21.05.2008

Referendums, the army, and bloody counterrevolution

Charles de Gaulle and his regime seemed finished. His referendum call fell flat. But behind the scenes he plotted with army commanders. Jack Conrad discusses the last days of May 1968

Faced with a 10-million-strong general strike, a huge wave of workplace occupations, local action committees and ongoing student protests, the president-general, Charles de Gaulle, resorted to a constitutional device tried and tested by dictators ancient and modern.

On May 24 1968 he made one of his regal broadcasts on state radio. Its effect was meant to be momentous. Besides ominously warning of civil war and a communist takeover, de Gaulle announced a referendum. It was intended to rubber stamp his second coup d’etat (the first being in 1958, which brought him to power).

As head of the party of order, de Gaulle sought to scare, herd and bring to bear the full weight of ‘authentic’ France: the respectable middle classes, the rural bedrock, worried shopkeepers, loyal army veterans, etc. That disparate conservative mass was to be stampeded into a crushing vote for normalcy.

If anarchy and disorder stubbornly persisted, then de Gaulle would make his next move. Though it was never explicitly stated, other, violent, means would be deployed. In the name of the majority, de Gaulle would send in tanks, infantry and artillery. A bloodless referendum battle would thereby become a social Austerlitz.

Referendums

Of course, communists are not against referendums as such. We fight for a democratic republic ruled by the majority for the majority; that could, unproblematically, see elected representatives agreeing to hold a referendum on specific international, national or local issues. But under present circumstances such a constitutional provision is wide open to misuse and manipulation. So we tend to distrust and shun referendums (hence, over the long years of Tony Blair’s premiership, the CPGB issued a string of boycott calls).

Those above usually get to ask the question on the ballot paper. Inordinate care is taken. Every insider knows that the way things are phrased will have a decisive influence over the outcome. Eg, ‘Do you support liberté, égalité, fraternité against unconstitutional threats?’ Those below have nothing but ‘yes’ or ‘no’ options. They are not allowed multiple choices. Nor are they given the opportunity to pressurise, influence or even intimidate elected/potential representatives -  possibilities facilitated or opened up by universal suffrage and party politics.

On the one hand, aspiring dictators use referendums as a means of trumping, subverting, diminishing or abolishing democracy. On the other hand, established dictators use them to mobilise or cement mass support. Originating in ancient Rome, the plebiscitum evolved from a means employed by the plebs to protect themselves from the power of the senate into a form of social control. Ambrose Bierce wickedly defined a referendum as a “popular vote to ascertain the will of the sovereign”.

Not only was de Gaulle’s Fifth Republic in 1958 ushered in through this undemocratic democratic device. So were the first and second empires. Napoleon Bonaparte climbed his way to supreme power on the back of referendums. The nephew, Louis Bonaparte, followed his uncle’s example. He quelled opposition, gained moral legitimacy and dictatorial powers through a series of referendum votes. All under the guise of fulfilling the will of the nation.

Finally, in May 1870, back against the wall, Louis Bonaparte called a referendum in order to save his tottering regime. The wording was designed in such a way that it was impossible to express disapproval of his bellicose warmongering without opposing all democratic residues and potential reforms.

Karl Marx, nonetheless, proudly reported to the general council of the International Workingmen’s Association that their branches in France had told the people “publicly and emphatically” that voting in the referendum was “voting despotism at home and war abroad”.¹ Its Paris and other branches urged a boycott.

On the eve of the referendum vote the Bonapartist authorities struck back. IWA leaders in France were arrested en masse. Ludicrously they were charged with conspiring to assassinate the emporer. Signalling what was soon to come, the working class took to the streets in angry protest.

Once in power, Adolph Hitler employed exactly the same Bonapartist tactics. Notoriously, in August 1934, Hitler got a massive 95% turnout and a 90% approval vote for his coup. Following president Paul von  Hindenburg’s death he had himself proclaimed chancellor/fuehrer and with that came unprecedented new powers: public officials and soldiers had to swear personal loyalty to him.

Hitler’s overwhelming referendum victory contrasts with the rather more modest performance just 18 months before. In the January 1933 general election his National Socialist Workers Party secured 44% of the vote, when, for the last time, it faced rival parties. Specifically because of Hitler, since World War II referenda at a federal level have been outlawed in Germany.

