Archives at Kew reveals only a handful of files dated before 1906 with the word ‘propaganda’ in their titles, and in all cases these are either references to the activities of foreigners, or to the Sacred Congregation of Propaganda, the body established by the Roman Catholic Church to promote the dissemination of true doctrine in 1622. Of files referring to ‘Empire Propaganda’ there are exactly two, dating from the late 1930s and 1940s and dealing with routine matters in the Dominions Office and the British Council, respectively.1 It was not until the First World War that the British government established any official organisations for the production and dissemination of propaganda, whether aimed at their own people, their enemies, or neutrals. Contrary to a powerful mythology which started in the 1920s and has not yet been entirely eradicated, there was no coherent policy or organisation for British propaganda in 1914, and the institutions that were created were at first a bewildering mixture of the official and the semi-official. For the British, propaganda was something that other countries did, while one First World War propagandist characterised their own activities as ‘confined to the presentation of facts and of general arguments based upon facts’.2 Indeed, from the First World War onwards, the preferred British term was always ‘news’ or ‘information’. The ad hoc organisations were not even partly consolidated into a Ministry of Information (MoI) until spring 1918 and even that ministry was disbanded immediately at the war’s end. The sinister overtones that the word propaganda acquired in the course of the First World War and shortly afterwards led to a continued British preference for the term ‘news’ to describe their minimal official propaganda efforts of the interwar period.3 A new MoI was established at the start of the Second World War, together with other more clandestine propaganda organisations including the Political Warfare Executive (PWE), but these also began the war badly and were both disbanded in 1945.4 To take successive British governments at their own valuation would suggest that propaganda played no part at all in the defence of

Propaganda and the defence of empire 219 Great Britain and its Empire until 1914 and that thereafter it was seen as a distasteful and temporary wartime expedient, to be abandoned as soon as peace was declared. Professional practitioners and students of propaganda not only define propaganda much more widely than this but do not associate the idea of propaganda inherently with deceit or dishonesty. From the 1920s onwards, most definitions of propaganda have emphasised its function, that of influencing opinion in a direction desired by the propagandist. Propaganda can appeal to the intellect, the emotions, or both; it works best in a partnership with real power, and also with the truth, or at least in the absence of blatant or deliberate falsehood. In this sense, according to the 1950s French political theorist Jacques Driencourt, ‘Everything is propaganda’.5 Among the cultural achievements, artefacts and events identified as British Imperial propaganda, are the building of the Ottawa parliament and the cathedrals of Sydney and Calcutta in the English Gothic style, Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘Recessional’ of 1903, and even that the first ever cinema film to be shown in Ceylon (Sri Lanka) in 1897 was a dramatisation of Henry Rider Haggard’s novel She.6 Culture and the arts, including literature, have traditionally been seen as peripheral to the practical business of government (or, at best, additional as in the Marxist ‘base and superstructure’ theory), and this has applied particularly to the use of the arts as propaganda in the service of warfare. For the whole of the period 1856–1956, it was de rigeur for senior British military commanders to affect to despise propaganda and the press as distasteful irrelevances. But there are fashions and discoveries in history as in any other discipline, and a most influential recent development has been the linking together of culture with political and economic power, so that those still struggling to come to terms with Karl von Clausewitz must now also face Jürgen Habermas. Yet, another of those philosophers whose works are quoted far more often than read (his seminal book The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere was translated into English only in 1989) the popularity of Habermas’s arguments, and those of his interpreters, stems from their useful explanation for the non-quantifiable factors in political and military power.7 Habermas postulated that, in eighteenth-century Britain and Europe, circumstances combined to produce a ‘public opinion’, consisting largely of informal associations of the economically powerful and the culturally and intellectually influential, that was also separate from the ruling court. At a time of comparatively weak instruments of government, it was not enough for the rulers of Europe to hold political authority and military power, and it was also important for them to impress this bourgeois’ public opinion and secure its cooperation. Methods of gaining this public opinion included displays of culture both in the narrow sense of the arts and in the wider sense of patriotism or other forms of ideological unity. The celebrations, commemorations, and processions that accompanied military victories or important political events were not merely frills, they

220 S. Badsey were an essential part of the power that a ruler possessed.8 This eighteenth-century model of a relationship between a ruler whose political and military power was in practice limited and a body of subjects aware of their own identity and wielding considerable influence fits very well with the British Empire at its height. This would make propaganda, in the sense of a public display of confidence backed by the credible threat of force, one of the critical elements of Imperial defence. Indeed, these cultural theories show, at times, a striking connection with more conventional military concepts of deterrence. One of the clearest examples comes at the very start of our period. In 1856, the British forced a conclusion to the Crimean War on terms favourable to themselves by publicly building the ‘great armament’, a floating siege train intended to bombard the coastal fortress defending St Petersburg, and then, after the peace was signed, displaying this mighty flotilla at Spithead for the world to see and The Times to report.9 In a reflection of this link between power and propaganda, official concerns were expressed throughout the period about British ‘prestige’, especially in the maintenance of order in India after the Mutiny of 1857.10 As the pinnacle of this prestige, the elaborate ceremonials of enthronement and anniversaries for the British monarchy, which were an entirely artificial creation arising out of fears of republicanism that first appeared late in the reign of Queen Victoria, were also an important part of the propaganda of Empire. Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee of 1897, in particular, was marked by processions of Imperial troops through the centre of London.11 Although Victoria herself never visited India despite being made Empress in 1877, her grandson George V’s durbar in Delhi in 1911 completed the process whereby Royal occasions became also Imperial occasions. These events became propaganda displays of power and prestige, orchestrated to offset agitation by Bengali nationalists. If there was no actual British government department dedicated to propaganda in Victoria’s reign, it was because there scarcely needed to be. Propaganda was such an integral part of the way that the British ruled their country and Empire that its operation at any time in the period 1856–1956 reflected the prevailing political orthodoxy. In the Victorian era, it was either a well-understood practice of the governing elites or a largely informal arrangement between government and business, to the extent that Reuter’s news agency’s own authorised history has described its role during 1865–1914 as ‘an Imperial institution’, having been given a monopoly within the Empire in 1870.12 Reporters for British newspapers working overseas actively sought to cooperate with the local British embassy or consulate.13 Later, in the First World War, as government became more active in organising the country for war, so propaganda organisations evolved from a series of temporary improvisations towards more centralised control. Finally, in the Second World War and afterwards, propaganda would become almost entirely an activity run or directed by the state.

Propaganda and the defence of empire 221 In the Victorian era, there were a few private or semi-private organisations dedicated to promoting the idea of Empire, such as the Empire League or the Imperial Institute founded in London in 1887 as part of Victoria’s Golden Jubilee.14 But mostly, propaganda took the form of the arts, including paintings, plays, music halls, and novels, together with images from advertising and other aspects of everyday life; the later Victorians and Edwardians lived their lives surrounded by the propaganda of Empire.15 Much of this propaganda was militaristic in nature, including an emphasis on military service for the Empire and such pressure groups as the Navy League and the National Service League. Particular studies have been made of the ways in which young boys were propagandised, including the stories depicted in Boys Own Paper (founded in 1879 by the Religious Tract Society), W. H. Fitchett’s Deeds That Won the Empire (1899), and the original 1908 edition of Scouting for Boys, now characterised as an ‘imperialist handbook’.16 The propaganda of Empire was always of great importance as a justification for its continued expansion, including the depiction in newspapers and books of enemies as fundamentally ‘other’, and of the British as engaged in a civilising mission.17 This was the propaganda that the British gave to themselves, and which the two or three generations after 1856 grew up learning, and it is possible to trace its effects on their political and social elites. Although the Empire had little to do with the reformed public schools movement begun by Dr Thomas Arnold at Rugby that spread first throughout Britain and then the Dominions, by about 1900, the ideals of social hierarchy and upper class leadership which it instilled were expressed most deeply in the armed forces and in Imperial service.18 The propaganda of Empire was so much part of the social fabric of these schools that overt public declarations were seen as bad taste and contrary to the public school ethic; Rudyard Kipling’s archetypal 1870s public schoolboy ‘Stalky’ (based on Kipling’s friend Major General Lionel Dunsterville, with whom he had attended the United Services College) described an overly enthusiastic school speech-day propagandist of Empire as a ‘Jelly-bellied Flag-flapper’.19 Rather, phrases such as ‘The school specialises in the preparation of boys for the ICS [Indian Civil Service] and the Colonial Services’ were given discreet mention in the school prospectus.20 Imperial ideals were held as deeply as religious beliefs; indeed, they were often combined, and it was considered just as inappropriate for a gentleman to discuss them.21 This may all seem removed from the defence of the British Empire, but it was of great importance to the way in which the Empire was defended. The ideology of correct and gentlemanly behaviour as a trait of the British ruling elite played a particular role in the continued Indian acceptance of British rule after 1857 and even in the negotiations that led to independence in 1947. At the height of the Second World War, the offer of a personal ‘gentleman’s agreement’ enabled the British to improve relations with Pandit Jawaharal Nehru, then held under detention, by allowing him

222 S. Badsey to visit his sick wife.22 Nehru was one of several twentieth-century enemies of the British Empire who understood the importance of this British propaganda image of themselves. Educated at Harrow and Cambridge, he condemned the Amritsar massacre of 1919 as ‘to use public school language, it was the height of bad form’.23 The recognition that the British were vulnerable when acting contrary to their own propaganda image became a theme of twentieth-century colonial insurgency, being shared by the Irish Republican Brotherhood in 1916–1922, the Jewish separatists in Palestine in 1945–1948 and the Greek Cypriots of EOKA in 1955. Nehru’s outrage that in the Amritsar Massacre the British had violated their own propaganda image of the Empire as a force for civilisation has also been reflected in the attention paid, both at the time and by historians ever since, to those bloody incidents in which the Imperial use of violence was deemed to have crossed an invisible but well-understood boundary, such as the suppression of the Jamaica Rebellion in 1865, the near-genocide of the Australian aborigines, the concentration camps of the Boer War, and the execution of the Easter Rising leaders in Dublin in 1916. For some, the area bombing campaign by RAF Bomber Command during 1942–1945 falls into the same category, although in that case British public opinion appears to have been very supportive and any debate in public and the press took place after rather than before each episode.24 At the height of Empire, there were some uses of force and military practices from which the British sought to bar themselves regardless of their military effectiveness, because they violated the underlying propaganda on which the stability of the Empire itself rested. This was sometimes to the great annoyance or affected bewilderment of the generals, presumably as a reflection of careers spent largely in isolation from British public opinion: Lord Kitchener’s indignation at criticism of his concentration camps is a fine example. But in the First World War in particular, the fact that regular British officers shared an ideology of correct gentlemanly behaviour with new officer recruits from civilian life was a considerable aid to the expansion and cohesion of the Army.25 It is both a commonplace and a paradox that the chief British financial beneficiaries of Empire in this period were only a small elite. The pinnacle of this elite, the covenanted Indian Civil Service, only rose to just above a 1,000 members by the start of the twentieth century.26 The officer corps of the RN, the British Army, the Indian Army, and later the RAF contributed a few thousand more. Then there were the self-made millionaires who would not have achieved success without the Empire, for whom Cecil Rhodes consciously made himself a role model, but they were very few. For the British industrial working class, the benefits of Empire were emotional and psychological rather than material, except for such delights as exotic fruits like the banana, soothing cups of bedtime cocoa, or gold and diamonds cheap enough for engagement and wedding rings.27 For an otherwise unemployable middle-class, ‘younger sons, well-born orphans, the

Propaganda and the defence of empire 223 sons of the clergy,’ jobs that would have been considered menial in Britain such as policeman or trader were invested with a far greater status by the Empire.28 One notable if atypical case was George Orwell’s brief spell in the Burma Police in the 1920s after leaving Eton, an experience which turned him into a marked anti-Imperial propagandist.29 While for the upper-middle and upper class, ‘nothing made the British feel so Imperial as India’,30 for those people of British descent who were born or grew up in India, the colonies or the dominions, the knowledge of the opportunities offered by a career in London were an equally important source of pride. A few, like the Canadian-born Lord Beaverbrook (Max Aitken), the single most important figure in British propaganda during the First World War and owner of the Daily Express, reached to the very heights of the British political establishment. If the real ties of Empire were cultural and emotional, rather than financial or even rational in the political sense, then the propaganda of Empire lay at the very heart of Imperial defence. But what most of the British people really thought about the Empire remains a historical mystery for most of this period. Not until 1935 did the American George Gallop establish the technique of scientific opinion polling, and the founding of Mass Observation in Great Britain in 1937 added selective snapshots of middle class and working class views, which by that late date largely took the Empire for granted.31 Although there have been attempts to discover the range of British attitudes towards the Boer War of 1899–1902, only broad conclusions are possible: that the British working class rejected domestic opposition to the war, and that younger men largely from the middle class were prepared to volunteer for it in large numbers.32 This attitude in not surprising, given that by 1898, taking into account youth training and auxiliary service in such organisations as the Rifle Volunteers as well as the regular British Army, an estimated 22.42 per cent of British (including Irish) men born between 1858 and 1881 had some current or previous form of military experience.33 Taking this together with the volunteer movement of the Boer War and the much larger intakes of volunteers and conscripts of the two world wars, the entire period 1856–1956 was one in which the fact of military experience was intertwined with military propaganda as a major part of the British popular culture. This ideological commitment to fight for the mother country, (or, as expressed by the New Zealander Air Vice-Marshal Keith Park during the Battle of Britain, for London as the ‘Capital of the Empire’) also extended to the dominions.34 At the turn of the century, many among the elites of Canada and Australia saw little distinction between fighting for their own countries and for Great Britain (possibly because so many were already comfortable with the dual cultural identity of being Scots or Irish but also British), a commitment to Empire which was reflected in their sending volunteers to fight in the Boer War.35 The Australian poet, journalist and sometime soldier Andrew ‘Banjo’ Paterson, best known for ‘Waltzing

224 S. Badsey Matilda’, celebrated the Australian participation, in which he shared, in 1900: ‘They came to prove to all the earth that kinship conquers space/and those who fight the British Isles must fight the British race!’36 In the First World War, a significant proportion of the adult male populations of the dominions also served overseas: from just over 11 per cent of South Africans to a remarkable 19 per cent of New Zealanders.37 Historians have emphasised the tensions of Empire inherent in Canada’s delay in introducing conscription until 1917 (and then not in Quebec) and the Australian referenda that rejected it. But what is truly amazing, and powerful evidence of the ideological strength of the Empire, is that most of those who fought for it did so voluntarily. Conscription was unnecessary throughout the Empire for the first two years of the war, being introduced in Great Britain itself in early 1916, except for Ireland. In the First World War, the all-volunteer Indian Army also swelled to over 1.2 million men, more than a third of them recruited from the Punjab and many serving overseas.38 How much any one individual was inspired to volunteer to fight the wars of the British Empire, or sustained in the fighting, by its propaganda image is certainly no straightforward question. Tradition sees no greater enemies of the idea of the British Empire than the Irish. Yet, in 1856, the people of Ireland enthusiastically supported participation in the Crimean War, celebrated it with the propaganda of broadsheets and ballads, and commemorated it with banquets and statues, in virtually the same propaganda response as the rest of the UK.39 At the other end of our period, in the Second World War an estimated 70,000–80,000 citizens of Eire volunteered to fight in the British armed forces, including five Victoria Cross winners, surely a record for a neutral country.40 But by 1939–1945, the British themselves were downplaying any mention of Empire in their propaganda. Virtually the last attempt at an Imperial pressure group, the creation of an ‘Empire Crusade’ to promote closer links between Britain and the Empire in 1940, was seen by the MoI as something of an embarrassment.41 A very complex mixture of social and economic trends produced a mass industrialised society in Great Britain after 1856, and many of the same factors, and particularly the same technology, also led to transformations in the nature of war, but even more to transformations in the ability of the media to record and depict war, and in the market for such depictions. It has been observed that the same changes in optics that produced improved gun sights for the artillery in the later nineteenth century also produced better cameras to photograph them.42 Much the same technological improvements have been cited as an important part of the story of the nineteenth-century expansion of the British Empire.43 The means available for propaganda increased greatly in this period, starting with the telegraph and the expanded newspaper industry of the 1850s, the coloured picture postcards and posters of the 1880s, the first cinema newsreels of

Propaganda and the defence of empire 225 the 1900s, radio in the 1920s, and ending in the 1950s with television.44 The relationship between the evolving mass politics, technology, and propaganda was interactive and reciprocal. One of the first signs of a new awareness by later nineteenth-century British public opinion of the vulnerability of Great Britain to invasion in the face of changing naval technologies, and the use of propaganda to popularise the issue, came in 1871 with the well-known fictional story The Battle of Dorking, written by Sir George Chesney and first published in Blackwood’s.45 But almost as great an impression was made in New Zealand in 1873 by the publication of an equally fictitious and propagandist article in the Daily Southern Cross of the surprise bombardment of Auckland by the Russian cruiser Kaskowiski (‘cask o’ whisky’). The implications for Imperial defence of such a sneak attack on an unprotected colony were still being debated 20 years later.46 One eventual result, the presentation of the battlecruiser HMS New Zealand to the RN, paid for by the country’s taxpayers, was chiefly symbolic of a commitment to Imperial defence: the ship had only three New Zealanders among its officer complement.47 Propaganda directed by the British against their enemies and potential enemies also played an important role in Victorian warfare. Emphasis was placed on ‘cowing’ hostile peoples into accepting British rule, and this frequently took the form of a symbolic episode of submission or degradation.48 One serious, if unsuccessful, British objective in the Ashanti War 1873–1874 was the capture and use of the Golden Stool on which the Asantehene (king) was enthroned, while Lord Kitchener’s desecration of the Mahdi’s tomb, reported and recorded in sketches and photographs, put a propaganda seal on his victory at Omdurman in 1898.49 This ritualistic and propagandistic behaviour was rooted in the very practical military issue that such an extensive global Empire was impossible to defend from internal and external enemies and that, at the start of any war, the troops available were often inadequate in numbers and unfamiliar with local conditions. For many senior Army officers at least, the failure to avenge a defeat meant a threat to the long-term stability of the Empire, and rising officers were outraged by the Gladstone Liberal government of 1880–1885, which made peace with the Transvaal Republic after the defeat at Majuba Hill in 1881 and failed to prevent or revenge the death of Gordon at Khartoum in 1885. The British could swallow the occasional defeat, such as Isandhlwana in 1879 or Maiwand in 1880; what they could not tolerate was national humiliation and loss of status. It was the bad luck of the Boers to win three battles in one week in December 1899 at the start of the Boer War; after ‘Black Week’, with its accompanying press and propaganda furore, there was no possibility of a negotiated peace, and young British officers including Winston Churchill expressed the view that they would not want to return home if the war was lost. It was the symbolic humiliation of the fall of Singapore in January 1942, recorded in photographs and film by the Japanese, that undermined the British position in

226 S. Badsey the Far East and the final humiliation of Suez in 1956 that marked the symbolic end of Imperial Britain. By the time of the Boer War, the relationship between British and Imperial military strength and propaganda was well understood. Sir Alfred Milner prepared the ground for war by generating propaganda within the London newspapers, and Field Marshal Lord Roberts as commander-inchief in South Africa included unofficially within his staff a coterie of famous writers, including Kipling and Arthur Conan Doyle, to generate propaganda for him.50 Roberts exercised tight control on British war reporters, although they also subscribed overwhelmingly to the ideology of Empire; one of the most important, George W. Steevens, was lauded after his death in the siege of Ladysmith as ‘a priest of the Imperialist ideal’.51 Kipling was only the most prominent of the apologists for Empire in this time, but his influence continued among military officers long after he had otherwise ceased to be fashionable. Writing in 1944, Field Marshal Sir Archibald Wavell described how he read Kipling ‘at an impressionable age’ and that his poems (together with those of Browning) had ‘stayed most in my memory’.52 But it is one of the truisms of propaganda that it acts best in convincing people of what they already wish to believe. No amount of propaganda by Kipling or others could generate the mass emigration from Britain to South Africa after the Boer War for which Milner had hoped. By 1914, British official institutions already existed for controlling reporters and applying censorship, but not for using propaganda as a positive force. However, the traditional gentlemen’s agreements on propaganda had also become more institutionalised. In 1910, Reuters began an Imperial News Service and in the following year entered into a secret agreement with the British government to give ministerial speeches the fullest circulation within the Empire. Throughout the First World War, while remaining an independent company, Reuters exhibited an inevitably strong pro-British bias in the news that it sent overseas.53 At the start of the First World War, domestic propaganda in the form of posters and speeches was largely left to regional or local initiatives. But overseas propaganda was made the task of a new institution based at Wellington House in London (often later called the War Propaganda Bureau). Wellington House specialised in producing or funding propaganda, as well as official news, which appeared not to originate with the British government, and its strategy was to target the generally sympathetic elites. Its chief target was the neutrality of the US, and it benefited greatly from the deployment in New York and Washington of Canadians such as Sir Campbell Stuart.54 In January 1917, shortly before the US entered the war, Wellington House was merged into the larger Department of Information (DoI) under the Foreign Office (FO). As part of the DoI, Wellington House organised, funded, or supported the publication of about 150 book or pamphlet titles (dispatching half a million copies

Propaganda and the defence of empire 227 abroad), together with a further million copies being printed overseas and ten newspaper titles. Wellington House was always keen to project the voluntary unity of the Empire, and among its pamphlets were contributions from important Empire figures including Canadian Prime Minister Robert Borden and General Jan Smuts, as well as justifications of British policy in Ireland and India.55 Imperial themes also loomed large in British visual propaganda: the largest propaganda series of documentary films produced for the DoI in 1917, showing scenes of the war effort, was entitled Sons of the Empire. Wellington House’s approach was broadly elitist, but as the strain of the war increased, so British propaganda began to move towards a more populist style, culminating in early 1918 with the appointment of two leading newspaper magnates already heavily involved in propaganda, Lord Beaverbrook to head the new MoI and Lord Northcliffe, owner of The Times and the Daily Mail, to head the Directorate of Propaganda in Enemy Countries (often known from its location as Crewe House). Another myth which grew in strength in the 1920s and has taken some time in dying is that propaganda from Crewe House played a significant part in the collapse of Imperial Germany. As part of domestic propaganda in the war’s last year, the MoI stressed both the contribution by fighting troops from the dominions, and the Imperial aspects of the war including particularly the campaigns in Palestine and Mesopotamia. The British propaganda rhetoric of 1918 was distinctly more imperial than in 1914, and coupled with the real need for the dominions to take a greater share in the fighting in the last year of the war, this placed them in a stronger negotiating position with the mother country.56 Something also changed during the First World War from the Imperial unity of past wars. Dr Charles Bean, the Australian official chronicler and historian, deliberately promoted the ‘Digger myth’ of a distinctive Australian cultural identity and military superiority through propaganda and the media, both during the war and later.57 More serious at the time in terms of its impact on Imperial defence was that, in addition to his central role in British propaganda, Beaverbrook was also head of the separate Canadian War Records Office in London. The propaganda put out by this office emphasised the fighting abilities of Canadian troops and their cultural distinctiveness from the British, based on a mythology of the Canadian backwoods that was similar to the Australian ‘digger myth’ promoted by Bean. Beaverbrook was also not above using the British propaganda apparatus to promote Canadian interests.58 After the First World War, the British government’s propaganda presentation of the Empire showed a marked turn away from military matters towards business and trade, in keeping with the country’s own preoccupation with restoring its financial strengths and the brief absence of major enemies. This new approach was evident in the British Empire Wembley Exhibition of 1924 and marked both by the creation of the

228 S. Badsey Empire Marketing Board in 1926 and by its abolition in 1933 as fresh military dangers emerged and the idea of Imperial economic unity proved elusive.59 Wider public attitudes also seem to have changed towards the Empire and perhaps towards the power and influence of the press barons; the decline in influence of the political press in Britain has been traced as starting soon after 1918.60 Beaverbrook provocatively told a Royal Commission on the Press in 1948 that he ran the Daily Express ‘purely for propaganda and with no other purpose’, but even his support for yet another ‘Empire Crusade’, based on trade protection and begun in 1929, generated almost no popular enthusiasm.61 Even more, while the broad ideological consensus underpinning the propaganda of Empire remained relatively intact, the ideology of an expansionist Empire on a civilising mission had been ended by the First World War. While outright pacifism remained the doctrine of a tiny minority, no British politician after 1918 could regard war as anything more than a necessary or unavoidable evil. Indeed, one of the most effective pieces of privately generated British propaganda of the period was Arthur Ponsonby’s book Falsehood in War-time (1928), denouncing what it portrayed as the excesses and absurdities of British official propaganda during the First World War.62 Although feature films such as Lives of a Bengal Lancer (1935) and The Four Feathers (1939) joined the boys’ stories and other media celebrating the old Empire of military force, British official propaganda became distinctly idealistic, a trend given impetus by the founding of the British Council in 1934 to conduct cultural propaganda overseas.63 British propaganda returned to its traditions of targeting elite opinion formers with reasoned arguments and selected information, rather than mass opinion.64 It was also in the interwar years that the idea of domestic public opinion became important to the Government of India. In the face of a skilfully mounted political and propaganda campaign for independence, it sought to develop its own information system in response to the nationalist movement, with limited success.65 As for the dominions and colonies, even while they drew further away from Britain politically and economically, they were brought significantly closer in ideological terms by two technological developments that also became symbols of Empire. One of these was BBC radio broadcasts across the globe, starting with an experimental transmission to Australia in 1927 and leading to the establishment of the Empire Service in 1932.66 A series of gentlemen’s agreements meant that the Empire Service soon became the epitome of positive Imperial propaganda, later described by the BBC as ‘more blimpish than Colonel Blimp himself’.67 In this period also, the ideology of Empire was combined with new technologies, particularly in the form of aircraft, both civil and military, reflected in government support for the British aircraft industry, and for Imperial Airways, formed in 1924, with an emphasis on uniting the Empire through its fleet of long-distance flying boats in the 1930s, and also for a new role for the RAF in Imperial

Propaganda and the defence of empire 229 policing.68 Again, the propaganda of Empire fused with the substance of power, as films made for the Empire Marketing Board and Imperial Airways, including Contact (1933) and Air Post (1934) helped establish the (later very influential) British Documentary Movement of film makers.69 Many of these same men went on during the Second World War to make for the Crown Film Unit and the MoI such propaganda classics as Fires Were Started and Target for Tonight (both 1941) and Desert Victory (1943), the celebration of El Alamein as a victory for the British Empire used by Churchill as propaganda to impress his American and Soviet allies during critical negotiations in early 1943.70 Very much as before the First World War, from 1938 onwards, Reuters cooperated informally with the British government in what it saw as countering Nazi propaganda overseas.71 The BBC also cooperated in government propaganda and with the newly formed MoI. Although domestic war propaganda aimed by the British at themselves was both more centralised and more organised than in the First World War, the shared ideology and the extent of the external threat were once again sufficient to make propaganda a kind of partnership between people searching for comfort and a justification for their cause or in the words of one veteran, ‘a pat on the back, and a reminder that what you were doing was worth while’.72 British war correspondents, including citizens of the dominions such as the Australian Alan Moorehead of the Daily Express, also considered that they were keeping faith with the infantrymen rather than generating propaganda.73 But, once again, propaganda could only act in cooperation with power: no amount of special pleading could offset the damage done to Anglo-Australian relations by Singapore, or Indian demands for independence, or the general decline of British status compared to that of the US and Soviet Union as the war progressed. From as early as 1937, the US was once more the principal target of British overseas propaganda, other than the regular task of countering German propaganda around the globe. Before the US entered the war in December 1941, its Neutrality Acts had sought to prevent any belligerent practising propaganda on American soil, and for this war, the very successful British propaganda campaign was so subtle that for many years its very existence went unsuspected.74 Because of this focus on the US, the Empire was always a sensitive topic in British propaganda strategy during the Second World War, to be avoided as a theme if possible, although the MoI did have an Empire Division which, among other activities, recruited the poet John Betjeman to manage British propaganda in Ireland.75 Plans for the BBC to create a large-scale ‘Empire Broadcasting Network’ were repeatedly turned down, and the Empire Service merged into a new Overseas Service.76 Public opinion in India was considered as particularly important during the war, and propaganda was provided by radio broadcasts from All India Radio, run by the Government of India’s Department of Information and Broadcasting.77 After 1942, the Government of India’s

230 S. Badsey wider propaganda campaign was run not by the Department of Information and Broadcasting (which was dominated by Indian civil servants) but rather by the Home Department and was based on the inevitability of Indian independence with results that were the very opposite of its intention of damping down nationalist aspirations.78 If before the First World War British propaganda about the Empire had been militaristic and expansionist and chiefly economic in the interwar years, then after the Second World War, it reflected ‘a variety of cultures united in liberal constitutional advance’.79 The 1951 Festival of Britain was a celebration of national culture rather than Imperial achievement. Even so and despite the disbanding of the MoI and other propaganda institutions, a military need continued for Imperial propaganda, as the British moved almost without a pause into covert propaganda as an integral part of the defence of their Empire against insurgency. Although there was a lot of continuity with wartime institutions, this started with the creation of the Information Research Department (IRD) in the FO in 1948 and the outbreak of the Malayan Emergency in the same year. In broad strategic terms, this covert propaganda defence of Empire was seen as only one aspect of the Cold War and was conducted often without the knowledge even of cabinet ministers. Even more than in the past, a major target was elite opinion in the US as well as broad domestic popular opinion, and the main British strategy was to depict anti-Imperialists as Communists, however badly the Mau Mau in Kenya or Archbishop Makarios in Cyprus might fit the profile.80 Finally, the Suez Crisis of 1956 which ends our period saw ‘one of the most intensive propaganda campaigns conducted by a British government’ since 1945, in an attempt to convince the British people of the ideological righteousness of its actions.81 The use of propaganda in the defence of Empire, which at the start of our period had been an overt and integral part of everyday culture, ended it as a covert and somewhat suspect activity conducted by secret government departments. Even so, much of the effectiveness of British propaganda still depended on a shared ideology and on informal gentlemen’s agreements, particularly between the government and the major institutions of the news media.

Notes 1 Files DO 35 982/2 ‘Empire Propaganda: Education of Children with Regard to Empire Matters 1938–1940’ and BW 2/319 ‘British Council – Empire Propaganda Abroad 1941–1944’, both National Archives of Great Britain, Public Record Office, Kew. 2 Quoted in Michael Sanders and Philip M. Taylor, British Propaganda During the First World War 1914–18 (London, 1982), 41. 3 Philip M. Taylor, The Projection of Britain: British Overseas Publicity and Propaganda 1919–1939 (London, 1981), 1–7. 4 Ian McLaine, Ministry of Morale: Home Front Morale and the Ministry of Information

Propaganda and the defence of empire 231

5

6 7 8 9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

in World War II (London, 1979); David Garnett, The Secret History of PWE: The Political Warfare Executive 1939–1945 (London, 2002). Quoted, together with other definitions, by David Welch, ‘Propaganda: Definitions of’, in Nicholas J. Cull, David Culbert, and David Welch (eds), Propaganda and Mass Persuasion: A Historical Encyclopedia, 1500 to the Present (Santa Barbara, 2003), 317–323. See also Garth S. Jowett and Victoria O’Donnell, Propaganda and Persuasion (Newbury Park, 1992). Oliver Thomson, Easily Led: A History of Propaganda (Thrupp, 1999), 243. Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere (Cambridge, MA, 1989), translated by Thomas Burger; first published as Strukturwandel der Offentlicheit (Darmsstadt, 1962). This paragraph, which simplifies a sophisticated argument, is further condensed from the valuable summary in T. C. W. Blanning, The Culture of Power and the Power of Culture: Old Regime Europe 1660–1789 (Oxford, 2002), 5–14. Andrew Lambert and Stephen Badsey, The Crimean War: The War Correspondents (Thrupp, 1994), 304–320. Bernard S. Cohn, ‘Representing Authority in Victorian India’, in Eric Hobsbawn and Terence Ranger (eds), The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge, 1983), 165–209. David Cannadine, ‘The Context, Performance and Meaning of Ritual: The British Monarchy and the “Invention of Tradition” c.1820–1977’, in Hobsbawn and Ranger, The Invention of Tradition, 124; Denis Judd, Empire: The British Imperial Experience from 1785 to the Present (London, 1996), 130–153. Donald Read, The Power of News: The History of Reuters (Oxford, 1992), 40–89. Lucy Brown, Victorian News and Newspapers (Oxford, 1985), 213–214. John M. Mackenzie, Propaganda and Empire: The Manipulation of British Public Opinion 1880–1960 (Manchester, 1986), 122–146. Mackenzie, Propaganda and Empire, 16–38; Michael Paris, Warrior Nation: Images of War in British Popular Culture 1850–2000 (London, 2000), 49–109. Ellecke Boehmer, introduction to Robert Baden-Powell, Scouting for Boys (Oxford, 2004 [1908]), xviii–xxvii. Glenn R. Wilkinson, Depictions and Images of War in Edwardian Newspapers 1899–1914 (London, 2003), 15–41; Paris, Warrior Nation, 49–82. Jonathan Gathorne-Hardy, The Public School Phenomenon (London, 1977), 409. See also J. R. De S. Honey, Tom Brown’s Universe (London, 1977). Rudyard Kipling, Stalky & Co. (London, 1994 [1899]), 214. Gathorne-Hardy, The Public School Phenomenon, 213. Philip Mason, The English Gentleman: The Rise and Fall of an Ideal (London, 1993), 218–219; David Cannadine, The Decline and Fall of the British Aristocracy (London, 1990), 487–498. Mason, The English Gentleman, 210–211. Quoted in Judd, Empire, 133. Mark Connelly, Reaching for the Stars: A New History of Bomber Command in World War II (London, 2001), 162. G. D. Sheffield, Leadership in the Trenches: Officer-Man Relations, Morale and Discipline in the Era of the First World War (London, 2000), 178–179. Niall Ferguson, Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World (London, 2004), 184. Robert Roberts, The Classic Slum: Salford Life in the First Quarter of the Century (Manchester, 1972), 143; Correlli Barnett, The Collapse of British Power (London, 1984 [1972]), 76; Judd, Empire, 133. Terence Ranger, ‘The Invention of Tradition in Colonial Africa’, in Hobsbawn and Ranger, The Invention of Tradition, 215. Bernard Crick, George Orwell: A Life (London, 1982), 139–175. Barnett, The Collapse of British Power, 137–138.

232 S. Badsey 31 Dorothy Sheridan (ed.), Wartime Women: A Mass Observation Anthology (London, 2000), 4–5. 32 Richard Price, An Imperial War and the British Working Class: Working Class Attitudes and Reactions to the Boer War 1899–1902 (London, 1972), 12–45. 33 Ian F. W. Beckett, The Amateur Military Tradition (Manchester, 1991), 200. 34 Quoted in J. E. Johnson, Full Circle, (London, 1980), 179. 35 Carman Miller, Painting the Map Red: Canada and the South African War 1899–1902 (Montreal, 1993), 5–6; Stephen Clarke, ‘Manufacturing Spontaneity?’ The Role of the Commandants in the Colonial Offers of Troops to the South African War’, in Peter Dennis and Jeffrey Grey (eds), The Boer War: Army, Nation and Empire (Canberra, 2000), 129–150. 36 Quoted from ‘With French to Kimberley’, in Andrew Paterson, The Works of Banjo Paterson (Ware, 1995), 102. 37 Judd, Empire, 245. 38 Sanjoy Bhattacharaya, ‘Colonial India: Conflict, Shortage and Discontent’, in John Bourne, Peter Liddle, and Ian Whitehead (eds), The Great World War 1914–1945 Volume 2: Who Won? Who Lost? (London, 2001), 182–183. 39 David Murphy, Ireland and the Crimean War (Dublin, 2002), 169–233. 40 Richard Doherty, Irish Men and Women in the Second World War (Dublin, 1999), 15–46; Richard Doherty and David Truesdale, Irish Winners of the Victoria Cross (Dublin, 2000), 141–173. 41 McLaine, Ministry of Morale, 223–224. 42 Susan L. Carruthers, The Media at War (London, 2000), 2–3. 43 Daniel R. Headrick, The Tools of Empire: Technology and European Imperialism in the Nineteenth Century (Oxford, 1981), 204–206. 44 Jeremy Black, The English Press 1621–1861 (Thrupp, 2001), 177–200; Mackenzie, Propaganda and Empire, 16–37; Asa Briggs and Peter Burke, A Social History of the Media: From Guttenberg to the Internet (London, 2002). 45 I. F. Clarke, Voices Prophesying War: Future Wars 1763–3749 (Oxford, 1992), 27–38. 46 Pamphlet by D. M. Luckie, The Raid of the Russian Cruiser “Kaskowiski”, an Old Story of Auckland (Wellington, 1894). 47 Christopher Pugsley, ‘New Zealand: “From the Uttermost Ends of the Earth” ’, in Bourne, Liddle and Whitehead, The Great World War 1914–1945 Volume 2: Who Won? Who Lost?, 214. 48 V. G. Kiernan, Colonial Empires and Armies 1815–1960 (Thrupp, 1982), 158. 49 John Keegan, ‘The Ashanti Campaign 1873–74’, in Brian Bond (ed.), Victorian Military Campaigns (London, 1994), 194; Edward M. Spiers (ed.), Sudan: The Reconquest Reappraised (London, 1998), 5. 50 Thomas Packenham, The Boer War (London, 1979), 32; Stephen Badsey, ‘War Correspondents in the Boer War’, in John Gooch (ed.), The Boer War: Direction, Experience and Image (London, 2000), 187–202. 51 G. W. Steevens (ed. Vernon Blackburn), From Capetown to Ladysmith: An Unfinished Record of the South African War (Edinburgh, 1900), 176. 52 A. P. Wavell, Other Men’s Flowers (London, 1944), 15. 53 Read, The Power of News, 88–89, 134. 54 Sanders and Taylor, British Propaganda During the First World War 1914–18, 167–207. 55 Ibid., 152. 56 Stephen Badsey, ‘The Missing Western Front: British Politics, Strategy and Propaganda in 1918’, in Mark Connelly and David Welch (eds), War and the Media: Reportage and Propaganda (London, 2004), 47–64. 57 Richard White, Inventing Australia: Images and Identity 1688–1980 (Sydney, 1981), 125–126; see also John F. Williams, ANZACS, The Media and the Great War (Sydney, 1999).

