11 June 1902 – Toulon
Amiral Didier Fabron walked into Bettancourt’s office and sat without invitation, crossing his legs and leaning back as if this were a social call. Bettancourt smiled inwardly, knowing the man’s arrogance had only minutes remaining.
“Amiral Fabron, you’ve pushed too far, for too long, and I’ve had quite enough,” he said icily. “Your report is not just biased, it’s downright fabricated.”
“I have never… ” started Fabron, reddening with the beginnings of outrage.
“Be silent!” broke in Bettancourt. “This is not an opportunity for you to air grievances or to claim offense. I’ve spoken to the other commanders present at Algiers on the sixth. Your flagship stayed just over the horizon until the action was decided, at the cost of 35 destroyermen’s lives. Once Lejeune’s flotilla had pummeled the Italian cruisers to inaction, you closed and fired exactly one effective salvo. Your account is all glory and last-minute heroism; the reality reeks of cowardice.”
Fabron flew from his seat, his corpulent face now purple with anger. “You will hear about this!” he bellowed. “I have never in thirty-five years been accused of anything resembling cowardice.”
“Sit down this instant,” retorted Bettancourt, quiet but absolutely insistent, and holding up an overstuffed folder. “You will be lucky to leave this office a free man, so I highly suggest you close your mouth and listen.”
Fabron’s eyes went wide, and he lowered himself into the chair, belatedly recognizing the gravity of the situation. Bettancourt’s cold fury went far deeper than the recent cruiser action off North Africa.
Bettancourt continued, “This file speaks volumes, with gambling debts to the French and Italian mafia, security breaches and indiscretions left, right, and center, leaks of sensitive information to the press, and a hundred other things that are detrimental to the service and to the country.”
“You have no evidence,” said Fabron, “or we wouldn’t be meeting in your office.”
“I have a mountain of evidence,” replied Bettancourt. “Enough to put you in Cherche-Midi for the rest of your natural life. But we’re at war, and a scandal helps the Italians, so I’m giving you one last opportunity to serve your country. I’ve spoken to the Minstre, and he has spoken to the President. I have their total concurrence, but the decision to offer you an alternative is mine. You may either be arrested and charged with treason, or you may resign and retire effective immediately. And know that if your retirement is anything but silent, Cherche-Midi does have a guillotine.”
Fabron sat for a moment, shocked to silence. His face, now ashen, shone with sweat. He took a long, ragged breath, exhaled, and rose. “Then I resign, mon Amiral. Do you require it in writing?”
“I suspected as much. Capitane Tremblay has all the paperwork in order, see him on your way out. You are dismissed.”
After Fabron left the room Bettancourt walked to his side table and poured a glass of single-malt. He swirled the amber liquid then walked over to the window to take in the early summer afternoon. The meeting had gone about as expected, though two of Matthieu Sandherr’s more direct Naval Intelligence agents had been waiting in the antechamber in case Fabron had chosen a different path. For thirty months Bettancourt had put up with minor undercutting, just-barely-polite-enough remarks, and veiled comments. He’d kept silent and waited as his Mediterranean fleet commander had walked the edge of insubordination. It was good to finally be finished with him.
He looked out over the shipyard as he sipped, watching a fleet tug push the destroyer Fauconneau into drydock. It’s upper works were shattered and it had reached Algiers only under tow. It had taken two days there to patch it up enough to tow safely back to Toulon, and it would be here for several weeks of deeper repairs.
Bettancourt had laid a great deal of groundwork leading up to Fabron’s dismissal. His statement about speaking to the Minister had been completely truthful, and he had also met with several other influential men in Paris when he’d been called to the capital last month to discuss an absurd Italian peace proposal. While he hadn’t shared details of Sandherr’s investigation with the politicians, he’d found most of them more than willing to accept that Fabron was coloring outside the lines, and any support for the older admiral was half-hearted and short-lived.
Tremblay knocked discretely then entered the chief’s office. “It’s done, sir,” the staff officer said. “Do you think he’ll remain quiet?”
“As long as he waits until the war with Italy is over, I don’t care one way or the other,” answered Bettancourt. “His nose has been out of joint since I was appointed, and I’m happy to be rid of him.”
“Who takes his place?”
Bettancourt turned to his staff adjutant with a raised eyebrow. “You have some thoughts on the matter?”
“I wouldn’t presume sir, but if you’re asking, Lejeune’s handling of the light cruisers has been masterful.”
“Travers and d’Arbois are more senior,” mused Bettancourt, inviting the junior man to continue the conversation. Tremblay spent more time with the various captain’s of the fleet than he did, and his insight was valuable.
“Yes sir,” allowed Tremblay. “But it would take a month to get Travers back from the other side of the world. d’Arbois has the ships and a plan for the Red Sea, if the Army is willing to cooperate. There’s no one else in the Flotte d’Mediterranee who is better-liked by his crews, or has a better record under fire.”
“I appreciate your input,” Bettancourt said. “I’d reached much the same conclusion. Marchand would probably jump at the move as well, purely from a desire to be in the center of the action. But it will be Lejeune. Start drawing up the orders.”
