burning patriotism which made those who came in contact with him uncomfortable, ashamed, or, in a few cases, resolved to fight and die for freedom. Nor did his theories matter. The immediate and belated task was to “stop the rot”, and persuade people that all was not yet lost.
Mallory was less than forty years of age. He stooped slightly, had lank, black hair, and sharp features that were not too prepossessing. It was, however, impossible to deny the lively brilliance of his eyes. He had had a distinguished academic career, had been called to the Bar, and had published an authoritative work on the economics of the steel industry. Rich and well-connected, he had soon found his way into the House of Commons, where he had sat under thequaint banner of National Labour. But he never made his mark in Parliament, for he was an indifferent orator. He had been connected with a number of societies whose aim included a more determined effort at economic planning. He had been useful, during the war, at the Ministry of Supply, though, if the doctors had let him, he would have enlisted.
He opposed the Peace of Nuremberg, and crossed, with a crowd of others, the floor of the House. But in the months that followed he busied himself with plans of Anglo-German economic co-operation; and the hopelessness of it all must have been borne upon him only by degrees. At any rate, it was some time before he settled down as a confirmed critic of the Government’s foreign policy, acquiring the art of the Supplementary Question, and spoiling a good deal of Sir John Naker’s fun. Not until the Treaty of St. James’s was signed did he look around him and realize, with sickening force, that among the debaters and the arguers, the elder statesmen and those who cried “Ichabod”, he alone, apparently, had received the call to win the British people back to the responsibilities of nationhood. And this, he knew, was not a matter of asking questions in Parliament.
I first made his acquaintance early in June, when Australia and New Zealand began a tentative approach towards the United States. He sought me out and invited me to lunch at the Reform Club. He wanted to know more about feeling in the Antipodes than the controlled Press could tell him, and he asked me what would be the effect on opinion there if the United Kingdom were ever to renounce her alliance with Germany and face up to the consequences, whatever they might be. The most outspoken anti-German had never before, in my hearing, done more than suggest resistance to further Nazi encroachments, and I sat back in surprise. “The effect”, I could only say, “might be magical, but so would the cause.” “No,” he said. “I am quite serious. It would surely not be miraculous if England were to exert her utmost efforts to throw off a foreign tyranny. Even now there is time.”
One night a little later he outlined his plan in greater detail to a party of us gathered in his chambers in the Temple. A strong Government was to proclaim martial law, disband the Grey shirts, and put an end once and for all to the deliberate German-fomented attacks on Jews and Socialists. If necessary, this was to be done with machine-guns. Properly executed, the manœuvre might throw the Germans off their balance. They might hesitate and threaten, and in the meantime the second part of the plan could be brought into operation.
The Navy was intact and so was the small Regular Army of 200,000 men. They should be adequate for the immediate defence of the country from actual invasion, even though the German military missions now knew their organization from A to Z. The real danger was from the air, and here we must rely mainly on passive defence. The air-raid shelters were still in existence, for the preservation of human life, and until the system of wardens could be re-established the police could take over the responsibility of the A.R.P. It took time for air attacks to do any irreparable damage to a country’s
Mallory was less than forty years of age. He stooped slightly, had lank, black hair, and sharp features that were not too prepossessing. It was, however, impossible to deny the lively brilliance of his eyes. He had had a distinguished academic career, had been called to the Bar, and had published an authoritative work on the economics of the steel industry. Rich and well-connected, he had soon found his way into the House of Commons, where he had sat under thequaint banner of National Labour. But he never made his mark in Parliament, for he was an indifferent orator. He had been connected with a number of societies whose aim included a more determined effort at economic planning. He had been useful, during the war, at the Ministry of Supply, though, if the doctors had let him, he would have enlisted.
He opposed the Peace of Nuremberg, and crossed, with a crowd of others, the floor of the House. But in the months that followed he busied himself with plans of Anglo-German economic co-operation; and the hopelessness of it all must have been borne upon him only by degrees. At any rate, it was some time before he settled down as a confirmed critic of the Government’s foreign policy, acquiring the art of the Supplementary Question, and spoiling a good deal of Sir John Naker’s fun. Not until the Treaty of St. James’s was signed did he look around him and realize, with sickening force, that among the debaters and the arguers, the elder statesmen and those who cried “Ichabod”, he alone, apparently, had received the call to win the British people back to the responsibilities of nationhood. And this, he knew, was not a matter of asking questions in Parliament.
I first made his acquaintance early in June, when Australia and New Zealand began a tentative approach towards the United States. He sought me out and invited me to lunch at the Reform Club. He wanted to know more about feeling in the Antipodes than the controlled Press could tell him, and he asked me what would be the effect on opinion there if the United Kingdom were ever to renounce her alliance with Germany and face up to the consequences, whatever they might be. The most outspoken anti-German had never before, in my hearing, done more than suggest resistance to further Nazi encroachments, and I sat back in surprise. “The effect”, I could only say, “might be magical, but so would the cause.” “No,” he said. “I am quite serious. It would surely not be miraculous if England were to exert her utmost efforts to throw off a foreign tyranny. Even now there is time.”
One night a little later he outlined his plan in greater detail to a party of us gathered in his chambers in the Temple. A strong Government was to proclaim martial law, disband the Grey shirts, and put an end once and for all to the deliberate German-fomented attacks on Jews and Socialists. If necessary, this was to be done with machine-guns. Properly executed, the manœuvre might throw the Germans off their balance. They might hesitate and threaten, and in the meantime the second part of the plan could be brought into operation.
The Navy was intact and so was the small Regular Army of 200,000 men. They should be adequate for the immediate defence of the country from actual invasion, even though the German military missions now knew their organization from A to Z. The real danger was from the air, and here we must rely mainly on passive defence. The air-raid shelters were still in existence, for the preservation of human life, and until the system of wardens could be re-established the police could take over the responsibility of the A.R.P. It took time for air attacks to do any irreparable damage to a country’s
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