How the war was spun

The Foreign Office has been ordered to release an early secret draft of the WMD dossier. Chris Ames

The Information Tribunal's decision to order the Foreign Office to release a secret early draft of the dossier on Saddam Hussein's "weapons of mass destruction" is offering new insights into how the government spun the case for war.

In particular, it has become clear that the false claim that Iraq had "purchased" uranium originated in this secret draft, written by the FO press adviser John Williams. While we wait for the FO to publish the document, MPs have called on the government to come clean about the uranium claim and the precise role the Williams draft played in making the case for war.

The existence of the Williams draft, suggesting that a spin doctor had a large hand in writing the WMD dossier, was revealed in the New Statesman in 2006. Making the order that it should be published, the Information Tribunal revealed that there are similarities between that draft and later versions. During last month's hearing it emerged that these included a claim about uranium that was unsupported by intelligence.

The draft dossier that immediately followed Williams's version, drawn up by John Scarlett, then head of the Joint Intelligence Committee, claimed that Iraq had actually purchased uranium. By the time of the final WMD dossier, published in September 2002, this had been watered down to say that Iraq had "sought" uranium from Africa, and was cited as evidence that Iraq was developing nuclear weapons.

It is now known that the CIA doubted both versions. The British government has always claimed it has "credible" and "separate" evidence for the dossier's allegation. But it is now clear that the CIA knew about the separate intelligence and doubted that too.

The "uranium from Africa" claim became highly controversial after President George W Bush quoted it in his January 2003 State of the Union speech, shortly before the start of the Iraq War. Weeks later, the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) announced that documents it had received, "which formed the basis for the reports of recent transactions", were actually crude forgeries.

The controversy deepened in July 2003 when the former US diplomat Joseph Wilson let it be known that he had visited Niger and discounted the possibility that Iraq had sought uranium. In retaliation, the Bush administration leaked the fact that Wilson's wife, Valerie Plame, was a covert CIA agent. Following a criminal investigation, Scooter Libby, chief of staff to Vice-President Dick Cheney, was given a prison sentence for perjury and obstruction of justice, which Bush commuted.

The US withdrew the uranium claim after Wilson's reve lation, but Tony Blair insisted that Britain had separate intelligence. Lord Butler's review of pre-war intelligence described the dossier's uranium claim as "well-founded", based on intelligence it had seen. In fact, the New Statesman can now report that the intelligence was from Italy - the source also for the US intelligence that led to Wilson's Africa trip.

Since the uranium controversy, the government has insisted that it had both a source separate from the fake documents and intelligence it could not share with the US because it came from another country. But it is now clear that Britain has no remaining credible source that was unknown to the US.

Before Williams worked on the draft, the dossier's section on WMDs merely claimed that uranium had been "sought". Yet Scarlett's "first draft" asserted, for the first time in a published document, that the material had been "purchased". This was shown to the CIA on 11 September 2002.

The Butler review reports that: "The CIA advised caution about any suggestion that Iraq had succeeded in acquiring uranium from Africa, but agreed that there was evidence that it had been sought." George Tenet, the CIA's former director, later said the agency had been sceptical even of a claim about "acquisition attempts": "[The agency] expressed reservations about its inclusion but our colleagues said they were confident in their reports and left it in their document."

Britain learned later that its original intelligence, almost certainly from France, was based on the forgeries. The US did not know about France's intelligence until November 2002.

It appears that Britain acquired the intelligence, which it still stands by, during September 2002, possibly while consulting the US. A source who has seen the material has said that it originated from Italy, which reported a visit by a high-level Iraqi delegation, including two generals, to Niger.

Butler inquiry insiders insist this evidence proves that Iraq sought uranium. However, a source in the US has confirmed that the intelligence that led the CIA to send Wilson to Africa in February 2002 was also from Italy. This intelligence relates to the same visiting delegation. Wilson has maintained that he thought it impossible that Iraq had been seeking uranium.

Further questions

At the time of the dossier, neither the US nor the UK had seen the fake documents, which the US acquired in October 2002. In June 2003, an internal CIA document stated that, with the documents discredited, there was no longer "sufficient other reporting to conclude that Iraq pursued uranium from abroad".

As we wait for the Williams draft to be published, the Foreign Office has refused to deny that this draft makes the same false claim as Scarlett's version. The FO has also declined to say that it has credible intelligence that was unknown to the US. The Tory MP John Baron says: "If the Williams draft contains a claim about uranium which turned up in John Scarlett's draft, it raises further questions about the government's assurances to Lord Hutton and to parliament that the draft was immediately redundant. The government must now publish the Williams draft as the tribunal has ordered."