Propaganda and the defence of empire 233 58 Tim Cook, ‘Documenting War and Forging Reputations: Sir Max Aitken and the Canadian War Records Office in the First World War’, War in History, 10(2003): 265–295; see also Shane B. Schreiber, Shock Army of the British Empire (Westport, CT, 1997). 59 Judd, Empire, 273–286; Taylor, The Projection of Britain, 103–109. 60 Stephen Koss, The Rise and Fall of the Political Press in Britain: Volume 2: The Twentieth Century (London, 1984), 657–659. 61 A. J. P. Taylor, Beaverbrook (London, 1972), 346–349, 748; Piers Brendon, The Life and Death of the Press Barons (London, 1982), 154–179. 62 Arthur Ponsonby, Falsehood in War-Time (London, 1928). 63 Mackenzie, Propaganda and Empire, 256; Philip M. Taylor, British Propaganda in the Twentieth Century: Selling Democracy (Edinburgh, 1999), 76–78. 64 Taylor, The Projection of Britain, 3. 65 Bhattacharya, ‘Colonial India: Conflict, Shortage and Discontent’, 184. 66 Asa Briggs, The Golden Age of Wireless 1927–1939: The History of Broadcasting in the UK Volume II (Oxford, 1995), 342–362. 67 Nicholas John Cull, Selling War: The British Propaganda Campaign Against American ‘Neutrality’ in World War II (Oxford, 1995), 45–46. 68 David Edgerton, England and the Aeroplane: An Essay on a Militant and Technological Nation (London, 1991), 18–22, 31–32. 69 Michael Paris, From the Wright Brothers to Top Gun: Aviation, Nationalism and Popular Cinema (Manchester, 1995), 77 and 102. 70 James Chapman, The British at War: Cinema, State and Propaganda 1939–1945 (London, 1998), 144–148. 71 Read, The Power of News, 181–185. 72 George MacDonald Fraser, quoted in Stephen Badsey and Philip M. Taylor, ‘The Experience of Manipulation: Propaganda in Press and Radio’, in Bourne, Liddle, and Whitehead (eds), The Great World War 1914–45: Volume 2: Who Won, Who Lost?, 47. 73 Richard Collier, The Warcos: The War Correspondents of World War II (London, 1989), 206. 74 Cull, Selling War, 4–32. 75 Ibid., 47. 76 Asa Briggs, The War of Words: The History of Broadcasting in the UK Volume III (Oxford, 1970), 177, 494–497. 77 Briggs, The War of Words, 508–510. 78 Bhattacharya, ‘Colonial India: Conflict, Shortage and Discontent’, 192 and footnote 62. 79 MacKenzie, Propaganda and Empire, 256–257. 80 Paul Lashmar and James Oliver, Britain’s Secret Propaganda War 1948–1977 (Thrupp, 1998), 84–93; Susan L. Carruthers, Winning Hearts and Minds: British Governments, the Media and Colonial Counter-Insurgency 1944–1960 (London, 1995), 217–259. 81 Tony Shaw, Eden, Suez and the Mass Media: Propaganda and Persuasion During the Suez Crisis (London: I. B. Tauris, 1996), 189–196; Michael Nicholson, War of the Black Heavens: The Battles of Western Broadcasting in the Cold War (London, 1997), 88–90.

12 The colonial empire and imperial defence Ashley Jackson

The term ‘colonial empire’ refers to the fifty or so colonies that were ruled through the Colonial Office, as opposed to the ‘white’ Dominions and India, both separate branches of the imperial tree. This straightforward definition is blurred around the edges, however, because the Colonial Office had a major role in some territories that were not officially colonies, such as the Mandates established in the Middle East, Africa, and the Pacific following the First World War, as well as the Southern African High Commission Territories which in 1925 were transferred from the Colonial Office to the new Dominions Office. In this chapter, there will not be a religious devotion to a fixed definition, because it is important to include some of the empire’s constitutional oddities in an examination of the colonial empire and imperial defence, such as the joint-ruled ‘condominiums’ of the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan and Anglo-French New Hebrides, the privately ruled Sarawak, and areas of ‘informal empire’ such as Shanghai. Traditionally, the colonial empire has played second fiddle to the Dominions and India in studies of imperial defence.1 To an extent this is understandable, for it was the Dominions and India that provided the empire with its main non-British defence assets. The omission of the colonies also reflects the fact that they were voiceless compared with the other constituent parts of the empire; the Dominions were self-governing and, as the twentieth century progressed, increasingly involved in imperial defence decision-making (even sending representatives to the Versailles Peace Conference as part of the British Empire Delegation). India, while ruled autocratically at the highest levels by British authorities, had always been represented in imperial defence counsels by the Viceroy, the Secretary of State for India, and the Commander-in-Chief India, and the Raj itself had gathered to itself a huge network of influence, as well as defence responsibilities, throughout the Indian Ocean.2 It was, in effect, a sub-empire within the British Empire. In contrast, the colonies were ruled directly from London through the Colonial Office and did what they were bid. The colonies poor billing in studies of imperial defence also stems from the fact that they were considered consumers of imperial defence rather

The colonial empire and imperial defence 235 than contributors, though the amount that the colonial empire was to give in the empire’s major wars (and the little that the Dominions were prepared to commit in peacetime) makes this a questionable assumption. This chapter suggests that the colonies were at the heart of imperial defence for a number of reasons. First, imperial defence was all about defending colonies (as well as Dominions, sea routes, and the Northwest Frontier), and many colonies had been gained precisely because of their imperial defence utility. Second, the colonies contributed a huge amount to imperial defence, in terms of military and civilian manpower and industrial and primary resources, and the colonies supplied more troops to the imperial cause during the Second World War than all of the Dominions combined. Third, the colonial contribution to imperial defence grew in importance during the twentieth century, moving from the peripheries of imperial defence thinking to the very core as Britain came to rely more heavily on colonial bases and manpower resources. Fourth, colonies were essential bases for the armed forces that gave meaning to the term ‘imperial defence’ and acted as regional power centres from which imperial power could be projected. Given the constitutional and political realities of imperial rule, British subjects in the colonies had no representation at anything above the local level. They could therefore justifiably claim to depend upon British protection against external aggression, for, unlike the Dominions, they had no political autonomy, and so the ‘self government begets self defence’ aphorism did not apply.3 Thus, a fundamental feature of the nexus between Britain and its colonial subjects was the provision of security from external aggression as well as the maintenance of internal law and order. Imperial defence meant protecting colonial subjects from the arbitrary attentions of foreign powers. It was the breach of this unspoken contract that did so much damage to Britain’s reputation, and the legitimacy of Britain’s presence, when millions of colonial subjects found themselves at the mercy of the Imperial Japanese Army in December 1941. The colonial empire had always been central to imperial defence, because it required defending and because it was, in turn, responsible for helping defend and police the empire. Until 1854, the war and colonial offices were combined beneath a single Secretary of State for war and the colonies. It was as a platform for force projection that the colonies contributed most consistently to imperial defence. Colonies provided barracks for the army and ports for the navy. They were watering holes, repair yards, recreational retreats, ammunition dumps, fuel reservoirs, sheltered harbours, administrative centres, internment centres, cable and wireless links, and, from the First World War, airbases.4 Colonies were also central to imperial defence because they were responsible for their own internal security and that of their borders, saving the regular army a job and allowing it to retain its small peacetime size. Colonial military and paramilitary formations were formed primarily

236 A. Jackson to defend the borders and prevent internal unrest, though a tradition soon developed of expanding these forces in times of general war for service elsewhere in the empire. The success of this system depended upon the contumely attached to calling in help from above. A young district officer facing unrest in a hinterland province would suffer a severe bout of career blight should he feel it necessary to telegraph for the dispatch of a platoon of native levies and their white officer and NCO from the coastal capital (better to sort it out Sanders of the River style); similarly, a governor, worrying in Government House about reports of disturbances up country, would be in for some unpleasant scrutiny from his Whitehall masters if he should think it necessary to call in imperial troops from Britain.5 The colonies were always pivotal in imperial defence because they provided strategically located bases in an age where power projection relied upon local concentrations of troops, ports of call for warships, and airstrips. The extension of Britain’s protective shield to distant Dominions depended upon colonial bases. While Australia, for example, might have army, militia, and naval forces at its disposal, these were never sufficient to withstand the determined attentions of a first-class enemy. So the continent’s security depended upon the British Army and, in particular, the Royal Navy (and later the ability to reinforce the region by air, reliant upon a string of colonial air bases). In order to get to Australia should an attack ever come, those military instruments of British power depended upon domination of the sea routes and secure air routes, and regional power points that could provide safe harbours, infrastructure, airstrips, and transit camps as forces journeyed east. Colonial bases performed this vital function, without which the Australasian Dominions would have been utterly marooned. Colonies were an integral part of the British Army’s development in the nineteenth century as an imperial force. Colonies were important in furnishing the army with regional strongholds from which to operate. In 1842, for example, British regiments, excluding those in Britain, the Dominions, and India, were stationed in Antigua, Barbados, Bermuda, Ceylon, Gibraltar, Jamaica, Malta, Mauritius, St Helena, Sierra Leone, and Trinidad.6 In 1881, British troops, excluding those in Britain, the Dominions, and India, were stationed in Barbados (813 troops), Bermuda (2,200), Bahamas (101), British Guiana (246), British Honduras (247), Ceylon (1,224), Cyprus (420), Gibraltar (4,158), the Gold Coast (191), Hong Kong (1,167), Jamaica (778), Malta (5,626), Mauritius (355), St Helena (210), Sierra Leone (441), the Straits Settlements (1,028), and Trinidad (121).7 In extending its writ around the world, to enhance British presence in a region as well as to contribute to the defence of vulnerable colonies, the British Army always made extensive and effective use of locally recruited formations. In the British Empire, locally recruited forces performed two

The colonial empire and imperial defence 237 functions: they contributed towards internal security and helped the British Army in defending the colony, by forming coastal artillery units or infantry companies detailed to defend strategic points should the colony ever be attacked. The growth of colonial military forces went hand in hand with British expansion, and the formation of a regiment was at the top of the list when the British arrived on a distant shore, along with the creation of a school, a racecourse, a club, and a church. Thus, when British sovereignty alighted in Fiji in 1874, it was not long before the Fiji Armed Constabulary was formed, and in 1898, its commander, Colonel Claude Francis, organised the Fiji Volunteer Corps. This force, dedicated to internal security, soon proved its value when the empire needed manpower overseas. In the First World War, Fiji sent labourers to France, and in the Second World War, the Fiji Military Forces played an important role in defending their homeland and operating with American and New Zealand forces in the Pacific war. Africa was home to numerous locally recruited forces, which came to form the bedrock of internal and border security. Private enterprises such as the British South Africa Company and the Imperial British East Africa Company formed their own security forces, and the British South Africa Police being created to accompany Cecil Rhodes’ Pioneer Column into Mashonaland in 1890. It then took part in the Matabele War of 1893, the suppression of the Ndebele and Shona rebellions of 1896, and the AngloBoer War. During the First World War, it served with distinction in the East African campaign and, in 1914, captured Schuckmansberg in German South-West Africa. Most African colonial forces were raised in the name of the Crown, most famously the King’s African Rifles (KAR) and the Royal West African Frontier Force. The Central Africa Rifles was established in 1891 around a nucleus of Sikhs and renamed the Central African Rifles in 1898 and the KAR four years later.8 In the First World War, the unit’s strength rose to twenty-two battalions, falling back in the 1930s to about 3,000 men. The Second World War brought further expansion for the KAR, climbing to forty-three battalions (there was also an all-white Kenya Regiment). The West African Frontier Force (it became ‘Royal’ in 1925 and the King became its Colonel-in-Chief) was formed at the behest of Colonial Secretary Joseph Chamberlain in 1897 to provide Britain with a more assertive presence in the light of aggressive French expansion in the region. British Africa provides many other examples of locally raised defence forces that were used beyond colonial borders during world wars and colonial emergencies. The Sudan Defence Force (SDF) was established in 1924, and by the outbreak of the Second World War, numbered over 4,000 men. Its role was to defend the condominium’s extensive borders, particularly against Italian incursions. During the Second World War, the SDF took part in operations against Italian forces in Libya and Abyssinia, and the territory was also an important centre of air power in the region,

238 A. Jackson being home to an RAF group. Other long-standing African units were the Somaliland Camel Corps, raised in 1912 to check inter-tribal fighting, and the Northern Rhodesia Regiment. Colonies could also provide specialist military expertise during imperial campaigns, as when members of the Bakgatla tribe, split by the colonial border between South Africa and Bechuanaland, acted as scouts during the Anglo-Boer War and when Dyaks from Borneo were employed as trackers during the Malayan Emergency.9 Other parts of the colonial empire followed the same pattern. The West Indies had contributed infantry regiments to the British Army for scores of years before African units were first raised, and West Indian formations served in both world wars.10 The Mauritius Territorial Force was formed in the 1930s to supplement the British garrison on the island, manning coastal defence artillery and forming an infantry unit to repel an enemy raid. During the Second World War, it became The Mauritius Regiment, and one of its battalions was part of the garrison established in Madagascar after the British invasion.11 If the men of the Colonial Administrative Service were the steel frame around which the British colonial empire was built, these locally recruited military units were the cold steel that buttressed that frame. As well as their locally recruited or imperial army units, most colonies had other forms of military and paramilitary organisations on the books, and colonies could present a surprisingly militarised environment. The Gold Coast in the mid-1920s, for example, had a range of forces at its disposal in addition to the Gold Coast Regiment (part of the Royal West African Frontier Force).12 There was a military reserve of ex-servicemen who could be mobilised quickly, and a territorial defence force with a European and an African section, the former including machine gun companies. In addition to the general police, there was a paramilitary Northern Territories Constabulary, recruited mainly from military veterans; an Escort Police; separate mine, railway, and marine police branches; and an armed Preventive Force serving on the frontiers as part of the customs service. Many of the Europeans in the colony possessed firearms and practiced in rifle clubs supported by government funds. Mauritius provides a good example of how a colony was affected by the ebb and flow of imperial defence requirements. The island, of great strategic importance during the era of Anglo-French rivalry in the east and an important mid-ocean port of call in the pre-Suez Canal era, was home to a permanent British garrison. During the Indian Mutiny, the garrison was reduced, and the men sent to India, a depletion repeated during the Zulu War of 1879–1880. The garrison was mobilised at the time of the Fashoda incident in 1898, and the Anglo-Boer War saw the British elements reduced and units of the Central African Rifles arrive to take their place. The garrison was mobilised during the 1904–5 Russo-Japanese War as the Baltic Fleet steamed across the Indian Ocean towards its Tsushima doom

The colonial empire and imperial defence 239 [Port Louis was defended at the time by No. 57 Company Royal Garrison Artillery (RGA), No. 1 Company Ceylon-Mauritius Battalion RGA, and the Hong Kong and Singapore Battalion RGA]. During the First World War, the island did all that it could to support the war effort.13 It was a classic colonial role in a world war; on the one hand, the island contributed to the war effort overseas, and on the other hand, measures were taken to reduce its vulnerability to enemy attack. A special tax was levied on the sugar crop and contributed to war funds, efforts were made to reduce dependence upon imported food, money was raised to buy the British Army and Royal Navy thirty aircraft, a naval wireless facility was constructed, and electric searchlights were installed. The thousand-strong garrison was again drawn down, and a Volunteer Defence Force established as partial compensation as well as the Mauritius Volunteer Artillery and Engineers. Over 1,700 local men were sent to Mesopotamia as military labourers to work on the inland waterways during the imperial campaign against the Turks, and over 520 white Mauritians served on the Western Front. In the Second World War, over 6,000 Mauritians joined the British Army’s Royal Pioneer Corps serving in the Middle East, thousands more joined the Mauritius Regiment and the home guard unit, the Mauritius Defence Force, and drafts of Mauritian women served in the Middle East as Auxiliary Territorial Service clerks and secretaries. Other Mauritians were employed by the RAF in its Marine Crafts Section, working at the new seaplane anchorage, and over 8,000 were recruited into a civil labour corps to ensure that extensive defence works on the island, including the construction of a Royal Naval Air Station, were completed. A battalion of the KAR arrived to bolster the island’s defences given the threat of a Japanese invasion, a commitment that remained until 1960.14 As providers of military labour, the colonies were a godsend for the British government and deserve as much recognition for this as the Anzacs or the Indian Army for their feats of arms at Gallipoli and in Burma. As well as furnishing the empire with fighting units (over 80,000 Africans fought in Burma, and the East African campaign was dominated by African infantrymen), the colonies provided the men of the logistical tail upon which famous fighting units, such as the Eighth Army, depended.15 The colonies and other regions of empire became particularly prized as a source of military labour during imperial wars. Britain’s presence in China secured the transit of thousands of Chinese people to work in South Africa at the time of the Anglo-Boer War of 1899–1902. During the First World War, the British Empire really showed its capacity to move people; over 150,000 Chinese people were taken to the Western Front as labourers, and hundreds of thousands of Arabs, recruited mainly from Egypt, were employed as labourers in the Sinai campaign.16 Still in an era of human porterage, the East African campaign employed hundreds of thousands of African labourers, and over 30,000 Southern Africans joined the South African Native Labour Contingent for service in

240 A. Jackson France. At Gallipoli, the 29th British Division was supported by a military labourer battalion comprising Palestinian Jews. As well as being garrison centres for the British Army and its local supplementary forces, colonies provided the Royal Navy with the bases upon which its global reach and ubiquity depended. They were the infrastructure without which the navy could not have sustained its presence around the world, be it performing anti-slaving patrols off the east and west coasts of Africa, hunting pirates in the Indonesian archipelago, or searching for German U-boats in the central Mediterranean. By 1914, shore bases overseas included HMS Cormorant at Gibraltar, headquarters of the East Atlantic Station, as well as the submarine base HMS Rapid. HMS St Angelo and Egmont were shore bases in Malta. HMS Alert was the depot ship in the Persian Gulf, and HMS Tamar, the naval headquarters of the China Station in Hong Kong (as she was until British withdrawal in 1997). The North America and West Indies Station was served by HMS Terror on Bermuda along with bases in Canada and Newfoundland, and HMS Pursuivant in the Falklands served the South East Coast Station.17 In the same way that the British Army received assistance from locally raised forces, so too did the navy. Colonies such as Ceylon, Kenya, Tanganyika, and Trinidad had their own naval forces for operations in territorial waters, and during the Second World War, they were able to take over local convoy escort work as well as mine clearance from the Royal Navy, allowing it to concentrate stretched resources in other areas. Locally recruited naval forces also helped man coastal batteries and the Port War Signals Stations that supervised the security of imperial ports and ensured the peaceful intent of visiting vessels. Colonies also operated as key links on the global sea routes that ensured imperial trade and security. During the Second World War, colonies such as Ceylon, Gibraltar, and Sierra Leone formed vital points in the empire’s convoy network alongside ports such as Cape Town, Halifax, Liverpool, and Sydney. One of the main roles of colonies in the imperial defence structure was to serve as bases for the warships of the Royal Navy. Some colonies served as the headquarters of important naval fleets and standing commitments. Thus, Bermuda was home to the North America and West Indies Station and Malta to the Mediterranean Fleet. Ceylon was home to the East Indies Station, responsible for policing the vast Indian Ocean as far afield as the Swahili coast, the Arabian Sea, the Persian Gulf, and the Red Sea. Until the closure of the East Indies Station in 1958, British warships continued, much as before, to mount East African and Persian Gulf cruises, showing the flag on land, playing the locals at cricket and rugby, putting the band ashore to impress or the Marines to quell disturbances, performing gunnery demonstrations, and holding ‘harbour lights’ events and hosting the ubiquitous cocktail parties. Naval visits were also used by colonial garrisons as an opportunity for exercises, the garrison, for example, attempting to defend

The colonial empire and imperial defence 241 the capital from a party of Royal Marines put ashore by a visiting cruiser. The Royal Navy was the cornerstone of the grand ‘illusion’ of Pax Britannica, and this is how it was maintained. In their turn, the colonies were the stage upon which the navy performed. Another colony that served as headquarters to one of the navy’s major overseas fleets was Hong Kong. The China Station had its home in Hong Kong and Singapore (with a gunboat base at Hankow) and was responsible for maritime security in the South China Sea and on China’s great rivers, particularly the Yangtze and the West River. The China Station was also intended to check Russian naval power in northern East Asia. The station’s strength usually comprised a number of destroyers and sloops, perhaps a squadron of elderly cruisers, and a more modern cruiser as flagship. It also comprised the quaint but proven shallow draft river gunboats (with splendid names such as HMS Aphis, Bee, Dragonfly, Glowworm, Ladybird, Moorhen, Peterel, and Widgeon). Weighing up to 645 tons, river gunboats looked more like Mississippi steamers but packed an array of weapons – twelve-pounders, three-inch anti-aircraft guns, Lewis guns, and even six-inch guns.18 Some of the earlier gunboats had originally been built for service with Kitchener on the Nile, and others for action on the Danube during the First World War. The job of these gunboats in eastern waters, from the end of the nineteenth century until the very day of Japan’s assault on British colonies in December 1941, was to patrol the inland waterways protecting British interests and providing the general security needed for the continuance of trading activities. The China Station also provided important force projection ashore, for example contributing significantly to the relief of the European legations in Peking during the Boxer Rebellion.19 As war with Japan loomed in the 1930s, the China Station was tasked with the far more daunting role of providing a tripwire should a day of reckoning ever come.20 The colonial empire also provided bases for the projection of air power and the development of rapid imperial communications (pioneered by Imperial Airways). In the 1920s and 1930s, numerous colonies became staging posts on the air route that was developed to connect Britain to the Far East and Australasia via the Mediterranean. Air bases were built in Gibraltar, Malta, Iraq, Oman, India, Burma, Malaya, Singapore, and the Sudan. Another air route that relied on colonial bases was the Takoradi Air Route running from the Gold Coast to Egypt. It was pioneered as a civil air route by Imperial Airways in 1936. Its strategic potential was noted at the time, and when Italy entered the war in 1940 and made the Mediterranean supply route hazardous, it was decided to use the trans-Africa route to reinforce the Western Desert Air Force, delivering over 10,000 valuable aircraft to the region. In the Persian Gulf and Arabian regions, the RAF became the senior armed service in the post-First World War period, and much of its work in the region was conducted from colonial bases, particularly RAF Khormaksar

242 A. Jackson and RAF Sheikh Othman in Aden, and facilities on offshore islands such as Masirah and Sharjah in Oman. In Aden, a responsibility of the Colonial Office since its transfer from Indian administration in 1937, hundreds of local people supported the base, as labourers or as part of the Aden Protectorate Levies, formed in 1928, which was responsible for guarding the RAF bases. British colonies contributed to imperial defence by the very fact of being British, because any colony owned by a rival or enemy power was a potential point of strength from which to harry British shipping, threaten British interests on land, or beam wireless messages to hostile vessels.21 Many British colonies had been gained purely because of their strategic significance, and the role that they could perform if in the hands of Britain’s enemies. Gibraltar was taken from the Spanish for this reason, and Ceylon from the Dutch and Mauritius from the French during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars. At the Peace of Paris in 1814, when the colonial bargaining chips were cast upon the table, Réunion was restored to France, but neighbouring Mauritius retained by the British. This was simply because Mauritius had port facilities that could harbour warships and Réunion did not. This policy of colonial assertion meant that ‘East of the Cape of Good Hope after 1824 there was no foreign port from which an enemy squadron could effectively challenge British command of the Indian Ocean’.22 This included control of seemingly unimportant territories, though ones that could acquire strategic importance, such as the Cocos Islands, Diego Garcia and the Chagos Archipelago, and the Maldives. Other colonies, while not gained during the colonial exchange that was a feature of imperial world wars from the eighteenth to the twentieth century, were nonetheless taken because of the role they could perform in imperial defence. Labuan was bagged by the Admiralty in 1846 because of its convenient location on a key shipping route between Singapore and China (closing the 1,500-mile gap in the chain of harbours circling the world), and Penang and Aden claimed by the East India Company because of their potential as transit camps, refuelling stations, and forward bases in the ongoing war against piracy. In 1878, Cyprus was prised from the Ottoman sultan as the British took steps to ensure a firm territorial base in a region threatened by Russia’s successful march to within a stone’s throw of Constantinople and the Dardanelles. Numerous colonies took great pride in their importance as ‘fortress’ colonies, colonies that had an enduring importance as links in the imperial defence chain. These included Bermuda, Gibraltar, Malta, Mauritius, and Singapore. Some, such as Gibraltar and Malta, maintained the practice of appointing a military, as opposed to a civilian, governor. From 1905, the crest of Mauritius incorporated the phrase ‘Star and Key of the Indian Ocean’, reflecting pride in the island’s pivotal strategic importance in an earlier phase of global warfare.

The colonial empire and imperial defence 243 Malta was, by any index, one of the most important colonies in the imperial defence matrix and serves as an example of a colonial career in the service of Britain’s overseas interests. Britain was invited to take over the island by the local notables in 1798 in order to end the French occupation, and Nelson duly achieved this transfer of authority by besieging Valetta in the following year. Malta duly became a Crown colony and began its life as a British strategic asset. The island stronghold was useful for intervening against regional rulers, such as Mehmet Ali of Egypt (or Colonel Nasser), and for concentrating troops in order to send a warning to other Great Powers interested in the Mediterranean, such as Russia. First and foremost, Malta was the home of the Mediterranean Fleet. This fleet defended Britain’s extensive interests in the Mediterranean region and was the steel behind Britain’s claim to be the premier power in the inland sea. In the 1920s, Malta’s importance as a nodal point in the imperial defence system was enhanced when it became the main base for the fleet that would be sent east should Japan ever become a menace. Malta was ten days sailing closer than British ports, and there was at the time no port east of Suez that could accommodate modern battleships (until the completion of the Singapore facilities in the 1930s).23 Malta’s major defence assets from a British point of view were the two main harbours at Valetta. After expansion, they could accommodate the expanded Mediterranean Fleet and its support vessels. The naval base featured extensive repair and storage facilities and employed 14,000 Maltese workers. The colony was also home to an army garrison, which in 1925 consisted of two battalions of British troops, with artillery and engineers support, supplemented by the locally raised King’s Own Malta Regiment and the Royal Malta Artillery, which helped man the coastal defences. A seaplane base had been established during the First World War at Kalafrana, and a landing ground developed at Hal Far for the Fleet Air Arm. During the 1920s, Malta’s relationship with the RAF, which was to base over 600 aircraft on the island at the height of the Second World War, was in its infancy. Malta’s finest hour as an imperial defence asset came during the Second World War, when it acted as a base for submarines and surface vessels attacking Axis transMediterranean shipping and for aircraft attacking Axis ports and ships or flying reconnaissance missions (including those which located the Italian battlefleet anchored at Taranto) and as a staging post for aircraft travelling to the Middle East and Far East. Colonies were involved in the business of imperial defence because they were marked by the martial traditions of empire that were a characteristic of society in the Dominions and Britain itself. Though only a few colonies had substantial white populations, all had a white community, and the governor and his district officers ensured that the great anniversaries of British military endeavour were celebrated and that the locals knew about the military prowess that underpinned Britain’s dominion

244 A. Jackson over palm and pine. Among the Europeans in the colonies – administrators, settlers, traders, and the like – were a fair sprinkling of former military men, many of whom maintained their preparedness should the colours ever call for a final flourish to quell a ‘native uprising’ or fight the king’s enemies overseas.24 White communities throughout the colonial world, no matter how small, displayed the same imperial patriotism common in the settler territories. Imperial wars also led to more colonial settlement, as colonies and Dominions offered ex-servicemen generous terms to start new lives in places such as Kenya and Southern Rhodesia.25 The rhetoric of imperial defence and loyalty, of serving the monarch when in need, and the display of Union Flags and bunting at appropriate moments were features of life in Jamaica and the Seychelles as much as in Canada or New Zealand. Southern Rhodesians, displaying Union Flags from all major buildings in the capital Salisbury in 1914, worried about how their war effort compared with that of the Dominions until two drafts of the Rhodesia Regiment had joined regiments in Britain and cast the colony’s ratio of soldiers to settler population in a very favourable light (this was not just imperial loyalty; the Southern Rhodesians dream was to be granted the self-government enjoyed by the Dominions, so they wanted to show how well they measured up).26 At the same time, the administrators of neighbouring Bechuanaland thrilled at the prospect of forming new defence units to guard the vast Protectorate’s borders from German encroachment, to ensure that Germans did not escape German East Africa to German South West Africa and to meet any ‘native uprisings’ stimulated by endemic rumours and fear of the consequences of a European war transported thousands of miles to the African veldt.27 A great deal was done to ensure that colonies were engaged with military forces during times of war, for example by the purchase of individual Spitfires or of entire bomber squadrons during the Second World War, fundraising for sailors, prisoner of war, or bomb victim charities, and the sponsorship of namesake naval vessels. Uganda raised £83,000 to pay for the Uganda Squadron of the RAF, and the cruiser HMS Uganda was gifted inscribed silver bugles, a silk ensign, African drums, a coffee machine, and a regular supply of Ugandan coffee. Mauritius gifted its namesake cruiser a silver table centrepiece depicting the 1810 Battle of Grand Port fought in Mauritian waters as well as a piano for the wardroom. Colonial place names and street names often indicated a colony’s association with the global military exertions of the British empire. Mauritius had its Arsenal, Balaclava, Gunners Quoin, Sebastopol, Signal Mountain, and Winston Churchill Bridge. As well as contributing men, material, and infrastructure during colonial and global wars, colonies were often touched by the proximity of war. On the Falkland Islands, war memorials bear testament to the islanders who lost their lives serving with British forces in distant lands and to the sailors – over 1,000 of them German – who lost their lives in the Battle of the Falklands in 1914.

The colonial empire and imperial defence 245 Colonies could become the centre of military operations during imperial crises and perform the role of regional power centres.28 Indian troops were dispatched to Cyprus and Malta via the Suez Canal in 1878 in order to send a potent message to the Russians, creeping closer to the Dardanelles (the first time that Indian troops had been deployed in Europe). Aden was used as a base for Indian Army intervention in Abyssinia in 1867 and again in 1940–1941 when British Somaliland was evacuated, and then retaken, in the struggle against Italy. In the West Indies, numerous British colonies were developed as military bases as the Americans developed their Caribbean Sea Frontier to protect shipping and hunt U-boats.29 With the loss of the strategic Singapore base in February 1942 and the establishment of Japanese control over Burma and the Bay of Bengal, Ceylon enjoyed a remarkable recrudescence as a strategic base.30 Over 20,000 troops were rushed to defend the island, as well as precious Hurricanes, and it gradually became the forward base for imperial troops fighting the Japanese in Burma. It was the headquarters for most Special Operations Executive (SOE) operations in Japanese-occupied Burma, Malaya, the Dutch East Indies and French Indo-China, and home to the Eastern Fleet, the Royal Navy’s main strength east of Suez. From 1943, Ceylon was home to the most senior Allied soldier in the theatre, Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten, Supreme Allied Commander South-East Asia. The RAF patrolled the Indian Ocean shipping lanes from Ceylon and flew bombing missions against Japanese ground and maritime forces. The port of Colombo also became a significant centre for the repair and refit of naval and merchant vessels following the loss of Hong Kong and Singapore. One Colombo-based company repaired an astonishing 167 major warships, 332 minor warships, and 1,932 merchant vessels during the course of the war, as well as producing over 39,000 articles of furniture (mostly for use by the huge staff that followed in Mountbatten’s wake) and dummy Hurricanes, Bofors guns, and wireless transmitters for the benefit of Japanese aerial reconnaissance.31 Another important role for Ceylon during the war came when it replaced Hong Kong and Singapore as Britain’s most important easterly intelligence-gathering outpost. The colonies had contributed much to the development of Britain’s intelligence reach in the interwar years. During the Second World War, with Hong Kong and Singapore lost to the enemy, facilities in Ceylon and Kenya became important, as did a secret facility in Mauritius, which intercepted Vichy and Japanese diplomatic and military radio traffic, while also utilising its position as the hub of a regional cable network to inspect Vichy cable traffic.32 The colonial role in imperial defence was articulated and formalised in the interwar period. In the 1920s, the Committee of Imperial Defence considered the requirements for defending Britain’s overseas territories, particularly those containing valuable facilities such as ports. In consultation with military experts, colonial governments were to assess the likelihood

246 A. Jackson of an attack, the likely scale of attack, and the means of providing defence and maintaining communications throughout the territory. Every colonial government was thus obliged to think about its role in a war and to plan for it, as every colony had to produce a Defence Scheme, which was submitted to the Overseas Defence Committee in London, a subcommittee of the Cabinet’s Committee of Imperial Defence. In addition to the preparation of the Defence Scheme, it became standard Colonial Office practice to circulate memoranda on general civil and military defence matters to the governors. In July 1938, for example, a memorandum dealing with the role of the colonial empire in imperial defence was circulated. The need to maintain a local armed force in every colony was emphasised. Other memoranda dealt with subjects such as food supply in wartime, the control of shipping and wireless transmissions, civil defence measures in Malaya, defence policy in the Somaliland Protectorate, denial to the enemy of the oilfields of Sarawak and Brunei, and internal security in Tanganyika (where a sizeable German community existed). The Defence Scheme prepared by each colonial government was divided into sections. The first chapter described the area to be defended, the reasons for doing so, the likely scale and form of attack the colony might expect, and the system of command. It also provided a statement of the defence forces available. The second chapter dealt with detailed defence planning, and subsequent chapters with matters such as passive air defence and internal disturbances. In preparing for a future war, colonies threatened by enemy attack and possible occupation made plans for a scorched earth policy to deny the enemy valuable resources (destroying sugar industry equipment in Mauritius, for example, and torching oil wells in Sarawak). SOE were active in territories such as Malaya, Mauritius, and Shanghai preparing ‘stay behind’ teams to harry an occupier and attempt to maintain communications with British forces elsewhere in the region. The preparation of the Defence Scheme was a useful exercise, as it made every colonial administration aware of what might happen, and what actions it might take, to protect its people in the event of war and to contribute to the wider imperial war effort. Measures might include preparing air raid shelters, blackout regulations, protecting strategic sites such as railway bridges, and striving for food self-sufficiency. Nevertheless, ultimately, the defence of each colony depended upon the time-honoured central plank of British global power, the Royal Navy. Thinking had changed little since the creation of the Colonial Defence Committee in 1885. Because of Britain’s control of the sea, colonies need only prepare small local defences in case of bombardment from a raider or an assault by a small detachment of enemy troops. Though the individual colonies of the British Empire were thus not unprepared for war, paper plans and a state of readiness would ultimately be of little avail if the Royal Navy was unable to come to the rescue of a colonial outpost besieged by enemy forces.

The colonial empire and imperial defence 247 After the Second World War, the colonial empire became more important in British plans for imperial defence and Cold War security. The war had proved the huge value of the colonial empire as a source of human and material resources, and in the penurious years that were to come, their produce, particularly their dollar-earning exports, became invaluable. India had gone; now, the jewel in the imperial crown was to be found in the rubber and tin-rich colonial territories of South-East Asia and its supporting gems in tropical Africa. Here, it was hoped that the new era of Colonial Development and Welfare funding would enable similarly impressive contributions to the imperial coffers. It was also expected that the colonies would become more of a feature in the provision of imperial defence. The Dominions were behaving much more like independent states, and India had become an independent state, and showed little inclination to play the role the British had in mind (that of a loyal Commonwealth ally). The colonial empire was called upon to fill the void left by the loss of India as a base and a source of troops. With the British Army having to perform traditional imperial duties without the help of the Indian Army, the colonies were called upon to replace British troops in key static roles. Thus, a 3,600-strong High Commission Territories Corps recruited from Basutoland, Bechuanaland, and Swaziland was formed in 1946, each soldier contracting to spend two-and-a-half years serving in the Middle East. Similarly, after the Second World War, the Indian Ocean colonies remained open for recruitment for military service in the Middle East, and thousands of Mauritians, Rodriguans, and Seychellois remained in the region until the withdrawal from Egypt, forming the backbone of the British Army’s pioneer support. Britain’s withdrawal from Palestine in 1948 and its increasingly untenable position in Egypt (and failure to get a mandate over Libya) raised Kenya’s strategic importance. Millions of pounds were spent on military facilities in the colony, particularly at Mackinnon Road, before these plans were aborted. Nevertheless, the shift from Middle East bases to colonial bases east of Suez reached a milestone in the early 1960 when Aden became home to Middle East Command. Colonial bases became the stepping stones for the RAF’s island strategy for power projection in the Indian Ocean, with Masirah, Socotra, the Seychelles, the Maldives, and the Cocos Islands all featured in the RAF’s staging system connecting Britain and the Mediterranean to South-East Asia and Australia. The colonial empire was of growing value in the imperial defence set up. With the Dominions and India maturing as autonomous states, the colonies remained uncomplicated by the din of local politics and therefore more tractable when it came to defence arrangements. When, for example, the Dominions refused to follow London’s lead over Chanak or lobbied for the termination of the Anglo-Japanese alliance, or India baulked at footing its traditional external defence bill, at least the colonies could be counted upon to play the game and do Britain’s bidding.

