Foreign News: Heather and Steel

The longest name on the British Navy list is that of Admiral the Hon. Sir Reginald Aylmer Ranfurly Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax. His friends call him “Old Plunk.” In 1914, when he was a young Commander, he accompanied Rear-Admiral (later Admiral of the Fleet, Earl) Beatty on a military mission to the late Tsar Nicholas II—as a step in desperate preparation for World War I, which broke out a few weeks later. Last week, now one of Britain’s wisest naval strategists, he set out for Moscow again—in a desperate effort to stave off World War II.

Sailing with Sir Reginald on the specially chartered City of Exeter, bound for Leningrad, were 25 other British experts and an equally impressive French mission headed by General Joseph Edouard Doumenc, Member of the Supreme War Council and Commander of the Army Corps at Lille. Britain and France hoped to bring off with a show of force what cautious persuasion, begging, wheedling had not accomplished in months: a three-way military alliance with Russia which would be something besides a suicide pact.

As was fitting, France, with the greater Army, entrusted its mission to a general; England, with the greater fleet, sent an admiral. Russia, eager to be shown that the two democracies can back up their word if they choose to keep it, appointed its highest officers to receive the mission. Russia’s chief delegate was Defense Commissar Kliment E. Voroshilov.

With Europe’s Armies reaching a mobilized peak of 8,000,000 men this month, the definition of diplomatic phrases had become far less important than the exchange of honest facts. On the eve of the Moscow consultations, all three military missions seemed prepared to go the whole way. When general staffs exchange data, it is virtually certain that diplomatic agreements are signed or nearly signed. It looked, last week, as if the Peace Front had passed from the brass hat to the brass tacks stage.

As the British mission left London, Old Plunk was gay. He wore in his buttonhole—”for optimism”—a red carnation and a wee sprig of heather. Less light-hearted was Lieut. Baskervyle Glegg, whose job it was to take care of such military secrets as have so far escaped espionage. Lieutenant Glegg toted his responsibility in a steel dispatch case fastened to his wrist by a three-foot chain. Lieutenant Glegg was heavy of heart because he was, handcuffed to the future of Europe.