wouldn’t kill a useful man like Ackroyd, not so early in the game.
After his official meeting with the brass, Staunton took Shaw along for a private talk with the Governor in The Convent, the historic old building in Main Street used as His Excellency’s official residence. They found General Hammersley, a very worried man, striding up and down in his office; Shaw knew that this distinguished soldier—who could now be the last in a long line of Governors of Gibraltar —faced the biggest crisis in the Rock’s long fortress-story.
Hammersley’s eyes, oddly gentle though clear and penetrating, were summing Shaw up. He said, “Well, Shaw, I believe you do realize the extent of this thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Total extinction. The place reduced to radioactive rubble,” said Hammersley quietly. His voice shook, just a little. “One of England’s oldest bases” He broke off abruptly, and Shaw could see the emotion in his face. Shaw thought again of those place-names that signposted Gibraltar’s past: Rosia Parade, Ragged Staff, O’Hara’s Battery, Prince Edward’s Gate.
After that Sir Francis Hammersley—a square man with a pugnacious, firm-chinned face and a small, sandy moustache —came straight to the point, and Shaw gathered that the question of immediate evacuation was very much in his mind. There were, Hammersley said, two avenues of total evacuation: one, a large-scale combined air-sea lift involving the wholesale diversion of shipping and aircraft to the Rock; two, an evacuation by land across the Spanish frontier which Whitehall contended wasn’t ‘on’ at all except as a last desperate resort—and that only if the Spanish authorities agreed, which, considering their attitude towards British retention of Gibraltar, was unlikely. And, said Hammersley, London was trying at all costs to avoid any evacuation whatever— without exactly committing themselves to a direct refusal. Which meant, in effect, that the whole onus was being thrown on Hammersley.
“Which,” he said, with a tired smile, “is what we unfortunates who have to govern the Commonwealth learn to expect anyway.”
Hammersley, thought Shaw, looked the kind of man who could take the responsibility, enormous though it was, and cruel too; he was clearly an example of the right man in the right place at the right time. Sir Francis said heavily, “I’ve been almost constantly on the scramble line to Whitehall in the last few hours, and during the meeting to-night I was called up by your chief, Shaw. He tells me you’re the man-on-the-spot with the background hush-hush knowledge and so forth, and he suggests I take your advice. Well, I just thought I’d have a look at you!” He laughed briefly. “I’ve had that look, and I’m quite satisfied. I’ll just tell you this— I won’t say it again, but you can rely upon it—I’m prepared to listen to what you say, and if I take your advice I’ll assume full responsibility afterwards. So just speak your mind, my boy. Right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Shaw gratefully. He thought for a moment, marshalling his arguments. “Well—the first thing is this: I think London’s absolutely right not to want a general evacuation yet—that is, before we’ve had a chance to deal with the trouble. This thing’s too important. Obviously, this Project Sinker can’t be kept a dead secret once it’s fully operational, but every day during which it can be kept secret is a day gained, as it were, in the East-West balance—and you’ll probably agree that time counts in the cold war racket. It’s vital that nothing should come out yet, especially about the fuel-production unit—that’s the main thing. Any big move like an evacuation would bust security wide open in five minutes. You very likely wouldn’t be able physically to shift the whole population without the most frightful shindy, sir—I seem to remember in the 1940 evacuation a lot of them had to be moved by force, and that wasn’t
After his official meeting with the brass, Staunton took Shaw along for a private talk with the Governor in The Convent, the historic old building in Main Street used as His Excellency’s official residence. They found General Hammersley, a very worried man, striding up and down in his office; Shaw knew that this distinguished soldier—who could now be the last in a long line of Governors of Gibraltar —faced the biggest crisis in the Rock’s long fortress-story.
Hammersley’s eyes, oddly gentle though clear and penetrating, were summing Shaw up. He said, “Well, Shaw, I believe you do realize the extent of this thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Total extinction. The place reduced to radioactive rubble,” said Hammersley quietly. His voice shook, just a little. “One of England’s oldest bases” He broke off abruptly, and Shaw could see the emotion in his face. Shaw thought again of those place-names that signposted Gibraltar’s past: Rosia Parade, Ragged Staff, O’Hara’s Battery, Prince Edward’s Gate.
After that Sir Francis Hammersley—a square man with a pugnacious, firm-chinned face and a small, sandy moustache —came straight to the point, and Shaw gathered that the question of immediate evacuation was very much in his mind. There were, Hammersley said, two avenues of total evacuation: one, a large-scale combined air-sea lift involving the wholesale diversion of shipping and aircraft to the Rock; two, an evacuation by land across the Spanish frontier which Whitehall contended wasn’t ‘on’ at all except as a last desperate resort—and that only if the Spanish authorities agreed, which, considering their attitude towards British retention of Gibraltar, was unlikely. And, said Hammersley, London was trying at all costs to avoid any evacuation whatever— without exactly committing themselves to a direct refusal. Which meant, in effect, that the whole onus was being thrown on Hammersley.
“Which,” he said, with a tired smile, “is what we unfortunates who have to govern the Commonwealth learn to expect anyway.”
Hammersley, thought Shaw, looked the kind of man who could take the responsibility, enormous though it was, and cruel too; he was clearly an example of the right man in the right place at the right time. Sir Francis said heavily, “I’ve been almost constantly on the scramble line to Whitehall in the last few hours, and during the meeting to-night I was called up by your chief, Shaw. He tells me you’re the man-on-the-spot with the background hush-hush knowledge and so forth, and he suggests I take your advice. Well, I just thought I’d have a look at you!” He laughed briefly. “I’ve had that look, and I’m quite satisfied. I’ll just tell you this— I won’t say it again, but you can rely upon it—I’m prepared to listen to what you say, and if I take your advice I’ll assume full responsibility afterwards. So just speak your mind, my boy. Right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Shaw gratefully. He thought for a moment, marshalling his arguments. “Well—the first thing is this: I think London’s absolutely right not to want a general evacuation yet—that is, before we’ve had a chance to deal with the trouble. This thing’s too important. Obviously, this Project Sinker can’t be kept a dead secret once it’s fully operational, but every day during which it can be kept secret is a day gained, as it were, in the East-West balance—and you’ll probably agree that time counts in the cold war racket. It’s vital that nothing should come out yet, especially about the fuel-production unit—that’s the main thing. Any big move like an evacuation would bust security wide open in five minutes. You very likely wouldn’t be able physically to shift the whole population without the most frightful shindy, sir—I seem to remember in the 1940 evacuation a lot of them had to be moved by force, and that wasn’t
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