UNLIMITED WARFARE

Hayford Peirce

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The muted tones of Big Ben tolled mournfully through the late afternoon fog. Not far from St. James’ Barracks three men warmed themselves before an Adams fireplace.

“A scone?” inquired the Permanent Secretary.

“Waistline, you know,” muttered the Minister, and served himself a cucumber sandwich. He waved the silver teapot invitingly.

“Terribly barbarian of me, really,” said Colonel Christie, “but I’d much prefer a glass of that quite excellent sherry.”

The Permanent Secretary raised a deprecatory eyebrow, but covertly. Colonel Christie was not a man who worked easily or effectively under direct orders. His interest must be aroused, his flair engaged, his methods thereafter unquestioned.

The Permanent Secretary sighed inaudibly. It was all very difficult. His master, the Minister, was a politician, adroit in the use of the elegant double-cross, the subtle treachery, the facile disavowal. Easy enough for him to wash his hands afterwards. But he himself was a civil servant, with a lifetime’s predilection for agenda, minutes, memoranda, position papers, the Word committed to Paper. And of course, whenever Colonel Christie was involved, none of that was remotely possible. Very difficult indeed.

The Minister was staring into the flames and talking. Rather inconsequentially, it seemed. Three government, officials, gentlemen all, taking their tea, making small talk.

Colonel Christie listened very closely indeed to his Minister’s insubstantial chatter. It was his job to listen, and out of it would presently emerge, in carefully-guarded circumlocutions to be sure, an indication of what the current complication might be, a hint—but only a hint—in what direction the solution might lie.

They were orders, of course, all very tenuous and spectral, but orders nevertheless. And if a brick were dropped, Christie would carry the can. Misplaced zeal, a subordinate’s unwarranted… He smiled grimly. This way, at least, the initiative was generally left to him. Afterwards, no one questioned success.

“… after that man de Gaulle, naturally one hoped for an amelioration of the situation… completely shameless… trying to buy our way into the Common Market by subscribing to that preposterous Concorde project… utter blackmail… under Pompidou hardly any better… open subsidization of the French farmer… staggering inflation of our food prices… no unity whatsoever… the goal of a United Europe smashed, perhaps irreparably… no house spirit… they’re simply not team players. ” Colonel Christie frowned. The Minister was being unwontedly lucid. He must be very troubled indeed.

“… this new government, even more hopeless… pride, gentlemen, overweening pride, pure and simple… no proper respect and cooperation… during the days of the Marshall Plan… neither the inclination nor the means to play the international gadfly… a quite second-rate power basically… must be made to realize… can’t expect them perhaps to come hat in hand, but…” He waved an arm vaguely, encompassing in a gesture the vast realm of the possible, then rose briskly. “You agree, Jenkins?”

“Up to a point, Sir William, up to a point.”

“Splendid, splendid. I am so glad we are of one mind. Colonel Christie, good day.”

In a room hardly less elegant but infinitely more comfortable Colonel Christie summoned his second-in-command.

“Sit down, Dawson, we have much to discuss. We are about to declare war.”

“War, sir? May I ask against whom?”

“Certainly, this isn’t the Ministry of Defense. France.”

“France? There’s no denying they’re a shocking lot of—”

“Quite. I’m afraid I may have misled you somewhat. An entirely unofficial declaration is what I had in mind. The hostilities to be carried out by our Section.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” Colonel Christie laughed shortly. “I shouldn’t tease you, but the ministerial manner,is dreadfully catching. I must watch myself. Pour yourself a drink, Dawson, and let’s consider this matter.”

“Thank you.”

“Now then, what exactly is our goal? It is to coerce the sovereign state of France into a situation in which it will be inevitably and inexorably compelled to recognize its actual status as a lesser power, to reintegrate itself within the Common Market, and in general to rejoin the comity of Western nations. Not at all an easy task. Especially as the means must absolutely preclude the open declaration of hostilities or the traditional methods thereof, which could only invite mutual destruction.”

Dawson pondered, then said, “In other words, our purpose is to render ineffective their armed forces, or to smash the franc, or to destroy their morale, but without _ recourse to atomic warfare, naval, blockade, armed invasion, massive? propaganda, or other overtly hostile acts? As you say, not an easy task.”

“Which makes it all the more enthralling, don’t you think? A stern test of our native ingenuity,, Come, let us begin by considering the beginning. France. What Dawson, is France?”

“Well. Where does one start? 4 European power, roughly fifty million people, area something over two hundred thousand square miles, nominal allies—“

“Let’s probe deeper than that. To the spirit of France, Joan of Arc, the Revolution, Napoleon, Balzac, the Marne, de Gaulle, la mission civilisatricefrancaise…”

“Ah. What precisely is it that makes a Frenchman a Frenchman, rather than an Englishman? To subjugate France we first identify, then subjugate, her soul…”

“Excellent, really excellent. Well, Dawson, what is the soul of France? What springs instantly to mind?”