The Labour MP Lynne Jones has put down parliamentary questions based on the New Statesman's information. She says: "The government has always implied that it had a credible source that was not known to the US when it expressed concern over the uranium claim. If that is not the case, this is an example of the government misleading parliament."

This article first appeared in the 04 February 2008 issue of the New Statesman, God

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How memories of the Battle of Verdun inspired a new era of Franco-German co-operation

The fight at Verdun in 1916 set a precedent for peace that lives on at the heart of Europe.

How do you clear up after a battle that took the lives of more than a quarter of a million men? In Britain we don’t have much experience of this kind. There hasn’t been a major war on British soil since the 1640s, and that wasn’t a shock-and-awe inferno of industrial firepower (although it is estimated that a greater percentage of Britain’s population died in the civil wars than in the Great War).

The French, however, fought the Great War on home soil. The ten-month Battle of Verdun in 1916 stands out as the longest of the conflict, and one of the fiercest, with fighting concentrated in a small area of roughly 25 square miles. The terrain was pounded by heavy artillery and poisoned with gas; nine villages were reduced to rubble and never rebuilt – remaining on the map to this day as villages détruits.

In November 1918, soon after the Armis­tice, Monseigneur Charles Ginisty, the bishop of Verdun, was appalled to see mounds of unburied corpses and myriad bones still scattered across the blasted landscape – what was left of men who had been literally blown to bits by shellfire. “Should we abandon their sacred remains to this desert,” he asked in anguish, “littered with desiccated corpses . . . under a shroud of thorns and weeds, of forgetting and ingratitude?”

Ginisty became the driving force behind the ossuary at Douaumont, at what had been the very centre of the battlefield. This he intended to be both “a cathedral of the dead and a basilica of victory”. It is a strange but compelling place: a 450-foot-long vault, transfixed in the middle by a lantern tower, and styled in an idiosyncratic mix of Romanesque and art deco. To some visitors the tower looks like a medieval knight stabbing his broadsword into the ground; others are reminded of an artillery shell, or even a space rocket. Creepiest of all is what one glimpses through the little windows cut into the basement – piles of bones, harvested from the field of battle.

Sloping away downhill from the ossuary is the Nécropole Nationale, where the bodies of some 15,000 French soldiers are buried – mostly named, though some graves are starkly labelled inconnu (“unknown”). Each tomb is dignified with the statement “Mort pour la France” (no British war grave bears a comparable inscription). The nine villages détruits were given the same accolade.

For the French, unlike the British, 1914-18 was a war to defend and cleanse the homeland. By the end of 1914 the Germans had imposed a brutal regime of occupation across ten departments of north-eastern France. Verdun became the most sacred place in this struggle for national liberation, the only great battle that France waged alone. About three-quarters of its army on the Western Front served there during 1916, bringing Verdun home to most French families. Slogans from the time such as On les aura (“We’ll get ’em”) and Ils ne passeront pas (“They shall not pass”) entered French mythology, language and even song.

Little wonder that when the ossuary was inaugurated in 1932, the new French president, Albert Lebrun, declared: “Here is the cemetery of France.” A special plot at the head of the cemetery was set aside for Marshal Philippe Pétain, commander at the height of the battle in 1916 and renowned as “the Saviour of Verdun”.

The ossuary must surely contain German bones. How could one have nationally segregated that charnel house in the clean-up after 1918? Yet officially the ossuary was presented as purely French: a national, even nationalist, shrine to the sacrifice made by France. Interestingly, it was the soldiers who had fought there who often proved more internationally minded. During the 1920s many French veterans adopted the slogan Plus jamais (“Never again”) in their campaign to make 1914-18 la der des ders – soldier slang for “the last ever war”. And they were echoed across the border by German veterans, especially those on the left, proclaiming, “Nie wieder.”

For the 20th anniversary in 1936, 20,000 veterans, including Germans and Italians, assembled at Douaumont. Each took up his position by a grave and together they swore a solemn oath to keep the peace. There were no military parades, no singing of the Marseillaise. It was an immensely moving occasion but, in its own way, also political theatre: the German delegation attended by permission of the Führer to show off his peace-loving credentials.