“As you command, sir,” said Tremblay, pivoting to exit. “I believe I heard Tanqueray in the outer office, shall I show him in?”
“I’d like a few moments to look at the plans he sent before we speak. Please give me 15 minutes, and see if you can come up with something to eat.”
“Very good, mon Amiral.”
Bettancourt turned back to the window, then after a moment sighed and walked back to his desk. Tanqueray’s proposal was interesting, and resembled nothing he knew of that anyone else was building. More or less the same armament and armor as the Charlemagne, but so much faster. Fast enough to render the cruiser fleet more or less obsolete, to say nothing of the battleships. But at 75 million per copy it was extravagantly costly, a third again what a Charlemagne required. On the surface it flew in the face of what their navy had been built around.
Tremblay tapped on the door, then entered with a cheese plate in one hand, a decanter of wine in the other, and Contre-Amiral Robert Tanqueray in his wake.
The fleet engineer stopped at attention in front of Bettancourt’s desk, in marked contrast to the previous visitor. “Please, take a seat,” Bettancourt offered, gesturing to the table where Tremblay had set the hors d’ouvres. Bettancourt poured two glasses and pushed one across to Tanqueray.
“I’ve looked over the drawings and specifications you sent,” Bettancourt opened. “Convince me.”
Tanqueray smiled and leaned forward. “They are expensive, aren’t they?” he asked. “I can use a recent example, if you’d like sir”
Bettancourt nodded, and Tanqueray pressed ahead.
“Think of the battle at Brest last month. Our ships kept the Italian cruisers off the convoy, not a single transport was so much as scratched. But we also didn’t manage to do any real damage to the Italian ships. They sent seven cruisers and they basically got away scot-free.”
“Yes,” said Bettancourt. “Frustrating, but successful in its way.”
“Certainement,” Tanqueray continued, “The convoy was critical. But think how it could have gone differently. I’ve read the reports; Palliere asked repeatedly that Montcalm be let loose to chase down the Italians, but the Charlemagne couldn’t keep up. In fact that beast lost speed during the battle, with fouled grates and overheated bearings. After twelve hours hard steaming it was barely making 16 knots.”
“Marchand kept his fleet together, undoubtedly the right choice,” offered Bettancourt.
“Palliere doesn’t lack aggressiveness, that’s fore sure,” agreed Tanqueray. “But what if Charlemagne were 5 or 7 knots faster? Or what if Montcalm carried the guns and armor to face several Italian cruisers single-handed.”
“Go on,” Bettancourt said simply.
“Looking at the cost,” Tanqueray said, “Without question it’s a large piece of the budget. But think of how the cost of a Sfax compares to what other navies are building as Protected Cruisers. And look how those have performed; six of them have been involved in four different battles, with the same result every time. No damage to our ships to speak of, and five of their Italian counterparts sunk”
“Perhaps,” allowed Bettancourt. “But what about our torpedo doctrine?”
“We’ve had limited opportunity to test that doctrine,” Tanqueray responded, gesturing to the port outside, “because our destroyers keep getting shot up before they can launch. It happened off Brest in April and May, and the same story again last week off Algiers. They work great in exercises when no one’s shooting back. But in four real battles so far we haven’t scored a single torpedo hit on an undamaged, maneuvering ship. And we’re lucky not to have lost any destroyers yet.”
“Fair points. Why so much deck armor?” Bettancourt asked, turning to details.
“It’s not really necessary today, but it’ll be almost three years before we can commission the lead ship. Two years ago we were fortunate to hit a towed target at 3000 yards, now we’re regularly scoring hits at 5000. Most of the action off Brest we were lucky to get within 8000 yards, the Italians used their speed to stay just outside the usual engagement ranges. And still we scored, and received, a few blows. We’re working on better shells and better fire control, I’m sure our adversaries are too. Engagements are possible at longer ranges every year and there’s no reason to think that trend will reverse. Somewhere around 10000 yards large shells start to be a danger to decks and turret tops.”
Bettancourt was silent for a few minutes, contemplating. Their light cruiser fleet was stout, already better than anything an opponent could put to sea and with three more of the large Sfax class under construction. The Champlain class raiders were starting to pay off, and with eight more on the builder’s stocks they promised to choke off Italian trade entirely. This proposed ship would soak up most of the shipbuilding budget, but it would also upend naval doctrines overnight. Even the British had nothing comparable. He’d already thought through a lot of what the chief engineer put forth, but it was always good to talk it out.
“Very good,” he said. “I’ve looked at the budget. We can lay down 2 before year-end, 2 more next year. One question remains: what do we call it?”
“Our staff has been calling it a Battle Cruiser,” said Tanqueray.
“Not unreasonable,” said Bettancourt. “But I mean what would you name the first one?”
“I’d suggest naming the lead ship Pavia,” answered Tanqueray.
“You’d name this ship for an Italian city?” Bettancourt asked, incredulous.
“Yes, I would sir,” Tanqueray responded with a mischievous grin. “I have a Lieutenant Durand-Viel on my staff and I have to give him full credit, this is largely his design. He is a bit of a history buff and the name was his suggestion as well. Pavia happens to be the city where Charlemagne and the Franks won the Lombard crown and took most of what is now Italy.”