248 A. Jackson Nevertheless, even some of the key strategic colonies in the imperial defence system were afflicted by political difficulties that compromised their value. This was a growing problem as the twentieth century, with its theme of nationalism, developed. Malta grew in importance as a naval base for the Mediterranean Fleet and warships detailed to reinforce the Far East just when Maltese nationalism and the influence of fascist Italy were becoming a problem in the 1930s; Cyprus and Kenya, both viewed as strategic bastions with imperial and Cold War utility as Britain’s position in the Middle East weakened in the 1950s, became less attractive when nationalism and counterinsurgency marred their internal affairs; and in the 1960s, the value of Aden, one of only two remaining imperial strongholds east of Suez, was undermined by Arab nationalism. Despite these difficulties, the colonies remained central to British strategic defence thinking until the end of empire and after and deserve consideration as more than mere appendages to the Dominions and India when imperial defence is studied.

Notes 1 For example, see the traditional Dominions and India focus in Peter Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, in Andrew Porter (ed.), The Oxford History of the British Empire: Volume III: The Nineteenth Century (Oxford, 1999), 320–45, and Anthony Clayton, ‘ “Deceptive Might”: Imperial Defence and Security, 1900–1968’, in Judith Brown and William Roger Louis (eds), The Oxford History of the British Empire: Volume IV: The Twentieth Century (Oxford, 1999), 280–305. 2 It was India, not Britain, that developed and garrisoned many of the empire’s growing interests in the Persian Gulf, Middle East, and East Africa, for example, providing ‘British’ representatives and troops for Zanzibar, the Gulf states, and Persia, sending 10,000 troops to conquer Mauritius and Rodrigues from the French, and mounting the 1867 expedition against the Abyssinian emperor. Indian Army officers were also to the fore in the exploration of Africa. See Robert Blyth, The Empire of the Raj: India, Eastern Africa, and the Middle East, 1858–1947 (Basingstoke, 2003). 3 N. H. Gibb, Origins of Imperial Defence (1955). 4 From Napoleon to Cetshwayo and the Shah of Iran, the Prime Minister of Yugoslavia, and King Freddie Mutesa of Buganda, Britain had an impressive tradition of using remote colonies as prisons for political opponents. A study is long overdue. 5 This was one of the reasons why the outgoing governor of Kenya, Sir Philip Mitchell, was loathe to acknowledge the severity of the Mau Mau rebellion and declare a state of emergency, admitting that things had got out of hand was anathema in the colonial service. 6 Philip Haythornthwaite, The Colonial Wars Sourcebook (London, 2000), 18. 7 Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 321. 8 There are many books on the history of regiments such as the KAR and RWAFF. For a list, see the bibliography in Ashley Jackson, The British Empire and the Second World War (London, 2005). More unusual because of its ‘through life’ treatment of a colonial region’s military formations and its attention to detail beyond the campaigns is Timothy Parsons, The African Rank-and-File:

The colonial empire and imperial defence 249

9 10

11 12 13

14 15 16

17 18 19

20 21

22 23 24 25

Social Implications of Colonial Military Service in the King’s African Rifles, 1902–1964 (Oxford, 1999). See Barry Morton, ‘Linchwe I and the Kgatla Campaign in the South African War, 1899–1902’, Journal of African History, 26(1985): 169–91. See Brian Dyde, The Empty Sleeve: The Story of The West India Regiments of the British Army (St John’s, Antigua, 1997), and Richard Smith, Jamaican Volunteers in the First World War: Race, Masculinity, and the Development of National Consciousness (Manchester, 2004). Good coverage of some of these imperial formations is to be found in James Lunt, Imperial Sunset: Frontier Soldiering in the Twentieth Century (London, 1981). David Killingray and David Omissi (eds), Guardians of Empire: The Armed Forces of the Colonial Powers, c.1700–1964 (Manchester, 1999). The major work on the colonial empire and the First World War remains Charles Lucas (ed.), The Empire at War, five volumes (London, 1924). The colonial empire was not to be privileged after the Second World War with a similar official history, the prepared volume remaining in the archives; The National Archives, Kew. DO 4138. Sir John Shuckburgh, ‘Civil History of the Colonial Empire at War’ (1949). See Ashley Jackson, War and Empire in Mauritius and the Indian Ocean (Basingstoke, 2001). In the Western Desert, the Eighth Army was supported by about 100,000 colonial troops serving in the Royal Pioneer Corps. See, for example, Michael Summerskill, China on the Western Front: Britain’s Chinese Work Force in the First World War (London, 1982); Robin Kilson, ‘Calling up the Empire: The British Military Use of Non-White Labour in France, 1916–1920’, PhD Thesis (Harvard University, 1990); Geoffrey Hodges, The Carrier Corps: Military Labour in the East African Campaign, 1914–1918 (New York, 1966); and Brian Willan, ‘The South African Native Labour Contingent, 1916–1918’, Journal of African History, 19(1978): 34–49. Fred Rowe, ‘Royal Navy Shore Bases U.K. and Overseas Stations’, www. gwpda.org/naval/rnshore.htm, found on 13 July 2005. See Gregory Haines, Gunboats on the Great River (London, 1976). Information in this section has been taken from ‘HMS Falcon: Royal Navy Gunboats in China and the Far East’, www.hmsfalcon.com/, found on 3 June 2005. See Hamish Ion, ‘The Idea of Naval Imperialism: The China Squadron and the Boxer Uprising’, in Greg Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 1900–2000 (London, 2005), 35–61. The Legation Guard was composed of Royal Marines. See Martin Brice, The Royal Navy and the Sino-Japanese Incident, 1937–1941 (London, 1973). To some people, any failure to secure a colony for the British Crown was a betrayal of imperial interests, allowing Madagascar to go to the French-threatened command of the Indian Ocean, and the Australians and South Africans never got over the fact that London allowed Germany to secure colonies in their own backyards, the reason why they were so quick off the mark to claim these territories when war came in 1914. Ronald Hyam, Britain’s Imperial Century, 1815–1914: A Study of Empire and Expansion (Basingstoke, 1993), 16. See Douglas Austin, Malta and British Strategic Policy, 1925–1943 (London, 2004). It has been argued elsewhere that non-European ex-servicemen tended to form a conservative, pro-British element within colonial society. The best empire-wide account is Kent Fedorowich, Unfit for Heroes: Reconstruction and Soldier Settlement in the Empire Between the Wars (Manchester, 1995).

250 A. Jackson 26 Timothy Stapleton, ‘Views of the First World War in Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) 1914–1918’, War and Society, 20 (2002): 23–45. 27 See Ashley Jackson, ‘Bechuanaland, the Caprivi Strip, and the First World War’, War and Society, 19(2001): 109–42. For the Second World War period, see Ashley Jackson, Botswana 1939–1945: An African Country at War (Oxford, 1999). 28 The idea of regional power centres is developed in Ashley Jackson, ‘The British Empire in the Indian Ocean’, in Sanjay Chaturvedi and Dennis Rumley (eds), Geopolitical and Regional Orientations in the Indian Ocean (Delhi, 2002), 34–55; and Jackson, The British Empire and the Second World War. 29 See Fitzroy André Baptiste, War, Co-operation, and Conflict: The European Possessions in the Caribbean, 1939–1945 (London, 1989). Philip Goodhart, Fifty Ships that Saved the World: The Foundation of the Anglo-American Alliance (London, 1965), examines the destroyers-for-bases agreement that allowed the Americans to develop these British colonial bases. 30 John Darwin likened its role to that of Egypt. Private communication. 31 See Ashley Jackson, ‘Refitting the Fleet in Ceylon: The War Record of Walker Sons and Company’, Journal of Indian Ocean Studies, 10 (2002): 467–76. 32 See Michael Smith, The Emperor’s Codes: Bletchley Park and the Breaking of Japan’s Secret Ciphers (London, 2000).

13 Coalition of the usually willing The dominions and imperial defence, 1856–1919 Brian P. Farrell

The British Empire was always a military power, but it was not always a military coalition. The colonies that became self-governing Dominions, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa, formed a distinct community within the Empire by the early twentieth century.1 Imperial defence was the most emotional of the many ties linking them to the Empire. The literature devoted to the subject has produced four clear themes. First, evolution of the Dominions produced the ‘liberal empire’ which for many British subjects defined their imperial experience. Second, conditions particular to each Dominion influenced its individual role. Third, defence relations were always driven by foreign policy. Fourth, those relations resembled spokes in a wheel running from the mother country to each Dominion, seldom moving laterally from one Dominion to another. Scholars long dwelt on constitutional evolution, arguing it determined the Dominions’ role in imperial defence.2 The focus is broader now, but one old argument recently resurfaced: did the British gain enough support from the Dominions to justify the burden they bore to protect them?3 In that distinct community defence represented the lowest common denominator, survival. As long as the mother country and its Dominions remained tied to a global order defined by British power, they made up their own minds about how to defend what they shared. This ‘coalition of the usually willing’ made the Dominions’ partners unique in the history of any Empire. The concept of imperial defence as a partnership predated the establishment of Canada as the first Dominion in 1867. It came from the British themselves, who tried to make all colonies shoulder as much of the burden of defending themselves as possible. By the 1850s, three deeply entangled developments established a framework within which that concept evolved over the next half century. The UK embraced free trade, responsible government emerged in some settler colonies and threat perceptions sharply increased, as the British fought a major war in Europe, a minor war in east Asia and suppressed an uprising in India. When the British repealed the Corn Laws and embraced free trade, this

252 B.P. Farrell greatly reinforced their traditional emphasis on sea power. Britain became a food-importing country whose very survival depended on secure movement of goods and people on the world’s waterways. Bernard Porter argued that this transition shaped the development of imperial defence in the second half of the nineteenth century. As the UK became the least self-sufficient of the Great Powers, it also became the leader of a new global order revolving around freer trade. Britain’s central strategic interest became to defend that global order.4 A few eminent Britons, however, regarded colonies as an unnecessary expense in the new era and pressed for steps to ease the burden. They often focused on those colonies that seemed best suited to take on greater responsibilities: settler colonies peopled by British and other European emigrants. The eighteenth-century American War of Independence stood as a warning to pay attention to the development of local identities and interests in distant colonies. This more sophisticated ‘Second Empire’ tried to bend rather than break, and its primary instrument was evolution towards responsible government. Nova Scotia started the trend in 1848, followed in short order by Canada, New Brunswick, Victoria, Cape Colony, New South Wales, New Zealand and Queensland. This created a new fact in imperial politics: colonial governments with the power of the purse. These governments rapidly displayed the tendency to assert their status and the ambition to enhance it. Some, such as New South Wales, embraced free trade; others, such as Victoria, clung to protection for their youthful economies. Canada flirted with the heresy of freer trade outside the Empire, concluding an 1854 Reciprocity Agreement with the US. Political sensitivities, the sense of identity and economic interests all combined to make cooperation in defence more complicated, especially from the British point of view. This cooperation increasingly had to be negotiated with, not dictated to, responsible settler governments.5 British leaders hoped that loosening the strings of control would strengthen imperial bonds by fostering greater practical solidarity and offering room to grow within the safety net of the Empire. But in defence, as well as trade, this loosening soon appeared to be creating as much conflict of interest as solidarity. Responsible governments wanted a real voice in how money they voted for defence was spent, but neither the Admiralty nor the War Office (WO) was inclined to share control of their operations. All parties saw defence partnership as essential, but they did not bring to the table the same experience, capability or interests. Change was sparked by the third big development, an increase in perceived external threats. Glen St John Barclay argued that the Crimean War shocked the British and their settler colonies into recognizing that ‘anything like the basis for a reasonable system of imperial defence simply did not exist’.6 The British government had no organized means of collecting, analysing and disseminating information, allocating resources or pursuing a grand strategy. Not until the very year the war broke out, 1854, was a separate Colonial Office

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(CO) created to administer the overseas territories. No one had ever sat down to think through a system by which the Empire’s vital interests could be identified and defence plans drafted and related to a grand strategy. Decisions depended on ad hoc initiative and individual relations within different Cabinets. The ‘Little England’ sentiment at home, the ambitions of responsible governments in the colonies, the new strains of free trade and growing rivalry with other great powers all began to persuade British policy-makers that this lack of system was a luxury they could no longer afford. The mutiny in India provoked a reaction in Canada that suggested, tantalizingly, what might be possible. The WO was not impressed by the wave of volunteers from colonial militias, military manpower it regarded as not sufficiently trained for active service overseas. But it could not simply overlook the growing pool of loyal European manpower in the colonies and approached the government of Canada for permission to recruit a force of regulars. The 100th Royal Canadians were raised in short order, a regular regiment in the British Army officered, trained and equipped by the British, but manned by Canadians. They were not the first regiment so raised in a colony but, crucially, they were the first raised ‘for service with British arms anywhere on the globe’.7 This successful experiment in eliciting a contribution to general defence of the Empire from a responsible government in a settler colony raised British hopes that they could tap into the growing pool of colonial resources without surrendering much in return. The WO asked the CO to join an interdepartmental committee to investigate a clear question: how might they define a formula for sharing the cost of garrisons needed to defend the Empire and its colonies between British and colonial governments? This simple question was the real beginning of ‘imperial defence’ in the sense of management, by governments plural, of the shared task of defending the Empire. As responsible government took shape, the Colonial Secretary, Earl Grey, laid down two maxims in 1852: the British must assume the minimum necessary role in colonial government, but the colonial government must shoulder the maximum possible share in the administration and defence of the colony. Four years later Sir William Dennison, governor of New South Wales, warned that a contradiction was taking shape. Responsible governments wanted greater status, but did not want to shoulder greater burdens. Dennison suggested the British ask colonial governments to share the cost of forces deployed to defend their colony, in return for a say in their size and disposition. This provoked an Admiralty reply identifying a problem in imperial defence that was never resolved: while they welcomed financial assistance, ‘it is perfectly impossible to localize naval defence’.8 In May 1859, the House of Commons heard the sobering news that the services considered not one colony adequately defended should major war break out. Unfortunately the committee could not reach consensus. The challenge was taken up in March 1861 by a Select Committee of the

254 B.P. Farrell Commons on Colonial Military Expenditure chaired by Arthur Mills, an advocate of colonial reform. The Mills Committee was the most important body to examine colonial defence before the twentieth century, but it only reflected ideas coming to the boil. It grappled with questions destined to exercise several generations of successors. Just how far did British responsibility to defend self-governing colonies go? How best could they discharge this responsibility? How much could the colonies be expected to contribute? How far, geographically and otherwise, did their duty extend? Most of all, how could governments plural reconcile the military need for central direction with the political need for shared accountability and responsibility?9 The committee failed to resolve the vexing issue of where imperial defence ended and local defence began. ‘Little Englanders’ said self-governing colonies should be entirely responsible for local defence. Money drove their argument, strategic concerns taking a back seat. The committee reported that while one-third of the British Army was stationed in the colonies (other than India), the UK paid more than 75 per cent of the operating cost. Their 1862 recommendations tried to bring the two most pressing concerns into alignment: That this House (while fully recognizing the claims of all portions of the British Empire to imperial aid in their protection against perils arising from the consequences of imperial policy) is of the opinion that colonies exercising the rights of self-government ought to undertake the main responsibility of providing for their own internal order and security and ought to assist in their own external defence. The first issue seemed clear. Colonies could become targets in a European war, so surely the mother country should take the lead in providing general protection. But in fact nothing was ever clear-cut in imperial defence. New Zealand was mired in a conflict between Maoris and European settlers, while Canada and New Brunswick faced cross-border attacks by Fenians, an Irish Republican group. These concrete examples provoked what became a familiar argument: responsible governments of settler colonies insisted that even their internal troubles were threats to British interests, or driven by British policies. A prevailing British idea held that self-defence should be the corollary of self-government, but the colonies refused to agree there was any defence issue from which the British could justifiably distance themselves.10 Unfortunately, answering one question only seemed to raise another. The idea that the British government should pay only for imperial garrisons deployed to protect imperial rather than merely local interests was a perfect example. All it did was provoke a rash of colonial claims that all their garrisons were imperial garrisons. The confusion was illustrated by the 1865 Colonial Naval Defence Act, which authorized self-governing colonies to acquire naval vessels for local protection and has, therefore,

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often been seen as the legislative beginning of real partnership in imperial defence. But the act’s sponsors intended to save Britain a good deal of money by delegating responsibility, while the Admiralty opposed the whole idea on strategic grounds. In some Australian colonies, the act did promote ideas of local defence, but in the Canadian colonies proximity to the UK, plus treaty arrangements that neutralized the Great Lakes, produced a milder reaction.11 Far more controversial were British decisions to withdraw army garrisons. In 1864, ten regiments were engaged in New Zealand, whose government then requested a loan guarantee of £3 million. The British reaction was to withdraw nine regiments by 1867, and the last in 1870, and refuse to guarantee more than £1 million on the market.12 This was part of a broader retrenchment aligned to a change in foreign policy, from the truculence of Lord Palmerston to the laissez-faire approach of William Ewart Gladstone, who preached public economy above all else. Gladstone’s secretary of state for war, Edward Cardwell, did not alter the army’s primary mission: to defend the overseas Empire as opposed to preparing for great power war in Europe. But Cardwell and Gladstone did take advantage of new techniques and ideas to streamline the army overseas. Faster more reliable means of moving troops and of communicating meant more of the army could be kept home as a central reserve. The number of overseas garrisons could be reduced, except in India. But Indian revenues paid for the defence of India. Failure to work out a similar agreement with the self-governing colonies after the Mills report left them vulnerable. By 1871, Cardwell’s ‘withdrawal of the legions’ was visibly reducing this most conspicuous of the ties that bound – nowhere more so than in Canada.13 C.P. Stacey, who established military history as a serious academic discipline in Canada, agreed that the reduction of British garrisons in the 1860s was a turning point in the history of imperial defence. But he argued a paradox: recalling the legions in fact made imperialism politically more palatable in Britain.14 The British North American experience suggests he was right. In 1861, responding to the American Civil War, British reinforcements rushed to the colonies. But by 1871, the only regular troops remaining were the garrisons of the naval bases in Esquimalt and Halifax – and they were there to protect the bases, not the Canadians. For Canadians they now were, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Ontario and Quebec having merged in Confederation in 1867. In the crisis of 1861 Canada called out the militia. But in 1862 the legislature, wanting to punish an unpopular government, defeated the Militia Bill. British official opinion was infuriated by what it saw as the feckless refusal of a responsible government to assume a proper share in its own defence. By this time, the British government was spending £900,000 per year on Canadian defence, but the Canadian answer to British appeals was that if the cost of protection was going to be so high, ‘the best defence is no defence at all’. Col. W.F.D. Jervois began his rise to prominence in

256 B.P. Farrell imperial defence by arguing in an 1864 report that no British government could afford to spend enough money to oppose a serious American invasion. Canadian reluctance to share the burden was not decisive, for the colonies could not have made up the difference.15 But it did matter, because it affected the political atmosphere in which Jervois’ report was considered. The strategy the British developed was political and economic support for the Confederation and pursuit of a modus vivendi with the US. Just as important as the British North America Act establishing the first Dominion on 1 July 1867 was Washington’s willingness to accept a new relationship with the UK. It culminated in the 1871 Treaty of Washington providing for ‘the Amicable Settlement of all Causes of Difference Between the Two Countries’. The Americans accepted the new British Dominion and the British accepted American predominance in North America. This first Dominion would be defended by diplomacy.16 Canadian politicians saw this for the practical bargain it was, but the feeble Militia Act of 1868 indicated that the new Dominion would seek shelter behind that diplomatic shield. R.A. Preston argued in his standard history of Canada and imperial defence that constitutional evolution mattered more than the withdrawal of British troops in fostering Canadian control of Canadian defence. He agreed, however, that the Canadian reaction was a far from noble bid to assume as much self-government as possible without sacrificing any measure of British protection or access to British markets and loans.17 This was a poor start for a more systematic imperial defence with a new kind of junior partner. Some themes destined to become perennial were already clear: Dominions would not necessarily be more willing to share costs than self-governing colonies; British and Dominion governments would face debates within their own ranks about the best way to promote the partnership; and some strategic problems seemed greater than the military power the Empire could muster to face them. Benjamin Disraeli criticized defence arrangements in his famous Crystal Palace speech of 1872. Mounting an all-out attack on the ‘Little Englander’ view of colonies as a burden, he argued that the Mills recommendations led nowhere. Self-government, he said, should rest on a contract; it ought to have been granted within a ‘military code, which should have precisely defined the means and the responsibilities by which the colonies should be defended, and by which, if necessary, this country should call for aid from the colonies themselves’. Disraeli resumed office in 1874 and his policy, plus the reduction of tension in North America, focused attention on the RN as the principal vehicle of imperial defence.18 But Disraeli did not address a burning question: how could the Empire’s governments define an agreed defence policy in the first place? That issue was raised in 1867 by John Colomb, a former Royal Marines officer, in his pamphlet The Protection of our Commerce and Distribution of our

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Naval Forces. Far from being just another navalist tract, Colomb’s work was a seminal argument for the need for a proper system of imperial defence, based on a balanced grand strategy. Colomb took the discussion far beyond the familiar premise the army’s job was to protect ports and naval bases so the RN could save the Empire by winning another Trafalgar. Colomb accepted the importance of sea power, but insisted the armed forces must collaborate in an Empire-wide defence strategy. The navy would protect the sea lanes and prevent external invasion of the home islands and overseas colonies; the army would protect naval bases, defend India and reinforce areas from which strikes could be launched against any serious foe. Colomb argued this required Empire governments to pool resources in a comprehensive system. He elaborated in 1873 by arguing it must be possible to send forces raised to defend one region of the Empire to help defend any other that came under attack. While his stress on the importance of trade was commonplace, his calls for an integrated Empire-wide system and forces were fresh and provocative.19 Coming after Confederation in Canada and Disraeli’s call for a military code, his arguments helped challenge the laissez-faire assumption that free trade, naval supremacy and delegation of responsibility would be enough to protect the Empire in a changing world. This might seem poor return for two decades of arguing about how to defend the Empire, but at least the central problems were now fully aired. The Disraeli government emphasized the Empire in foreign policy. It did so amidst changes in the international scene that made British leaders wonder whether reducing defence spending and concentrating on military forces at home were wise after all. The expansion of British trade, the completion in 1869 of the Suez Canal, the establishment of Crown authority in India, a large increase in the merchant marine and the shift to coal all increased the navy’s burden. It required an extensive network of bases and coaling stations as well as a large, balanced fleet to protect global lines of communication while concentrating against major threats. Discrepancies between economic interests within the Empire generated more complications. Some colonies stayed behind tariff walls to build up infant industries while demanding preferential access to the British market. But the direct trigger for change came from international relations. A new unified Germany emerged, upsetting the balance of power in Europe by its mere existence. France turned again towards an imperial policy. Finally, a more assertive Russia sought revenge for defeat in 1856 and more expansion, which directly challenged the Empire in central Asia and the eastern Mediterranean. Porter’s thesis fits these developments well: Britain’s vital interest was to defend a global system it defined. But this time, fear of war with Russia provoked changes that raised the imperialdefence debate to another level. Jervois spelt out the connection between naval defence and the self-governing colonies in an 1876 memorandum. Now Governor of the Straits

258 B.P. Farrell Settlements, Jervois argued that four imperial fortresses – Bermuda, Gibraltar, Halifax and Malta – were no longer enough. His self-interested plea earned him a commission to visit the Australian colonies to review their defence problems. His work became more important when fear of war with Russia became serious in 1878. The British government shocked colonial governments by warning they could not count on the RN to be everywhere at once. But it also appointed in 1879 a Royal Commission ‘to inquire into the defence of British possessions and commerce abroad’. The Carnarvon Commission did indeed produce ‘the first comprehensive study of imperial defence’, and its report made three key points. First, it drew the implied link between trade and defence, emphasizing how much the Empire depended on seaborne trade. Second, echoing Colomb, it insisted that colonial defence issues must not be seen just as local problems. Third, imperial defence must remain based on sea power. Reactions to its report reflected the tension between real interdependence and particular local situations.20 Sir John Seeley argued in The Expansion of England, published in 1881, that the future depended on the liberal empire of settler colonies. By creating a great ‘imperial federation’ of British stock, the Empire could match European rivals and secure its destiny. Seeley and other proponents of the imperial federation sketched a new design to bring the British states together in the perfect paradox: a tightly knit power resting on free association. This would at one and the same time promote British power and assert a high moral purpose of empire. Most Britons supporting such ideas looked first towards economics, which was hardly surprising. Free trade was the fabled basis of British prosperity and the most public source of contention with the self-governing colonies. And by this time, 70 per cent of British investment in the Empire was going into these colonies. Australia and New Zealand were receiving more investment per capita than any other area, most of it public money. Here was a natural association of kith and kin as well as trade and commerce. Here, surely, were Britain’s obvious partners in defence and development. Such ideas led in 1884 to the founding of the Imperial Federation League, to promote federation through trade. The League attracted supporters and critics at home and in the colonies. The appeal of the federal idea was the assumption it was necessary for peoples sharing the same racial stock, language and root heritage to find ways to associate more closely in a dangerous world. Self-governing colonies could progress towards full nationhood within a flexible political structure. Federalism writ large would do for the Empire what it was meant to do for Canada: make it possible to combine cooperation and diversity. Lord Rosebery pointed the way at a speech in Adelaide in January 1884: ‘There is no need for any nation, however great, leaving the Empire, because the Empire is a commonwealth of nations’.21 The twentieth century would adopt Rosebery’s phrase as the very title of the liberal empire focused on the Dominions – but in 1884 it only pointed

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towards a distant aspiration. Federation was easier described than done, something already very clear when it came to defence. That year the British government took a serious step by establishing the Colonial Defence Committee (CDC) as a standing body. This was the first permanent coordinating body tasked to advise both home and colonial governments about colonial defence. But its very name indicated how much remained to be done to build an effective system of imperial defence. In Whitehall, the key question remained: how could self-governing colonies best contribute to the general, meaning naval and British-controlled, defence of the Empire? In 1885, the CDC sent a circular letter to Canada and the self-governing colonies requesting comprehensive information on forces, plans and problems. This was the first such request London ever made.22 This outburst of expectations provoked strong reactions overseas. In Canada, the 1878 war scare prompted people to talk about being pulled into British conflicts elsewhere in the world. The Dominion had already learnt the hard way Confederation was only the first step in a long road it must travel before it was anywhere near wealthy and strong enough to pay its own way in the world economy – and defend itself. Yet even many of those who staunchly celebrated the imperial connection saw it as an expression of Canadian national aspirations. Canada already defined itself by the struggle to resist the profound economic, social and cultural forces that pulled it towards the US. Canadian imperialists saw the British connection as the way not only to repel annexation, but also promote a strong overseas Dominion that could one day become a leader in its own right within the Empire. Federation would be the culmination, not negation, of Dominon status.23 Such apparent contradictions were epitomized by Canada’s iconic Father of Confederation Sir John A. Macdonald when he said ‘a British subject I was born, a British subject I will die’. But in 1879, Macdonald’s government adopted the National Policy, tariff walls designed to protect the nascent national economy and develop a cohesive polity ‘from sea to sea’. The walls were aimed at the Americans, but also stood in front of the British. As for defence, British and Canadian officials spent more time trying to control the underfunded militia than building it up. The Canadians saw it as a back door through which the British could interfere. In the 1880s, Canadian leaders started to press for a greater say in defence, without offering to increase their contribution.24 This worried the British. As the first Dominion, Canada would set an example others would one day follow. Any effort to erect an organized system of imperial defence must include Canada. The British Parliament passed the Army Act of 1881 with such problems in mind. Section 177 allowed Dominion legislation to apply to Dominion units serving overseas. It was a clear signal the British were looking now for ways to bring overseas governments into a defence alliance, not just recruit manpower to bolster British forces. But such intentions fell squarely into the contentious and fluid zone where British

260 B.P. Farrell authority ended and Dominion authority began. While the Canadian government did not yet seriously challenge British authority to direct foreign policy, defence was already another matter. When the 1878 war scare prompted the British garrison commander in Halifax to propose an imperial reserve force stationed in Canada, Macdonald welcomed the idea. But in 1880, the scheme fell apart over the question of control. The idea was that Canada would recruit and pay for the force, the UK would equip it. But the British government doubted that Canada would allow a force it paid for, a force likely to be the only effective military force in the Dominion, to be called overseas by the British in wartime. The idea was quietly abandoned, and Canada established its own tiny Permanent Force in 1883 instead.25 Canadian and British defence priorities were not necessarily going to be identical; a Dominion government might well feel that a distant conflict was not something it really wanted to deal with. How then could there be any system of imperial defence? Lord Dufferin suggested an answer as early as 1874 when, as governorgeneral, he advised London: Nothing has more stimulated the passionate affection with which Canada now clings to England [sic] than the consciousness that the maintenance of this connection depends on her own free will. Were however the curb to be pressed too tightly, she might soon become impatient, the cry for Independence would be raised too soon and Annexation [by the USA] would be the direct and immediate consequence.26 Macdonald emphatically agreed. He rejected a formal system of imperial defence by arguing that the strategic situation of each colony differed too greatly for any system based on commitments fixed in advance to address their individual concerns. Besides, such commitments were bound to provoke arguments in every colony over whether responsible governments were being rolled back by centralized control in London. The problem was supremely political. In Canada, any peacetime promises to support British forces elsewhere, by men or money, would be attacked by those wary of the British connection as colonial cringe, a surrender of hard-won autonomy. Many French and Irish Canadians, among others, were sure to press such arguments. That would provoke ‘loyal’ arguments in response. Canadian national unity would be threatened by any debate about rallying to the imperial cause in a distant conflict, which many Canadians might not see as any direct concern of theirs. Such debate should arise only if there was a major war. Far better, Macdonald argued, to rely on a real crisis to remind Canadians that if anything serious happened to the UK they could not survive unscathed. On this lowest common denominator everyone would agree.27 In 1884, the British stumbled into a war in Sudan. The Macdonald government, arguing that there was no major threat to British power,

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refused to provide any official Canadian assistance. However, the government allowed volunteers to join British forces. This balancing act sent a signal that shaped Canadian defence priorities for the next sixty years: anything Canada did overseas could provoke national discord, so no Canadian government would commit forces to distant conflicts unless British power itself – and thus the global order it defended – was at stake.28 British pressure for closer cooperation on naval defence met similar resistance. When the Admiralty argued it was strategically necessary to centralize control of naval forces, Canadians responded that they faced no maritime threat, short of general war, to justify handing over men and money without any say in their employment. By the time the CDC circular arrived, it was clear all parties were a long way from agreeing on how any imperial military coalition could function.29 Things were different in Australia and New Zealand, less troubled by domestic ant-British constituencies and more concerned about French and German interest in south Pacific islands. A series of intercolonial conferences in the 1880s sent ambivalent signals. The 1881 conference recommended stronger coastal defences, but also called on the Admiralty to reinforce its Australian Squadron ‘at the exclusive charge of the Imperial Government’. Jervois summarized local feelings in a report that stated the colonies were prepared to guard their ports, but everything else was up to the RN. Federation proposals bogged down in arguments over clashing interests; New Zealand stood entirely aloof, preferring a looser imperial federation to one with Australia. On the other hand, New Zealand did offer to contribute to the cost of cruiser protection for its own waters. This piqued Admiralty interest. Successive commanders-in-chief of the Australian Station reinforced Jervois’ advice that the only effective way to strengthen regional defences was for the colonies to pool their resources in the federation and contribute more of that pool to defence arrangements connected to broader British policy. This was the emerging ‘Blue Water’ school of thought: imperial defence was naval defence; naval defence required central control; the best role for colonies was to contribute men, material and money to the RN. In 1884, the Admiralty sent Admiral George Tryon to take over the Australia Station and find a way to connect local and imperial defence.30 Disputes with other European powers over colonization in Africa and the Pacific kept the defence question in the forefront. War in Sudan prompted both debate and offers of colonial contingents. The New South Wales contingent did not see much service, but provoked controversy when the colonial government agreed to make it available if tension with Russia led to trouble on the Northwest Frontier in India. Naval officers bickered about precedence, protocol and anything else they could find. The retired British officer hired to command Victoria’s naval force had to be ordered to change his title from ‘Officer Commanding Her Majesty’s Naval Forces in Victoria’ to ‘of Victoria’. Under the circumstances, Tryon

262 B.P. Farrell proposed what he saw as the only realistic way to draw out more effective commitments from the Australian colonies. Forces raised and financed by the colonies would augment British forces protecting them.31 Tryon’s proposal reached a British government coping with strong domestic reaction to recent events. Colonial rivalries escalated to a fullscale furore in 1884 when Wickham Steed, editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, published a series of alarming stories about British naval shortcomings and French naval ambitions. Public outcry led to an official inquiry, doubling of the naval construction budget and more pressure for a serious overhaul of imperial defence. This plus the need to discuss the CDC circular letter, and pressure from the Imperial Federation League, prompted the government to use Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee in 1887 to invite colonial governments to a conference to make ‘an attempt . . . to attain to a better understanding as to the system of defence which may be established throughout the Empire’. Perhaps to contain expectations – or suspicions – the invitation was casual: send ‘any leading public man who may be at liberty to come to England’. Macdonald did not attend and the Canadians discussed little more than control of their own militia.32 But Alfred Deakin of Victoria did attend and ripped into the British for not taking enough notice of Australian concerns about the Pacific. Lord Salisbury replied that the British and their self-governing colonies should use their political compatibility to build closer links. To the Admiralty’s disappointment, the conference rejected a Cape Colony suggestion that naval defence could be paid for by a 2 per cent value-added tax. But it pursued the idea of connecting colonial defence spending directly to British sea power. The result was a landmark agreement. The Australian colonies would contribute £126,000 per year for an auxiliary squadron of five warships, while New Zealand paid £20,000 per year towards the cost of two vessels under command of the Australian Station – but those ships could not be moved away from the station without the consent of the colonial governments. The agreement became a typical story in the history of imperial defence. Most parties accepted it, but nobody saw it as final. The Admiralty took it as the best deal available; hoping the restriction on its control of naval forces would never be exercised in any real crisis. Imperial federationists in the UK and the colonies saw it as a step towards their goal and the British government publicly defended it on those grounds. Colonial critics claimed this would drag them into British wars that did not concern them. But pragmatic nationalists such as Deakin saw it as an acceptable stopgap until the Australian federation was realized. When the smoke and fury died down, it was clear that a conference of imperial politicians had discussed collective defence in some detail and agreed to try to reconcile the tension between control and contribution.33 One analysis called the agreement ‘a remarkably good bargain’ for the southern colonies, something the Admiralty certainly felt at the time. Naval priorities were shifting towards the Blue Water strategic vision,

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emphasizing the battle fleet and decisive battle, rather than the balanced fleet and coastal concerns.34 Real change came in 1889 when the British Parliament passed the Naval Defence Act. This laid down a shipbuilding programme aimed at ensuring the RN remained strong enough to defeat its two largest rivals combined: the famous Two Power Standard. More than one historian has seen this as the real beginning of systematic imperial defence. The Admiralty argued strongly that supremacy at sea must be the very foundation of imperial defence. The Two Power Standard was a simple concept to grasp and it seized the public imagination, in both the UK and the colonies. It provided a strategic benchmark against which to measure concerns about constitutional progress, centralization and differences in political, economic and strategic priorities. It also fed new thinking about the Empire, at home and abroad. The orthodoxy of free trade, plus organic political evolution for a liberal empire, was challenged by calls for more deliberate efforts to increase British power. Such ‘constructionist’ thinking often pressed defence issues as a priority. In a world more hostile to British interests, the Empire now seemed central, not peripheral. The Imperial Federation League spawned a defence wing which, supported by the Navy League, waged a public campaign for integrating the Empire through defence policy and forces, rather than trade and finance.35 This idea that the Empire must be taken in hand rather than left to build itself never led to a federation, but did drive the debate about imperial defence for the next generation. It stood in direct contrast to Macdonald’s call to rely on underlying fundamental bonds to emerge in times of real crisis. This was ultimately a debate about how best to preserve Britain as a great power. Federationists believed only formal reunion on a higher political plane would fend off centrifugal forces of change. Macdonald spoke in 1890 for those who replied that the Empire must absorb, not resist, such forces: I am very desirable that the connection between the Mother Country and the Colonies shall be drawn closer, and that the larger groups of Colonies should assume by degrees a position less of dependence and more of alliance. I think this can only be done however by treaty or Convention and I am a total disbeliever in the practicability of Colonial representation in the Imperial Parliament. There is no necessity for such representation. The great subjects of common defence and preferential trade can be arrived at by treaty arrangements.36 Federationists could insist central direction was a strategic necessity; liberals could say responsible government would be a mockery if colonial forces were not controlled by colonial governments. The impasse was well described by D.C. Gordon, who said imperial defence was still ‘defence controlled by the imperial government, not defence based on the cooperation