“Sex. Brigitte Bardot. The Folies Bergere. The—”

“A two-edged weapon, I’m afraid.”

“Surely the deprivation of sex in England would hardly be noticed?”

“Perhaps not, but it is difficult to see how a campaign of sexual warfare could be successfully implemented. But this is quite promising, Dawson, do carry on.”

“Well. The Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Riviera, chateaux on the Loire, perfume, camembert cheese. French bread, rudeness, independence, bloody mindedness. High fashion, funny little cars, berets, mustaches, three-star restaurants, wine—”

“Wine… wine, Dawson, wine! Red wine, white wine, rose wine, champagne, Chateau-Lafite ‘29, vin du table, Bordeaux, Burgundy, Provence, Anjou. Wine. Nothing but wine. A nation of winedrinkers, a nation of wine! Splendid, Dawson, really quite splendid.”

“But-”

“Dawson. The flash is blinding, it has me quite dazzled. Kindly hand me that almanac by your side, no, the French one, Quid? Let me see now, wine, wine, wine…” Colonel Christie hummed as he flipped through the pages. “Ah, yes, yes indeed. Listen to this, Dawson, 1,088,000 winegrowers, 1,453,000 vineyards, more than 4,500,000 persons living directly or indirectly from the production of wine. Average annual production, sixty-three million hectoliters, what on earth is a hectoliter? Twenty-two gallons? Good heavens, that’s 1,386 million gallons per year. Eight percent is exported. Consumption, about forty gallons per person per year.

“Ah, as I thought, in 1971‘ France imported only 124,147,000 francs’ worth of Scotch whisky, while exporting to England 494,-833,000 francs’ worth of wine and spirits. To England alone, mind you.

“Bearing those figures in mind, Dawson, is it any wonder that the French are an extremely unstable and disputatious race, or that England suffers a catastrophic balance of payments deficit? But here we have the means to redress the situation.

“We do?”

“Certainly we do. This inestimable almanac is kind enough to list the enemies of the vine mildew and oidium phylloxera. Surely you have heard that in the 1880’s the vineyards of France were almost totally destroyed overnight by phylloxera. Millions of vines had to be sent from the United States and replanted. Interestingly enough, after a few years in their new soil the transplanted vines produced wine of the same quality and characteristics as the original vines. It was, Dawson, the first example of American foreign aid, an early Marshall Plan. And equally forgotten.

“But I think that if a similar catastrophe were to overtake France today you would find few Americans in the mood to succor France yet again with Liberty Ships full of grapevines. After all, California is now one of the great wine-producing regions of the world, they would have no reason to help their fiercest competitor. No, Dawson, from every angle the prospect pleases. If I were a mathematician I should be tempted to call it elegant.

“Think of it. Economic and political chaos in France. Fifty million Frenchmen drinking water, with the inevitable result that they will see the world clearly for the first time in centuries. A shocking deficit in their balance of trade, total demoralization of a civilization founded on the restaurant and bistro, the collapse of their armed forces—recruits are forced to drink a liter of gros rouge per day— a notable boost for British exports—I foresee Red Cross vessels loaded to the scuppers with Scotch and sound British ale—and a dramatic return to the days when Britannia ruled the waves.“

“But, sir. What are we to drink? I must confess, a nice glass of—”

“Nonsense, Dawson. Stock your cellar if you must. Or refine your palate. Personally, I find a regimen of sherry, hock, and port entirely pleasing. None of them, you will note, from France.”

“But-”

“Dawson. ”Say, for what were hopyards meant Or why was Burton built on Trent?“” “I beg your, Pardon?” “ ‘Ale, man, ale’s the thing to drink. For fellows whom it hurts to think.”“

“Really, sir,” said Dawson reproachfully.

“The poet, you know. Housman.”

“Ah, I see, But the means…”

“Oh, come. Why do we support all those beastly biological warfare establishments if riot for situations such as this? I hardly think the boffins will have explored the possibility of a mutated and highly-virulent oidium phylloxera fungus, but I should think that the prospect of developing a nasty bug which poisons grapevines rather than en-tire populations ought to appeal to whatever small spark of common humanity they may yet retain. After that, a few aerosol bombs…”

Colonel Christie’s keen eye seemed to pierce the future’s veil. He smiled.

“Sir. Retaliation.”

“Retaliation? Don’t spout nonsense, Dawson. How can they retaliate? Atomic attack? Naval blockade to interdict trade in wheat and iron? That’s war. Psychological warfare, propaganda? Impossible. No one in France speaks English and no one in England understands French. Sabotage? What could they sabotage?