Radio

Anyway, back to the thread of our account.

De Gaulle’s referendum call had more the character of Louis Bonaparte in May 1870 than Adolph Hitler in August 1934. Transparently, it was a desperate move, designed to save his tottering regime.

His radio broadcast on May 24 failed on every count. Predictable as a puzzle whose solution is known in advance. As aloof on the airwaves as in subsequent press coverage. No section of France sought or believed in a referendum. De Gaulle’s warnings/threats fell equally flat. They did not galvanise the party of order. Nor did they intimidate the party of disorder. If anything, his broadcast served to further provoke.

Between May 24 and May 30 the revolt below intensified, and that inevitably exacerbated the crisis above. The state core fell into utter confusion. Political debate below became ubiquitous. Masses of so-called ordinary people became politically conscious for the first time. Power was inexorably shifting downwards.

Demonstrations increased in number and even began to involve small farmers and rural workers. The latter were often in solidarity with students and workers. However, they also featured their own demands and took on their own peculiar countryside forms: eg, tractors, muck and animals.

The essential weakness of the state stood exposed. Police goons could attack student demonstrations, overrun street barricades in the Latin Quarter and deport Daniel Cohn-Bendit to Germany. But against 10 million strikers, against hundreds of occupied workplaces and against thousands of local action committees, they were powerless.

Truncheons and tear gas constitute neither a political programme nor an ideology. Alone, these instruments of order cannot get the class of wage workers to work.

De Gaulle’s prime minister, Georges Pompidou, favoured giving more ground before agreeing to the use of other means. Bringing together a meeting at the Hotel du Châtelet in the rue de Grenelle, he began intensive tripartite negotiations involving government, employers and trade unions, primarily the Confédération Générale du Travail (but also including the Confédération Française Démocratique du Travail, Force Ouvrière and the Fédération de l’Education Nationale).

In reality, of course, there were just two sides. Capital and labour. Pompidou represented capital. Georges Séguy, CGT general secretary and a leading member of the Parti Communiste Français, represented labour.

Now the role of the PCF as French capital’s principal social prop was starkly revealed once again. Séguy and the ‘official communists’ were determined to limit workers to economic demands, in the process isolating the revolutionary contagion. This fitted perfectly with Pompidou’s perspectives. He too considered it essential to split the revolutionary student leaders from their mass following and, even more vital, keep workers and students as far apart as possible.

Séguy’s height of ambition was a generous social contract. The sort PCF general secretary Maurice Thorez (1900-64) gained through the Matignon agreements. Signed on June 7 1936, they defused the spontaneous ‘crisis of expectations’ brought about by the election of the popular front government led by Leon Blum.² Or the 1945 settlement which saw the appointment of five PCF ministers - Maurice Thorez, François Billoux, Marcel Paul and Ambroise Croizat. The Judas price for the PCF disarming the resistance partisans and not making a revolution.

The meeting in the rue de Grenelle lasted over May 25-27. As street fighting continued to flare and the Paris stock exchange was attacked, concession followed concession - from both sides. The CGT was a responsible and very helpful negotiating partner. The Grenelle protocol was agreed at last. Wages would be increased by one-third, some by over 70%. What more could a trade union official ask?

Séguy was delighted. Now the madness would be ended. Progress could begin again along the true parliamentary road to socialism. He drove straight to the giant Renault plant at Boulogne-Billancourt, where there had been arranged a mass meeting of the 25,000 occupying workers.

The fool expected adulation. Outlining the Grenelle protocol, he boasted: “This is what we have snatched from them, after extreme difficulty, difficult talks …”³ He was interrupted not by applause, but booing. Séguy left to a storm of catcalls and whistles. The scene at Boulogne-Billancourt was repeated throughout the country. At almost every occupation, strike committee, union branch and mass meeting, the protocol was rejected … out of hand. The two Georges - Séguy and Pompidou - had miserably failed.