264 B.P. Farrell of the governments of the Empire’. Yet another commission of inquiry, the Hartington Commission, stated in 1890 that better cooperation between the Admiralty and the WO was a prerequisite for tackling the more complicated challenge of ‘defence based on the cooperation of governments of the Empire’.37 The connection was discussed in an influential 1892 book, Imperial Defence, by Charles Dilke and Spencer Wilkinson. They made two intriguing points: British defence policy must rest on organizing resources of the whole Empire, and a General Staff was needed. While they saw the Indian Army as the main contribution the Empire could make to British power, Dilke tied the General Staff directly to the self-governing colonies. The Empire badly needed a standing body to examine and advise on its complex defence problems and bring the various military forces together in an integrated strategy. But when in 1894 the Canadian government organized its own colonial conference to discuss trade and communications with the Pacific colonies, the agenda did not even mention defence. Worse, the clash between colonial protectionism and British free trade was now provoking colonial criticism of British-made trade treaties with other powers.38 This clash of agendas, which subsumed the whole imperial defence question, became the great public issue of the day when taken up by the most ambitious Empire constructionist of all: Joseph Chamberlain. In 1895, Chamberlain, the coming man in British politics, surprised everyone by accepting the supposedly lesser post of colonial secretary in a new government led by Lord Salisbury. From this base Chamberlain launched the most ambitious challenge ever mounted to the liberal empire and the principles on which it rested. Defence and Dominions were central to his agenda: to strengthen the British Empire by reinforcing the natural connections that bound it together in mutual self-interest. The Queen’s diamond jubilee in 1897 gave Chamberlain a chance to seize the initiative. This time the British invited government leaders of the self-governing colonies to a formal colonial conference. There, Chamberlain encountered the Canadian heir to Macdonald, Wilfrid Laurier. The conference took place amidst an orgy of imperial pageantry. The fleet review and military parades displayed a global empire replete with power and confidence. But Chamberlain and his colleagues looked beyond the public face at some hard facts. The British were now beset by colonial rivalries with Germany as well as France and Russia. Industrial and economic competition from the Americans and the Germans was intense. Diplomatic isolation was starting to look more dangerous than splendid. Chamberlain talked about ‘natural Anglo-Saxon kinship’ with the Americans and the Germans. But for every step forward, there was a problem. For example, British attempts to make the Canadian militia a more effective force provoked rows over political control. Chamberlain

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understood a central fact that more emotional imperialists misread. The forces of the self-governing colonies were part of an imperial military system only if colonial governments chose to provide them.39 Chamberlain prepared his ground by sending colonial governors in 1896 a CDC memorandum on principles of imperial defence. Its crucial argument was that strategic necessity must override ‘political’ concerns, a direct assault on the 1887 naval compromise with the southern colonies: The maintenance of sea supremacy has been assumed as the basis of the system of Imperial defence against attack from over the sea. This is the determining factor in shaping the whole defensive policy of the Empire, and is fully recognized by the Admiralty, who have accepted the responsibility of protecting all British territory abroad against organized invasion from the sea. To fulfil this great charge, they claim the absolute power of disposing of their forces in the manner they consider most certain to secure success, and object to limit the action of any part of them to the immediate neighbourhood of places which they consider may be more effectively protected by operations at a distance Chamberlain placed before the conference a collection of ideas explored by the CDC: the 1887 restrictions on the Australian Squadron should be ended; governments should concentrate on how the colonies could help maintain the RN; colonies should allow their forces to serve overseas; British and colonial naval and military forces should be similar in regulations, equipment, training, organization and doctrine; exchanges of military units should be arranged to bolster functional integration. These proposals were based on the idea of imperial defence as an indivisible strategic problem. They provoked three broad colonial responses. Most Australian delegates denounced the call to terminate the 1887 agreement. They insisted its purpose was to bolster their local defence, not contribute to general imperial defence. The Cape Colony took the opposite tack, offering to pay for a cruiser the RN could use as it saw fit. Laurier rejected all calls to support the RN and showed little interest beyond general support for measures of functional integration. Chamberlain failed to persuade the conference to agree that iron laws of sea power required the Empire to find political ways to make strategic centralization work. Most colonial leaders were thinking the reverse: the Empire must find ways to defend itself that reconciled its desire to cooperate with its diversity of interests and agendas.40 Chamberlain’s failure to persuade the colonies to adopt centralization as an overriding priority indicated the future course of imperial defence. Henceforth, it evolved on two lines. Functional integration did over time produce armies, navies, and ultimately air forces, that wore similar uniforms, followed similar regulations, used generally standard weapons and equipment, were organized and trained along similar lines,

266 B.P. Farrell and intermingled from individuals up to major formations. But the allimportant decisions on when, where, how and especially why to employ such forces settled on Macdonald’s lowest common denominator. The philosophy of the liberal empire held that the strongest ties were natural ones that sustained themselves, by the free will of all concerned. To ardent imperialists and military planners, however, those ties were dangerously loose, and the whole question of just how to work together remained in dispute. Only a serious crisis could force all parties to sort out in practice just what was possible in imperial defence. Chamberlain’s drive for imperial power triggered one. The discovery of great mineral wealth in southern Africa provoked a struggle for ascendancy between the British and an established European population: the Boers, descendants of Dutch settlers. The push to establish British power ‘from the Cape to Cairo’ ran through Boer territory and in autumn 1899 the Boers decided to fight. Although shocked and humiliated by early defeats, the British did not require colonial forces to prevail. Sea power isolated the Boers from outside help. But their early victories and stubborn defensive campaign forced the British to reconsider grand strategy. They could not rely on sea power alone in any future European war, which forced them to take a long hard look at the army as a military instrument. Boer resistance sparked other great powers to criticize the British and even discuss intervention. British diplomacy was harder pressed to pre-empt any such challenge than the government found comfortable. They pursued two ways to ease the pressure. Both directly affected the self-governing colonies. One was to reduce the number and temperature of disputes with other powers, which reinforced an ongoing policy of removing any possible cause of confrontation with the US. It also reinforced efforts to reduce threats to British interests in Asia, which culminated in 1902 in a formal defensive alliance with Japan. The other method was to orchestrate a great rally of the Empire and its military might, to demonstrate the power of ‘greater Britain’. Colonial forces were not needed to defeat the Boers, but their presence in a distant war could drive home a point the British now found it necessary to make: any great power that challenged the UK must fear it would face the combined military and economic might of the British Empire.41 This was far removed from seeing colonies as an unnecessary burden. Now the most urgent argument was about what self-governing colonies should do to help the British defend their overseas interests.42 The root issue, however, remained just what Macdonald foresaw twenty years before: did this war threaten British power itself – not the physical survival of the UK, but rather its power to defend a global order oriented around its economic might and interests? Calculated realism had to share the debate with identity politics and sheer emotion. In the end, the war confirmed what should long have been obvious: as long as the Empire propped up a British world order, the self-governing colonies would be

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concerned about its defence. But they would all respond according to their own interests as they saw them. When protracted war prompted the British to use extreme methods, such as the notorious ‘concentration camps’, public opinion in the UK divided bitterly. The colonies were all affected by this and by the increasingly dangerous tone of world politics. New Zealand was not, contrary to conventional opinion, unanimously ‘loyal’ in its first overseas war. But criticism was diverse and ineffective. The first contingent sailed in October 1899, and some 6,000 New Zealanders served in all, fighting for ‘One Flag, One Queen, One Tongue and One Country – Britain’. Prime Minister Richard Seddon orchestrated a broad consensus: New Zealand’s interest was to help preserve a strong Britain committed to imperial engagement. The Kiwis opted to stand aside from the resolution of the long federation debate in Australia, choosing to make their own way within the Empire in direct partnership with the British.43 Australian criticisms of the war were not much stronger. Some 16,000 Australians eventually served and many more could have, such was the support for ‘the British cause’. But they returned to a new country. Federation negotiations produced a Commonwealth of Australia, uniting the continent in a new Dominion on the first day of the twentieth century. This second Dominion demonstrated during the war that while the British could rely on it for military support, it was even more willing now to criticize British direction of imperial defence. Military engagement produced in Australia and other colonies a growing sense of identity and pride. This was not always positive. Ideal images of countrybred ‘born soldiers’, tall, fit, at home in the saddle and in the field were contrasted with stereotypes of English regulars stunted by unhealthy living in urban slums. Many British officers responded by denigrating the discipline of colonial soldiers and competence of their officers – and they were not always wrong, nor always condescending. The colonial contribution was on the whole beneficial to all parties, but produced its own frictions and legends. Chamberlain supported the Australian federation. But he did so because he concluded it could be a step towards larger integration, not just because it would be counterproductive to oppose it.44 Chamberlain decided to use the imperial solidarity fostered by the war to try again to strengthen the bonds. A ‘soft’ peace settlement in 1902 laid the ground for smoother absorption of southern Africa into the Empire and triggered another colonial conference. There, Chamberlain ran into governments both buoyed and bruised by the experience of going to war to defend the Empire – which made them even more ready to assert their own views on how that should be done. Canada’s war experience prompted Laurier to take the lead this time. Strategic arguments would never persuade the colonies to place their forces permanently at British disposal. The Empire must defend itself by agreement as and when necessary, not by integration and central control. Some 8,300 Canadians served in southern Africa, but their story spoke volumes about the limits to Canada’s commitment. As war

268 B.P. Farrell approached Chamberlain concluded Laurier would try to evade any formal Canadian contribution, while Laurier concluded Chamberlain would try to oblige him to make one. They were both right. Private exchanges indicated the British would refuse to accept Canadian volunteers for British forces and the Canadian government would try to head off any public appeal for Canadian forces. Meanwhile Major-General Edward Hutton, the British general officer commanding the Canadian militia, thought there should and would be a Canadian contribution and prepared to organize a contingent. When war broke out, Canadian public opinion erupted in emotional debate. The demand for Canada to line up with the mother country proved stronger, so Laurier and his colleagues decided they must offer a contingent. But they wrongly assumed the whole mess was caused by Hutton conspiring to force Canada to support a British war, instead of advising the Canadian government as their military counsel. This was not fair. The relationship between the GOC (General Officer Commanding) and the two governments had never really been sorted out, and the support for intervention was very real. Macdonald was vindicated: the ties did exist, whether Hutton made speeches or not.45 Laurier’s real complaint was that the whole situation put him in a very difficult position, stuck between those who emphasized the British connection and those who were wary of it. Laurier limited Canadian participation as closely as he could, which of course pleased no one. The war strengthened the voices of those who wanted Canada to stay closer to its own direct concerns, and their case was helped by the ongoing British effort to resolve all disputes with the Americans. In practice, this often meant giving way on Canadian issues in order to please the Americans. The price the British had to pay was the political rise of those such as Henri Bourassa in Montreal, who argued that Canada need not abandon the Empire but must always put its own concerns first. To Laurier foreign policy was a minefield – and with the Americans reconciled, foreign policy meant imperial defence.46 At the 1902 colonial conference, Laurier presented this altered expression of Canadian nationalism. Chamberlain’s appeal for integration was sober and serious. His eloquence did not conceal the need to re-examine how the Empire dealt with a fast-changing world: We do require your assistance in the administration of the vast Empire which is yours as well as ours. The weary Titan staggers under the too vast orb of its fate. We have borne the burden for many years. We think it is time that our children should assist us to support it. But the British wanted to discuss not how the partners could administer their common enterprise together, but rather how the colonies could best support its defence. If imperial defence could indeed be defined as a common enterprise based on principles and priorities agreed by all, then the bottom line vindicated the British. No more than 30,000, plus perhaps

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50,000 locally recruited, of the 450,000 troops committed to war in southern Africa came from the colonies. British taxpayers paid more than twenty-nine shillings per capita per year on defence; Canadians paid two shillings, Australians three. But it was unacceptable for the British to want contributions and not want to share direction. Laurier rejected all arguments about the need for more integrated strategy and the inequity of contribution, and his agenda was more subtle than the mere desire to assert status. He said Canada would contribute to imperial defence by doing more to defend itself, because he wanted to keep all parties in play in the constant debate. His stance failed to impress London for the same reason it worked at home: the British knew Canada would use it to justify avoiding future overseas engagement. Each party had a valid argument. The British knew Laurier’s promise was strategically hollow because they were withdrawing from North America anyway. Laurier was right to argue that a Canada paralysed by domestic discord would be no help to the British in any overseas conflict. But neither would give an inch. Laurier did not stand alone. Australian delegates suggested their priority should be ‘to build a stronger Britain in the south’. That expressed growing national aspirations, as well as resentment of the Admiralty rejection of the 1887 pledge for regional defence. The integration the colonies really wanted to discuss was integration by trade. But this would compel the British to abandon free trade, which would disrupt their entire political and economic system while the colonies stood fast. The British wanted help, but not at such a high price. The conference ended as it began: everything rested still on Macdonald’s lowest common denominator.47 Failure in 1902 pushed Chamberlain down the road to political disaster. The very next year he launched his great campaign for tariff reform, still hoping to build an integrated Empire, but the UK would not abandon free trade. The campaign ended in 1906 in a landslide election victory for the Liberal party, which preserved the foundations of the liberal empire for another generation. However much some in the overseas realms might bemoan free trade, the British-centred economic system remained fundamental to their interests and their identity. But they continued to engage it from their own agendas. New Zealand joined the Dominions in 1907, looking to rival rather than join Australia in building ‘a stronger Britain in the south’. Statesmanship produced negotiations that in 1910 brought the older British colonies together with the recently conquered Boer states in a new Union of South Africa, to form the fourth Dominion. This constitutional development reshaped the liberal empire. Britain’s partners in discussion were now all consolidated states, built to entrench a Britishcentred entity in their own region.48 The British recognized this trend by designating the 1907 conference between governments an imperial rather than colonial conference. And they now began to make real changes in the military system.49 The eventual outcome – more than half a century after the emergence of self-governing

270 B.P. Farrell colonies – was something approaching an organized system for collecting, analysing and disseminating information, allocating resources and pursuing a comprehensive grand strategy. This progress rested on three foundations: clear external threats, functional integration and the messy interplay between mixed sentiments in both London and the Dominions. The first important step was a typically liberal empire compromise: the Committee of Imperial Defence (CID), established in 1902, confirmed in 1904 as a permanent body. The only permanent member was the prime minister, who was expected to invite whomever he felt should attend. For the first time, a Cabinet-level body held a watching brief on all defencerelated questions. Its effectiveness was reinforced by the Esher Report of 1904, which triggered a sweeping overhaul of the WO and British Army – directed from 1906 by the great reforming Secretary of State for War and Liberal imperialist Richard Burdon Haldane. Ad hoc personal administration gave way to an Army Board, General Staff and administration by committee. British governments were soon discussing reports and recommendations on all manner of defence issues in a more organized fashion than ever before.50 A key question was, of course, how to relate these new mechanisms to imperial defence. It is right to emphasize, as most scholars have, that the CID was not an ‘imperial committee of defence’, which would have required the Dominions to maintain a permanent representative in London. Given the subjects it would have discussed, and the pressures it would have faced, this would quickly have produced confusion about where power rested: with the prime minister at home or his agent in London? The long time required to travel from Ottawa to London was not the real obstacle; the telegraph worked very well. The real obstacle was the prestige the Empire still commanded in the Dominions. Laurier was not the only Dominion prime minister who feared he would have to compete with a representative in London to be seen by press and public as the most authoritative Canadian voice on any defence issue. National leaders such as Deakin and Laurier believed such friction would undo the patient progress towards developing a real sense of identity in their own country. With identity, they believed, would come a sense of responsibility and the will to address their own challenges. In any case, the British realized that permanent Dominion representation on such a committee would produce demands for a real voice, which might lead to pressure for priorities they did not share. So they met in the middle, in a committee of the British government. This committee invited Dominion representatives when the British thought it desirable or necessary – and they attended when their own prime minister agreed they should do so. The CID rapidly established itself because it worked for everybody. It provided a badly needed forum that did not automatically commit or compromise any government. But even its success reflected the friction within the imperial defence. The Canadian government kept it at arm’s length

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because Laurier and his colleagues realized that as a body chaired by the British prime minister it would command much prestige across the Empire. That meant the British government could use it as an instrument to pursue their own agenda.51 The closer the British kept to functional integration and looser consultation, the more they succeeded in bringing the Dominions into a viable system of imperial defence. Richard Preston presented a powerful interpretation of this time of real change: the 1902 conference rejected the idea of centralizing defence policy under British control in peacetime, so the 1907 conference turned towards the alternative of cooperation between partners. But as Preston noted, the road ahead remained difficult. Building a system required the British government, navy, army and Dominion governments to agree. Haldane argued the governments should start with what they agreed on, a ‘common conception’ of grand strategy. According to the paper he presented to the conference, the WO would rely on ‘the imperial loyalty of the people of the various Dominions’ and work towards practical cooperation rather than central control of one policy. Haldane presented three broad strategic maxims as the basis for cooperation: naval supremacy was the key; each region of the Empire should do as much as it could to defend itself; in a real emergency, the Empire must pool its resources for mutual support. None of these points was new and all were subject to interpretation. But this time, they made an impact. Their strong rejection of central control over Dominion forces made leaders like Laurier and his minister of militia, Frederick Borden, more willing to consider ways to make those forces more efficient. Haldane helped by emphasizing voluntary cooperation and functional integration as opposed to central control. The conference agreed that functional integration seemed like a prudent way to make the Empire’s military forces more effective as a team, should it be necessary to bring them together.52 Notwithstanding this success, the familiar arguments were far from resolved. Canadian willingness to embrace functional integration was the result of the testy culmination of the British role in the defence of Canada. When the army garrisons of Esquimalt and Halifax left in 1905, the Admiralty bluntly said that since Canada showed little inclination to defend itself, it was no longer inclined to make its defence a priority at the time of war. The British faced growing problems in Europe and had already decided to cede strategic dominance in the Americas to the US. The army vainly objected because dropping all contingency plans to defend Canada reduced its prospective role in imperial defence in general and, therefore, its influence. Laurier promised to take full responsibility for defending the naval bases. He went so far as to state Canada should pay the full cost of its own peacetime defence. The Toronto Globe and Mail agreed with many British officials that the Canadian promise would be used as an excuse to make it impossible for Canada to send another overseas contingent, should

272 B.P. Farrell another ‘British war’ break out far away. Laurier kept walking the tightrope. Canadian anger over being ‘abandoned’ to the Americans gave him the political muscle to assert this more national agenda, but strong imperial ties kept him focused on functional integration. The strongest was the most obvious, as Roger Sarty pointed out: Under the imperial system, Canada lacked the powers, information and mechanisms to make comprehensive foreign and defence policy. In the absence of serious external threats there was no imperative to acquire those means. However much Laurier wanted Canada to grow into its own, this did not mean severing ties with the UK. Canada remained part of a British-centred world order; therefore, it remained interested in imperial defence and had to be pragmatic.53 Haldane and the Dominion leaders took functional integration an important step further by agreeing to establish an Imperial General Staff (IGS). The agreement spelt out the common ground they were finding then: To undertake the preparation of schemes of defence on a common principle, and (without in the least interfering in questions of command and administration) at the request of the respective governments, to advise as to the training, education and war organization of the forces of the Crown in every part of the Empire. This struck the very balance that now seemed workable. The idea was to build a system from the ground up, creating an effective military instrument that would still leave all governments free to decide how to combine and control it. There were practical limits. The gap in capabilities was so large that in practice the flow of doctrine, procedures and influence went almost entirely from the British to the Dominions. But the breakthrough was real. The WO settled for trying to make Dominion forces as British as possible in how they organized, thought, trained and fought. Canada set the tone by establishing its own General Staff to work with the IGS when it was formally constituted in 1909. Australia and New Zealand followed suit and the Dominion General Staffs became autonomous bodies responsible to their own governments, but working in all other respects within a loose British military family. The Dominion governments hoped this would allow them to build up more effective military forces with British help without surrendering control to the British government.54 One expression of the new approach came in late 1909 when Lord Kitchener, then the most famous soldier in the Empire, accepted an invitation to tour Australia and New Zealand. Kitchener was received like a modern pop idol wherever he went. The press of the crowd at Dunedin

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was so great that Kitchener never reached the South African War veterans he came to inspect. He supported such Australian measures as compulsory part-time military training and a military college, which helped over time to build up Australia’s ground forces. They needed the help because in Australia, as well as the mother country, the influence of the Blue Water school of grand strategy was very strong. Its champions argued that if imperial defence rested first on the navy, the Dominions should concentrate on reinforcing the navy as best they could. Even though the Australian government brought Kitchener over to use his prestige to pursue their own agenda, his visit culminated in an agreement to establish an Australian navy.55 The progress galvanized by Haldane’s army reforms was real but could only influence, not build, any system of imperial defence. Sea power remained central, as he conceded. However much Dominion leaders might want to expand their own status and autonomy, from the turn of the century they faced a stark limiting factor: great power tensions. The anti-British feeling during the South African War paled beside a truly seminal development: Germany’s decision to build a great ocean-going navy. This challenge produced a fundamental overhaul in British foreign policy. In the first decade of the new century, the British not only allied with Japan and withdrew from friction with the US, but they also resolved outstanding disputes with the powers that for decades had stood as the main threats, France and Russia. This untied British hands to allow them to respond to changes in what always concerned them most, the balance of power in Europe. After 1904, the British drifted steadily towards France and Russia in an anti-German alignment. No formal commitments were ever made, but the connection rested on something far stronger: British self-interest. Germany mounted what appeared to be a challenge to both the continental balance of power and British domination of the seas. The Admiralty responded by launching a new generation of capital ships with advanced technology and starting to concentrate the navy closer to home. The first decision set off a naval arms race by reducing the RN’s margin of strength over the German navy, as both started nearly from scratch to build a modern battle line; the implications of the second for imperial defence were obvious. The old debate about forces on the spot now became public and passionate. One rising star in Australia, Capt. W.R. Cresswell, argued in 1905 that Dominion naval forces could be seen as ‘night watchmen’, standing guard at the warehouse, backed up by the RN as the police. But by 1908, Cresswell warned that concentrating the fleet in British waters left the Empire in Asia exposed to other powers. His complaints did not persuade an Admiralty determined never again to tie forces down in local waters. Yet the hard-pressed Admiralty now realized it could not satisfy the Dominions by insisting that strategic priorities must override all other concerns. At the 1907 conference the British proposed to expand the East Indies, China and Australia Stations, provided the Dominions made

274 B.P. Farrell a substantial contribution and the squadrons remained under Admiralty control. Australians became concerned about British press complaints that the ‘White Australia’ policy should not be allowed to provoke any clash with Japan. Deakin ostentatiously invited the American ‘Great White Fleet’ to visit Australia on its show-the-flag world tour, which it did to great local acclaim, and some British irritation, in autumn 1908. Growing pressure to strengthen Australia’s own defences merged with concern about sea power in general that year, when a full-scale political crisis erupted in the UK over reports that the Germans were racing ahead in naval construction.56 The pressure forced the British government to increase naval spending at the expense of social programmes and provoked what became the most important meeting yet regarding imperial defence: the Imperial Conference in 1909. Alarm in the UK over naval rivalry with Germany drove home to Dominion leaders the uncomfortable fact that they remained dependent on British power, but had scant access to information. The Australian government called for consultation and Laurier said Canada should ‘carry out whatever plan should be devised through such consultation’. Both Dominions presented British agreement to meet as evidence their status as defence partners was being duly noted. They were not wrong. The result was an attitude change D.C. Gordon called a ‘minor miracle’; other scholars did not go that far, but all agreed British proposals at the 1909 conference were a sudden shift. A.S. Thompson suggested this was the moment when the navy gave up the argument the Dominions must hand over what they had to a common pool and joined Haldane in pragmatically trying to build a defence system reconciled with Dominion political and strategic imperatives. All scholars agree the 1909 meeting was a remarkable event that made one thing clear to all concerned: they must find a new way to work together in imperial defence.57 The most interesting British proposal was a bid to revive the old idea of Dominion contributions to the RN, on a more systematic basis. If each partner contributed money, ships or men based on its share of the Empire’s maritime trade, the Dominions plus India would provide 25 per cent of the RN. This proposal went nowhere because the Dominions were not prepared to write cheques for the RN ‘unless it was clear the fleet was capable of meeting their defensive needs’. And they were alarmed in 1909 by the massive concentration of British naval power in home waters. The CID therefore suggested a ‘middle course’. While the fleet must concentrate in home waters, the Admiralty must not neglect the Empire overseas. That meant securing Dominion help and addressing Dominion concerns. Prime Minister Herbert Asquith struck a CID subcommittee to review the problem, charging it to review: 1) how Dominion forces could best contribute to imperial defence; 2) how to reconcile unity of command with local responsibility for local forces; 3) how to make interchanges of ships and men effective without disrupting lines of responsibility; 4) each

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Dominion’s naval defence; and 5) the legal status of Dominion forces, especially outside their own waters.58 Laurier felt any promise to hand men or money over to the RN was a more direct threat to Canada than even the troubling European situation. He stood firm on the principle that Canada must decide for itself not only what to do, but also how to do it. All this did was keep his government on the hot seat. Empire-minded Canadians feared his insistence on autonomy would undermine military effectiveness. But ‘nationalists’ remained afraid that officers, officials and opinion leaders would not resist British appeals. Laurier’s compromise, to establish a small Canadian navy, angered nearly everyone. Canadian imperialists derided it as a ‘tinpot navy’, while nationalists saw it dragging them towards entanglement. The growing crisis in Europe made the naval controversy a factor in Laurier’s defeat in the election of 1911. It was not unrelated to the more burning issue of reciprocity and trade with the Americans in a Canada now alarmed by tension across the ocean and more mindful of Macdonald’s old ‘lowest common denominator’.59 Australia and New Zealand meanwhile moved in the other direction. They accepted an Admiralty proposal in 1909 to establish distinct ‘fleet units’ in their waters, to which they would contribute ships, as part of a Far Eastern Fleet. The units would remain under Admiralty control, but in normal times operate on station. This plan promised to replace capital ships called home to face the German threat, promote Dominion identity and reassure public opinion – but not tie Admiralty hands in wartime. It was indeed the foundations of a workable imperial defence system, but the exception proved the rule: Canada opted out. On top of everything else, it needed to cover two coasts and shied away from the political furore that would erupt if the government favoured one over the other.60 Nevertheless, by late 1911 many interested parties felt the Empire was at last responding coherently to real threats. The armed forces were making progress on functional integration. The Dominions and mother country accepted loose but reasonable consultation. The hope that a less unequal partnership would in the end produce greater unity and power spread from imperialists in the Dominions back to the mother country, prompting the Imperial Federation (Defence) League to change its name to the Imperial Cooperation League. Even the Canadian situation seemed promising when the Conservatives took power under Robert Borden, who criticized Laurier for not pressing for a greater voice in imperial defence.61 Three years later, the British and their Dominions marched united into the most dangerous war the Empire had ever faced. Nevertheless, some historians argue that the partners did not in fact build a sound system of imperial defence before this greatest test. One broad school of thought blames the Dominions, another the British. The most convincing interpretation, however, argues that imperial defence had become as systematic as could reasonably be expected when the test came.

276 B.P. Farrell Some recent scholarship points to the Dominions as it addresses the question posed at the start of this study: did the British receive enough in return to justify the burden they carried to defend the Empire? Two studies bluntly argue ‘no’. Cain and Hopkins, in their magisterial reassessment of British imperialism, argue that from 1860 to 1912 the UK spent £1.14 per capita annually on defence, some 37 per cent of public spending, while the self-governing colonies spent merely 12 per cent, or under 4 per cent. This allowed the latter to spend on their own development, especially by tapping into the financial resources of the City of London. Loans and bond issues rested on the protection provided by British power, in effect an invisible subsidy. Davis and Huttenback go further, arguing that over this half century the UK had ‘the highest per capita defence spending in the world’ because it was forced to subsidize the defence of the Empire. Their figures suggest the following comparative defence expenditures, population-weighted as percentages of the government budget:

1860–64 1880–84 1900–04 1910–12

UK

‘Dominions’

36.4 30.9 54.5 37.8

1.2 3.6 4.7 5.6

They argue that New Zealand was the only Dominion whose defence spending was ‘vaguely commensurate with its constitutional status’. Trade within the Empire was ‘significant but not crucial’ for the UK, but vital for the Dominions – 83 per cent of New Zealand’s exports went to the UK in 1910–12, for example. From the Mills Committee on, no British government found a way to adjust the burdens of imperial defence more equitably. Those burdens amounted, in financial terms, to the UK subsidizing the development of its Empire – and no one benefitted more than the Dominions who ‘paid for little and received a great deal’.62 Davis and Huttenback note the British were consistently able to compel India and dependent colonies to spend much higher percentages on defence than the Dominions. Even scholars less focused on the bottom line argue the British retained control of the foreign policy of ambitious Dominions because they ‘guaranteed and largely paid for their defence’.63 The implication is clear: to build a really effective system of imperial defence, the British should have insisted every measure of influence and control they ceded to the Dominions be matched by a greater contribution from them. Because they did not, the system became an interplay between British willingness to support a common cause and Dominion tendencies to exploit this for their own direct interests. Earlier scholarship resisted this tendency to evaluate imperial defence in terms of financial cost and benefit, for a good reason. While the British-centred

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world order that bound the self-governing Empire together certainly rested on finance and trade, it was never something that could be reduced to those considerations alone. They were always entangled with a sense of identity, a way of life and traditions of politics, culture and society that all parties wished to preserve and promote. This accounted for much of the ambivalence with which Canadians viewed their mighty republican neighbour as well as for Australian pursuit of a ‘White Australia’. The fact of complications within that broader sense of a shared way of life – such as Afrikaner, French Canadian and Irish attitudes towards all things British, and frequent resentment over perceived British condescension – only reinforced the main point. Defence was never just about the bottom line. Examining status and spending against that broader canvas prompted some scholars to argue quite differently: the British very nearly jeopardized a workable system of imperial defence by reneging on sensible arrangements after 1911. Gordon made the strongest charge: the British simply reneged on the 1909 ‘fleet unit’ agreement, and this was a serious development. The 1909 consensus envisaged an Admiralty accepting global responsibility, but providing for distinct ‘sister navies’ rather than one big navy, coming together under central direction only in wartime. But after another spike in European tension in the summer of 1911, the new first lord, Winston Churchill, listened to Admiralty voices that preferred direct contribution to the RN. From 1912, Churchill concentrated nearly all the navy’s capital ships, thereby scuttling the 1909 scheme. This occurred just after the Royal Canadian and Royal Australian Navies came into being. There is evidence to justify Gordon’s argument. Senator E.D. Miller, Australian defence minister, publicly denounced the Admiralty for unilaterally scrapping a definite scheme of imperial cooperation. His complaint was echoed even by the more ‘loyal’ New Zealand government, which publicly suggested the British government ‘has failed to carry out her obligation’. Lambert agrees with Gordon that Churchill provoked a backlash and increased the strain on the RN at a very awkward time. The implication is, of course, that the British were not willing to act on Prime Minister Asquith’s declaration that shared defence must mean some shared direction, and that this blocked evolution towards any ‘commonwealth defence’.64 This last suggestion points towards the most convincing interpretation. Given prevailing circumstances, imperial defence was as systematic as could reasonably be expected by 1914. Canada and Australia gained greater control over their own forces, but by pursuing functional integration they bolstered the imperial stamp on the professional identity of those forces. The truth is that every government had no choice but to manage the tension between imperial interdependence and their own agendas. The British found it difficult to share the direction of defence policies with governments that lacked experience, resources and, in their view, the

278 B.P. Farrell necessary breadth of strategic vision. As prime minister of Canada Robert Borden revived the idea of making a direct contribution to the RN because he drew the opposite conclusion from Laurier: under prevailing conditions, the greater danger to Canada was the rising military threat to British power, not being entangled with that power. But in return, Borden pressed hard for a greater voice in the making of British policy. The Canadian contribution did not materialize, but neither did greater Canadian access to the grand strategy.65 The main reason was the approach of great power war. The British not only pulled capital ships out of the Pacific, but they also pulled them out of the Mediterranean. Asquith’s government entered into highly confidential de facto strategic commitments to stand with France against any German attack, in discussions that began as early as 1905. Many British Cabinet ministers, let alone Dominion governments, did not learn the full extent of these commitments until 1911. The fundamental realignment of British foreign policy was responding to what appeared to be a German threat to the European balance of power. That acted as a powerful undertow that pulled all other arrangements and discussions about imperial defence along with it. Concentrating capital ships provoked much greater public willingness to support ‘sister navies’, but these navies and the governments that established them were tied to whatever move the UK made. None of them could have been organized, led or equipped without British assistance. Canada’s decision to organize a ‘tinpot navy’ could be tolerated because there was no direct threat to Canada anyway, and some kind of Canadian capability was better than none at all. On 4 October 1913, the battle cruiser Australia led one British and two Australian cruisers, plus three Australian destroyers, into Sydney harbour to hoist the flag of the Australian Fleet. Their entry ‘provoked a nationalistic fervour among Australians never before seen’. But even nationalist Australians saw this, correctly, as securing British dominance of the sea lanes between them and the rest of the Empire.66 Nicholas Mansergh’s focus on constitutional development prompted him to conclude that progress towards a system of imperial defence before 1914 was ‘remarkable’, especially because it stemmed mainly from arguments made by the Dominions. But the British also deserve some credit. Haldane in particular grasped in time the crucial point: in any real crisis the Dominions could be counted on, but it would do more harm than good to try to force them to make commitments in advance. This pragmatism, which was smoother for the army than the navy, but noticeable for both, made possible something that turned out to be essential. If the Dominions did rally to support another ‘British war’, their forces could step right into a larger British military organization with very little professional adjustment.67 An audit of imperial defence on the eve of the Great War is revealing. There was no imperial government sitting in one parliament making

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policy binding on all. Grand strategy was defined by the British. The CID provided reports to the British government, which started to circulate more of them to Dominion governments; but neither they nor it were bound by its recommendations. The Crown united the Empire’s armed forces in law and name, but not in practical command. And the only system for allocating resources was the assumption that in a major war Dominion forces would place themselves at the disposal of the Admiralty and the WO. The concrete side of the system was functional integration of navies and armies that were indeed coming close to being branches of the same military tree. Although this was clear progress from the 1850s, it was still not, however, the real strength of the system. The most important bonds were indeed the natural bonds. Sentiment was stronger than contract. Rather than pursue Disraeli’s ‘military code’ or Chamberlain’s ‘Greater Britain,’ the imperial partners settled, by trial and error, on Macdonald’s ‘lowest common denominator’. That meant living with Dominion tariff policies that hurt British free trade, and nursing infant ‘sister’ forces that, man for man, might have been more cost-effective in British units. But it also meant the real prospect of help from Dominion governments who probably were better placed to deliver as much military power as their countries could generate to face any real crisis. Porter made the crucial point: the British-defined world order made the British Empire the principal defender of the prevailing global commercial, financial and territorial alignments. Any threat to these alignments threatened British power. That would endanger the only world the Dominions could move through towards the future. The British and Dominions both decided to accept, however unevenly, the logic of their own concepts of liberal empire. That made a true imperial defence possible. The typically British ‘non-system’ of imperial defence in place by 1914 could work effectively only in the most dangerous of crises, because only then would the Dominions be sure to rally. But the fact they would do just that gave the Empire a defence system that in the supreme test of the Great War more than earned any financial subsidy the British paid to build it in the first place. Mansergh presented the most familiar interpretation of imperial defence in the Great War: the Dominions’ war efforts made it clear they were ‘states that were in the process of becoming nations’. Most scholars agree the war produced confusing signals about the Empire’s future for those who fought it; some emphasized greater cohesion, others saw divergence. Judd and Slinn argued the British hoped to build on what they saw as a wartime spirit of cooperation and practice of centralization, ‘but the real portents were those of disintegration, not of unity’. While many British leaders did harbour such hopes, the dialogue remained a confusing one that crossed national lines. The importance of constitutional change remains influential in scholarship; John Darwin recently argued that the war shaped what by 1931 became a ‘Third Empire’ of real partners, the ultimate triumph of the ‘liberal empire’ concept. But the

280 B.P. Farrell Dominions did not go to war to fight for the right to become fully independent states – so constitutional change must be set in broader context. Porter argued that the most vital interest of UK in 1914 was to defend the world economic order it built the previous century; colonies, including Dominions, were part of that order, but not its very essence. Formal ties of empire could change, if by doing so they helped preserve the global economic order on which the British civilization rested. This argument built a bridge between realist interpretations emphasizing deeper national interests in British policy and ‘liberal empire’ arguments insisting that constitutional evolution was a success, not failure. Darwin put it nicely: In the twentieth century British world power came to depend more and more upon partnership with the White Dominions. . . . In the era of the two world wars their economic resources, manpower reserves and political fidelity turned them into vital Imperial assets.68 Imperial defence succeeded in both world wars because the partnership remained strong but flexible enough to meet the most dangerous challenge: to defend a world order the British and Dominions found they could live with, one open to change and compromise – even if that meant changing and compromising. The British Empire lurched into the Great War in typical confusion, but the reason sheds important light on imperial defence. Ireland, the most reluctant realm of the UK, stood poised on the brink of civil war and the British Army faced incipient mutiny. Suddenly, Germany launched an all-out offensive to destroy the balance of power in Europe and make itself the continental hegemon. This eclipsed all other concerns. British world power made Britain’s territorial empire possible, much more than the other way around – and the prerequisite to that power was a satisfactory balance of power in Europe. The British government declared war on 4 August 1914 to defend the British-defined world order, not to rescue ‘plucky little Belgium’. Prevailing constitutional law meant that the king’s declaration of war, an act of foreign policy, automatically put the entire Empire in a state of war. But the war dragged on so long, and became so violent, that it tested prevailing arrangements for imperial defence beyond their defined limits. The challenge was fundamental: what was the purpose of the war and, therefore, how must the Empire fight it? The very ambiguity built into the ‘liberal empire’ shaped everyone’s response. While the king committed the Dominions to war, only their governments could decide how to carry out that commitment. Macdonald’s lowest common denominator made it possible for the Dominions to march in 1914, to do what he always promised: to defend British power itself. But the war soon escalated to a level that forced the Empire to tackle something it did not plan for: total war. Four themes shaped the Great War for the