“Think, Dawson, of British life, its placid, straightforward, sensible course, devoid of fripperies or eccentricities. Its character. No, no. I assure you, Dawson. The British way of life is quite invulnerable.”

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“… and totally ravished. I tell you, St. Denis, it will mean mobilization and inevitable war. Already the President has designated a War Cabinet, and we are to meet later this evening. Ah, who would have thought it, that nation of shopkeepers, that race of hypocrites, that even they could sink so low? Not only an act of naked aggression but also an insult to the very honor of France herself. Ah, Perfidious Albion!”

Colonel St. Denis nodded deferentially. “If I may suggest, however, M. le Ministre, it is less a question of Perfidious Albion than a question of rank Britannic amateurism. Ah, these English milords, with their love of the hunt, their cult of the gentleman, their espousal of the amateur, their scorn of the professional. Because of a long-forgotten battle won on the playing fields of Eton they have never learned that the rest of the world has never attended Eton, nor needed to. They have not learned that we —that I, Jean-Pierre Franfois Marie Charles St. Denis—that we are not gentlemen and that we do not fight like gentlemen. We fight like professionals and we fight to win.“

“Bravely spoken. But are you saying—”

“Exactly, M-le Ministre. A plan. A riposte. Check and mate.”

“But the vineyards, totally ruined, beyond reclamation. A nation on the verge of depression or revolution. Were it not necessary to mobilize the Army it would be necessary to confine it to barracks.”

“Details. Of no importance. Do not the British still boast of their Battle of Britain and of Their Finest Hour? So it shall be with France, Her Finest Decade.” St. Denis waved a hand scornfully, “A few epicures, a few tosspots, they may suffer. For the rest of us there is work to do, work for the Glory of France!”

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“… like a charm, sir. Complete panic and demoralization. Already there’s talk of a Sixth Republic. No, Intelligence reports no indication of a counterattack. Simply a nationwide balls-up.”

“Exactly. As I told our masters this morning. How can one expect a committee of Froggies to come to a decision without a Bottle of wine to hand, eh, Dawson?”

“Up to a point, sir.”

“Come, come, Dawson, not getting the wind up, are you? I tell you, you’re far more likely to find your name on the next Honors’ List.”

… not bloody likely, with you to hog all the glory…

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… and now, St.Denis, if you would kindly tell us of what your plan consists?“

“Certainly, M. le President. You may recall your last visit to England, the sporting weekend with the Prime Minister at his country residence, Chequers?”

The President of France did not attempt to conceal his shudder.

“I thought so. I am certain then that after some ungodly meal of boiled mutton, brussels sprouts, and treacle pudding, you retired to your chamber for a restorative glass of cognac and a troubled sleep?”

“Really, St. Denis, you surpass yourself.”

“Thank you, M. le President. After a troubled sleep, then, you were most certainly roused at some ghastly hour of the morning by a discreet knock upon your door. Contrary to your expectations, perhaps, it was a manservant, a butler even, come to wake you for a strenuous day amidst the fogs and grouse. And what, M. le President, did this unwelcome intruder bear inexorably before him? The so-renowned breakfast anglais! Ah, no! I will tell you what this English devil placed before you for your ever-lasting torment.“

The President shied back before an accusatory finger.

“He placed before you, M. le President, a pot of tea!”

“Tea?”

“Tea.”

“Ah. Tea. Yes, I remember it well.” He shuddered anew. “But surely, Colonel St. Denis, you are not proposing that we poison the English population by forcing them to consume tea? The rest of the world, yes, it would be mass genocide. But the English, they drink tea, they thrive on tea, it would be, how do they say,,bearing charcoals to Windsor Castle.”

“Not exactly, M. le President. I am certain that as an intellectual exercise you are prepared to admit to the fact that Englishmen drink tea, But do you comprehend it here?” He clutched both hands to his heart “Here, with your soul? Or—it is almost indelicate to speak of this—have you ever grasped the sheer quantities of tea consume! within the British Isles? Of course not.

“Page 906 of the invaluble Quid? informs us that an English man takes at least 2,400 cups per year — six to seven per day—compared to thirty-three per year per Frenchman… Good heavens, are you all right?“

“I felt quite giddy for a moment. What appalling statistics.”

“Only the Anglo-Saxon could contemplate them without reeling.”

“One hardly knows which is worse, the English consumption or the fact that Frenchmen appear—”

“Let your mind be at rest. French consumption is confined entirely to immigrants from our former North-African colonies, or to herbal infusions quite incorrectly called tea.”