The crisis gripping the Fifth Republic deepened accordingly. Edouard Balladur, one of Pompidou’s advisers at the time, and later ‘cohabitation’ prime minister from March 1993 to May 1995 under François Mitterand, reported in his memoirs that the government “no longer existed as an organ of deliberation and decision. It was just an incoherent group of confabulators.”⁴

At this juncture a seemingly shattered de Gaulle appeared to throw in the towel - in a manner that befitted a general, and an arrogant and scheming one at that. On the morning of Wednesday May 29 the regular cabinet meeting at the Elysée was cancelled without notice. The president would see no-one. Later, a little after 11am, the soldier-statesman and his wife departed from Paris. He curtly informed Pompidou that he was tired. That he was retreating to his country house at Colombey-les-Deux-Eglises in order to rest.

But he did not arrive at Colombey. While news of his departure from Paris spread alarm in the party of order, there was joy amongst the party of disorder. Students and workers began shouting, ‘Adieu, de Gaulle’. There was also intense speculation. Had de Gaulle’s helicopter crashed? Was he still alive? Had he given up in despair? Was there now a power vacuum? Should a provisional coalition government be quickly assembled?

Exactly the same questions were asked by ministers and top bureaucrats.

Many considered the regime to be on the verge of collapse. That de Gaulle would soon be announcing his resignation. According to the London Evening Standard, the “situation today can be summed up in a few words: it is a revolutionary situation of almost text-book kind”.⁵

Counterrevolution

De Gaulle did not leave Paris for rest and quiet contemplation. His exact movements are still uncertain. But it has been established that he did arrive by helicopter at Saint-Dizier, 125 miles east of Paris.

According to some reports, he then flew to Taverny, the country’s nuclear weapon command centre, and spoke via its sophisticated communications network to various military commanders. However, we do know that de Gaulle did land at Baden Baden, the headquarters of France’s 70,000-strong army in west Germany. The president-general did not leave the airfield. Army chiefs were summoned to meet the great man. Amongst them was general Jacques Massu (1908-2002).

Ruthless as a professional soldier, politically a diehard, Massu was a true son of official France. In charge of the colonial army in Algeria, Massu instituted the systematic and brutal torture of FLN members and suspects. He also led the 1958 Algiers coup, which brought de Gaulle to power. Ten years later, de Gaulle once again had need of his help.

In 1983 Massu published an autobiography in which he gave his account of the Baden Baden meeting. De Gaulle was thoroughly downhearted. He felt powerless and personally threatened in Paris. The communists had provoked nationwide paralysis. Should he quit?

Massu assured de Gaulle that the army was ready to carry out its duty. “Give me two divisions and tomorrow, you can take your breakfast on the boulevard Saint Germain” - that is, in the heart of the Latin Quarter.⁶ Exactly what the president-general wanted to hear.

There would appear to have been two main questions on the agenda at Baden Baden. The first political and strategic, the second military and tactical. Would the army fight? Was it reliable? De Gaulle was obviously weighing up the options. Resigning and going into quiet retirement. That, or using the French army in Germany as a striking force against the capital in the manner of general Galliffet, the butcher of the Paris Commune in 1871.

Previously de Gaulle had consulted Pierre Messmer, the army minister, on this option. He thought the men were loyal. But it would be “unwise to ask them to fire on civilians”.⁷ Obviously not the answer de Gaulle was looking for.

De Gaulle had been actively preparing a counterrevolutionary terror. Six years later, in 1974, the leftish newspaper Libération revealed the plans for mass repression. They included a list of 25,000 to be arrested and ‘concentrated’ in stadiums (on the German or, later, Chilean model). These plans were to be implemented on May 24, but hesitatingly the date was three times put back. Hans Koning, the novelist and 1968 participant, wryly notes: “The paper’s documents have never been denied.”⁸

There had been rumblings of discontent in both the army and navy. A mutiny happened on the aircraft carrier Clemenceau. Soldiers’ committees sprung up after rumours that they were about to be used as strike-breakers. One leaflet written by the 153rd mechanised infantry regiment stated: “The workers and the youth must know that the soldiers of the contingent will never shoot on workers ... We shall fraternise. Soldiers of the contingent, form your committees.”⁹

After Baden Baden de Gaulle was ready to risk a split in the army. He gave orders for contingency plans. A tactical command headquarters was established at Verdun. Lists were drawn up of the most trustworthy units - perhaps 20,000 troops - who would then be moved to Metz ready for action against Paris.¹⁰