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Dominions: their military and economic contributions and the price they paid for both; divisions in public opinion about the war; the central direction of the war; the question of status. These are best examined as they occurred, entangled with each other. The course of the war was the driving force in all areas, in three broad phases. From 1914 to 1916, the Empire mobilized to meet an ever expanding war and struggled to cope with the strain. In 1917, sheer pressure forced what looked like a breakthrough on the fundamental questions of direction and status. And in 1918, the coalition of the usually willing drove to total victory – but then faced the issue of where to go next. Identity is a currently fashionable buzzword in academic history, but applying it to the Dominions and the Great War is not just trendy. More than half the volunteers who formed the first contingents of the Australian and Canadian expeditionary forces in 1914 were British-born recent immigrants, for whom ‘mother country’ was literal. When the belligerents found themselves fighting a grim battle of attrition that few anticipated, identity went to war as well. Germans were urged to defend European kultur from Slavic barbarism; the Allies were to put Prussian militarism and ‘the beastly Hun’ back in their cage. The Dominions played a major role here by merely existing. Imperialists presented the ‘liberal empire’ as expressing the values the Allies stood for: an evolving community connected by shared ideals, customs and beliefs, rather than by power and coercion. Constructionists such as Lionel Curtis, a leading member of the Round Table lobby group devoted to imperial federation, tried to seize the moment by concentrating on the Dominions. War would bring them and the UK closer together, forcing them to build a more organized association in order to prevail. The war did bring them closer together, but most scholars argued it brought out even more strongly the particular situations of each Dominion. Robert Holland saw this in the connection between contribution and status: Canada used it to press very hard for a larger voice in directing the war, but South Africa used it to stay more aloof from all general commitments. Constant tension between unity and diversity did indeed characterize imperial defence at war.69 The Canadian experience was not untypical. Borden broke off his summer holiday as the crisis mounted, privately noting: ‘Almost impossible for us to keep out if France is involved’ – and by ‘us’ he certainly meant the British Empire, not just Canada. On 1 August he sent two telegrams that summarized the prevailing condition of imperial defence. One asked for ‘any suggestions and advice which Imperial naval and military authorities may deem it expedient to offer’ and hinted ‘a considerable force would be available for service abroad . . .’. The other, offered for publication, assured the British that if war broke out, ‘the Canadian people will be united in a common resolve to put forth every effort and to make every sacrifice necessary to ensure the integrity and maintain the

282 B.P. Farrell honour of our Empire . . .’. Laurier matched the moment, reminding Canadians he had: often declared that if the mother country were ever in danger, or if danger ever threatened, Canada would render assistance to the fullest extent of her power. . . . When the call comes our answer goes at once, and it goes in the classical language of the British answer to the call to duty: Ready, aye, ready. Canada’s leaders asked the British to advise them how to mobilize the country for war, but with a twist. Canadian forces would come en masse, not just Canadian volunteers for British forces. The British accepted this and every other such offer, albeit the Admiralty placed all the King’s navies under its operational control. Dominion forces prepared to serve with, rather than as subunits of, British forces.70 Canada’s early war effort was marred by a glaring contrast between the organization and direction of its military forces and the political commitment of its government. Borden became one of three Empire prime ministers whose individual contribution seriously influenced the course of the war. From the start, he argued with conviction that the British Empire was fighting a just war, to which Canada must contribute all it could for as long as necessary. But the deepest difference between Borden on the one hand and Macdonald and Laurier on the other boiled down to one thing: Borden had to do in practice what they faced only in principle. Borden set two conditions for producing all Canada could offer, and he pressed them hard: overseas service would be voluntary and Canada would demand a voice in directing the war that matched its fighting contribution.71 Unfortunately for Borden, three problems loomed. First, the expansion of the war threatened to dwarf all early plans for mobilizing troops and producing what they needed. Second, important constituencies remained lukewarm, especially French Canada, which produced only a small fraction of volunteers. Finally, his minister of militia was Sam Hughes. To call Hughes eccentric would be kind. Hughes discarded all existing plans and arrangements and behaved like a medieval baron, calling Canadians to flock to the standard spontaneously. They came in great numbers, but an entirely new base, Camp Valcartier outside Quebec City, had to be built to house and train them. It took months to sort out the confusion, but when they finally went overseas, they did so with an inferior weapon: the Canadian-made Ross rifle, adopted before the war and promoted by Hughes as an expression of national pride. This classic example of ‘imperial nationalism’ landed Canada’s first contingent with a weapon so prone to misfire that the soldiers soon learned to trade for British rifles or scavenge German ones. Worse, Hughes set up an over-elaborate command structure, in France and the UK, which confused the Canadian chain of command. All this made it harder for Canada’s soldiers to fight

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effectively. When the battles of mid-1915 produced casualties far greater than expected, this shocked Borden, the country and indeed the Empire into confronting the fact that this was a war that would not tolerate amateurism and unforced errors.72 Those same battles also made it clear, the fundamental British policy, to fight the war without disturbing ‘business as usual’, could not succeed. The fighting power of the German Army, plus the ability of modern industrial powers to generate tremendous resources, and the will to use them, forced the British government to rethink its war policy. They responded by expanding the war vertically and horizontally. Asquith reluctantly reorganized his government as a coalition and accepted a Ministry of Munitions, under David Lloyd George, to harness British industrial power to meet the apparently insatiable demands of industrial war. Kitchener, now minister for war, strove to expand the British Army tenfold – primarily to support the main theatre of war, the Western Front in France. Meanwhile, Allied forces launched a major offensive against Turkey, to try to outflank the deadlock on that Western Front. Australian and New Zealand citizen soldiers, merged into the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC), were committed in force to that offensive. Their eight-month battle at Gallipoli made less of an impact on the war than on antipodean perceptions of themselves and their role in the Empire, then and later. When the Allied high command called off the battle by evacuating their forces in December, failure only magnified what later became two myths – one of nation-building, the other of British cynicism. But at the time the hard fighting and shocking casualty lists produced both pride in Dominion contributions to the war effort and increased determination to make sure those sacrifices produced results.73 Borden led the way in person, visiting Europe in August 1915 and inspecting his troops. He was appalled by what he found: the grinding battles of attrition on the Western Front were chewing up Canadian and British soldiers to no apparent effect, while the British government struggled to supply them with the munitions and equipment they needed. But Borden found it difficult to prod information about grand strategy and war production out of the British government, let alone secure real consultation. This produced a testy exchange with Andrew Bonar Law, the colonial secretary, regarding how the Dominions could express their views about directing the war. Law was complacent: perhaps Borden could suggest a mechanism by which the Empire’s governments could consult on policy without compromising either military security or the responsibility of each to its own Parliament? Borden boiled over on 4 January 1916: It can hardly be expected that we shall put 400,000 or 500,000 men in the field and willingly accept the position of having no more voice and receiving no more consideration than if we were toy automata.

284 B.P. Farrell Any person cherishing such an expectation harbours an unfortunate and even dangerous delusion. Is this war being waged by the UK alone or is it a war waged by the whole Empire? If I am correct in supposing that the second hypothesis must be accepted then why do the statesmen of the British Isles arrogate to themselves solely the methods by which it shall be carried on in the various spheres of warlike activity and the steps which shall be taken to assure victory and a lasting peace? It is for them to suggest the method and not for us. If there is no available method and we are expected to continue in the role of automata the whole situation must be reconsidered. Hard on the heels of this exchange Borden received a visitor en route to London: William ‘Billy’ Hughes, pugnacious prime minister of Australia. Hughes shared Borden’s commitment to the war and his frustration with British attitudes. He and Borden agreed they must publicly pressure the British to consult the Dominions about running the war. Such rare lateral consultation spooked Asquith into inviting Hughes to attend two Cabinet meetings in London in March. But at those meetings, he tried to quarantine Hughes, making it clear the invitations were a courtesy, not a precedent. This was unwise. Hughes spent the rest of his visit making fiery speeches not only rallying support for the war effort, but also pressing the British to recognize the growing role of the Dominions.74 British reluctance to share any voice in war direction was by now badly misplaced. Borden’s bluntness was a warning they needed to take seriously. He was by far the most determined supporter of total war in high office, never faltering, as the war expanded, from his conviction this was a just and necessary struggle in which Canada must do its utmost. But after more than a year and a half of war, Dominion contributions were indispensable in every theatre of war and all aspects of the war effort. Borden and Billy Hughes pressed their case relentlessly. British concerns about the inexperience and professional shortcomings of Dominion forces, especially at the higher command level, were not always misplaced. The prolonged confusion in the Canadian chain of command inflicted by Sam Hughes testified to that. But the monstrous growth of the war, the sheer need for every man, penny and bullet, made such qualms seem ever more like luxuries the Empire could no longer afford.75 The need to campaign against German colonial forces in East Africa forced the British to rely heavily on South African forces. Dominion and colonial forces continued to support the Middle East campaign against the Turks. Dominion naval forces and individual sailors reinforced the RN in both its anticlimactic Battle of Jutland and the even more desperate struggle to protect the Atlantic lifeline to the mother country. British troops had to suppress an uprising in Dublin; the resulting punishments of the ringleaders sparked an Irish backlash that boded ill for the future. But above all, the great Battles of the Somme bled Kitchener’s new armies

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white, including Canadian, Australian, New Zealand and colonial forces drawn into the main struggle on the Western Front. The year 1916 pushed the Empire over the edge into total war. Dominion reactions signalled both how much and how little this escalation affected imperial defence. On the one hand, men flocked to the colours. By the end of 1916, Canada, Australia and New Zealand maintained ten infantry divisions, a quarter of the strength of the British forces on the Western Front. On the other hand, each indicated their intention to participate on their own terms. The Australian people supported the Australian Imperial Force (AIF), but in two national referenda rejected conscription for overseas service. Borden finally sacked Sam Hughes and took steps to professionalize Canada’s military direction, but the strain of battle increased domestic political pressure to introduce conscription. Borden decided to grasp that nettle, to meet what he regarded as a pledge of honour to the army in the field. In return, he made it clear Canada could only face the debate this must provoke if its voice was clearly being heard in running the war.76 The decisive breakthrough came in London in December when Lloyd George ousted Asquith. The ‘Welsh Wizard’ formed a coalition government dedicated to prosecuting total war. He made two other moves of lasting importance. First, he established a permanent Cabinet Secretariat to bring more order and system into not only directing the war, but also governing Britain and its Empire. Second, he invited the Dominion prime ministers to come to London to consult with his new government on how to prosecute the war. Borden seized the invitation, and opportunity, with both hands, crossing the Atlantic again in February 1917. After visiting his army in the field, the Canadian prime minister returned to London more determined than ever to parlay the massive effort his army and nation were making into a real voice in directing the war. This was only underlining an established policy: Canada could only wage total war if its voice were heard. But this time, he received a very different reception. Lloyd George was as dedicated as Borden to total war. The jarring changes he made in British administration, and the coalition he formed with Conservative politicians and imperial constructionists such as Bonar Law and Milner, were definitive repudiations of ‘business as usual’ liberalism. But the escalation of the war not only brought him to power, but it also made him a supplicant. The problem was the bloody stalemate on the Western Front. American pressure for a compromise peace needed to be resisted, and British Empire forces needed many more men and a lot more munitions. To meet those challenges, the new British government needed full Dominion support. This time the Canadian prime minister saw eye to eye with his British counterpart, who made sure he was briefed in full on British war direction and grand strategy. By the time the formal Cabinet meetings began on 20 March, Lloyd George and Borden set the agenda by agreeing that the Empire must fight total war to total victory and pay any price necessary to win that victory.77

286 B.P. Farrell Lloyd George’s summons in spring 1917 produced high drama regarding imperial defence – and also generated confusion and false hopes, then and later. To federationists such as members of the Round Table it seemed the great day was finally at hand. Lloyd George publicly transformed the discussions with Dominion leaders into what became styled the Imperial War Cabinet. But this was misleading. There was to be sure intimate consultation this time. Dominion leaders joined their British colleagues for fourteen Cabinet meetings. But it remained consultation; the British War Cabinet retained executive direction of the war. On the other hand, few outsiders fully grasped this at the time, especially after Lloyd George added civilian and military advisers to the discussions and promoted it to a full-blown Imperial War Conference. Through fifteen formal sessions those at the table discovered first hand that even when the British ‘family’ lined up shoulder to shoulder to fight total war, the complications of imperial defence did not disappear. Billy Hughes did not arrive until mid-April; he was delayed in Australia by an acrimonious general election fought mainly over the question of conscription for overseas service. Louis Botha was not there; he remained in South Africa to make sure that the fractious Dominion stayed in the war. Botha was in fact glad not to be there, sure his counterparts would be ‘a damned nuisance’ getting in the way of a busy British government. On the other hand, he sent a minister who soon became a central figure in directing the Empire, let alone imperial defence – General Jan Christian Smuts. Joining Smuts and Borden were William Ferguson Massey from New Zealand. Together with Lloyd George and his new coalition they forged a strong commitment to war à l’outrance. Indeed, as the discussions progressed, the Canadian Corps, now four divisions strong, fought and won the gruelling battle at Vimy Ridge that signalled Canada’s military coming of age – and later became its counterpart to Gallipoli as a nation-building identity forming icon. This all inspired Borden to ask Canadians to make the ultimate commitment to total war by accepting general conscription.78 The Imperial War Conference produced the commitment Lloyd George needed, just in time for the Empire to fight the grim attrition battles of 1917. Dominion power added a vital increment to British economic and military strength everywhere. But practical experience sparked more movement in arrangements for imperial defence. At the spring conference, Smuts posed the pivotal question: ‘How are we to keep together this Empire’? Borden proposed what became the official reply, Resolution IX. The British and Dominion governments agreed the war was too pressing to allow them to sit down and formally adjust ‘the constitutional relations of the component parts of the Empire’, but also agreed this must be done as soon as the war was over. And any adjustment must start from the agreement the Dominions were ‘autonomous nations of an Imperial Commonwealth . . .’ with a right to ‘an adequate voice in foreign policy’ and to ‘effective arrangements for continuous consultation in all important

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matters of common Imperial concern . . .’. Generations of analysts focused closely on the constitutional questions raised by this public declaration. Borden’s biographer R.C. Brown credited him with drafting a resolution that formally recognized what the Dominions had already won on the battlefield. Brown argued Borden saw this agreement as the culmination of his policy to develop Canada to full nationhood within the Empire. The formal use of the term ‘Commonwealth’ sparked great attention, as did the inclusion of India ‘as an important portion of the same’. Massey certainly saw this as a step towards an Imperial Parliament.79 But the constitutional question was not so clear-cut, and cannot be separated from other dimensions of imperial defence. The resolution concluded that future consultation would lead to ‘such necessary concerted action . . . as the several Governments may determine’. Smuts saw the problem: it would do more harm than good to try to combine formal executive centralization in an Imperial Parliament with the self-governing responsibilities of each separate Dominion Parliament. Borden summed up the problem by what he wrote: his hope that Resolution IX would lay the foundation for more systematic direction of a new Empire of equals had to be expressed in words that stressed the need to consult rather than centralize. Round Table insiders such as Curtis soon realized that cooperation in imperial defence was only being pushed forward by sheer military necessity – and that this dynamic was promoting Dominion nationalism and sense of identity at least as strongly as any common imperial identity.80 Resolution Nine turned out to be a promise by the British to take more seriously Dominion demands for a voice in return for sharing the burden – rather than any Dominion promise to commit more closely to any formal imperial machinery. The British had to make such a promise. They could not fight what now became an all-out war of attrition without the increment of military and economic strength the Dominions now provided. On the other hand, Dominion leaders felt they must provide that increment. The collapse of Russia on the Eastern Front, the entry of an unprepared US into the war, and especially the terrible clash of armies on the Western Front seemed to frame the issue starkly: a death struggle between the British-defined world order resting on British power and a rampant German militarism. For Borden in particular strategic necessity, not constitutional ambition, was the driving force. Defeat would mean the destruction of British power, which would compromise Canada in every dimension. Defeat could not be contemplated. But to persuade Canadians to accept total war he had to follow Lloyd George’s example and fashion a coalition. This and the ugly election campaign that ensued polarized the country in superheated rhetoric, which Borden did not surmount. With more passion than prudence he slammed Laurier for being cautious, insisting the issue was ‘conscription or disgrace’. Borden won his election, but shattered his own party in the process; anti-conscription riots in Quebec in spring 1918 had to be

288 B.P. Farrell suppressed with English-speaking troops from Toronto, further poisoning the national mood. The strain of total war was if anything greater in Australia. Billy Hughes could not bring about general conscription despite his election victory, resorted to heavy-handed censorship and roughly suppressed growing labour discontent. Australian scholar Jeffrey Grey argued that the Australian war effort in 1917 ‘was in danger of becoming unhinged and the political climate bordered on the hysterical’.81 At the very height of total war, Dominion willingness to make massive commitments to imperial defence underlined once and for all that there would always be real limits to, and conditions for, such commitments. This combination also surfaced at the sharp end, but here pre-war progress in functional integration paid crucial dividends. Grey noted that when ANZAC troops were committed to the Western Front in 1916, they soon became ‘an integral part of the great army fielded by Britain and its Empire, with all which this might entail’. Dominion personnel played a growing part in the new Royal Flying Corps as individuals in British units, but on the ground the story took a very different twist. By late 1917, a fourdivision Canadian Corps and a five-division Australian Corps, both led by national commanders, stood in the British Order of Battle on the Western Front. Increasing Dominion participation in higher command of larger forces raised the profile of their countries, in battle and at home. Successes such as Vimy Ridge gained these forces a largely justified reputation as divisions of high quality. Friction continued. Some senior British commanders carried on treating Dominion troops as forces they could direct exactly as if they were UK formations; many believed Dominion officers simply could not handle higher command and should not be entrusted with it. On the other hand, some Dominion officers and officials uncritically believed no British officer at any level could lead Dominion troops as well as their own officers – and too readily assumed British planners were more careless with Dominion forces than with their own. But against this friction must be set the fact that more than one-fifth of British fighting strength on the ground was provided by Dominion forces using the same weapons, equipment, doctrine and techniques as their British counterparts. This simplified the problem of supplying them, a burden increasingly supported by growing Dominion war production, and using them as an integral part of larger British forces.82 By pressing functional integration as effectively as he did before the war, Haldane may well have saved the Empire, and the Allied cause, when it faced the terrible test of total war in 1917–18 and needed every ounce of strength to prevail. The strain of war provoked one final crisis in 1918 that again brought the Empire’s leaders together in consultation. The Russian collapse and the slow American deployment in France allowed the Germans to launch one last massive offensive to try to break the Allies while they still could. Because the French were too drained to do much more than hold their ground, and the Americans were not yet ready, the blow, and the burden,

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fell on the armies of the British Empire. They prevailed. One very important reason they did was the arrangements for imperial defence, which helped to provide just enough strength to meet the challenge. On the battlefield, the crisis came when a German breakthrough threatened to split the British armies and the British High Command tried to throw in every unit to plug the breach. Lt Gen. Sir Arthur Currie, general officer commanding the Canadian Corps, flatly refused to allow his formation to be broken up in detachments and sent into battle under different British commanders. The Australians went into battle, but under their own able commander Lt Gen. Sir John Monash. Currie had his way; when British Empire forces fought the German offensive to a stalemate, the powerful Canadian Corps stepped forward to join their Australian counterparts to spearhead the counteroffensive that shattered the German Army. Functional integration helped create British Imperial Armies, rather than a British Empire Army, that defeated a formidable enemy, which certainly did threaten British power itself.83 But whereas the battlefield revealed real progress in arrangements for imperial defence, the council table more clearly underlined the limits. The final crisis in war direction arose not between the British and the Dominions, but between Lloyd George and his own generals. The British prime minister concluded after the terrible carnage at Passchendaele that his field commanders were squandering the Empire’s priceless manpower in futile slogging matches in the trenches. He decided to force them to accept a new Allied Supreme Command under Marshal Foch – and to call in his Dominion counterparts to help him undermine their position. Lloyd George launched a second round of Imperial War Cabinet meetings on 11 June 1918 by painting a bleak picture of the situation, calling it ‘a rather dark tunnel’. But by the time the Cabinet and Imperial War Conference meetings wrapped up on 12 August, the German Army was broken and in full retreat. The Dominion ministers played their role from the start. Borden responded to Lloyd George’s first briefing by delivering a withering cross-examination of the British High Command: We came over to fight in earnest; and Canada will fight it out to the end. But earnestness must be expressed in organization, foresight, preparation. Let the past bury its dead but for God’s sake let us get down to earnest endeavour and hold this line until the Americans can come in and help us to sustain it till the end. Borden’s passion was bolstered by the detail of his critique and much of that derived from long conversations with Currie, his own field commander. Massey, speaking for the ‘most loyal Dominion’, chimed in support: ‘there is something wrong somewhere and we have got to find it’. This was all music to Lloyd George’s ears, sweetened the following week when Billy Hughes arrived – late again – and insisted ‘He wished to feel sure that the

290 B.P. Farrell sacrifices that were being made were not wasted for want of proper leadership and strategy’.84 Such criticisms produced a change in administration that as C.P. Stacey argues ‘would have gone a good deal further than it did if the war had not ended so soon’. Lloyd George played an important role, by rearranging the machinery for war direction and calling in the Dominion governments. But Dominion criticism was sincere, not just the dance of puppets on a string. And it was not just the unanimity of Dominion criticism that mattered, it was the substance; hard experience in battle produced Dominion commanders more willing and better able to provide informed criticism of how the Empire’s war effort was being directed. The British now had to work with their Dominion colleagues, as opposed to merely keeping them informed, whether they liked what they were saying or not. This was recognized by the man who as a result of Lloyd George’s innovations emerged as the central figure in the administration of imperial defence, a position he held for a generation: Colonel Maurice Hankey, secretary to the war cabinet. Hankey proposed to refer Borden’s complaints – and thus by implication the ultimate direction of the war – to ‘a Committee of Prime Ministers only’. After Hughes arrived, the principals agreed to do just that, establishing a committee with the vaguest of written mandates to oversee the conduct of the war. While officially this new body was merely a subcommittee of the British War Cabinet, very soon it became a real day-to-day executive body, for two reasons: the pace of events on the battlefield and the fact the British armies fighting there could only be directed as an integrated formation by their assembled governments.85 Nothing more clearly underlined this compulsion of circumstance than the fact that the committee’s last formal paper in August dealt with what all then expected to be the future course of the war in 1919. The British could no longer revise grand strategy for an ongoing war without detailed discussion in this new forum, bringing together their ‘junior but sovereign allies’ whose forces were so intimately associated with their own. Allied victories that month made the report moot and, indeed, short-circuited the whole arrangement of an executive Committee of Prime Ministers. But it would be wrong to write it off merely as a reaction to the climax of the war. Victory made it possible, and necessary, to face up to the great dilemmas of imperial administration and defence exposed by the war – and they were all raised that summer by the assembled company. Hankey and Lloyd George served on both the Committee of Prime Ministers and the British War Cabinet – but Hankey circulated all draft copies of his reports to the latter body before the Dominion statesmen received them. Hughes pressed for serious consideration of how to make sure the different governments could remain ‘in direct touch with the Prime Minister of the UK’ when the principals dispersed; he did not want to have to ‘meander again through the indirect channels of the Colonial

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Office’. But Arthur Balfour, now serving as British foreign secretary, noted it would be difficult at best to share control of a single foreign policy, yet only such a policy could make sure that ‘the united strength of the Empire was to be put forward for any external purpose’. This sounded very much like full circle, returning the problem to the status quo ante bellum. To dispel any such notion, Borden made it clear the war effort made by the Dominions must mean real change: ‘Unless [Canada] could have that voice in the foreign relations of the Empire as a whole, she would before long have an independent voice in her own foreign affairs outside the Empire’. Borden was certainly not threatening to take Canada out of the Empire; but he was stating what the war exposed as a simple fact. After four years of fighting in a Great War at a level of violence and commitment far beyond what anyone expected, the Dominions would no longer provide support without full consultation.86 Comparing Borden’s request for advice in August 1914 to his pressure for a full voice in imperial defence and foreign policy in August 1918 allows one to measure how much the test of total war influenced the evolution of imperial defence. The problem that could be postponed or talked around before the war now had to be faced: if the British wanted to lead a military coalition of their Dominions in the future, they must find a way to share the all important power of making policy decisions. The abrupt end of the war in autumn 1918 probably made this more rather than less complicated, but the problem was inherent. The crux of the matter was that imperial defence remained a necessary but lopsided partnership. The British needed Dominion help on a grand scale to win the war; but that help came on top of a British war effort relatively, as well as absolutely, even greater than their own.87 And whatever world order emerged from Allied victory would be one in which their security rested on strong British power and global interests. Even when they mobilized beyond anyone’s expectations, the Dominions remained very much the junior partner. The Dominions wanted to stand in their own right beside the British, not venture out on their own. The UK in 1919 was unquestionably the strongest military power in the world; the Empire actually expanded physically as a result of the destruction of the Turkish empire in the Middle East and the German overseas empire. But the British now faced some uncomfortable facts, even before the peace conference in Paris produced its controversial settlement. New York replaced London as the strongest financial centre in the world, and the Americans were clearly the wealthiest and thus ultimately the strongest power left standing. Europe was physically devastated and Eastern Europe was politically in chaos. And British public opinion looked for peace, quiet, and reform at home, rather than more colonies abroad. When the peace settlement established a drastically new paradigm for directing world affairs, expressed in the League of Nations and its Covenant, it presented another challenge to managing the defence of an

292 B.P. Farrell Empire with global interests that varied so widely in cultural, economic and political circumstances. The Dominions pressed successfully for seats at the peace conference in their own right, signed the peace treaties of their own accord and became founding member states of the League of Nations. This assertion of status confused the rest of the world, but to the British ‘family’ seemed like a logical progression from the developments of 1917–18. In fact, the imperial relationship remained anything but logical, including arrangements for defence. The Dominions dismantled their swollen military forces as enthusiastically as the British, returned to a defence policy of minimal commitment and thus remained physically dependent on British power. This constrained the degree to which they could pursue a really different defence and thus foreign policy. On the other hand, they all insisted on being heard, by the British and or the world, when they pressed their own ever more individual agendas, especially on foreign policy. The wartime trend towards more formal centralization quickly collapsed. It was replaced by a series of decisions, some thrashed out by argument in conference, others made in response to problems on the ground, which set in stone changes made before the war and those brought about by it. Functional integration of the different military forces became the established practice in all three services, as the air force now lined up alongside the older arms. It remained functional integration between a large and widely dispersed British military machine and tiny Dominion ones. Canada, under a new Prime Minister, William Lyon Mackenzie King, emphasized Macdonald’s old desire to preserve room for Canada to make its own decisions, rather than Borden’s wartime hope to make Canada a full and active partner in making British ones. South Africa and Australia took on regional colonial responsibilities of their own, but remained fundamentally dependent on British power to exercise them. Rebellion in Ireland forced Lloyd George to make most of the country a Dominion, but the Irish went well beyond Mackenzie King to become the most reluctant and aloof partner at the changing imperial table. King, nevertheless, sent the most important signal of change. When the British government decided in 1922 to resist a Turkish attempt to restore full control over their own territory along the Aegean coast, they assumed the Dominions would again rally to the call. In order to intimidate the Turks, Winston Churchill, serving as colonial secretary, publicly stated that Dominion forces would reinforce British defences around Chanak. It is true that Churchill released this statement without first checking with the Dominion governments. It is also true New Zealand and Australia replied in the affirmative. But Mackenzie King publicly went out of his way to reject this British appeal in deliberately angry terms, not just because it was sprung on him so rudely. King returned to the same point Macdonald made forty years earlier: this conflict did not threaten the very survival of British power; therefore, it did not directly threaten any Canadian national

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interest and, therefore, Canada would not intervene in any way. Canada did not support the British appeal for help in Sudan forty years earlier, but the key difference was the way Mackenzie King deliberately made a public constitutional issue out of refusing. When the South Africans agreed with him, this established the point once and for all. Depend as they did on British power, in any dispute short of a mortal threat to that power each Dominion would make its own decision regarding whether or not to offer military support.88 Antipodean support in the Chanak crisis indicated their strategic dependence on lines of communication running through the Mediterranean at least as much as any political ‘loyalty’; such lines were no direct concern to Canada, South Africa or Ireland. That same year the Dominions split on the question of naval disarmament and relations with the Americans and Japanese. Canada insisted the British not pursue any policy that would affront the Americans; the Australians were more concerned about provoking the Japanese. The strategic difference here was manifest. When the British announced their policy to build a naval base in Singapore to protect the Empire in the Far East, Canada was indifferent; the ‘British of the South’ welcomed the policy despite its many serious question marks.89 The British themselves clarified the relationship between foreign and defence policy in 1923, when they decided they would rather not share control of a foreign policy to which the Dominions seemed likely to contribute more complaints than commitments. They decided to rely instead on Macdonald’s fundamental bonds – above all, on the fact the Dominions still depended on being associated with a British-centred world order and wanted this to continue.90 In the end, the Great War made apparent what was already inherent. Militarily, the British and their Dominions certainly proved to be a coalition of the usually willing – provided the stakes were high enough to threaten the order on which they all ultimately depended. The central theme was not, as many mistakenly believed, a conflict between imperial solidarity and Dominion nationalism. The central theme was the effort to keep all interests in play, to balance the many competing forces. Canadian military commanders instinctively assumed their government would respond to the British appeal over Chanak, made plans to send an expeditionary force and were dismayed by their prime minister’s public rebuttal. The ensuing misunderstanding summed up the larger confusion about arrangements for imperial defence. King saw the military reaction as proof that functional integration was dangerous, because many Canadians still saw themselves more as an extension of Britain than as a junior but sovereign ally. His military and political critics saw his position as separatism. Neither view was entirely fair. King felt as Macdonald and Laurier felt in their day and behaved accordingly: the British connection was central to Canada’s ultimate national interest, but Canada also had its own particular interests, imperatives and vulnerabilities, so Canada must decide for itself how to work that connection. King saw more danger than duty in being entangled

294 B.P. Farrell in world affairs, so he coined the formula that henceforth defined Canada’s connection to imperial defence: as and when problems arose, Canada’s own Parliament would decide how to respond. But there was no question, as King told Hitler himself in 1938, about how Canada would respond to any mortal threat to British power. It would not – did not – stand aside.91 The constitutional issues that engaged scholars for so long are best understood when it comes to imperial defence as part and parcel of the constant effort to define and promote national interests. When Dominion autonomy and sovereignty was proclaimed in 1926 by the Balfour Declaration, and codified in 1931 by the Statute of Westminster, only the Irish wanted nothing to do with any association with British military power. Trade within the Empire became more important for all parties after the Great War, so important that one of the most significant responses to the Great Depression was the Ottawa Conference decision in 1932 to establish formal Imperial Preferences. It was much harder to understand and therefore to accept any vaguely defined coalition of the usually willing as a reliable military partnership, particularly when so much rhetoric concentrated on status rather than solidarity. It would have been easier to grasp a more structured federation – but impossible to make it work. Such a structure would have been too brittle to withstand the dynamic economic, demographic and political forces that shaped the evolution of the UK and each Dominion. Any Imperial Parliament or Committee of Prime Ministers after 1919 would have been ruptured by the Chanak Crisis and the Singapore decision, let alone the turmoil of the 1930s. The Dominions remained associated with the British on their own individual terms, but associated they remained. Dominion support was a major factor bolstering the British decision to pursue a policy of appeasement in the second half of the 1930s – just as Dominion support buttressed the British decision to go to war again in 1939 and fight on in 1940. There were limits, and they were not minor. Ireland remained neutral, even if the Irish people did not. South Africa barely entered the war and restricted its role throughout. But the audit of both world wars produced the same bottom line: when it came to general war between Great Powers, the economic, political and military strength the Dominions produced was a greater net gain to British power than the rest of the Empire combined.92 The coalition of the usually willing did not survive as the framework for a viable system of imperial defence after the Second World War. Holland is right to describe the military partnership after 1919 as a response to weakening British power, even as a British attempt to draw on Dominion power to compensate for the ebbing of their capability. But it did not simply die at any one moment, or because of any one event – not even the notorious Suez Crisis of 1956. British and Dominion forces fought together again as formations in Korea and in the Far East into the 1960s. This time, however, they did so more and more as partners in a larger Western alliance led by the Americans – and less and less as functionally

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integrated ‘sister armies’. Instead, the association faded into a loose circle of familiars within a larger coalition of the usually willing, a coalition that again was strongest when fundamental common interests were threatened. The crucial fact was that imperial defence was driven by the combination of attachment to, as well as dependence on, a Britishcentred world order. When that world order gave way during and after the Second World War, the partners responded accordingly – and, as always, individually.93 The core dimension of ‘race patriotism’ that marked out the Dominions from other British overseas territories was, of course, a major reason why it proved impossible to transform those other territories, notably India and Pakistan, into friendly Dominions working within a renewed military partnership after the Second World War. Self-government came far too late to be credible outside the settler colonies.94 Nor was it possible to rely on any sense of attachment to keep the military partnership alive, when concrete national interests adjusted to a changing world order. Mansergh identified Mackenzie King as one of three central figures in the evolution of what his magisterial study depicted as the transformation of an Empire of power into a Commonwealth of associates. The relationship between the British and the overseas Dominions was central to that process, whatever one thinks of Mansergh’s argument. King’s often wilful rejection of British efforts to foster imperial solidarity to buttress their foreign policy is a target for the same critics who charge that Dominion leaders sought security at British expense, demanding much but offering little. This is not completely unfair. Canadian and Australian reluctance to take more responsibility for their own defence in the dangerous 1930s was a sign of immaturity, and both countries paid a heavy price for it in the Second World War. But there is a more important point. Just as in 1914, when a mortal threat to British power did erupt, the Dominions responded. The coalition of the usually willing stood firm and fought to the death. And once again Dominion contributions to a larger war effort provided a vital increment of power, military, economic and psychological, that helped the UK prevail against a far more dangerous threat to its civilization than the Empire saw off in the Great War.95 The coalition of the usually willing was a unique military partnership in imperial history. No other imperial power in modern times made any effort to nurture any kind of military partnership between governments in a larger association. The balance sheet of that partnership can not be restricted to how much British taxpayers spent on defence as opposed to their Australian or South African counterparts.96 Nor can it be dismissed as shallow because it faced real constraints on military cooperation, or struggled to bridge real differences in individual capabilities and agendas, or even because everyone in the end fought first and foremost for their own national interests. It must instead take note of the fact that for nearly a century different governments and public opinions saw the partnership

296 B.P. Farrell as necessary and strove to keep it alive despite its many difficulties. The real test was neither Sudan nor Chanak, but rather 1914 and 1940. The coalition of the ultimate common interest did not falter and did not fail. In the end it only disappeared.

Notes 1 Ireland, Newfoundland, Rhodesia, India and Pakistan were all formally considered Dominions at some point but constitute special cases. Newfoundland and Rhodesia were too small as military powers to make any impact on discussion of imperial defence; the other three are discussed below. 2 Three classic studies are D.C. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914 (Baltimore, 1965); N. Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience (London, 1969); R.A. Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense: A Study of the Origins of the British Commonwealth’s Defense Organisation 1867–1919 (Durham, NC, 1967). 3 A question addressed by P.J. Cain and A.G. Hopkins, British Imperialism 1688–2000 (London, 2002) and L.E. Davis and R.A. Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire: The Political Economy of British Imperialism, 1860–1912 (Cambridge, 1986). See also note 96. 4 B. Porter, Britain, Europe and the World 1850–1982: Delusions of Grandeur (London, 1983), 79, 87; B. Porter, The Lion’s Share: A Short History of British Imperialism 1850–2004 (London, 2004). 5 P. Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, in A. Porter (ed.), The Oxford History of the British Empire: Vol. III: The Nineteenth Century (Oxford, 1999), 324–5; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 41–6; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, xi. 6 G. St J. Barclay, The Empire Is Marching: A Study of the Military Effort of the British Empire 1800–1945 (London, 1976), 8. 7 Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 325–7; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 39; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 9. 8 Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 48; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 7–8. 9 Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 327–8, saw Mills and the bulk of his committee as adopting a ‘moderate’stance; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 12–13, considered them more critical of the status quo; Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 8. 10 Davis and Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 146; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 328–9; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 22–3; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 122; Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 8. 11 Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 53; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 332–3; B. Nicholls, ‘Colonial Naval Forces before Federation’, in D. Stevens and J. Reeve (eds), Southern Trident: Strategy, History and the Rise of Australian Naval Power (Sydney, 2001), 125–9. 12 Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 329–30; Davis and Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 151–2. 13 Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 33; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 331–2. 14 C.P. Stacey, Canada and the British Army 1846–1871: A Study in the Practice of Responsible Government (Toronto, 1963), 259–60. 15 Cain and Hopkins, British Imperialism 1688–2000, 234; Davis and Huttenback,

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17 18 19

20 21 22 23

24 25 26 27

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Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 152; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 330–1. Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 58; Cain and Hopkins, British Imperialism 1688–2000, 230, 234; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 330–1. The Bible inspired the evocative term Dominion: Psalm 72, verse 8, ‘He shall have dominion also from sea to sea, and from the river unto the ends of the earth.’ Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 35, 54–7, 64; D. Morton, Ministers and Generals: Politics and the Canadian Militia 1868–1904 (Toronto, 1970), 5–11. Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 123; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 31; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 85. J. Beeler, ‘Steam, Strategy and Shurman: Imperial Defence in the Post-Crimean Era 1856–1905’, in G. Kennedy and K. Neilson (eds), Far Flung Lines: Essays on Imperial Defence in Honour of Donald Mackenzie Schurman (London, 1996), 32; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 58–9, noted another ‘wake up call’ for self-governing colonies in Colomb’s argument, which listed strategic priorities: the UK, the sea lanes, then India, leaving other regions to protect themselves ‘unless they were to be regarded as military positions necessary to hold for the general welfare of the Empire’; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 333–4. Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 334–6; Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 10; Beeler, ‘Steam, Strategy and Shurman’, 35; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 93. Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 7, 122; Davis and Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 42–3, 51; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 335–36. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 71, 98–100. C. Berger, The Sense of Power: Studies in the Ideas of Canadian Imperialism 1867–1914 (Toronto, 1970), is the standard study of imperialism in Canada in this period; Morton, Ministers and Generals, 48; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 131. C.P. Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1 (Toronto, 1977), 32–3; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 139; Morton, Ministers and Generals, 51. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 68–9, 129; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 154; S.J. Harris, Canadian Brass: The Making of a Professional Army 1860–1939 (Toronto, 1988), 16–21. R.C. Brown and M.E. Prang (eds), Confederation to 1949 (Scarborough, 1966), 62–3. Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 134–6; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 65; R. Sarty, ‘Canada and the Great Rapprochement 1902–1914’, in B. McKercher and L. Aronsen (eds), The North Atlantic Triangle in a Changing World: Anglo-American-Canadian Relations 1902–1956 (Toronto, 1996), 14. Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 41–4; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 161–8; Morton, Ministers and Generals, 83. Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 95, 105; M.L. Hadley and R. Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships: Canadian Naval Forces and German Sea Raiders 1880–1918 (Montreal, 1991), 4–8. Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 7, 97, 109–11; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 78, Nicholls, ‘Colonial Naval Forces before Federation’, 129–36. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 91; Nicholls, ‘Colonial Naval Forces before Federation’, 136–7. Burroughs, 337–8; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 45.