Memory was transformed anew by the Second World War. In 1914-18 the French army had held firm for four years; in 1940 it collapsed in four weeks. Verdun itself fell in a day with hardly a shot being fired. France, shocked and humiliated, signed an armistice in June 1940 and Pétain, now 84, was recalled to serve as the country’s political leader. Whatever his original intentions, he ended up an accomplice of the Nazis: reactionary, increasingly fascist-minded, and complicit in the deportation of the Jews.

***

The man who came to embody French resistance in the Second World War was Charles de Gaulle. In 1916, as a young captain at Verdun, he had been wounded and captured. In the 1920s he was known as a protégé of the Marshal but in 1940 the two men diverged fundamentally on the question of collaboration or resistance.

De Gaulle came out the clear winner: by 1945 he was president of France, while Pétain was convicted for treason. The Marshal lived out his days on the Île d’Yeu, a rocky island off the west coast of France, where he was buried in 1951. The plot awaiting him in the cemetery at Douaumont became the grave of a general called Ernest Anselin, whose body remains there to this day. Yet Pétain sympathisers still agitate for the Marshal to be laid to rest in the place where, they insist, he belongs.

After 1945 it was hard for French leaders to speak of Verdun and Pétain in the same breath, although de Gaulle eventually managed to do so during the 50th anniversary in 1966. By then, however, la Grande Guerre had begun to assume a new perspective in both France and Germany. The age-old enemies were moving on from their cycle of tit-for-tat wars, stretching back from 1939, 1914 and 1870 to the days of Napoleon and Louis XIV.

In January 1963 de Gaulle – who had spent half the Great War in German POW camps – and Chancellor Konrad Adenauer, who first visited Paris to see the German delegation just before it signed the Treaty of Versailles, put their names to a very different treaty at the Élysée Palace. This bound the two countries in an enduring nexus of co-operation, from regular summits between the leaders down to town-twinning and youth exchanges. The aim was to free the next generation from the vice of nationalism.

France and West Germany were also founder members of the European Community – predicated, one might say, on the principle “If you can’t beat them, join them”. For these two countries (and for their Benelux neighbours, caught in the jaws of the Franco-German antagonism), European integration has always had a much more beneficent meaning than it does for Britain, geographically and emotionally detached from continental Europe and much less scarred by the two world wars.

It was inevitable that eventually Verdun itself would be enfolded into the new Euro-narrative. On 22 September 1984 President François Mitterrand and Chancellor Helmut Kohl stood in the pouring rain in front of the ossuary for a joint commemoration. In 1940 Sergeant Mitterrand had been wounded near Verdun, and Kohl’s father had served there in 1916, so personal memories sharpened the sense of political occasion. During the two national anthems, Mitterrand, apparently on impulse, grasped Kohl’s hand in what has become one of the most celebrated images of Franco-German reconciliation.

“If we’d had ceremonies like this before the Second World War,” murmured one French veteran, “we might have avoided it.”

Institutional memory has also moved on. In 1967 a museum dedicated to the story of the battle was opened near the obliterated village of Fleury. It was essentially a veterans’ museum, conceived by elderly Frenchmen to convey what they had endured in 1916 to a generation that had known neither of the world wars. For the centenary in 2016 the Fleury museum has undergone a makeover, updated with new displays and interactive technology and also reconceived as a museum of peace, drawing in the Germans as well as the French.

With time, too, some of the scars of battle have faded from the landscape. Trees now cover this once-ravaged wasteland; the graveyards are gardens of memory; the EU flag flies with the French and German tricolours over the battered fort at Douaumont. Yet bodies are still being dug up – 26 of them just three years ago at Fleury. And even when the sun shines here it is hard to shake off the ghosts.

Exploring the battlefield while making two programmes about Verdun for Radio 4, the producer Mark Burman and I visited l’Abri des Pèlerins (“the pilgrims’ shelter”) near the village détruit of Douaumont. This was established in the 1920s to feed the builders of the ossuary, but it has continued as the only eating place at the centre of the battlefield. Its proprietor, Sylvaine Vaudron,
is a bustling, no-nonsense businesswoman, but she also evinces a profound sense of obligation to the past, speaking repeatedly of nos poilus, “our soldiers”, as if they were still a living presence. “You realise,” she said sternly at one point, “there are 20,000 of them under our feet.” Not the sort of conversation about the Great War that one could have anywhere in Britain.

David Reynolds is the author of “The Long Shadow: the Great War and the 20th Century” (Simon & Schuster). His series “Verdun: the Sacred Wound” will go out on BBC Radio 4 on 17 and 24 February (11am)

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle