The French Navy in World War II. Paul Auphan
Darlan’s permanent rank was only vice admiral, which ranked him after all regular four-star admirals, be they Chinese or Panamanian. Darlan came to the conclusion that there was only one step to take, so upon his return to Paris he had himself elevated to the rank and dignity of Admiral of the Fleet, equivalent to the Royal Navy rank of that name. Thenceforth when Darlan spoke at international meetings in the name of France, he had insured himself an equal footing with anyone else present.
Later on, the French naval officers of that time were reproached with being individualistic, aloof from the rest of the country. Some politicians even accused the Navy of being hostile to the political institutions of the day.
This may partly be attributed to the conflicting attitudes the French were to take at the time of the armistice and during the German occupation. The truth of the matter was that the Navy of those days was a tightly knit and homogenous group of dedicated officers and men—a Navy in which all were proud to serve and in which everyone obeyed without question the orders of their superiors, and these superiors in turn unhesitatingly carried out the directives of the Government, regardless of the political party which might for the moment be in power. Differently from the Army, whose strength lay mostly in mobilized reservists, eighty-six per cent of the Navy’s personnel was made up of volunteers, reenlistments, and career petty officers. If the Navy seemed aloof from the general public, it was mainly because they did not engage in politics, and because, as professional seamen, their viewpoints were on a worldwide basis rather than confined to the limited horizons of the average Frenchman.
The French Navy of 1939 may best be described by the four words which for over a century have been lettered in gold above the quarterdecks of all French men-of-war. On one side of the panel there appears the motto “Honor and Country,” and on the other side, facing it, the words “Valor and Discipline.” Not one of those four virtues but would be needed by the seamen of France in the ordeal to come.
1 In 1924 the Navy presented to Parliament a program calling for 175,000 tons of battleships, 60,000 tons of aircraft carriers, 360,000 tons of light craft, and 96,000 tons of submarines—a total of 691,000 tons of combatant ships (the same tonnage as in 1914, excluding auxiliaries). The program never passed.
2 By “surprises” is meant new inventions, new ship designs, or development of entirely new classes which would outmode existing ships possessed in superior numbers by another power.
Regardless of how much they may have been anticipated, and plans made for all foreseeable eventualities, wars frequently break out in an unexpected manner. In 1870 a cleverly worded—and therefore misinterpreted—news dispatch, the famous Ems dispatch, so inflamed French public opinion that the national cry was, “On to Berlin!” In 1914 it was the assassination of the Archduke of Austria at Sarajevo that set up a chain of reactions which a month later provoked the First World War. In 1939 it was for remote Danzig that the Western democracies were willing to go to war. But for years the cause of peace in Europe had deteriorated.
In 1935 Mussolini’s invasion of Ethiopia had roused Britain’s opposition to the extent that the entire British Fleet had been concentrated between Gilbraltar, Alexandria, Haifa, and the Red Sea. Concerned over the threat of the Italian Fleet and Air Force to her naval forces in the constricted Mediterranean, Britain had asked the French Navy to guarantee her free use of the naval bases at Toulon and Bizerte. This accord was quickly given, and although hostilities between the powers did not then materialize, technical contacts had been established between the two navies which would bear fruit. Furthermore the British thereafter made no further attempts to limit French naval power.
When, in March, 1936, German troops entered the Rhineland in flagrant violation of treaty agreements, the contacts between the two navies were quickly reestablished. Neither the French Government, nor the British—especially the latter—desired or dared to react with force. Furthermore the bulk of the British Fleet was still in the Mediterranean, and British public opinion would not have supported even a token stand against Hitler. However, further military conversations took place not only between the Navies but between the General Staffs of the Armies and Air Forces as well. The Belgians also attended these conferences. The British promised the French that in case of German aggression, two divisions would be ready to embark in British ports within fourteen days after mobilization. The problem of transporting and escorting these troops was one of the main things discussed, and this joint staff work laid the foundation for joint effort in 1939.
On both these occasions, 1935 and 1936, the French Navy discreetly called back to service, by individual postcards, a few reserve specialists for “a period of training.” When, in 1938, Hitler’s annexation of the Sudetenland brought on another crisis, the precautionary measures taken by the French Navy were much greater in scope. As early as September all hands on leave were recalled and all ships brought up to full complement. Wartime commands were activated, and even a few preliminary mobilization measures were ordered. The cruiser schoolship Jeanne d’Arc, about to leave Brest on a round-the-world training cruise, took aboard combat ammunition over one side, and, over the other, it took on board cases of fine wines to be served at international receptions. No one knew which would go off first, the guns or the champagne corks! Then came the settlement at Munich, and peace—though for how long, no one had any idea.
These crises, as well as the Spanish Civil War, accustomed officers and crews to living in a constant warlike atmosphere. Flaws which had been revealed in the semimobilizations were promptly corrected—something which brought its reward in 1939, when mobilization was effected without a hitch. The Navy looked upon Munich as being nothing more than a temporary respite, and it vigorously speeded up its programs.
In March, 1939, came the next great crisis when Hitler marched his troops into Prague and “peacefully” annexed Czechoslovakia. This little country had an army 35 divisions strong, and would have provided worthwhile bases for Allied aviation. But its main defenses had been dismantled six months earlier when the statesmen of the West had withdrawn their support—partly because they considered Czechoslovakia indefensible.
Strategically this decision was prudent and wise—perhaps too wise. But such logic did not continue to prevail, for on March 31 Britain and France officially guaranteed the defense of Poland, a country much more remote and more difficult to defend. Thereupon Hitler immediately put forward new claims—on Danzig, this time—and war again seemed inevitable.
Joint British and French staff conferences were held at London on March 31, April 27, and May 3, 1939. The French delegation was headed by Vice Admiral Jean Odend’hal, who later was to represent the French High Command at the British Admiralty throughout the war.
Today, the officers of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization have daily staff conferences to work toward a common concept. In 1939 no such procedure was in existence, and these prewar Allied planning conferences were indispensable in deciding upon the general disposition of each fleet in time of war, as well as in establishing liaisons, and coordinating areas of command and establishing convoy routes and escort procedures. The Franco-British naval entente had been effected cordially and without mental reservations.
But Poland, trusting in the Allied guarantee, was beginning to inquire urgently what plans were being made to protect her in case of aggression. The British Navy declared—and justifiably—that circumstances did not lend themselves to operations in the Baltic; all that England contemplated was a few bombing raids over Germany. The French default was of the same order. The Army declared that all it could do, as a diversionary measure, was to hurl itself against the powerful fortifications of the German Siegfried line, without much hope of breaching it. The Air Force promised to contribute sixty Amiot type-143 bombers—planes which barely had flying range sufficient to make the trip across Germany to Poland’s westernmost airfields. As these airfields were captured by the Germans on the first day of hostilities, the gesture never had to be carried