298 B.P. Farrell 33 Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 96–7, 112; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 130–31; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 338; R. Jackson, ‘New Zealand’s Naval Defence 1854–1914’, in Stevens and Reeve (eds), Southern Trident, 122. 34 Davis and Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 157; P. Kennedy. The Rise and Fall of British Naval Mastery (London, 2004), ch. 7. 35 Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 11, 21; Porter, Britain, Europe and the World, 61–2; Hadley and Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships, 16; Beeler, ‘Steam, Strategy and Shurman’, 43; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 112. 36 Brown and Prang, Confederation to 1949, 65. 37 Beeler, ‘Steam, Strategy and Shurman’, 39; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 119. 38 Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 120; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 45–6. 39 Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 2; Berger, The Sense of Power, 172; Morton, Ministers and Generals 95, 131–42; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 207, 233; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 342–3. 40 Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 110, 119, saw some validity to Chamberlain’s strategic argument, but suggested vague British strategic arguments were rebutted by clear colonial concerns about constitutionality; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 104, 117; Davis and Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 157; Burroughs, ‘Defence and Imperial Disunity’, 339–40. 41 I. R. Smith. The Origins of the South African War 1899–1902 (London, 1996); A.S. Thompson, Imperial Britain: The Empire in British Politics 1880–1932 (London, 2000), 25; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 264; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 144–5. 42 Barclay, Gordon, Preston and Stacey discuss this ‘traditional’ interpretation. 43 J. Crawford and I. McGibbon (eds), One Flag, One Queen, One Tongue: New Zealand, the British Empire and the South African War (Auckland, 2003). 44 Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 39–41; Morton, Ministers and Generals, 169; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 115; J. Grey, A Military History of Australia (Cambridge, 1999), 52–61. 45 C. Miller, Painting the Map Red: Canada and the South African War (Montreal, 1993); Morton, Ministers and Generals, 151–2; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 255–62; Harris, Canadian Brass, 62–7. 46 Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 276–82; Berger, The Sense of Power, 169; Hadley and Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships, 23. 47 Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 283–7; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 133–7; Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 43; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 164, 191–4; Davis and Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 158; Hadley and Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships, 20. 48 Porter, Britain, Europe and the World, 63–5; R. Ross, A Concise History of South Africa (Cambridge, 1999), 79–83; M. King, The Penguin History of New Zealand (Auckland, 2003), 292–3. 49 D. Judd and P. Slinn, The Evolution of the Modern Commonwealth 1902–1980 (London, 1982), 11, 21; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 194. 50 M. Hankey, Diplomacy by Conference (London, 1946), 83–5; R.B. Haldane, An Autobiography (London, 1929), 183–99. 51 Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 271; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, Canada and Imperial Defense, 299–307; Mansergh,

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55 56

57 58 59 60

61

62

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The Commonwealth Experience, 144; Judd and Slinn, The Evolution of the Modern Commonwealth, 22; Hankey, Diplomacy by Conference, 85–9; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 81. Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 357–71; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 272–3; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 145. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 181, 189; Hadley and Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships, 22–30, 41; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 81–4. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 274–8; Morton, Ministers and Generals, 195–200; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 323, 335, 344–52, 378; Grey, A Military History of Australia, 76; Harris, Canadian Brass, 71–8. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 202–3; J. Pollock, Kitchener: Architect of Victory, Artisan of Peace (New York, 2001), 344–5; Grey, A Military History of Australia, 75–6. Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 47–50; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 194, 216; N. Lambert, ‘Economy or Empire? The Fleet Unit Concept and the Quest for Collective Security in the Pacific, 1909–1914’, in Kennedy and Neilson (eds), Far Flung Lines, 56; D. Stevens, ‘1901–1913: The Genesis of an Australian Navy’, in D. Stevens (ed.), The Royal Australian Navy (Melbourne, 2001), 14–17; R. Lamont, ‘A.W. Jose in the Politics and Strategy of Naval Defence 1903–1909’, in Stevens and Reeve (eds), Southern Trident, 200–11. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 233–5; Thompson, Imperial Britain, 118–23; Lambert, ‘Economy or Empire’? 56–7; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 390. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 236; Thompson, Imperial Britain, 120; Lambert, ‘Economy or Empire’? 59–60. Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, ch. 5; D. Morton, A Short History of Canada (Toronto, 2001), 170–72; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 389–91, 400, 427; Hadley and Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships, 22–9. Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 236–7; Lambert, ‘Economy or Empire’? 59, notes that the Admiralty review of naval strategy in 1909 was prompted in the first instance not by Dominion offers of assistance but rather by complaints from the China Station about the weakness of the Hong Kong defences; Hadley and Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships, 27–8, note that the Admiralty gave Laurier justification to reject the plan by conceding there was no serious threat to Canada in the Pacific and planning to use a Canadian Fleet unit ‘far from home’. Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 429–32, 447, summarized a very influential argument in the study of imperial defence. He concluded that decisions made by 1911 reflected Canadian success in reorienting imperial defence on arrangements that combined political autonomy and Canadian control of Canadian defence policy and forces with voluntary commitment to broader imperial defence concerns, smoothed by functional integration. This was a ‘high water mark’ of the evolution from ‘imperial’ towards ‘commonwealth’ defence, and it allowed the Empire to march united into the Great War. Stacey agreed the combination was the key and leaving the Empire was not the agenda, noting in Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 117–21, that the Canadian decision to establish in 1909 a Department of External Affairs ‘appears more important today than it did at the time’; Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 241, 289. Cain and Hopkins, British Imperialism, 213, 224; Davis and Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 160–3, 189–91, 303–6.

300 B.P. Farrell 63 Davis and Huttenback, Mammon and the Pursuit of Empire, 161; Judd and Slinn, The Evolution of the Modern Commonwealth, 5. 64 Gordon, The Dominion Partnership in Imperial Defense 1870–1914, 281–93; Lambert, ‘Economy or Empire’? 74–5. 65 Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 153–68; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 156; Hadley and Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships, 41; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 447. 66 Steven, The Royal Australian Navy, 24–7; Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 55–7, Judd and Slinn, The Evolution of the Modern Commonwealth, 15; Thompson, Imperial Britain, 118, 122. 67 Harris, Canadian Brass, ch. 5, makes important points about the progress and pitfalls of functional integration in Canada under Sam Hughes as minister of militia; Haldane, An Autobiography, 225–40; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 165; Hadley and Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships, 37–8; Preston, Canada and Imperial Defense, 452–61. 68 Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 21; Judd and Slinn, The Evolution of the Modern Commonwealth, 39–40; J. Darwin, ‘A Third British Empire? The Dominion Idea in Imperial Politics’, in J.M. Brown and W.R. Louis (eds), The Oxford History of the British Empire: Vol. IV: The Twentieth Century (Oxford, 1999), 66–7; Porter, Britain, Europe and the World, 79, and The Lion’s Share, 228. 69 Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 21; R. Holland, ‘The British Empire and the Great War’, in Brown and Louis (eds), The Oxford History of the British Empire, 118; Porter, Britain, Europe and the World, 70; M. Beloff, Imperial Sunset, Vol. 1: Britain’s Liberal Empire 1897–1921 (Basingstoke, 1987, 1969), 178–82; J. Kendle, The Round Table Movement and Imperial Union (Toronto, 1975). 70 Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 173–6; R.C. Brown, Robert Laird Borden: A Biography (Toronto, 1975), 8–9. 71 Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 22. 72 Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 5; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 177–79; Harris, Canadian Brass, ch. 6. 73 R. Jenkins, Asquith (London, 1986 [1964]), ch. xxii; Grey, A Military History of Australia, 88–95; King, The Penguin History of New Zealand, 296–300. Robin Prior’s essay ‘Gallipoli’, in J. Beaumont (ed.), Australian Defence: Sources and Statistics, Australian Centenary History of Defence Vol. VI (Melbourne, 2001), 264–70, typifies the great value of this volume for research on all aspects of the Australian role in imperial defence. Such volumes are sorely needed for the other national experiences. 74 Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience 171–2; Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 27–34; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 183–94. Borden’s anger was all the more poignant given Law’s own background, born and raised in New Brunswick. 75 Harris, Canadian Brass, ch. 6; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 194–6. 76 Holland, ‘The British Empire and the Great War’, 127–8; Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 58–63; Grey, A Military History of Australia, 108–11; Harris, Canadian Brass, 118–21. 77 Jenkins, Asquith, chs xxv–xxvii; Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 70, 75; Grey, A Military History of Australia, 109–10; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 203–6; Hankey, Diplomacy by Conference, 55–58. 78 Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 203–11; Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 85; I.M. Cumpston, The Evolution of the Commonwealth of Nations 1900–1980 (Canberra, 1997), 4–5. 79 Cumpston, The Evolution of the Commonwealth, 4–5; Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 81; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 213–16; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 26; Hadley and Sarty, Tin Pots and Pirate Ships, part 3.

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80 Judd and Slinn, The Evolution of the Modern Commonwealth, 38–40; Holland, ‘The British Empire and the Great War’, 127–30; Kendle, The Round Table Movement and Imperial Union, 218–22. 81 Grey, A Military History of Australia, 109–12; Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 91–112; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 217–18. 82 Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 74–5; Grey, A Military History of Australia, 101–5; Harris, Canadian Brass, ch. 7. 83 Grey, A Military History of Australia, 105–8; Holland, ‘The British Empire and the Great War’, 132–5. 84 Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 219–21; Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 135–6; Holland, ‘The British Empire and the Great War’, 125. 85 Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 221–3; Brown, Robert Laird Borden, 140–2. 86 G. Kennedy, ‘Strategy and Supply in the North Atlantic Triangle 1914–1918’, in McKercher and Aronsen (eds), The North Atlantic Triangle in a Changing World, 76, note 92; G. Johnson and D. Lenarcic, ‘The Decade of Transition: The North Atlantic Triangle During the 1920s’, in McKercher and Aronsen (eds), The North Atlantic Triangle in a Changing World, 93; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 223–7; Kendle, The Round Table Movement and Imperial Union, 302. 87 Kennedy, ‘Strategy and Supply’, 73, note 66, points out that Canada enlisted 9.6 per cent of its male population for military service, Australia 10.7 per cent, New Zealand 11.9 per cent, South Africa 1.7 per cent; the UK figure was over 22 per cent. Statistics for economic mobilization suggest a similar comparison. Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 1, 235–6; Grey, A Military History of Australia, 115–17. 88 C.P. Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 2 (Toronto, 1981), 17–31; Harris, Canadian Brass, 176; K. Jeffery, The British Army and the Crisis of Empire 1918–1922 (Manchester, 1984), makes some interesting points about British plans for military cooperation aborted by changing Dominion attitudes. 89 Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 2, chs 1–2; Johnson and Lenarcic, ‘The Decade of Transition’, 94; Grey, A Military History of Australia, 122–3; Barclay, 90–8, raised an interesting point about the running friction regarding defence in the Far East. When Australian Prime Minister Stanley Bruce visited Canada in 1927 he provoked a public row with Mackenzie King by accusing Canada of freeloading in defence. King scolded his counterpart and emphasized Canada’s duty to pursue its own interests. It is hard not to sympathize with Barclay’s contention that when defence commitments were left solely to the Dominions to determine, then imperial defence in circumstances other than the threat of general war came close to being ‘simply every man for himself’. But the crucial caveat is ‘other than’. 90 R.F. Holland, Britain and the Commonwealth Alliance 1918–1939 (London, 1981), 13–23; Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 2, is subtitled ‘The Mackenzie King Era’. 91 Stacey, Canada and the Age of Conflict, vol. 2, ch. 6; Harris, Canadian Brass, 180–1, notes that by the 1930s the Canadian General Staff felt Canada should not participate in conflicts involving internal unrest within the Empire or an attack by a minor power on imperial interests and spent most of their time refining Defence Scheme 3, the plan to dispatch a seven-division expeditionary force overseas in another general war. Functional integration meant among other things that the only major power the Dominion military forces could work with effectively was the UK, which always bothered Mackenzie King. 92 Barclay, The Empire Is Marching, 81, 218; Darwin, ‘A Third British Empire’? 84–5; A. Clayton, ‘Deceptive Might’: Imperial Defence and Security

302 B.P. Farrell

93

94

95 96

1900–1968’, in Brown and Louis (eds), The Oxford History of the British Empire, 294–304; Cain and Hopkins, British Imperialism, 638–9; Holland, Britain and the Commonwealth Alliance, 167–204. R. Ovendale, Appeasement and the EnglishSpeaking World: Britain, the US, the Dominions, and the Policy of Appeasement 1937–1939 (Cardiff, 1975), is the standard work. Holland, Britain and the Commonwealth Alliance, 1, 24, 37; D. Mackenzie, ‘Canada, The North Atlantic Triangle and the Empire’, in Brown and Louis (eds), The Oxford History of the British Empire, 592–5; R. Ovendale, The EnglishSpeaking Alliance: Britain, the US, the Dominions and the Cold War 1945–1951 (London, 1985); A. Orde, The Eclipse of Great Britain: The US and British Imperial Decline 1895–1956 (London, 1996), ch. 6; Grey, A Military History of Australia, chs 9–10; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 410. Ovendale, The English-Speaking Alliance, 53–119, 251, argued that at the prime minister’s conference in 1948 the British provided ‘comprehensive details of the new British defence policy’ to all participants, including India and Pakistan, but also noted the conference rejected any idea of a concerted Commonwealth defence policy. At least one reason was the fact that ‘A distinction developed between the old “white” Dominions and the new Asian members’. The distinction went both ways. India was no more keen to commit to a Britishled defence policy than the British were to divulge strategic plans to India. An interesting recent discussion is L.J. Butler, Britain and Empire: Adjusting to a PostImperial World (London, 2002), chs 2–3. Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 394; Holland, Britain and the Commonwealth Alliance, 33. K. Jeffery, ‘The Second World War’, in Brown and Louis (eds), The Oxford History of the British Empire; Mansergh, The Commonwealth Experience, 284–9; A. Clayton, The British Empire as a Superpower 1919–1939 (Athens, GA, 1986), 517. Margaret Thatcher joined this argument in her memoirs The Downing Street Years, London, 1993. Among the many causes of the decline of British power after the Second World War that she listed on page 5 she included ‘the deceptive might of an empire which continued to expand until 1919 but which cost more to defend than it contributed to national wealth’.

14 Imperial defence in the post-imperial era Ashley Jackson

In the decades following the Second World War, imperial defence continued to be a key element in Britain’s strategic posture, though commitments in this direction slowly contracted, and the word ‘imperial’ was dropped as the British Empire disappeared and Britain’s relative power declined. Despite this, Britain’s appetite for a global military stance and the defence of overseas territories and interests – main features of imperial defence – never ended. In this light, the Strategic Defence Review of 1998 was not a departure in British defence policy so much as a refocusing on wider world commitments in an age where, not for the first time, Britain’s investment in European security could be scaled down.1 Before that, from the 1960s to the 1990s, despite insistent calls in other strategic directions from NATO and the European Economic Community – and the urgent pleas of the British economy for strategic austerity – Britain never lost the ardent desire to remain a world policeman, even if its historic role of chief constable had been usurped by the Anglo-Saxon power on the other side of the Atlantic. Even when scaling down its territorial possessions or defence establishment, as will be seen, the British time and again evinced a desire to stay on, to never withdraw completely and to retain a strategic culture associated with a global presence and global intervention. The former American Secretary of State, Dean Acheson, once said – to be paraphrased by many thereafter – that ‘Great Britain has lost an empire and has not yet found a role’. On the contrary, in substance as well as in policy, Britain never in fact entirely lost that empire, and certainly never lost the appetite and capacity to perform a world role, despite the turn towards Europe that Acheson approvingly discerned, and the relative contraction of British economic, political, and military power in the post-war decades. This chapter will consider a number of related issues. First, the fact that the British Empire never entirely disappeared, and that even today Britain has, as one of its core defence missions, the defence of overseas colonies and interests, and retains overseas military bases; second, the fact that even when colonies were lost, the British remained reluctant to abandon military commitments in the surrounding region, and that often the transfer of

304 A. Jackson power to an independent government was the cause of a new defence attachment between the fledgling nation and the erstwhile colonial power; third, the chapter will consider what might be termed the ‘non-withdrawal’ from East of Suez commitments, as well as those in the west of Suez region; and the chapter will conclude with a consideration of the Strategic Defence Review era and the semantics of ‘empire’ and ‘imperialism’ in an apparently post-imperial era. A great deal of historical attention has been devoted to the themes of Britain’s decline from world power status in the decades following the Suez crisis. It is a commonplace that the British Empire finally foundered in the 1960s, to be washed away by the irresistible tide of nationalism and the force of economic, strategic and political shifts unleashed by the Second World War and the onset of the Cold War. Thereafter, beset by economic problems, domestic social problems and the logic of closer integration with Europe, Britain’s attachment to the Commonwealth became less important, and, in the 1970s, Britain finally jettisoned its extra-European defence responsibilities as it bade farewell to East of Suez commitments, to focus its energies almost exclusively on the defence of Europe through NATO. As Ritchie Ovendale writes, after the announcement of the decision to withdraw from East of Suez in 1967, ‘the emphasis went right over to the continental commitment’.2 Finally, it seemed, Britain had reconciled itself to being a second-class military power linked more naturally to Europe than a global empire and Commonwealth. The fundamental defence policy realignment that accompanied these painful lessons in the realities of world power status was pursued to such an extent that Britain was barely able to perform ‘out of area’ operations, and the Falklands conflict proved to be a desperately close run thing because of this. Thus, it would appear, Britain went from empire, far flung lines and global interventionism to a defensive line much closer to home, because of the strategic imperatives of Cold War national survival, the end of the imperial adventure and the Treasury’s bare coffers. Of course, in many ways this is a sustainable rendition of British history since the 1960s. Yet it is a misleading one, for there were never such sharply defined breaks in British practice, irrespective of policy statements. If one focuses less on policy statements and more on the reality of British force structures and deployments, the disjuncture between what was said and what was done becomes clear. Britain never turned its back on the world role, either as a political and economic actor or as a power possessing a global military reach, even when NATO and the defence of Europe took centre stage. Furthermore, Britain never fully withdrew from its East of Suez commitments, despite the decision to close down the Singapore stronghold and end the practice of stationing tens of thousands of armed services personnel in the Indian Ocean region. This continuation of the world role into the 1970s and beyond was the result of political decisions based upon a rational assessment of Britain’s national interests.

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 305 An important feature in this stubborn refusal to abandon the world role was the mindset of the armed forces, which continued to believe that global deployability was a part of their mission, even if the defence of Europe had taken centre stage. The British Army, for example, never happily gave up on ‘small wars’ in distant places, and the Royal Navy remained determined to preserve its organic airpower capabilities despite the government’s apparent belief that the era of British expeditionary operations had been consigned to history.3 Many senior politicians, despite the logic of putting Britain’s strategic eggs in NATO’s European basket, were susceptible to the lure of Britain’s past, particularly the siren call of its maritime heritage. A belief in Britain as a ‘world power’, with a unique maritime calling, was shared, among others, by Harold Wilson, prime minister when the East of Suez withdrawal was announced.4 The focus on post-imperial decline and contraction has concealed an obvious continuum of extra-European British defence interests, facilities and deployments running from the 1960s to the present day. Similarly, the focus upon the end of empire has blinded many to the numerous imperial legacies – not to say imperial commitments – that survived the 1960s. Though the major territories that had formed the British Empire – located in Africa, South Asia and South-East Asia – had gained independence by the late 1960s, Britain’s empire in fact remained sizeable, and certainly global, well into the 1990s. The remaining islands and enclaves of empire still represented a significant global footprint, and many did not gain their independence until the years after Africa, South Asia, and South-East Asia had witnessed the end of British rule. Between 1968 and 1971, for example, independence came to Aden, Mauritius, Swaziland, Nauru, Tonga, Fiji, Bahrain, Qatar and the United Arab Emirates. Between 1973 and 1984, independence was granted to the Bahamas, Grenada, the Seychelles, Dominica, the Solomon Islands, the Gilbert and Ellice Islands, St Vincent and the Grenadines, St Lucia, the New Hebrides, Belize, Antigua and Barbuda, St Kitts and Nevis, and Brunei. Hong Kong remained a British possession, and military base, until 1997.5 Part of the British Empire still exists today, and the fact that the defence of these colonies remains a primary British military commitment has helped preserve the global posture of Britain’s armed forces. The remaining British colonies, known today as Overseas Territories, are Anguilla, Ascension Island, Bermuda, British Antarctic Territory, British Indian Ocean Territory, the British Virgin Islands, the Cayman Islands, the Falkland Islands, Gibraltar, Montserrat, Pitcairn, Henderson, Ducie, and Oeno Islands, St Helena, South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands, Tristan da Cunha, and the Turks and Caicos Islands. Some of these territories have a military use for Britain and its allies, or require garrison forces, such as Ascension Island, British Indian Ocean Territory, the Falklands and Gibraltar. Britain also has two Sovereign Base Areas in Cyprus, which support permanent British military establishments.6 The

306 A. Jackson retention of some of Britain’s imperial base infrastructure represents another important continuum with the era of classic imperial defence, and Britain also enjoys base rights and military facilities in numerous independent countries, such as Belize, Brunei, Canada, Kenya, Oman and Singapore, as well as supplies defence and security expertise to scores of countries around the world and is a signatory to numerous defence alliances. Today, British forces are committed in Africa, the Caribbean, Central Asia, the Mediterranean and the Middle East, as well as in European locations such as the Balkans, several former Soviet states, Germany and Northern Ireland. According to the Chief of the Defence Staff, General Sir Michael Walker, in addition to British warships, air squadrons and regiments serving in Afghanistan, the Balkans, Brunei, Cyprus, the Falklands, Gibraltar, Iraq and Sierra Leone in 2005, Britain had small detachments of service personnel in seventy-four different countries and eighty-four defence attaché sections around the world.7 The fact of Britain’s continuing commitment to a global military presence and global military deployments – irrespective of the Cold War and the downsizing of the armed forces – should come as no surprise, for the defence of British overseas interests and overseas territories has always been a priority for British foreign and defence policy. Furthermore, despite relative decline and imperial contraction, its financial, commercial, diplomatic and cultural links with the wider world remained substantial.

Imperial defence from the dawning of the Cold War to the decolonization decade Having argued that there was more continuity from the days of the empire and imperial defence than is usually assumed, it is useful to examine how Britain came to retain such commitments even whilst its power and presence in the world was shrinking. Between the end of the Second World War and the Suez crisis of 1956, imperial defence changed surprisingly little, conceptually at least. Despite the seismic shifts in the balance of global power wrought by the Second World War and the onset of the nuclear age, Britain’s defence vision remained recognizably imperial, with familiar pre-war – not to say nineteenth century – themes to the fore. Thus, for example, the strategic appreciation presented by the COS to the British government in May 1947 read very much like a nineteenth-century imperial defence study, in terms of its emphasis on retaining forces in the Middle East and other key regions, and the continued use of the Royal Navy to police the world’s major sea routes.8 The Russian threat (and Russia had of course been public enemy number one for much of the nineteenth century) was taken in the report’s stride, a simple bolt-on to the enduring precepts of imperial defence. Having had the ‘Eastern Question’ as a key pillar in Britain’s strategy of Russian containment throughout the nineteenth century, it was not too much of an exercise in strategic diversion to

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 307 embroider a standard rendition of imperial defence with new threads associated with the atomic environment and the emerging Cold War. Imperial bases in the Middle East, as they had done before, could house the forces required to strike should there be a war with Russia (strategic bombers becoming more important than large concentrations of troops). Part one of the report dealt with ‘Commonwealth Defence Policy’, contending, in fine tradition, that ‘the security of the UK is the keystone of Commonwealth defence’. Another striking feature of the COS’s strategic appreciation of 1947 was that, even with the independence of India and Pakistan and the loss of the Indian Army in the same year, Britain’s strategic vision continued to encompass the need to contribute to the defence of those two countries. Russian ‘eastward expansion’, for example, ‘would threaten the security of India, our control of sea communications in the Indian Ocean and our resources of oil, tin, and rubber’. This demonstrated the way in which, in British eyes at least, the empire to Commonwealth transition was not supposed to see an end to Britain’s leadership, or its responsibility for the security of newly independent states (in the event of war with Russia, the report stated, ‘an offensive base in North-West India’ would be required). It was hoped that, irrespective of independence, such states would choose to remain within the orbit of British power. A similar intent was to be observed in the Pacific. There, despite the fact that America had clearly become the defensive guarantor of British territories and dominions when Pax Britannica’s naval shield failed in December 1941, Britain still conceived the need to deploy forces in order to contribute to the security of Australia, New Zealand, and the many imperial territories in the Pacific.9 All of this showed how robust the legacy of Britain’s traditional formulation of imperial defence policy was, and how strong its determination to remain a world power was (and, it should not be forgotten how great the demand was from other countries for a sustained British contribution to their security). Of course, some saw this as a strategically blinkered approach, as Britain missed a golden opportunity in the post-war world to scale back its commitments and tether defence policy more firmly to national security. There were constant and powerful pressures for a scaling down of Britain’s ambitious extra-European security commitments. The development of NATO, and its preoccupation with the defence of the western European heartland, was to lead to a long-term tension with this older strategic stance, habit and instinct of the British, though it was never to completely win out over it.10 Acting as an unwelcome rudder to defence policy in the post-war decades, the plight of the British economy was never far from the Whitehall mind; in 1945, the British government had expected the country to remain at the centre of a global empire and Commonwealth, which would recover its strength and form the third arc of power in the world behind the spheres of America and Russia. The

308 A. Jackson economy was never to recover sufficiently, however, to drive this world vision, though successive British governments showed themselves unwilling to heed its steer in the direction of strategic economy. The question ‘Did the Suez crisis of 1956 herald the end of empire?’ has been a popular undergraduate essay title for years. Brian Lapping, who produced a seminal Granada television series called End of Empire in the mid-1980s, believed that, whatever twitches emanated from the dying empire thereafter, Suez had indeed been its death knell, and, more particularly, that of the actions associated with British imperialism. ‘The Suez operation wrote finis not only to the British empire but to all the empires of western Europe’.11 Others were not so sure.12 They pointed out that Suez was not as big a deal as assumed; on the one hand, Britain was recalibrating and downsizing its Middle Eastern commitments before 1956 anyway; on the other hand, the debacle did not lead to a British retreat, from that region or any of the others in which Britain was engaged. Not only did Britain’s territorial hold in the Mediterranean remain firm and British strategic weapons remain based in the region (including nuclear bombers), but also Britain was back two years later on another interventionist military mission, this time in Jordan. Moreover, the decade following the Suez crisis was something of a heyday for imperial intervention, particularly that of an expeditionary nature, in the East of the Suez region. The British Empire as a territorial entity did not suddenly implode after Suez, irrespective of damage to reputation and relations with America as well as the Commonwealth, and British policy-makers and military strategists did little to revise their conception of the world and Britain’s place in it – the third power behind America and Russia, the senior partner in the Commonwealth club, the arbiter of the destiny of scores of colonies and their peoples. Another factor keeping Britain strategically engaged with the wider world was its role in the Cold War, which included membership of regional security alliances, particularly the Central Treaty Organization (CENTO) and the South-East Asia Treaty Organization (SEATO), both designed to compliment NATO in barring the spread of communism (and both requiring the commitment of British military resources).13 Britain’s involvement in these Cold War creations stemmed directly from her imperial presence in the regions concerned. Britain’s participation in SEATO was driven by a traditional desire to help protect and reassure parts of the empire and Commonwealth that felt exposed by increasing regional tensions and the spread of communism (in particular, Australia and New Zealand). Even in the late 1960s, the British government believed that it had a responsibility to contribute to the defence of Australia and New Zealand, to afford a nuclear guarantee to allied states and to contribute to security in the South Asia–South-East Asia region, particularly in order to counter the spread of communism. A feature of this defence commitment was the desire to offer India an alternative to ally with either of the superpowers or to develop its

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 309 own nuclear capability. Britain’s imperial defence commitments and mindset had, to a significant extent, survived the end of empire by respawning as Cold War defence imperatives. These commitments, though scaled down, survived beyond the ‘end of empire’ decade, SEATO lasting until 1977, CENTO staggering on until 1979. Despite the continued attachment to extra-European security commitments, there took place a conscious, Whitehall-directed imperial retreat in the late 1950s, though even here, talk of an end of empire or abandonment of imperial defence is premature. Framed against the backdrop of Suez, sluggish economic recovery and the 1957 Sandys Defence Review (nuclear costs going up, conventional forces therefore coming down), Prime Minister Harold Macmillan asked his Cabinet colleagues for an ‘audit of empire’: what have we got, why do we have it, what does it do for us?14 The impossible was thought; even a ‘fortress colony’ such as Cyprus, it was concluded, could proceed along the path to independence. With Malaysia, the remaining jewel in the imperial crown, recently independent, and Ghana pointing the way towards African independence, in 1959 Macmillan appointed a colonial secretary (Iain Macleod) who believed in faster decolonization in the remaining imperial regions. In the following year, Macmillan’s ‘wind of change’ speech was beamed across the globe as ‘the year of Africa’ began the rush to independence that was to see Britain out of Africa by 1968.15 Nevertheless, even this resolve to prune imperial commitments severely was largely a result of an assessment of how best to preserve British influence in the world, how to secure Britain’s continued leadership of a global Commonwealth that, whilst not quite imperial red on the map, would remain cheerfully pink.16 In particular, it did not denote a lessening of commitment to the vast Indian Ocean region; in fact, it was quite the reverse. The 1962 Defence Review confirmed that Britain would tighten its grip in this region, the last great imperial redoubt. Moreover, in terms of imperial defence, the British government saw no reason why a post-imperial state could not still form part of British plans to project power. Ceylon provided a good example of this; becoming independent in 1948, the new government was willing to remain a Commonwealth member, whilst granting the Royal Navy the continued use of Trincomalee, from which the navy’s East Indies Station continued to police the Indian Ocean from the Malacca Straits to the Swahili coast and from the Southern Ocean to the Persian Gulf. Imperial defence also lived on in Britain’s stubborn refusal to abandon a commitment to a region even as Britain’s military forces and overseas bases contracted. This can be illustrated by extending the example given above. The navy’s East Indies Station was closed in 1958, and Britain departed Ceylon for the first time since the days of Nelson. The station’s disbandment, however, did not signal the end of Britain’s naval commitment to the region.17 Responsibility for the area formerly covered by the East Indies Station was divided between the Far East

310 A. Jackson Command, the Atlantic and South America Command, and the newly formed Arabian Seas and Persian Gulf Station. This example reveals two enduring British defence themes: on the one hand, the desire never to abandon a commitment, even when that commitment was being scaled down; on the other hand, the habit of stretching resources (some would say overstretching) to continue to meet those commitments. Britain intended, and never ceased attempting, to perform the military and political roles commonly associated with the term ‘world power’. Even though Britain lost the remaining large territories of its empire in the 1960s, it still had a global role, both in terms of the government’s conception of Britain’s place in the world, and in terms of the hard power of military reach and infrastructure. In 1967, for example, with decolonization apparently complete, Britain still had 61,000 military personnel East of Suez. The Far East Fleet, based in Singapore, had between seventy and eighty vessels of all classes, and the Far East Air Force deployed numerous squadrons, including fast jet combat aircraft and strategic bombers.18 Even though the empire was retracting, it had never been umbilically linked to the projection of British power, and Britain’s resolve and capacity in this direction continued long into the post-imperial age. This was especially true given the importance of Britain’s new post-war role as Cold War junior partner. Standing alongside the US in defence of the West and its interests in the wider world, and with a global military presence featuring strategic nuclear weapons and globally deployed conventional forces, even when shorn of formal colonial holdings, Britain remained a unique world power. The intention and capacity to be a global military power even in an age of imperial contraction, was well summed up in the title of a book contributing to the contemporary strategic and defence debate of the 1960s, called Arms Without Empire.19 Britain would remain capable of deploying forces globally in defence of its interests, including the defence of Commonwealth states and remaining colonies, and in fulfilment of its Cold War commitments. The loss of the ‘imperial defence’ perspective on British security policy has obscured the fact that there was a great deal of continuity in Britain’s relations with the wider world; as already suggested, it might be said that the imperial strand of British defence policy never ended and remains to this day. Even with the empire disappearing, Britain’s armed forces retained a global posture, even if they became much smaller. The loss of colonies did not alter the mission of the British armed forces to project power globally as well as to defend Britain through NATO, and with technological developments, the need for colonial bases in order to do this was greatly reduced. In the 1960s, both the Navy and the RAF championed their competing visions of how to project power around the world, much as in the past. A new emphasis upon strategic mobility brought the promise of military projection without the need for imperial garrisons or bases on anything like the old scale. The RAF’s island staging plan, for

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 311 example, was founded upon the use of a small handful of strategic colonial bases and strategic lift aircraft and fighters such as the American F111 and the British TSR2. The navy’s vision, similarly allowing intervention and troop deployment worldwide, was based upon aircraft carriers, commando carriers and the Royal Marines. The struggle between the RAF and the Navy for a greater share of the defence budget in order to fund their competing visions for global power projection ended when the Treasury rode roughshod over both their dreams. Plans for the two new aircraft carriers (CVA-01), approved by Cabinet in 1962, were scrapped; TSR2 was cancelled, as was the order for F-111s. Nevertheless, true to Britain’s reluctance to abandon the imperial role, the 1966 Defence Review did nothing to change Britain’s defence commitment to the East of Suez region.20

The non-withdrawal from East of Suez and the wider world: imperial defence after the 1960s The 1967 announcement by Harold Wilson’s government that Britain would withdraw from the East of Suez region by the mid-1970s is rightly seen as a milestone.21 Britain was withdrawing its forces and shutting its two remaining ‘big’ imperial bases and would cease to be the major external power in the Indian Ocean and Persian Gulf regions that it had dominated for nearly a century and a half. The announcement also signalled a significant Cold War repositioning, for America would now have to fill the void in order to protect this vital region from Russian penetration. It is usually assumed that the Labour government’s decision to withdraw forces from East of Suez ended Britain’s historic military role in the region, and many imperial historians see the 1967 announcement, rather than the Suez crisis of 1956, as a more fitting peg to hang Britain’s ‘end of empire’ hat. Despite the apparent finality of the decision to withdraw from East of Suez, however, there was to be no firm handshake and swift departure – more of a long, lingering goodbye that is yet to end. The ‘withdrawal’ was tempered by the creation of a new standing naval force based in Singapore, and the institution of a defence agreement focused on South-East Asia. Britain adopted the practice of sending a naval task group to the East of Suez region at regular intervals, a makeweight in the light of the unpopular decision to withdraw. Instability in the Gulf – some of it caused by Britain’s decision to leave – led to the establishment of a permanent naval presence there, less than a decade after the withdrawal was supposed to have been affected. Why was the withdrawal from East of Suez not completed? As has been contended, partial withdrawal was a symptom of Britain’s reluctance to sever connections with the wider world. Another reason was purely to do with events; instability, particularly in the Persian Gulf, meant that Britain continued to be engaged in the region, because it remained an area of

312 A. Jackson key economic importance to Britain and its allies. Finally, it is clear that the British government never intended the East of Suez withdrawal announcement to mean that Britain abandoned its interests in the region. When announcing the withdrawal, the British government sought to reassure concerned politicians, at home and in places such as Australia and Singapore, by pledging the retention of a ‘special reserve’ for deployment in the region in the event of trouble, and though this was linguistically demoted to a ‘general reserve’ in 1974, the point was that a commitment remained, in the subtext rather than the banner headlines, but real nonetheless.22 It is clear that the choices involved in the East of Suez withdrawal were never as black and white as they have often been viewed; though the retreat was beat, the march was slow. Contributing to the strategic debate of the late 1960s, Neville Brown wrote that those advocating a complete withdrawal from East of Suez were largely ignorant of the ‘gradations that can exist in both presence and commitment’.23 The continuation of both a ‘presence’ and a ‘commitment’ even after 1967 can be ascribed to the fact that the strategic culture of the British government, and its definition of the national interest, ensured that a stubborn eye was kept on the wider world and the need to send military forces into it. The ways in which Britain failed to withdraw from East of Suez will now be examined. First of all, it took a number of years to affect the drawdown of forces envisaged by the government announcements of 1967 and 1968, and numerous axed British bases remained functioning until the mid- to late 1970s. Second, a connection rarely made is the fact that the creation and development of British Indian Ocean Territory (BIOT) was not just part of Britain’s facilitation of America’s assumption of responsibility for the Indian Ocean, but was conceived as a way of keeping Britain in the region if its main bases were closed. Third, even with the termination in 1971 of the central institution of Britain’s presence in Malaysia and Singapore – Far East Command – strong and tangible links remained. Fourth, Britain formed Australia–New Zealand–UK (ANZUK) Force, which was stationed at Singapore between 1971 and 1974 and concluded the Five Power Defence Arrangements intended to contribute to South-East Asia’s security. Fifth, in 1973 Britain began the practice of regularly sending naval task groups to the region, in lieu of its former permanent naval commitment, and in 1979 formed a standing naval patrol in the Gulf.24 Finally, exercising military influence in more discrete ways, British officers remained responsible for leading and training forces in countries such as Brunei, Mauritius and Oman, and training exercises for British forces were regularly held in places such as Kenya, Malaysia and Oman. In fulfilment of the government’s decision to be ‘all out’ by 1971, the Far East Fleet sailed past its last commander in October of that year. The fleet comprised the destroyer HMS Glamorgan, five frigates, the heavy repair ship HMS Triumph and six Royal Fleet Auxiliaries (RFA). Aircraft from HMS Albion and Eagle joined in the ceremony. At the same moment