“Ah, thank heavens for that. But returning to—”

“Once you have grasped the magnitude of the consumption, you must then grasp the social importance of the consumption. It is the very fabric with which English society is constructed. Before-breakfast tea. ”Elevenses.“ ‘Put the kettle on, dearie, and let’s have a nice cuppa.” Thick black tea drunk by the mugful in the Army and Navy. Entire industries coming to a halt at a wildcat-strike called because of improperly-brewed tea. Afternoon tea with its cakes and crumpets and cucumber sandwiches and who dares guess what else?“

“I feel quite ill.”

“I also. Fortunately there remains only the Ceremony of the Teapot, the single article of faith which sixty million Englishmen hold in common. First the teapot must be heated, but only by filling it with, boiling water. Then—”

“St. Denis. I can bear no more. You have a course of action?”

“A simple virus, M. le President. Can the land of Pasteur and Curie fail before such a challenge?”

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The room was somberly but richly furnished. A Persian rug lay on the floor. A fire crackled in the hearth.

The Permanent Secretary nodded approvingly. It was always satisfactory when a muddle began to regularize itself.

“Kind of you to drop by like this,” said Colonel Christie. “Whisky-soda? The syphon’s behind you.”

“Kind of you.” He limned the room with a gesture. “You do well by yourself here.”

The Colonel shrugged urbanely. “You wanted to see me?”

“That is, the Minister wanted me to see you. He thought you might be interested in an informal tally sheet we have drawn up regarding the results of last year’s Operation… er… Bacchus.”

“Very good of him indeed.”

“In so very informal a minute we thought it might be profitable to list the items under the headings Credits and Debits. The Minister was a former Chartered Accountant, you know.”

“I recall,” said Colonel Christie as he began to read the first sheet of notepaper.

Credits,

1. Destruction of all French vineyards, with concomitant confusion and social unrest in France, as apparently planned.

2. Twenty percent increase in-the exportation of Scotch whisky, for a three-week period before the blockade.

Debits,

1. Retaliation in the form of complete destruction of the world’s tea supply by means of a still-un-controllable mutated virus.

2. Tea-rationing, followed by riots. Three general elections in the space of eight months. Martial law eventually declared.

3. Tea no longer available, nor in the foreseeable future.

4. Total decomposition of the fabric of British society.

5. This peculiarly-depraved act of war is currently being litigated at Geneva and before the World Court as a Crime Against Humanity, but we have reason to believe that our suit is not being well-received.

6. Expulsion of England from the Common Market.

7. The world’s opprobrium.

8. Economic embargo and naval blockade by a task force of seventy-three countries. Only the London Airlift and the United States Navy maintain England as a viable state.

9. Dwindling supplies of French wine. Blackmarket, and concomitant problems.

10. After a few months’ confusion, unexpected and absolute unification of the French people in, the face of adversity.

11. As the world’s now-largest importer of wine, France is directly responsible for the sudden Economic Miracles in Italy and Algeria, both of which have doubled their vineyard acreage under production. Algeria has joined the Common Market and is considering becoming once again an integral part of France. German, Spanish, and Greek wine production has also benefited greatly.

12. To further promote this rapidly-rising spiral of prosperity, France and the other members of the Common Market are nearing Economic Union and hope shortly to achieve Political Union. It is felt that France will dominate and direct this nation of 250 million people.

13. To counter the cost of wine importation and the subsequent balance of payments deficit, France has already donated its armed forces (and expenses) to a United European Command.

14. Millions of acres of tea-producing land and millions of people in sixty-eight countries suddenly have become available for other forms of agricultural production. With the vast market unexpectedly open in France and other countries to the importation of wine, most of this acreage has been given over to wine production.

15. Some 4.6 million Frenchmen have spread to all corners of the world to aid the undeveloped countries in their effort Jo produce potable wine.

16. Due to the high professionalism of the French Secret Ser-vice, it is accepted unhesitatingly throughout the world that the American CIA was responsible for the mass destruction of the tea plant. Spurred by the efforts of 4.6 million ambassadors of goodwill, French has completely replaced English as the secondary language being taught in the world’s schools. It has, of course, become once again the standard language of diplomacy. It is thought that these factors will result in the emigration of at least half-a-million teachers from France, and a corresponding momentum will be given to the mission civilisation franchise.

17. The first wine-fair has opened in China. It was attended by Chairman Mao, who pronounced his unqualified approval of a Nuits-St. Georges ‘66.

18. It is entirely foreseeable that with the accelerating rate of spread of French culture and influence, and as eventual leader of a United Europe, within a decade France will be the world’s dominant power.

“Rather gripping, don’t you think?” said the Permanent Secretary.

“Quite,” replied Colonel Christie dryly.

“Interesting, the amenities of your… er… suite,” said the Permanent Secretary as he strolled about the room in fascination, “One comfort obtained in, the Tower. One naturally thinks of dank dungeons and durance vile, that sort of thing, eh?”

“Quite,” said Colonel Christie. “Oh, quite.”