Meanwhile, events continued to move apace. “The general strike, far from showing signs of ending, is assuming more and more an insurrectional and openly political character,” reported the Evening Standard. Both the revolutionary students and the trade unions staged huge illegal demonstrations, the CGT’s being half a million-strong. Not surprisingly, it appeared to the paper that “France has no effective government”.¹¹

Such was the situation, not least given de Gaulle’s unexplained disappearance, that a provisional government began to take shape in the wings. In particular Pierre Mendès France (1907-82) and François Mitterand (1916-86) felt a growing sense of confidence. Ambition overcame all fear of acting unconstitutionally.

Mendès France was an orthodox left-centrist politician, who strangely, at least given his background, expressed sympathy for the student protests. As for Mitterand, he was at the time a non-party man, but calculatingly close to both the PCF and the Socialist Party.

These contenders showed their hand at the national assembly. Modestly they made clear their patriotic willingness to accept power on behalf of a united left. Even liberal politicians, such as Jean Lecanuet (1920-93), a former presidential candidate, seemed to position themselves behind Mendès France. A ‘Back Mendès’ committee was formed. Gaullism seemed dead, if not yet buried.

Reaction strikes back

France now confirmed one of Marx’s profound propositions. Revolution only advances by giving rise to counterrevolution. Having secured the necessary elements of a violent counterrevolution, de Gaulle was put down from his helicopter at Colombey on May 29. That night he drafted a short speech.

His intention was to mobilise the counterrevolution of civil society … and at the same time tempt the reformist left, above all the PCF. The whole exercise was this time brilliantly executed. On May 30, at exactly 4.31pm, he broadcast to the nation. Citizens must defend the republic. There would be no referendum. The communist danger had to be rebuffed. He was not resigning. The national assembly would be dissolved. There would be fresh elections. Special provincial ‘commissioners of the republic’ were to be appointed. If the trial of strength continued, he was ready to use other means - here was the threat of general Massu’s troops.

As it turned out, they were not needed. Barely had de Gaulle finished his radio speech when, as had been carefully prearranged, ‘authentic’ France took to the streets of Paris - there were a million of them. The party of order displayed its popular strength. Amid a sea of red, white and blue tricolours, the ‘silent majority’ sang the Marseillaise and chanted, ‘Le communisme ne passera pas!’

Conservatives and reactionaries of every assemblage, strain and hue turned out or were bussed in. Besides Gaullists and liberal republicans there were no-hope monarchists, bemedalled Free French veterans, sanctimonious catholic traditionalists, under-the-carpet Pétainists, supporters of OAS general Raoul Salan, exiled pieds-noirs, the savage wolves of Occident, former Poujadists, etc, etc.

Moreover, unlike de Gaulle’s previous referendum ploy, which had been widely rejected, the prospect of an election hooked the reformist left. Given the chance of additional national assembly seats and returning things to normal, the PCF capitulated. Inevitably, that left the student rebellion beached, isolated and doomed to demobilisation and, from there, to demoralisation.

What could have been? What should have been? What lessons ought we on the left draw from May 1968? That will the subject of my fifth, and concluding, article.

Notes

1. K Marx and F Engels CW Vol 22, Moscow 1986, p3.
2. A whole raft of concessions were secured under the Matignon agreements: the legal right to strike and to organise, the right to collective bargaining, a blanket increase in wages of between 7% and 12%, paid holidays, a 40-hour week, etc.
3. Quoted in D Caute Sixty-eight London 1988, p217.
4. Quoted in International Socialism No118, spring 2008.
5. Evening Standard May 29 1968.
6. Quoted at en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jaques_Massu
7. Quoted in P Seale and M McConville French Revolution 1968 Harmondsworth 1968, p205.
8. H Koning Nineteen sixty-eight London 1988, p79.
9. Quoted in Militant April 30 1993.
10. Showing that reformist pacifism is no recent phenomenon in the Socialist Party in England and Wales, Militant, the precursor of The Socialist, bizarrely claimed: “If ever there was a time when the working class could take power peacefully, that time is now” (Militant June 1968).
11. Evening Standard May 29 1968.