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 313 that the Far East Fleet ceased to exist, the Far East Air Force also passed into history. This was, however, not the end of Britain’s standing force commitment to the region. A ‘transitional’ arrangement meant that as soon as Far East Command was terminated, ANZUK Force came into existence. This was a standing force of frigates based in Singapore, commanded in the first instance by an Australian.25 ANZUK Force remained at Singapore for three years after the ‘withdrawal’. Even with its demise in 1974, Britain still maintained a military commitment to the region. Exhibiting reluctance to completely abandon global commitments, in the year before ANZUK Force was disbanded the Royal Navy instituted the practice of group deployments to the region that continues to this day. A strong naval task force, usually centred on an aircraft carrier and involving other surface and subsurface assets, would be dispatched to the Indian Ocean, South-East Asia and the Pacific on a regular basis. Most recently, Marstrike 05 saw a Royal Navy Task Group depart for the Mediterranean and Persian Gulf in January 2005. The carrier HMS Invincible was accompanied by the escorts HMS Grafton, Montrose and Nottingham (her first deployment since sustaining serious damage after colliding with Lord Howe Island off the north-east coast of New South Wales), and RFA Fort George. The task group joined with forces from America, France and Oman to mount Exercise Magic Carpet in the Oman region. Another central plank of Britain’s non-withdrawal from East of Suez was the institution of the Five Power Defence Arrangements (FPDA) involving Australia, Britain, Malaysia, New Zealand and Singapore. The FPDA came into existence in the same year as Britain’s Far East Fleet sailed from Singapore for the last time. Framed in London, the agreements aimed to assist Malaysia and Singapore in deterring external aggression, particularly from Indonesia. The FPDA provided for regular inter-governmental consultations on security issues, as well as the creation of an Integrated Air Defence System (IADS) for the Malayan peninsula. Another main feature was the staging of regular military exercises involving the forces of the signatory nations. The FPDA still performs these functions today. Britain continues to send forces to participate in the combined military exercises and contributes RAF personnel to the IADS headquarters at Butterworth (in September 2005, HMS York and RFA Black Rover took part in Exercise Bersama Lima off the east coast of Malaysia, an annual war game involving the FPDA nations. Twenty-three FPDA naval vessels trained together and then split to simulate a naval attack upon FPDA nations).26 The FPDA has survived for so long because it is considered of benefit to all of the participating countries and is ‘a flexible, consultative, loose alliance that allows signatories to participate in military exercises when and how they can’.27 Recently, defence ministers from all five countries agreed to incorporate non-conventional threat scenarios into joint military exercises, as security attention shifts to matters such as terrorism, piracy, and criminal activities, and discussed the exchange of

314 A. Jackson intelligence on terrorism and other security matters.28 The FPDA is served by naval base facilities for oiling and supplies at Singapore. A further indicator of Britain’s enduring commitment to the East of Suez region over which it had once been king was the formation in 1979 of a standing naval commitment to the Persian Gulf, which remains to this day. The Armilla Patrol was intended to contribute to the maritime security of the key waterway through the Straits of Hormuz, from which western Europe imported most of its oil.29 Though small, the patrol’s contribution to maritime security since the 1970s has been significant – for example, it escorted more tankers in and out of the Gulf than all the other Western navies combined during the Iran-Iraq War – as too was the Royal Navy’s contribution in both Gulf wars.30 Also, when independence was granted to Bahrain, Qatar and the United Arab Emirates in 1971, new treaties of friendship were signed. Though Britain’s two main East of Suez bases, Aden and Singapore, were closed down, elements of the base infrastructure that had traditionally connected the Middle East to South-East Asia and the Far East remained open long into the 1970s. An important facility was located on Gan Island in the Maldives. Addu Atoll, of which Gan formed a part, had been developed as a secret fleet base at a time when the Imperial Japanese Navy threatened to break Britain’s historic Indian Ocean pre-eminence during the Second World War. Its strategic significance withered almost as quickly as it had blossomed, however, when Japanese power was pinned back by American success in the Pacific and British Commonwealth success in Burma and the Bay of Bengal. The base was saved by the arrival of the RAF, and in 1957 RAF Gan was established as a Far East Air Force station.31 The agreement with the government of the Maldives gave Britain the use of Gan until 1986. The RAF, in keeping the Middle East–Far East air route open via the Indian Ocean and South-East Asia, also made use of the runway on the Australian Cocos Islands (another base developed by the British during the Second World War). As well as serving as an RAF staging post, Gan acted as a communications facility, and a radio transmitter on the island covered Britain, Cyprus, Mauritius and Singapore. Modest facilities for the Royal Navy survived the arrival of the RAF, for example RFAs Wave Victor and Wave Ruler serving as refuelling hulk until the mid-1970s. As part of the run down of non-NATO commitments resulting from the decision to withdraw from East of Suez, the Labour government decided to leave the Maldives by 1976. At the time of its closure the base was still home to over 600 RAF personnel, as well as many local civilians and contracted workers from Pakistan and Sri Lanka (as Ceylon became known in 1971). In 1976, Britain finally withdrew from Mauritius. A defence agreement signed upon Mauritian independence in 1968 had allowed Britain to retain naval and air force facilities on the island (a communications centre and a runway). The agreement also provided for British support in the event of internal unrest (troops were sent

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 315 to the island in 1965 and 1968) and for British leadership and training of the Special Mobile Force, which remained under the command of a British officer until 1978. Elsewhere in the Indian Ocean, another island remained part of Britain’s overseas base infrastructure. This was the Omani island of Masirah. Fifteen miles off the coast, Masirah was a military stopping off point for British warships and aircraft even before the Second World War, and during the war it acted as an anti-submarine base and was used by rescue launches (an RAF railway was also constructed). From 1954 to 1959, British forces fought in the Jebel Akhdar War (an insurrection against the Sultan of Oman), and British support included the use of RAF Shackeltons flying from Masirah.32 The Sultan’s successor, Qaboos Bin Said, came to power in a British-backed coup in 1970. Thereafter, British forces based on Masirah aided Qaboos, a Sandhurst graduate and former British Army officer, in suppressing a rebellion in the Dhofar region that lasted until 1977. Masirah had been modernized and expanded as part of the RAF route from Britain to the Far East via Cyprus and Gan, though the RAF finally withdrew from the island in 1977. The closure of the RAF base on Masirah did not end the relationship between Britain and Oman. The RAF base became an Omani air force base, and many of the personnel at the base were either from the RAF or RAFtrained. Continued links took two other forms: on the one hand, the use of Omani facilities for broadcasting British radio programmes to the Arab world; on the other hand, the use of Omani military bases for stationing British forces operating in the Gulf region. These links were buttressed by joint military exercises and arms sales. The British Eastern Relay Station was a BBC international broadcasting facility, which sent its first transmission in 1969.33 Programming for the station was sent to Masirah on large tapes delivered by ship and aircraft, and by off-air relays from the BBC station on Cyprus, until a satellite programme feed from London commenced in 1980.34 The final broadcast from the station came in 2002, when the Masirah facility was replaced by a new mediumwave and shortwave station on the Omani mainland at A’Seela, owned by the BBC and constructed by Merlin.35 The other enduring link between Britain and Oman rested upon the provision of military facilities.36 Oman has been a key ally in Britain’s (and America’s) continued military activity in the region since the Gulf War of 1991. The nature of Britain’s links with Oman was well captured by the visit to the country of Alan Clark, then minister of state for defence procurement, in the run up to the first Gulf War. Whilst in Muscat, Clark met his son, Major Andrew Clark of the Life Guards, who was serving as second in command of the Sultan’s armoured force. When dining with Sultan Qaboos at the Barakha Palace, Clark met Air Marshal Sir Erik Bennett, commander of the Sultan’s Air Force since 1974, as well as General Norman Schwarzkopf, commander of American forces in the Gulf.37

316 A. Jackson Clark’s main business in Oman was to discuss the provision of bases for British forces involved in the liberation of Kuwait (an eventual commitment of over 45,000 service personnel). Even after the war, Oman continues to play a major role in host nation support for British military activities in the Middle East, including the policing of the No Fly Zone in northern Iraq. In the run up to the invasion of Iraq in 2003, Exercise Saif Sareea saw the deployment of a large British naval force and over 20,000 military personnel for joint exercises in Oman and the surrounding region. Britain retains a territorial foothold in the East of Suez region by virtue of its sovereignty over British Indian Ocean Territory (BIOT). BIOT’s history lies in America’s great reluctance in the late 1960s to see Britain withdraw from its East of Suez defence commitments, and Britain’s complimentary reluctance to abandon those commitments without providing the Americans with a base from which to assume responsibility for them. The only colony to be created during the ‘decolonization decade’, BIOT comprised the Chagos Archipelago, until then administered by the colony of Mauritius and the islands of Aldabra, Des Roches and Farquhar, until then part of the Seychelles colony (returned to the Seychelles on its independence in 1976). Diego Garcia in the Chagos Archipelago became the focus of Anglo-American military attention as BIOT was developed over the years into one of the most important military facility in the world. Diego Garcia is well known as one of America’s most important overseas bases and is rarely considered as anything other than an American military facility under nominal British ownership. This view, however, obscures an important strand in the thinking of the British government when the base was created and developed, and the fact that Britain has always had access to facilities at the base. Indeed, in creating BIOT and subsequently approving plans for its development, British policy-makers had in mind the fact that it would act as a means of keeping Britain in the region if it ever decided to withdraw from its major facilities East of Suez. In 1965, the Cabinet agreed that, in the event of Britain ever withdrawing from Aden and/or Singapore, American facilities on Diego Garcia would allow Britain to continue to operate in the area if it wished to do so.38 As has been seen in other instances, this reflected the hallmark mindset of Britain in imperial retreat; scale down, reduce facilities, reduce costs – but never entirely depart. Britain participated in the development of base facilities at Diego Garcia, as well as provided a small Royal Marines garrison to carry out the administrative and legal duties associated with British sovereignty. Britain took part in the development of the territory’s monitoring station (including GCHQ participation), as well as facilities for oceanic satellite surveillance.39 Over the years, British forces have used the facilities at Diego Garcia during operational deployments. In November 2001, for example, elements of 40 Commando Royal Marines stopped at Diego Garcia en route to Afghanistan, and in September 2003 the submarine HMS Triumph called at

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 317 the island. Sovereignty over BIOT brings Britain other rights and responsibilities in the Indian Ocean. In October 1991, for example, a 200 nautical-mile Fisheries Conservation and Management Zone was declared around BIOT.40 Another important feature of Britain’s military presence in the East of Suez region was its standing commitment to Hong Kong, which lasted until 1997 and involved elements from all three armed services, including several army battalions. In the 1970s, there was a permanent deployment of a frigate and five patrol craft, though the frigate was withdrawn in 1976. The Hong Kong Squadron had a variety of tasks to perform in pursuit of the security of the colony and the waters of the South China Sea. For example, the flow of illegal immigrants attempting to get into Hong Kong in the late 1970s led to the deployment of the fast patrol and training vessel HMS Scimitar, along with two hovercrafts, a helicopter force operating from an RFA and the 3rd Raiding Squadron of 42 Commando.41 In 1984, the new Peacock class patrol boats were dispatched, the last of a long line of gunboats designed specifically for what had once been known as the China Station.42 Elsewhere in the East of Suez region, one of the most evocative remnants of empire is to be found in Britain’s military relationship with the people of Nepal. The British Army still recruits soldiers for the Royal Gurkha Rifles, and – providing a British presence in a former imperial domain – one of the Gurkha battalions is leased to the Sultan of Brunei for local defence purposes, and Brunei continues to provide a location for British training exercises (which until recently included a Jungle Warfare Training course). Kenya, like Oman, provides another good example of Britain’s continued military presence in the East of Suez region. Whilst in no sense a ‘neo-colonial’ presence, such connections strengthen the commitment of the British armed forces to a global role (and their ability to perform one). The British Army presence in Kenya is based upon two main elements, the British Peace Support Team (BPST) and the British Army Training Unit Kenya (BATUK). BPST’s mission is to coordinate British military assistance to armed forces in eastern Africa in order to contribute to Security Sector Reform and to increase the peacekeeping capacity of East African states.43 To fulfil this mission it has three main parts: The International Mine Action Training Centre, the Peace Support Training Centre and a presence in the Kenyan Defence Staff College. BATUK is a small permanent administrative element based in the outskirts of Nairobi, which provides logistical support to visiting British Army units. Under the terms of an agreement with the Kenyan government, three infantry battalions per year carry out six-week training exercises, and a Royal Engineer squadron also deploys to Kenya over the same period to carry out a civil engineering project. The training, named Exercise Grand Prix, takes place over the winter months and allows infantry battalions to carry out live firing and experience a wide variety of climatic conditions, from desert to rain forest.44

318 A. Jackson

West of Suez Whilst this chapter has so far concentrated on the continuation of Britain’s military presence in the East of Suez region long after the decolonization decade and the decision to withdraw, it is important to note that Britain also remained committed to areas of the globe west of Suez. The Royal Navy’s South Atlantic Squadron was based at Simon’s Town until the naval base was evacuated in 1975 with the termination of Britain’s agreement with the South African government.45 The squadron had supported Britain’s extensive interests in South Africa and South America and contributed to the security of the vital shipping routes through the South Atlantic. In its final years, the squadron deployed Cat class and Cathedral class frigates which, among other duties, patrolled to the Falkland Islands.46 There was then the naval base at Bermuda, home to the West Indies Squadron, which in its final years deployed Bay class frigates (which also patrolled to the Falklands). The West Indies Squadron ceased as an independent command in 1976 when the senior naval officer West Indies was withdrawn.47 The following year, in the time-honoured tradition of imperial policing, British Army units were sent to Bermuda in the wake of unrest, and Bermuda remained a base for anti-submarine warfare operations and surveillance until Britain finally closed its Bermuda base in the mid-1990s. Still sovereign in Bermuda, the British government can choose to reopen military facilities on the island should circumstances ever demand. The closure of British bases in the West Indies did not, however, denote an end to Britain’s defence interests in the region. Britain retained numerous colonies in the Caribbean, including Bermuda in the Atlantic, and remained committed to their defence. Britain also continues to contribute to the resolution of other security problems that affect the region, such as the ongoing war against drug smuggling. One of the main ways in which these commitments are met is by the Royal Navy’s provision of a standing force in the region. Due to cutbacks in the number of Royal Navy escort vessels, this force was reduced in 2005, in the light of which the Atlantic Patrol (North) was only to include a destroyer or frigate sent to the Caribbean between July and October, the months when the region is most at risk from hurricanes. An RFA tanker was to remain on station in the West Indies between May and November, equipped with aviation assets to support disaster relief and the fight against drug smuggling.48 Elsewhere in the region, the Royal Navy’s Maritime Warfare Centre oversees fleet trial programmes at the Atlantic Undersea Test and Evaluation Centre (AUTEC) in the Bahamas, featuring a 6,000-foot deep chasm ‘bristling with sensors and monitoring equipment’.49 British bases remained functioning elsewhere in the ‘west of Suez’ region. Ascension Island houses an air base, a legacy of the Second World War when it was leased to America as part of the Allied effort to beat the

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 319 U-boats and to stage aircraft from North America to Europe and the Middle East. British forces have access to the base, which they used to great effect during the Falklands War, when Ascension provided a vital mid-Atlantic haven for British warships and aircraft journeying south (as well as the Victor refuelling tankers that enabled Vulcan bombers to attack Stanley airport). The RAF continues to use the base on Ascension Island today to support its regular flights to the Falklands. Ascension’s usefulness to Britain is augmented by the presence of a BBC transmitter broadcasting to Africa, and Cable and Wireless is also represented on the island.50 Further south, British Antarctic Territory is testament to Britain’s historic presence in the polar regions, and Britain’s claims are supported by the Royal Navy’s Ice Patrol Ship HMS Endurance (forming part of the Atlantic Patrol (South)). A strong army garrison is maintained in the Falkland Islands, supported by the RAF, and the Royal Navy’s two Castle-class patrol ships are dedicated to the security of Britain’s South Atlantic dependencies (a role to be taken over by the new offshore patrol vessel, HMS Clyde, in 2007).51 At the time of writing, the frigate HMS Portland has recently returned after a six-month deployment in the South Atlantic, during which she covered 28,500 nautical miles and visited six countries and six dependent territories (colonies), including Ascension Island, Gambia, Sierra Leone, South Africa, St Helena and Tristan da Cunha, as well as conducting patrols around the Falkland Islands and South Georgia.52 In the Mediterranean, traditionally one of Britain’s most important areas of overseas interest, bases remained long after the decolonization decade.53 When Malta became independent in 1964, Britain continued to rent facilities on the island, as did NATO. In 1979, the government led by Dom Mintoff decided not to renew the agreement. Britain still has base facilities at two of its other traditional Mediterranean strong points, the colony of Gibraltar and the Sovereign Base Areas of Cyprus. Gibraltar is a regular port of call and repair and replenishment base for British and allied warships, as well as is home to the Royal Navy’s Gibraltar Patrol Boat Squadron and the Royal Gibraltar Regiment. Cyprus was once the home of Canberra bombers and conventional and nuclear bombs, providing the nuclear umbrella for the defence of Britain’s CENTO allies (Iran, Pakistan and Turkey). Today, Cyprus houses the largest RAF base outside of Britain. It also plays host each year to the RAF Aerobatics Team (the Red Arrows). The Sovereign Base Areas provide important staging facilities for British (and allied) forces moving between east and west, and communications and intelligence-gathering facilities. The British Army also retains a presence in Cyprus based around two resident infantry battalions. In late 2003, the Cyprus garrison also consisted of 62 Cyprus Support Squadron Royal Engineers, the Joint Service Signals Unit, 16 Flight Army Air Corps and personnel from various supporting arms such as the Royal Logistics Corps and Royal Military Police. There is a separate commitment, up to

320 A. Jackson regimental size, to the United Nations peacekeeping mission on the island (UNFICYP). The British contingent has command of sector two, which covers the capital Nicosia.54 The Royal Navy regularly deploys warships in the Mediterranean, especially as a contribution to NATO exercises and its standing force. In 2007, HMS Somerset, for example, served as part of the NATO Standing Response Force Maritime Group in the Mediterranean, and in the autumn/winter of 2005, HMS Manchester spent four months as part of a NATO task group operating in a counter-terrorism role. In the Mediterranean, the destroyer will conduct three exercises with allies and form part of an overt presence along busy shipping lanes, keeping an eye out for illegal traffic.55 As a demonstration of the value of bases and regular deployments in the Mediterranean, the Royal Navy and the Cyprus SBA played a prominent role in Operation Highbrow, the evacuation from Lebanon of thousands of entitled personnel during the July 2006 Israeli–Lebanon crisis. Other links between Britain and its former colonies in the west of Suez region remained long into the post-imperial years. Belize, for example, was home to British forces and a site of regular British training exercises until the mid-1990s. Deployments in Belize gave British forces an opportunity to undertake valuable jungle training, though the primary purpose of the deployment was to deter neighbouring Guatemala from pursuing its historic claim to Belizean territory. RAF units had been sent to Belize in 1977 in the light of a flare up of the Guatemalan threat and remained until 1994.56 Though Britain’s permanent deployment in Belize ended, British forces continued to train there, and in 1994 the British Army Training Support Unit Belize was established to support Land Command exercises. Annual infantry exercises take place, including water-based exercises, and a detachment of the Army Air Corps is stationed in the country to support them. Recently, HMS Cumberland has tested her 4.5-inch gun against shore targets, whilst Exercise Green River was mounted, featuring Royal Marine in fast inflatable boats ‘attacking’ the frigate in a simulation of the kind of attack that damaged USS Cole at Aden in 2000.57 In the past twelve months, No. 34 Squadron RAF Regiment has also undergone training in Belize.

Just happened to be sailing by: the habit of global deployment and involvement Despite the contraction of the empire and the increased importance of the military commitment to NATO, Britain never lost the habit of positioning its forces worldwide; there was always a British battalion on exercise in a steaming jungle somewhere, a warship cruising in a polar region or an RAF detachment exercising with an ally in some distant tropical zone. This global presence, and the preparation for operations in different climates and links with allies that it inevitably brought in its wake, has meant that

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 321 British force has been available and capable of taking part in a host of military actions around the world, from war fighting to peace support operations and disaster relief, and has allowed the government the luxury of considering a military option. The fact that British forces maintained a routine presence in places such as the Indian Ocean and Persian Gulf, for example, made it easy to mount operations, and interoperability with other nations’ forces – a key element in most modern interventions – has been facilitated by the practice of exercising with the armed forces of other countries throughout the world. Good examples are provided by both the recent Gulf Wars. As soon as Iraq invaded Kuwait in August 1990, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was able to order British warships on either side of the Indian Ocean, at Penang and Mombasa, to join HMS York in the Gulf. When Iraq was invaded in 2003, British forces that had remained in the region were well placed to intervene. The RAF, which had policed the No Fly Zone since the first Gulf War, had over 1,000 personnel and twentyfive aircraft already on station in 2003, a pre-existing nucleus around which a significant build up of British air power could take place. British forces have been involved in a plethora of humanitarian operations, often because they happened to be near to hand.58 Thus, for example, when volcanoes erupted on the British island of Montserrat in 1997, the Royal Navy’s standing commitment of a West Indies guardship meant that forces were instantly available to help with evacuations from those parts of the island rendered uninhabitable. Similarly, in 2005, HMS Chatham and RFA Diligence were on hand to provide aid in the wake of the tsunami disaster, whilst HMS Scott, a hydrological survey vessel operating in the Indian Ocean, provided graphic evidence of the tsunami’s effects on the ocean bed.59 British forces have frequently been involved in humanitarian operations around the world (in addition to peace support and peacekeeping operations). In the thirty years after the withdrawal from East of Suez, the RAF, for example, sent units to East Pakistan (1970), Nicaragua (1972), Nepal (1973), Mali (1973), Ethiopia (1984), Chile (1991), Turkey (1992), the Caribbean (1992), Somalia (1993), Holland (1995), Montserrat (1995), Cyprus (1995 and 1998) and Mozambique (2002). Another cause of Britain’s continuing military engagement with the wider world has been its strong links with former colonies, often lasting long after the transfer of power. The end of empire, far from severing military links with overseas territories as might reasonably have been expected, could actually be the cause of military operations and new defence commitments. This could come in the form of a military intervention to support a fledgling former colony entering the uncertain world of independent nationhood either to suppress an internal rebellion (for example, Kenya, Mauritius, New Hebrides, Oman, Tanzania, Uganda) or to repulse a foreign takeover (Belize, Kuwait, Malaysia); it could come in the form of defence treaties granting British forces the use of bases or

322 A. Jackson facilities in the new nation (Ceylon, Malaysia, Nigeria); or it could come in the form of agreements for the employment of British personnel to train and lead indigenous military forces (Brunei, Mauritius, Oman). Between 1960 and 1980, Britain engaged in counterinsurgency operations in Aden, Cyprus, Kenya, Malaya and Oman, and undertook a major military commitment to defend newly independent Malaysia from Indonesia.60 Expeditionary forces were sent to defend Kuwait from Iraq (thirty years before the first Gulf War), to prevent armed insurrection in Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda, and to quell communal violence in Mauritius (twice).61 Rebels were deterred in Brunei, and a new government was defended by Royal Marines in the New Hebrides in 1980. Rhodesia’s illegal declaration of independence in 1965 saw the creation of the navy’s Beira Patrol, intended to prevent goods bound for Rhodesia reaching Mozambican ports, and when majority rule elections were finally held in 1980, they were supervised by a British governor and a Commonwealth Monitoring Force backed by the British Army and the RAF.62 In 1982, the Falkland Islands and South Georgia were forcibly retaken following an Argentinian invasion. British forces have been involved in numerous humanitarian operations and have often been in a position to evacuate civilians from dangerous regions, a naval task force standing off Iran, for example, in 1978 and another off Aden in 1986. Peacekeeping and disaster relief deployments have become a core activity of the British armed forces, even in regions not of historic British interest (East Timor and Mozambique). Recently, Britain has become heavily involved in helping the government of Sierra Leone to resist internal insurrection, an intervention that fits neatly into the continuum of British military operations since the 1950s. It is likely that Britain will continue to be called upon to provide military assistance to former colonies and other allies around the world.63 In many ways, the non-retreat from East of Suez and the wider world highlighted in this chapter should come as no surprise; just because the empire was dwindling and Britain’s political, economic and strategic interests were becoming focused closer to home, it did not mean that a severance of global connections built up over half a millennium of British endeavour in the wider world logically followed. Many British interests in the wider world remained ‘live’ long after Britain’s demise as an imperial power; Britain’s economy remained uniquely intertwined with the economies of other countries around the world, and Britain remained a hub of global finance and an addicted international trader. Over ten million Britons continued to live in other countries, and Britain’s political and diplomatic presence in the world remained extensive. It is easy to forget the fact that Britain never ceased to be one of the world’s most powerful states and busiest international actors, deploying strategic nuclear weapons and retaining conventional armed forces capable of meeting global commitments. As well as being an important economic and political

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 323 power (reflected in its status as a G8 member and Permanent Member of the United Nations Security Council), Britain remained a global player in other spheres, holding on, for example, to an intelligence reach second only to that of America and Russia.64 Britain retained sufficient political will to act upon the world stage and remained a leading member of global organizations such as the United Nations and the Commonwealth. A central role in these organizations was an important factor in the desire of successive British governments to remain engaged globally. The British government, whilst seldom placing the Commonwealth in the limelight, continued to reap benefits on the global stage through membership of the organization, particularly in driving its foreign policy agendas in the spheres of security, development and governance.65 Many states in the world continued to view links with Britain as an important building block of foreign policy and continued to value British friendship. Security links with Commonwealth members remain strong and are not just of the military variety. The practice of sending Scotland Yard personnel to investigate particular crimes or contribute to the fight against transnational security threats, for example, remains an important feature of the help that the former colonial power can offer.66 In addition to security and defence links, many former British colonies have been granted privileged access to the European market by virtue of successive Lomé Conventions, which allow former colonial territories access to the single market.67 Though Britain no longer dominated the Commonwealth in an imperial fashion, it remained a key member of the organization and could count on Commonwealth support in the international system if the wind was in the right direction. A good example was provided by the Falklands conflict, where the support of the Commonwealth was important in giving Britain the moral upper hand over Argentina, and during which Commonwealth allies made telling contributions in isolating Argentina at the United Nations (as well, in the case of New Zealand, as volunteering military support to free British forces for deployment to the South Atlantic).68 It is also important to acknowledge the expanding, extraEuropean role of NATO in the post-Cold War years, another factor leading Britain towards deployments in the wider world, be they frigates in the Mediterranean or special forces and Harriers in Afghanistan. Finally, the habit of interest and intervention in the wider world never died, and the British public’s fascination with the world beyond Europe remained as ardent as did the disinterest with which many Britons viewed the affairs of states closer to home. A variety of government departments remained intensely interested in the affairs of other countries. Though the offices of state that had once run the empire were closed between 1947 and 1968, the merger of the FO and the Commonwealth Relations Office created the Foreign and Commonwealth Office of today. The Department of Trade and Industry, the Department for

324 A. Jackson International Development, and the Treasury are other offices of state heavily involved in foreign affairs. Britain remains a major international donor, providing, for example, most of a country such as Uganda’s foreign aid and holding the largest share of Nigeria’s debt. In the early years of the twenty-first century, Britain’s two most important politicians, Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, invested considerable personal political capital in commitments to Africa, through vehicles like the Commission for Africa and the campaign for debt relief. Britain’s humanitarian and ‘civilizing’ aspirations, sympathies and vanities remain strong. The visible commitment of British foreign and defence policy to the wider world was thrown into sharp relief by the end of the Cold War and by the arrival in power of a zestful Labour government seeking to present a coherent vision of British interaction with the world. One of the more illustrative sound bites to come out of the Labour government’s review of foreign and security policy was the stated desire for Britain to be a ‘force for good’ in the world, and this included a return to a traditional British defence emphasis on expeditionary warfare, outlined in the Strategic Defence Review of 1998. The review emphasized the global aspects of Britain’s foreign and security policy, pinpointed Europe, North Africa, the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf as regions of key importance to Britain, and resolved to adopt a ‘go to the crisis’ attitude, thereby committing Britain’s armed forces to global deployments.69 In outlining this foreign and defence policy stance, the review recognized that Britain’s trade and interests needed to be protected wherever they happened to be in the world. The review underlined the fact that Britain was peculiarly exposed to global economic fluctuations or interruptions in trade and the movement of financial resources, as well as to global threats in areas such as migration, the environment, terrorism and transnational crime. The review also claimed that British cultural values merited propagation and defence. In the words of Geoffrey Till, ‘the implications of this set of conclusions were enormous. They illustrated the extent to which the decision of 1968 [to withdraw from East of Suez] had been turned on their head’.70 It might be said in addition that the conclusions of the Strategic Defence Review were an acknowledgement of the fact that extraEuropean regions had never ceased to matter to Britain and British foreign and security policy, and that Britain’s commitments and deployments in extra-European regions had never stopped, notwithstanding the apparent finality of the 1967 and 1968 announcements. The Strategic Defence Review was not so much a break with the past as a recalibration of Britain’s security policy, which had for generations sought to balance the overriding need to secure European peace whilst also nurturing Britain’s global interests. With the Cold War at an end, and Britain no longer under threat of homeland invasion or destruction, official policy could again emphasize the wider world, ‘policeman’, aspects of British foreign and defence policy.71

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 325

Empire still? The quiet death of the phrase ‘imperial defence’ was matched by that of the ‘British Empire’. After the 1960s, anything vaguely imperial tended to be characterized as an ‘imperial legacy’, a ‘remnant’, a ‘limpet colony’ or a ‘fag end’ of empire, hardly language likely to suggest continuity and continued vigour in relationships between Britain and various parts of the world. A review of the end of ‘empire’, in terms of language as well as power and actions within the international system, is long overview, for at least two reasons.72 First, such a study plays profitably into current debates about American ‘empire’ and ‘imperialism’, and the compare-and-contrast study of British hegemony in the past and American hegemony today, as well as the study of the ‘handover of the baton’ period of twentieth-century history when America replaced Britain as the main external player in one part of the world after another.73 Second, there is a serious case to be made that, given the relatively straightforward definitions of ‘empire’ and ‘imperialism’ that were once common, the British Empire and British imperialism never ceased. What ceased was the use of those terms. This was entirely understandable, though the sudden death of ‘empire’ and ‘imperial defence’ blinded people to continuations in Britain’s power and defence posture, and an overseas presence that did not die in the 1960s but continues to the present day. Two British historians have strayed on to this turf recently, without moving to occupy it. Correlli Barnett suggested that Britain acts in an imperial manner today, tracing a line of imperial interventions, based on misplaced humanitarianism rather than hard-nosed national security appraisals, from Dr Arnold in the nineteenth century to Tony Blair in the twenty-first.74 There is then Jeremy Black, who has written about the British Empire in the present tense and about the continuing fact of British imperial power in the early twenty-first century.75 This provides an interesting opening for academics to reinvigorate the debate about the meaning of ‘empire’ and ‘imperialism’, and, more profitably, to open a debate that should have taken place years ago, namely, when did empire end for Britain? Is there a threshold in terms of the size and population of overseas colonies that must be met in order to qualify for ‘empire’ status, and, if so, when did Britain fall below it? Still possessing colonies from the Pacific to the Caribbean and dispensing power around the world in a variety of ways, from aircraft carriers and investment banking to the BBC and GCHQ, some might ask if British imperialism ever ended. Of course, it all comes down to definition, and when considered alongside recent debate about whether or not America is an imperial power, it might be safer to align with the historian who once said that ‘imperialism is no word for scholars’. Whilst avoiding the semantic aerobics, the use and then non-use of the term ‘British empire’, and the commonly assumed demise of that empire

326 A. Jackson in the 1960s, has distorted our view of Britain’s history in the late twentieth century. It has done this by making Britain appear too suddenly as a ‘post imperial’ state, thereby emphasizing a shift from empire to postempire that never fully took place, a sort of ‘now you see it, now you don’t’ view of the empire and world power that hardly meets the facts. Indeed, it would have been a great surprise if elements of ‘imperialism’ – perhaps shading towards the more equitable state-state relationship often described as ‘influence’ – had just disappeared once most of the colonies had gained their independence, given that definitions of empire commonly encompass ‘informal empire’ elements that seldom discontinued the moment the Union Flag was lowered and a new national anthem unleashed upon the world. Furthermore, ‘empire’ was always bound up with notions of military, political and economic power that were to a large extent free standing. Jeremy Black acknowledges the importance of this when he writes that ‘an assessment of the nature of the British Empire at the start of the new millennium requires a focus not on territorial control but on the maritime potency that was so important a strand in Western imperial history’.76 Whilst Britain’s power in the spheres that underpinned empire – political, diplomatic, military, economic, cultural – might have contracted in the post-war decades, it never disappeared, and a great deal remains to this day.77 If the term ‘British Empire’ was employed to describe a system whereby Britain had political control over distant territories, and projected power in the international system on a number of levels, then the phenomenon never ended, even if the use of the label did.

Notes 1 Command 3999, The Strategic Defence Review (London, 1998). When Napoleon, Wilhelm, Hitler or Stalin threatened, Britain’s eyes became fixed on national defence and the balance of power in Europe. In between these periods of national threat, Britain’s gaze returned to its default setting – the desire to play a military role in the wider world, shaping the international system to its advantage. Both strategic fixations were mutually pursued, however; even when eyes were fixed on Europe, peripheral vision, or the occasional sideways glance, maintained Britain’s military and strategic interest in the extra-European world. 2 Ritchie Ovendale (ed.), British Defence Policy Since 1945 (Manchester, 1994), 8. 3 Rod Thornton makes this point with regard to the Army in ‘The British Army and the Origins of its Minimum Force Philosophy’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, 15 (2004): 81–106. For the Royal Navy, the idea comes from Admiral Sir Sandy Woodward. He wrote that the 1974 Defence Review confirmed the Royal Navy’s concentration on anti-submarine warfare in the north-east Atlantic, the navy’s part in the NATO-focused defence policy that was a hallmark of the decade. He added that the mindset away from expeditionary warfare probably began in 1966 when it was decided not to replace the carrier HMS Ark Royal (eventually paid off in 1978). ‘But we hung onto it somehow, though we dressed it up as North East Atlantic ASW [anti-submarine warfare] with a bit of defence of the Northern Flank’. See Admiral Sir John (Sandy) Woodward, ‘Introduction’, in Stephen

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 327

4

5 6

7 8 9

10

11 12 13 14

15 16 17

18 19

Badsey, Rob Havers, and Mark Grove (eds), The Falklands Conflict Twenty Years on: Lessons for the Future (London, 2005), 1. In a resounding statement of the fact that the end of empire did not signal Britain’s willingness to retreat as a world power, it was Wilson who said in the year that Labour came to office (1964) that ‘Britain’s borders are on the Himalayas’. One might also include the strategically placed Rockall in the North Atlantic, annexed, in the face of a Danish claim, in 1955. See Robert Aldrich and John Connell, The Last Colonies (Cambridge, 1009), and John Connell, ‘Eternal Empire: Britain’s Caribbean Colonies in the Global Arena’, in Aarón Gamaliel Ramos and Angel Israel Rivera (eds), Islands at the Crossroads: Politics in the Non-Independent Caribbean (Kingston, 2001), 115–135. Michael Walker, ‘Transforming UK Armed Forces’, RUSI Journal, 150, 1 (2005): 46–48. COS, ‘Future Defence Policy. The Overall Strategic Plan, May 1947’, reproduced as appendix 7 in Julian Lewis, Changing Direction: British Military Planning for Post-War Strategic Defence, 1942–1947 (London, 1988). An important point in explaining this stance is that although Britain had been eclipsed as a power able to unilaterally guarantee security in imperial regions, the one power that could offer such guarantees – America – was not bound by the same burden of responsibility to do so as Britain was. Therefore, circumstances were conceivable in which America might be reluctant to go to the aid of a British colony or one of its Commonwealth allies – hence the need for Britain to retain an independent stance to the greatest extent possible, and hence the surprising longevity of intra-Commonwealth defence arrangements (particularly those centred on the security of the South-East Asian region). The dilemma – NATO defence in the face of a Russian nuclear threat versus defence commitments, imperial and Cold War, in the wider world – was compounded not only by the state of the economy, but also by the steeply rising unit cost of military platforms and the new post-war requirement for Britain to remain strong in conventional military terms whilst also affording the entrance fee to the nuclear club. Brian Lapping, End of Empire (London, 1985), 277. See John Darwin, Britain and Decolonization: The Retreat from Empire in the PostWar World (Basingstoke, 1988), 229–231, for a summary of the reasons why Suez was not such an imperial breaking point. Until the early 1970s, Britain had a few units stationed in Thailand as part of its commitment to South-East Asian defence through SEATO. The audit of empire was not as adventurous as is sometimes suggested, however. It did not recommend an imperial vanishing act, and concluded that many of Britain’s colonial responsibilities would remain for the foreseeable future. Barring its involvement with the rebel regime of Ian Smith in Rhodesia. John Darwin makes this point with a flourish: ‘Colonial rule must die that influence might live; empire must be sacrificed to world power’. J. Darwin, Britain and Decolonization, 334. One of the reasons for the closure was the fact that, in the light of Suez, the government of Ceylon had decided not to renew the ten-year treaty, signed on independence in 1948, that allowed the Royal Navy the use of the island’s naval facilities. Neville Brown, Arms Without Empire (London, 1968), 66. The book was first published in the previous year, before the withdrawal from Aden. See also Philip Darby, British Defence Policy East of Suez, 1947–1968 (London, 1973). See Brown, Arms Without Empire.

328 A. Jackson 20 An excellent recent treatment of this subject is provided by Saki Dockrill, Britain’s Retreat from East of Suez: The Choice Between Europe and the World? (Basingstoke, 2002). 21 In the light of biting economic crises at home, including the devaluation of sterling in 1967, in 1968 the announcement was updated: British forces would be out by 1971. 22 See Andrea Benvenuti, ‘The British Military Withdrawal from Southeast Asia and Its Impact on Australia’s Cold War Strategic Interests’, Cold War History, 5 (2005): 189–210. 23 Brown, Arms Without Empire, 27. 24 Australia and New Zealand lobbied for Britain’s continued commitment to the region, seeing South-East Asia as a frontline of their own defence. 25 David Stevens, ‘The British Naval Role East of Suez: An Australian Perspective’, in Greg Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 1900–2000 (London, 2005), pp. 120–141. 26 Navy News, October 2005. York then took up the role of Commander Task Force 150 in the Indian Ocean to participate in Exercise Deep Sabre, involving thirteen other navies. On a nine month Far-East deployment last year, HMS Exeter exercised with the navies of Australia, China, Japan, Korea, Russia and Thailand. 27 See Damon Bristow, ‘The Five Power Defence Arrangements: Southeast Asia’s Unknown Regional Security Organization’, Contemporary Southeast Asia: A Journal of International Strategic Affairs, 27 (2005): 1–20, and Khoo How San, ‘The Five Power Defence Arrangements: If it Ain’t Broke . . .’, SAFTI: Journal of the Singapore Armed Forces, 26 (2000). 28 Russell Marshall, ‘Security in the Pacific Rim: A New Zealand Perspective’, RUSI Journal, 149, 4 (2004), pp. 46–48. For the establishment of bases in region, see Donald Berlin, ‘The “Great Base Race” in the Indian Ocean Littoral: Conflict Prevention or Stimulation?’, Contemporary South Asia, 13 (2004): 239–255. 29 See Warren Chin, ‘Operations in a War Zone: The Royal Navy in the Persian Gulf in the 1980s’, in Ian Speller (ed.), The Royal Navy and Maritime Power in the Twentieth Century (London, 2005), 181–196. 30 Geoffrey Till, ‘The Return to Globalism: The Royal Navy East of Suez, 1975–2003’, in G. Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 257. 31 Peter Doling, From Port T to RAF Gan: An Illustrated History of the British Military Bases at Addu Atoll in the Maldive Islands, 1941–1976 (Bognor Regis, 2004). For the Royal Navy in the Indian Ocean during the Second World War, see Ashley Jackson, War and Empire in Mauritius and the Indian Ocean (Basingstoke, 2001), and A. Jackson, The British Empire and the Second World War (London, 2005). 32 See Jan Morris, Sultan of Oman (London, 1957). Morris travelled with the Sultan of Muscat and Oman during the conflict. Also see John Newsinger, British Counterinsurgency from Palestine to Northern Ireland (Basingstoke, 2002). 33 ‘BBC Marisah Relay’, found at http://radiodx.com/spdxr/bbc_masirah.htm on 13/1/05. 34 Another powerful tool of the BBC is BBC Monitoring, a source of media information, which together with its American partner, Foreign Broadcast Information Service, tracks over 3,000 sources in the international media and selects important information on behalf of the British and American governments. Up to 2,500 reports are published per day on political, economic and security issues, and other topics such as human rights, organized crime or the environment. Advertisement, RUSI Journal, 150, 4 (2005), back cover. 35 For an overview of the island’s history and its links with Britain, particularly its defence links, see Colin Richardson, Masirah: Tales from a Desert Island (Durham, 2005).

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 329 36 Until the 1970s, Bahrain had been an important base for British forces stationed in the Gulf. 37 Alan Clark, Diaries (London, 1993), 371–373. 38 The National Archives, Kew. FO 371/184523. Draft memo by foreign secretary and defence secretary for circulation at Defence and Overseas Policy Committee, ‘Defence Facilities in the Indian Ocean’, 2/4/65. 39 ‘Dirty Work in the Indian Ocean’, found at www.worldsocialism.org/spgb/ may98/indocean.html on 26/5/04. 40 The construction of an American naval communications station began in March 1971 and was commissioned in March 1973. The first C-130 transport aircraft landed in July of that year. A weather service detachment was present from 1971, and a naval support facility was commissioned in 1977. From 1980, the base was capable of holding all of the equipments necessary to equip and supply a Marine Corps brigade (16,500 men). This was part of the American logistical practice of stationing ‘prepositioned’ supply ships and facilities at bases around the world (another was in Oman). From 1982, a permanent detachment was established on the island to fly supplies to aircraft carriers in the Indian Ocean. B-52’s were first deployed to Diego Garcia in 1987. Over the course of seventysix days during operation in Afghanistan in 2001, four B-1 and five B-52 sorties were flown each day. No. 77 Squadron Royal Australian Air Force was deployed to Diego Garcia as a contribution to Coalition operations. Diego Garcia also supports elements of America’s space programme and is used by B-2 stealth bombers. 41 G. Till, ‘The Return to Globalism: The Royal Navy East of Suez’, in Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 249. 42 P.J. Melson (ed.), White Ensign–Red Dragon: The History of the Royal Navy in Hong Kong 1841–1997 (Hong Kong, 1997). 43 Security Sector Reform is an increasingly important aspect of the work of British forces as Britain and its allies seek to build stable, internally controlled institutions in places such as Afghanistan, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Iraq, Kosovo and Sierra Leone. In Iraq, for example, the Royal Navy is a mentor to the embryonic Iraqi Navy based at Umm Qasr. RFA Diligence is currently acting as a forward base for the Iraqi patrol boats. 44 Some of this material has been taken from the British Army website. Training in all types of terrain and climate environments enables British military forces to operate almost anywhere in the world. It is a key feature in the global posture of the British armed forces. 45 See Peter Henshaw, ‘Strategy and the Transfer of Simon’s Town, 1948–1957’, in Peter Henshaw and Ronald Hyam (eds), The Lion and the Springbok: Britain and South Africa Since the Boer War (Cambridge, 2003), 230–253. 46 See Geoffrey Sloan, ‘The Geopolitics of the Falklands Conflict’, in S. Badsey, R. Havers, and M. Grove (eds), The Falklands Conflict Twenty Years on, 25. 47 Ibid. An interesting postscript to the demise of the South Atlantic Squadron and the West Indies Squadron was that their removal ended the layered system of defence that protected the Falkland Islands. 48 Reported in Navy News, August 2005. 49 Navy News, October 2005. 50 See Peter Hore, ‘The “Logistics Miracle” of Ascension Island’, in S. Badsey, R. Havers, and M. Grove (eds), The Falklands Conflict Twenty Years on, 213–225 51 Navy News, April 2005. 52 Navy News, October 2005. 53 Britain retained military facilities in Libya until 1970. 54 Official British Army website, ‘Deployments’, www.army.mod.uk/around theworld.cyp/index.htm, found on 14/6/04, site last reviewed 15/10/03.

330 A. Jackson 55 Navy News, August 2005 and October 2005. 56 See AP3003, A Brief History of the RAF (London, 2004). 57 Navy News, October 2005. It was reported on BBC Radio 4 on 31 October 2005 that Cumberland had seized narcotics worth over £200 million off Nicaragua whilst on this deployment in the West Indies region. 58 I have taken this idea from the work of Geoffrey Till. 59 Hydrology remains as much a part of the work of the Royal Navy as it was in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries when British ships provided the information for maps and charts that went on to be used worldwide. In 2004–2005, for example, HMS Echo travelled 77,000 nautical miles during an eighteen-month deployment in the Mediterranean, the Indian Ocean and the Persian Gulf, conducting detailed surveys of underwater hazards in key channels and around oil platforms in the latter region. 60 These campaigns have received a great deal of attention in ‘decolonization wars’ books, which are numerous. For example, Robin Neillands, A Fighting Retreat: The British Empire, 1947–1997 (London, 1997); Lawrence James, Imperial Rearguard: Wars of Empire, 1919–1985 (London, 1988); Thomas Mockaitis, British Counterinsurgency, 1919–1960 (London, 1990). Some of these campaigns have recently received welcome new attention. See for example, Ian Speller, ‘The Royal Navy, Expeditionary Operations, and the End of Empire, 1956–1975’, in G. Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 178–198; Christopher Tuck, ‘The Royal Navy and Confrontation, 1963–1966’, in G. Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 199–220, and ‘Borneo 1963–66: Counterinsurgency Operations and War Termination’, Small Wars and Insurgencies, 15 (2004): 89–111; Matthew Jones, Conflict and Confrontation in South East Asia, 1961–1965: Britain, the US, Indonesia, and the Creation of Malaysia (Cambridge, 2002); Ian Speller, ‘Naval Diplomacy: Operation Vantage, 1961’ (Kuwait), in I. Speller (ed.), The Royal Navy and Maritime Power, 164–180; Timothy Parsons, The 1964 Army Mutinies and the Making of Modern East Africa (Westport, CT, 2003) (Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda); and Ashley Jackson, ‘The Deployment of British Forces to Mauritius, 1965 and 1968’ (unpublished paper). 61 The little-known intervention in Tanzania provides a good illustration and sounds very ‘modern’. In January 1964, elements of the Tanzanian Army mutinied at Dar-es-Salaam and Tabora, imprisoning their officers. Government buildings, the presidential palace and the radio station were surrounded. President Julius Nyerere fled the capital, after appealing to the British government for help. The aircraft carrier HMS Centaur carrying 45 Commando accompanied by the destroyer HMS Cambrian was dispatched from Aden and was able to poise in the Zanzibar Channel until called for. When it was, Marines were deployed ashore, supported by helicopters and covered by Sea Vixens. There was a gunfire demonstration from the destroyer. Within forty minutes, the Marines had secured Dar-es-Salaam and its airport, and caused the rebels to surrender. 62 On operation Agila the RAF was tasked with flying the 1,300-strong Commonwealth Monitoring Force into Rhodesia-Zimbabwe and sustaining it whilst in theatre. 63 For an overview of the causes, course and consequences of British intervention in Sierra Leone, see Stuart Griffin, Joint Operations: A Brief History (London, 2005); Commodore Steve Jermy, ‘Maritime Air Power’, RUSI Defence Systems 7, 2 (2004): 84–86; and Andrew Dorman, As Yet Untitled (London, 2005). 64 A 1948 secret treaty signed with Canada and Australia divided the world for eavesdropping and signals interception purposes. Peter Hennessy, ‘The British Secret State Old and New’, RUSI Journal, 150, 3 (2005), 16–23. This relationship is an important facet of the Anglo-American relationship; without access to American intelligence material, Britain’s reach would wither.

Imperial defence in the post-imperial era 331 65 See ‘Blair’s Britain and the Commonwealth’, The Round Table: A Journal of Commonwealth Affairs, 380 (2005): 381–392, and Peter Marshall, ‘Twenty-first Century Britain and the Commonwealth’, The Round Table: A Journal of Commonwealth Affairs, 376 (2004): 571–582. 66 For example, in 1995, Scotland Yard were called in to investigate the alleged ‘medicine’ murder of a child in Mochudi, Botswana, a crime that had engendered such public outrage that riots occurred in the capital. At present, a Scotland Yard officer occupies a high position in the Jamaican constabulary to help in the fight against drug smuggling, a regional, and British, problem. 67 For example, eighteen former British and French colonies in Africa, the Pacific and the Caribbean (ACP) currently export a fixed amount of sugar to Europe at the same price that Europe pays its own sugar growers. Though there are pressures to remove these barriers to free trade (mainly in favour of Latin American producers), if successful there will inevitably be calls for European compensation/adjustment money to be paid to the ACP producers that lose out, as they attempt to restructure their economies away from sugar dependence. See The Economist, 24/9/05. 68 See Edmund Yorke, ‘ “The Empire Strikes Back?” The Commonwealth Response to the Falklands Conflict’, in S. Badsey, R. Havers, and M. Grove (eds), The Falklands Conflict Twenty Years on, 170–192. It is interesting to note that there are currently about 1,500 Commonwealth nationals serving in the British forces and that entry into the British armed forces is restricted to British and Commonwealth citizens. 69 Previous defence reviews had looked firmly to the world beyond Europe as well. In the 1980s, the COS developed plans for operations outside of the NATO area; the 1987 Defence White Paper emphasized the importance of ‘out of area’ operations to support British interests throughout the world; and the 1993 Statement of Defence Estimates eliminated the distinction between ‘in’ and ‘out of area’ operations. See R. Ovendale, British Defence Policy. 70 Geoffrey Till, ‘The Return to Globalism: The Royal Navy East of Suez’, in G. Kennedy (ed.), British Naval Strategy East of Suez, 262. 71 There are those who argue that this view of the world and Britain’s role in it is diametrically opposed to Britain’s national interests. See Paul Robinson, ‘Why Britain Needs a New Defence Policy’, RUSI Journal, 150 (2005): 33. The debate was common during the Victorian period. 72 Numerous works address the definition/semantics of empire and imperialism. See, for example, Colin Newbury’s chapter on the semantics of imperialism and influence in Michael Twaddle (ed.), Imperialism, the State, and the Third World (London, 1992); Richard Koebner and Helmut Schmidt, Imperialism: The Story and Significance of a Political Word, 1840–1960 (Cambridge, 1964); Ronald Robinson and John Gallagher, ‘The Imperialism of Free Trade’, Economic History Review, 6 (1953): 1–15; and Raymond Dummett, Gentlemanly Capitalism and British Imperialism: The New Debate on Empire (London, 1999). Some have even questioned whether or not there was a British Empire. See Ged Martin, ‘Was There a British Empire?’ Historical Journal, 15 (1972): 562–569. What all of this literature shows is the great elasticity of the words ‘empire’ and ‘imperialism’ in the past. 73 In this sphere, Niall Ferguson’s very public ruminations have surely created a market for profitable debate. See his Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World (London, 2004), and Colossus: The Rise and Fall of the American Empire (London, 2004). The American titles of these two books reveal the publishers’ perception of American sensibilities; Empire: The Rise and Demise of the British World Order and the Lessons for Global Power, and Colossus: The Price of America’s Empire.

332 A. Jackson 74 Correlli Barnett, ‘Imperial Overstretch from Dr Arnold to Mr Blair’, RUSI Journal 150, 4 (2005): 26–31. 75 Jeremy Black, ‘A Post-Imperial Power? Britain and the Royal Navy’, Orbis: A Journal of World Affairs, 49 (2005): 353–365. In this unusual article, Black refers to Australia, New Zealand and South Africa as Dominions, not a designation that really works in 2005. 76 J. Black, ‘A Post-Imperial Power? Britain and the Royal Navy’, 361. 77 These points were made in response to Barnett’s article. See A. Jackson, Letter, RUSI Journal, 150 (2005): 10–11. A unique attachment to the former empire stems from the fact that the monarch is still head of state in many independent countries, as well as head of the Commonwealth, and the British High Court is still the highest court of appeal in some countries.

Index

Abyssinia 34, 40, 212, 237 Acheson, Dean 303 Aden 16, 102–3, 112, 121, 155–6, 170, 172–3, 242, 245, 247–8, 305, 314, 316, 320, 322 Admiralty 15, 19, 20, 35–40, 71–2, 75, 77, 81, 99, 111, 114, 116–19, 124, 126, 135–6, 138–44, 158, 181, 186–90, 242, 252–3, 255, 261–5, 269, 271, 273–5, 277, 279, 282 Afghan wars 11, 32, 75, 97, 154 Africa, East 12, 55, 94, 101, 166, 213, 284, 317 Africa, West 14, 54, 101, 201, 206, 209, 213 Air Ministry 77, 81, 137 Alanbrooke, Lord 167 Anglo-American–Japanese agreement 36 Anglo-Egyptian Treaty of Friendship 34, 60 Anglo-German Naval Agreement 39–40 Anglo-Japanese Alliance 35–7, 77, 247 Anglo-Japanese Treaty 136 Anglo-Russian Convention 22–4, 35 Anglo-Russian relations 14, 21–4 Anglo-Turkish Treaty 35 Antipodean Dominions 54, 59, 293 ANZUS Treaty 59 Ardagh, Sir John 18–19 Asquith, Herbert 13, 18, 113, 274, 277–8, 283–5 Attlee, Clement 54, 84 Australia 3–4, 15, 58–60, 64, 75, 78, 112–13, 115, 117–18, 121, 126, 133, 142–4, 158, 160–4, 171–2, 223, 228, 236, 247, 251, 258, 261–2, 267, 269, 272–8, 284–6, 292, 307–8, 312–13 Australian Squadron 261, 265 Australian Station 118, 261–2

Austria 11, 12, 92, 190 Baghdad Pact 65–7, 105 Balfour, Arthur 18, 36–7, 113, 291 Baltic States 31, 140 Bank of England 86, 184 Baring, E. 16 BBC 228–9, 315, 319, 325 Bean, Dr Charles 227 Beatty, David Earl 137 Beaverbrook, Lord 223, 227–8 Belgium 122, 280 Bengal 93–4, 97, 210, 220, 245, 314 Bennett, Sir Erik 315 Berlin, Treaty of 11, 199 Bermuda 122, 127, 236, 240, 242, 258, 305, 318 Bertie, Francis 19 Bevin, Ernest 54–5, 60, 84 Black Sea 11, 99, 102, 126, 183, 187 Blair, Tony 55, 324–5 Board of Trade 5, 16, 56, 76, 83 Boer War 4, 18, 74–5, 96, 98, 184, 214, 222–3, 225–6, 237–9 Bombay 94, 127 Bomber Command 159–60, 222 Bonaparte, Napoleon 178, 193 Borden, Robert 214, 227, 275, 278, 281–7, 289–92 Botha, Lewis 286 Boustead, Hugh 211–13 Bray, Sir Denys 32 British Army 3–4, 51, 91–105, 188, 190, 197, 199, 216, 222–3, 236–40, 247, 253–4, 270, 280, 283, 305, 315, 317–20, 322 British Defence Co-ordination Committee 51, 56, 66 British India 11, 93, 215, 305

334

Index

British Indian Ocean Territory 305, 312, 316–17 British Pacific Fleet 143 British War Cabinet 286, 290 Brunei 172–3, 246, 306, 312, 317, 322 Bulgaria 12, 51, 182, 190 Burma 101–2, 163, 165, 199, 209, 213, 223, 239, 241, 245, 314 Butler, R.A. 85 Cairo 12, 16, 61, 97, 159, 266 Calcutta 94, 188, 205, 219 Canada 3–4, 14, 75, 133, 136, 160–4, 171, 184, 187, 200, 213–14, 223–4, 240, 244, 251–61, 267–9, 271–2, 274–5, 278, 281–9, 291–4 Cape Colony 75, 252, 262, 265 Cardwell, Edward 92, 105, 255 Caucasus 31–2, 34 Central Africa Rifles 208, 237 Central Treaty Organisation 308–9, 319 Ceylon 75, 102, 165, 211, 219, 236, 239–40, 242, 245, 309, 314, 322 Chamberlain, Austin 30, 32–3, 37, 74, 77 Chamberlain, Joseph 237, 264–9 Chamberlain, Neville 39, 40, 78–81, 139 Chanak 35, 247, 292–4, 296 Chatfield, Sir Ernle 79, 81–2, 135, 137, 141, 145 Chiefs of Staff 31, 32, 51, 54–6, 63–4, 66, 78–9, 83–5, 165, 306–7 Childers, Hugh 92, 105 China 12, 16, 20, 32–3, 35–8, 40–1, 63, 74, 102, 136, 139, 141, 143, 162, 182, 188, 191, 199, 201, 203, 207, 215, 239, 241–2 China Squadron 139 China Station 240–1, 273, 317 Christianity 198, 200–4, 206–9, 213, 215–16 Church Missionary Society 203–4, 208–9 Church of England 201, 203, 208 Churchill, Winston 32, 77–8, 81, 83, 155, 199, 225, 229, 277, 292 Clarendon, Lord 13–14, 180, 182 Clark, Alan 315–16 Clarke, G.S. 124–5 Cold War 52, 57–67, 120, 128, 134, 144, 164, 171, 192–3, 230, 245–8, 304, 306–11, 323–4 Colomb, Philip 202, 207–8, 256 Colonial Defence Committee 122, 124, 246, 259, 261–2, 265

Colonial Office 12, 14–16, 234–5, 242, 246, 252 Committee of Imperial Defence 6, 12, 19, 21, 30, 33, 36, 73, 78, 113, 116, 122, 124, 137–8, 159, 270, 274, 279 Commonwealth 51–3, 56–9, 62–4, 67–8, 84, 86, 102, 159–65, 167, 171–2, 247, 267, 286–7, 294, 304, 307–10, 314, 323 Commonwealth Air Training Plan 162–3 Commonwealth Aircraft Corporation 162 conscription 76, 101, 103, 200, 214, 224, 285–8 Constantinople 11–12, 18, 182, 242 Craigie, Robert 39–40 Cresswell, W.R. 273 Crimean War 1, 9–10, 74, 91–2, 95, 112, 124, 126, 220, 224, 252 Currie, Arthur 289 Currie, Phillip 14–15, 183 Curtis, Lionel 281, 287 Curzon, Lord George 17, 30–2, 35–6, 206 Cyprus 9, 15, 60, 65–6, 85, 166, 169, 172, 230, 236, 242, 245, 248, 305–6, 309, 314–15, 319–22 Dalton, Hugh 84 Deakin, Alfred 262, 270, 274 Defence Requirements Sub-Committee 33, 39, 79–81 Defence White Paper 87 Dennison, William 253 Department of Information 226–7 Diego Garcia 242, 316 Disraeli, Benjamin 11, 13, 15, 71, 256–7, 279 Dogras 94, 120 Dominions Office 218, 234 Durand, Sir Mortimer 16 Dutch East Indies 165, 171, 245 Dyer, Brigadier 100, 104 East India Company 91, 93, 183, 242 East Indies Station 240, 309 Eastern Fleet 245, 275 Eden, Anthony 62, 64, 85 Egypt 12, 16, 31, 34, 40, 54, 58–67, 75, 77, 84–6, 92, 97, 99, 102, 104–5, 121, 158–9, 167, 187, 214, 238, 241, 243, 247 Ellington, Sir Edward 79, 80 Empire Service 228–9 Europe 9–11, 16, 18, 20–4, 30–2, 36, 39–41, 51–3, 56–68, 73–4, 82–4, 87, 93–4, 96–7, 101, 103–6, 112–16, 117,

Index 335 120, 122–3, 125, 127–9, 134, 136, 138–43, 157, 159, 162, 164, 168, 176, 178–81, 187–93, 188, 205, 218, 237, 241, 244–5, 251–5, 257–8, 261, 266, 271, 273, 275, 277–8, 280–1, 283, 291, 303–6, 309, 319, 223, 341 Europe, western 51, 53–60, 62, 104, 152, 164, 307–8, 314 European Economic Community 119, 303 Exchequer, Chancellors of 13, 32, 39, 71, 76–8, 82, 85–6, 114 Falklands 240, 244, 304–6, 318–19, 323 Far East Air Force 310, 313–14 Far East Fleet 310, 312–13 Fiji 103, 208, 236–7, 305 Fisher, Sir John 76, 79, 81, 116, 120, 124 Fisher, Sir Warren 72 Five Power Defence Arrangements 313–14 Fleet Air Arm 80, 243 Flying Squadron 114–15 Foreign Intelligence Committee 185–6 Foreign Office 5, 9–24, 30–41, 50–68, 73, 136, 226 Four Power Treaty 37, 136 France 12, 20–2, 35, 40–1, 51, 73, 76, 79, 85, 92, 101, 105, 118, 140, 142, 161, 176–9, 182–3, 190, 214, 237, 240, 242, 257, 264, 273, 278, 281–3, 288, 313 French Fleet 140 French Marine 141–2 Galloper 56, 58 Gan 314–15 Geneva conference 38, 138 George, Lloyd David 30, 35, 76, 283, 285–7, 289–90, 292 Germany 4, 12, 21–4, 31–5, 39–40, 50–1, 73–4, 78–80, 82–4, 103, 117, 264, 273–4, 280, 306 Gibraltar 95, 122, 127, 236, 240–2, 258, 306, 319 Gladstone, W.E. 11, 71, 73–4, 114–15, 225, 255 Glubb, Sir John 212–13 Godley, Sir Arthur 16–17 Gold Coast 94, 99, 236, 238, 241 Government Code & Cypher School 191 Granville, Earl of 13–14 Great Powers 9, 11, 20, 37, 39, 243, 252, 294 Greece 164, 168 Greene, W.C. 16 Grey, Earl 253

Grey, Sir Edward 13–14, 19, 21–4, 36 Gurkhas 94, 210 Haldane, R.B. 13, 18, 75, 270–3, 278, 288 Halifax 99, 127, 240, 255, 258, 260, 271 Hamilton, George 16 Hankey, Sir Maurice 79, 81–2, 124, 137, 290 Harcourt, Sir William 13, 76 Hardinge, Charles 14, 18, 182, 190 Hart, Liddell 54 Hitler, Adolph 158, 162, 193, 294 HMS ships 127, 201, 225, 240, 244, 312–13, 317, 319–21 home defence 19, 80, 92, 157, 162, 165, 171 Home Office 181, 187, 192 Huddlestone, Trevor 203 Hughes, Sam 282, 284–5 Hughes, William 284, 286, 288–90 Hutton, Edward 268 Imperial Conferences 36, 78, 137, 158, 161, 274 Imperial Federation League 258, 262–3 Imperial General Staff 52, 79, 167, 272 Imperial Japanese Navy 20, 81, 136, 139–41, 235, 314 Imperial War Cabinet 286, 289 Imperial War Conference 286, 289 India 3–4, 12–17, 21, 31–5, 51, 54, 58, 75, 91, 93–103, 111–12, 115–16, 121, 134, 139, 142, 144, 153–4, 156–8, 163, 165–6, 180–92, 198–200, 203–4, 206, 210–11, 213, 215–16, 220, 223, 227–9, 234, 236, 238, 241–2, 247–8, 251–7, 261, 274, 276, 287, 295, 307–8 India Office 16–17, 33, 93 Indian Air Force 163 Indian Army 3, 93–4, 99, 101, 154, 185, 188, 199, 210–11, 213, 215, 222, 224, 239, 245, 247–8, 264, 307 Indian Civil Service 215, 221–2 Indian Intelligence Branch 185–7 Indian Mutiny 74, 93, 100, 197–8, 206, 216, 238 Indo-China 41, 59, 165, 245 Inskip, Sir Thomas 81–2, 86–7 Integrated Air Defence System 313 Iraq 35, 54, 64–6, 77, 102, 105, 153–6, 191, 212, 214, 241, 306, 314, 316, 321–2 Ireland 31, 102, 197–8, 224, 227, 229, 280, 292–4

336

Index

Islam 34, 187, 199, 203, 206, 215 Istanbul 181, 183, 187 Italy 12, 34–5, 40, 51, 54, 82, 101, 141–2, 156, 159, 162, 178, 241, 245, 248 Jacobites 176–7 Japan 20–1, 30, 33–41, 50–1, 77–8, 105, 112, 121, 135, 138–43, 158, 162, 164, 172, 201, 203–4, 241, 243, 266, 273–4 Jellicoe, Lord 137 Jervois, W.F.D. 255–8, 261 Kabul 16, 31, 33, 154, 157 Kemal, Mustafa 34 Kenya 56, 84, 94, 102–4, 170, 230, 237, 240, 244–5, 247–8, 306, 312, 317, 321–2 Keyes, Sir Roger 135, 137 Keynes, John Maynard 76, 84 Khartoum 94, 97, 203, 225 Kilbracken, Lord 16 King, William Lyon Mackenzie 162, 292–5 King’s African Rifles 91, 94, 208–9, 211, 213, 237 Kipling, Rudyard 214, 219, 221, 226 Kitchener, Lord 97, 222, 225, 241, 271–3, 283–4 Korea 20–1, 59, 66, 103, 201–2, 209, 294 Korean War 85, 144 Lagos 14, 54–5, 84 Lansdowne 13–14, 19–21 Laurier, Wilfred 214, 264–75, 278, 282, 287 Law, Andrew Bonar 283, 285 Layard, Henry 181 League of Nations 31, 153, 291–2 Lend-Lease Act 83–4, 163 Liddell, Eric 203 Livingstone, David 206–7 London Missionary Society 203, 208 London Naval Conferences 38–9, 81, 138, 140 Macdonald, J. Ramsay 38 Macdonald, Sir John A. 214, 259–60, 262–4, 266, 268–9, 275, 279–80, 282, 292–3 McKenna, Reginald 76 Macmillan, Harold 85–6, 309 Madras 94, 210 Malaya 56, 59, 102–4, 158–9, 165, 169–73, 241, 245–6, 313, 322

Malayan Emergency 230, 238 Malta 112, 122, 127, 158–9, 172, 178, 236, 240–3, 245, 248, 258, 319 Manning, William 211 Masirah 242, 247, 315 Massey, William Ferguson 286–7, 289 Mauritius 236, 238–9, 242, 244–6, 305, 312, 314, 316, 321–2 Meade, Sir Robert 15 Mediterranean Fleet 34, 187, 240, 243, 248 MI5 188, 190, 192 Middle East 31, 34–5, 50–67, 84, 102, 104–5, 134, 136, 152, 155, 158–9, 164, 166–9, 171–2, 199, 212, 214–15, 234, 239, 243, 247–8, 284, 291, 306–8, 314, 316, 319 Military Intelligence Department 185–9 Miller, E.D. 277 Mills, Arthur 254 Mills Committee 114, 253, 255–6, 273 Milner, Sir Alexander 124, 226, 285 Milner, Sir Alfred 226, 285 Ministry of Information 218, 224, 227, 229–30 Mombasa 54–5, 101, 321 Montgomery, Bernard 52, 57 Montgomery, Bishop Henry 203–4 Montgomery, Field Marshal 201 Montgomery-Massingberd, Sir Archibald 79 Morley, John 21 Mountbatten, Louis 215, 245 Muslims 187, 199–200, 208–10, 212, 214–16 Napoleonic Wars 115, 178, 242 Nasser, Colonel 66–7, 85, 105, 214, 243 Naval Defence Acts 20, 72, 118, 254, 263 Naval Intelligence 75, 124, 126, 183 Naval Intelligence Department 185–6, 190 Navy League 221, 263 Nehru, J. 221–2 Nelson, Horatio 179, 243, 309 Netherlands, the 165, 177 New Brunswick 252, 254–5 New South Wales 252–3, 261, 313 New Zealand 3, 58–60, 75, 112, 117, 133, 142–4, 158, 160–1, 164, 172, 204, 208–9, 225, 237, 244, 251–5, 258, 261–2, 267, 269, 272, 275–7, 283, 285–6, 292, 307–8, 312–13, 323 Nicolson, Arthur 14, 23, 190 Nigeria 94, 101, 203, 209, 213, 322, 324 Nine Power Treaty 37, 40, 136

Index 337 North Atlantic Treaty Organisation 50–1, 55–7, 60, 63, 68, 120, 144, 172, 303–10, 314, 319, 320, 323 Northwest Frontier of India 97, 99, 153–7, 191, 210–11, 213, 235, 261 Nyasaland 94, 201, 208–9, 216 Oman 173, 241–2, 306, 312–13, 315–17, 321–2 Palestine 54, 77, 102–4, 153, 156, 166–7, 169, 212, 214, 222, 227, 247 Palmerston, Lord 10, 112, 114, 179–80, 255 Paris Peace Conference 31 Paris Peace treaty 31 Park, Keith 223 Pauncefote, Julian 15 Pearl Harbor 41, 143 Peking 18, 241 Persian Gulf 16–17, 33, 240, 241, 309–11, 313–14, 321, 324 Poland 31–2, 191 Political Warfare Executive 218 Protestant 197, 200, 209 Rajputs 94, 210 Reuter’s news agency 220, 226, 269 Rhodes, Cecil 222, 237 Rhodesia 172, 238, 244, 322 Roberts, Lord 96, 98, 226 Roman Catholic 197, 200, 205, 214 Rosebery, Lord 12–14, 181, 201, 258 Royal Air Force 2–4, 39, 77, 80, 144, 152–73, 199, 222, 228, 238–9, 241–7, 310–15, 319–22 Royal Australian Air Force 162–3, 171–2 Royal Australian Navy 117 Royal Flying Corp 161, 288 Royal Navy 2–4, 20, 28, 38–40, 50, 71, 91, 111–12, 115–19, 122–9, 133–45, 161–5, 178–80, 184, 186, 190, 199, 201–2, 207, 222, 256–8, 261, 263, 265, 273–5, 277–8, 284 Royal Navy South Atlantic Squadron 318 Royal West African Frontier Force 91, 94 Russell, Lord John 13–14, 180 Russia 9–12, 15, 19, 20–4, 31–40, 63, 73, 99, 105, 115, 124, 181–3, 186, 190, 199, 245–3, 257, 261, 264, 273, 287, 306–8, 323 Russo-Japanese War 21, 35, 238

St. Petersburg 14, 16, 18, 21–2, 24, 35, 115, 123, 182, 187, 230 Salisbury, Lord 9, 11–19, 181, 183, 188, 199, 262 Sanderson, Thomas 14, 17 Sandys Defence Review 73, 309 Sargent, Sir Orme 52 Scotland Yard 184, 323 Secret Intelligence Service 188, 191–2 secret service 17–19, 178, 181, 188–91 Seeley, Sir John 199, 258 Selbourne, Lord 111 Shanghai 38, 192, 234, 246 Sierra Leone 75, 94, 236, 240, 306, 319, 322 Sikhs 94, 210, 215, 237 Simmonds, John 183–4 Simon, Sir John 38, 82 Singapore 36–8, 77–8, 81, 136–7, 142–3, 158–9, 161–2, 225, 229, 239, 241–3, 245, 293–4, 304, 306, 310–14, 316 Slessor, John 166 Smuts, Jan 227, 286–7 Snowden, Philip 78, 81, 124, 137, 290 Society of the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts 201–4 Somaliland 94, 154–7, 211, 238, 245–6 Somers-Cocks, C.S. 16 South Africa 3, 20, 53, 58, 60, 92, 97–8, 101, 112, 121, 133, 142, 160–1, 203–4, 206, 224, 226, 238–9, 251, 269, 273, 281, 286, 292–4, 318–19 South African War 30, 121, 273 South China Sea 241, 317 South Pacific 15, 59, 103, 261 Southeast Asia Treaty Organisation 66, 172, 308 Soviet Navy 140, 164 Soviet Union 4, 53–4, 58, 64, 140, 152, 164, 167, 229 Spain 51, 156, 176–8 Special Operations Executive 245–6 Spithead 115, 123, 220 Stimson, Henry L. 38 Sudan 12, 75, 94, 97, 209, 211–13, 234, 241, 260–1, 293, 296 Sudan Defence Force 94, 212, 237 Suez Canal 34, 51, 55–6, 64–7, 85, 103–5, 158, 166, 168, 211, 226, 238, 245, 257 Suez Crisis 67, 85–6, 91, 144, 152, 230, 294, 304, 306, 308, 311 Suez, East of 38, 54, 103, 243, 245, 247–8, 305, 308, 310–14, 316–18, 321–2, 324

338

Index

Suez, West of 304, 318, 320 Sydney 123, 127, 219, 240, 278 Syria 15, 214 Tanganyika 94, 208, 240, 246 Tedder, Arthur 162, 166–7 Tehran 16–17 Ten Year Rule 78, 135 Third World Power 52, 56 Tokyo 16, 32, 34, 36, 39, 105 Treasury 5, 12–13, 16–17, 20, 30, 35–9, 56, 71–87, 99, 139, 144, 304, 311, 324 Treaty of Berlin 11, 199 Treaty of Versailles 37 Trenchard, Hugh 4, 102, 153–5, 157–8 Trinidad 236, 240 Tryon, George 261–2 Turkey 15, 34–5, 40, 105, 123, 161, 182, 190, 283, 319, 321 Two Power Standard 141, 263 Uganda 15, 94, 208–9, 244, 321–2, 324 United Nations 320, 323 United States 14, 20, 30, 35, 37, 40, 59, 63–4, 66, 77, 79, 81, 83–5, 105, 136, 142–3 United States Army 115, 123, 160

United States Navy 62, 135, 140–4 Universities Mission 207 Vansittart, Sir Robert 39, 79–80, 191 Versailles Peace Conference 234 Victoria 252, 261–2 Victoria, Queen 202, 220–1, 262 War Office 14–15, 19, 35, 37, 71, 75, 77, 81–2, 92, 96 War Propaganda Bureau 226 Washington 15, 20, 36, 38–41, 66, 84, 129, 136, 143, 181, 190, 226, 256 Washington Naval Agreements 162 Washington Naval Conference 37, 135–6, 138 Washington Treaty 129, 136–7, 256 Wavell, Archibald 215, 226 Wellington House 226, 271 West Indies 201, 206, 238, 240, 245, 318, 321 West Indies Squadron 139, 318 Western Front 101, 239, 283, 285, 287–8 Wilson, Harold 305, 311 Wolseley, Sir Garnet 96–7 Zulu 75, 96, 98, 121, 238