Legat made a noise that was between a sigh and a groan. Halfway along the corridor, he stuck his head into Syers’s office. ‘All right, Cecil, how much trouble am I in?’
Syers swung round in his chair. He was a small man, seven years Legat’s senior, constantly and irrepressibly and often irritatingly amused. He wore the same college tie as Legat. ‘I’m afraid you picked rather the wrong day for a romantic lunch, old fellow.’ His voice dropped sympathetically. ‘I hope she didn’t take it badly.’
Once, in a weak moment, Legat had hinted to Syers of his difficulties at home. He had regretted it ever since. ‘Not at all. Things are on an even keel. What happened in Berlin?’
‘Apparently it degenerated into one of Herr Hitler’s tirades.’ Syers pretended to strike the arm of his chair. ‘“Ich werde die Tschechen zerschlagen!”
‘Oh, good grief. “I will smash the Czechs!”’
A military voice called along the corridor, ‘Ah, Legat, there you are!’
Syers mouthed, ‘Good luck.’ Legat stepped backwards and turned to confront the long, moustached face of Osmund Somers Cleverly, universally known, for reasons unexplained, as Oscar. The Prime Minister’s Principal Private Secretary crooked a finger. Legat followed him into his office.
‘I must say I’m disappointed in you, Legat, and more than a little surprised.’ Cleverly was older than the rest of them, had been a soldier by profession before the war. ‘Lunch at the Ritz in the middle of an international crisis? It may be the way things are done in the Foreign Office; it’s not how we do them here.’
‘I apologise, sir. It won’t happen again.’
‘You have no explanation?’
‘It’s my wedding anniversary. I couldn’t get hold of my wife to cancel the table.’
Cleverly stared at him for a few seconds longer. He did not bother to hide his suspicions of these brilliant young men from the Treasury and the Foreign Office who had never served in uniform. ‘There are times when one’s family has to take a back seat; now is such a time.’ The Principal Private Secretary sat behind his desk and switched on a lamp. This part of the house faced north across the Downing Street garden. The unpruned trees that screened it from Horse Guards Parade cast the ground floor in a perpetual twilight. ‘Has Syers filled you in?’
‘Yes, sir. I gather the talks have broken down.’
‘Hitler has announced his intention to mobilise at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I’m afraid all hell is about to break loose. Sir Horace should be back to report to the PM by five. The PM will broadcast to the nation at eight. I’d like you to deal with the BBC. They are to set up their apparatus in the Cabinet Room.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There will have to be a full Cabinet meeting at some stage, probably after the broadcast, therefore the BBC engineers will need to clear out quickly. The PM will also be seeing the Dominion High Commissioners. The Chiefs of Staff are due to arrive any minute – take them in to the PM as soon as they all get here. And I shall need you to take a note of the meeting so that the PM can brief the Cabinet.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Parliament is being recalled, as you know. He intends to make a statement to the House on the crisis tomorrow afternoon. Have all the relevant minutes and telegrams for the past two weeks arranged for him in chronological order.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I am afraid you will probably have to stay overnight.’ The phantom of a smile played beneath Cleverly’s moustache. He reminded Legat of a muscular Christian games master at a minor public school. ‘It’s a pity it’s your anniversary, but it can’t be helped. I’m sure your wife will understand. You can sleep in the duty clerk’s room on the third floor.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That is all – for now.’
Cleverly put on his spectacles and began studying a document. Legat walked back to his office and sat down heavily at his desk. He opened a drawer, took out a pot of ink and dipped in his pen. He was not used to being reprimanded. Damn Cleverly, he thought. His hand shook slightly, rattling his nib against the glass edge of the pot. Miss Watson sighed but did not look up. He reached into the wire basket on the left of his desk and took out a folder of telegrams recently arrived from the Foreign Office. Before he could untie the pink ribbon, Sergeant Wren, the Downing Street messenger, appeared in the doorway. As usual he was out of breath; he had lost a leg in the war.
‘The Chief of the Imperial General Staff is here, sir.’
Legat followed him as he limped down the passage towards the lobby. In the distance under the brass lantern stood Viscount Gort reading a telegram, his polished brown boots planted wide apart. A glamorous figure – an aristocrat, a war hero, a holder of the Victoria Cross – Gort seemed oblivious to the clerks and secretaries and typists who had suddenly discovered pressing reasons to cross the lobby in order to catch a glimpse of him. The front door opened on a cascade of flashes from the photographers’ cameras, out of which stepped Air Marshal Newall, followed seconds later by the towering figure of the First Sea Lord, Admiral Backhouse.
Legat said, ‘If you would kindly come with me, gentlemen …’
As he led them into the interior he heard Gort say, ‘Is Duff coming?’ and Backhouse reply, ‘No, the PM thinks he leaks to Winston.’
‘Would you mind waiting here for a moment …?’
The Cabinet Room was soundproofed by double doors. He opened the outer and knocked gently on the inner.
The Prime Minister was seated with his back to the door. Facing him across the centre of the long table were Halifax, the Foreign Secretary; Simon, the Chancellor of the Exchequer; and the Home Secretary, Hoare. All three looked up to see who had come in. The room was in absolute silence apart from the ticking of the clock.
Legat said, ‘Excuse me, Prime Minister. The Chiefs of Staff are here.’
Chamberlain did not turn. His hands were on the table, spread wide on either side of him, as if he were about to push back his chair. His forefingers slowly tapped the polished surface. Eventually, in his precise, slightly old-maidish voice, he said, ‘Very well. Let us meet again when Horace returns. We’ll hear what more he has to say then.’
The Ministers gathered up their papers – awkwardly in the case of Halifax, whose withered left arm hung uselessly at his side – and rose to their feet without saying a word. They were men in their fifties or sixties, the ‘Big Three’, in the prime of their power – bulked by their dignity beyond their physical size. Legat stood aside to let them pass – ‘like a trio of pall-bearers in search of their coffin’ was how he described them afterwards to Syers. He heard them greet the service chiefs waiting outside – hushed, grim voices. He said quietly, ‘Would you like me to show in the Chiefs of Staff now, Prime Minister?’
Still Chamberlain did not turn to look at him. He was staring at the opposite wall. His corvine profile was hard, stubborn; belligerent even. Eventually he said, distractedly, ‘Yes, of course. Yes, bring them in.’
Legat stationed himself at the far end of the Cabinet table, close to the Doric pillars that supported the ceiling. The bookcases showed the spines of brown leather-bound statutes and silvery blue editions of Hansard. The Chiefs of Staff placed their caps on the side table by the door and took the seats vacated by the Ministers. Gort, as the senior officer, occupied the central position. They opened their briefcases and spread out their papers. All three lit cigarettes.
Legat glanced across at the mantel clock above the fireplace behind the Prime Minister’s head. He dipped his nib into the nearby inkstand. On a foolscap sheet he wrote, PM & CoS. 2:05 p.m.
Chamberlain cleared his throat. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’m afraid the situation has deteriorated. We had hoped for – and the Czech Government had agreed to – the orderly transfer of the Sudeten territory to Germany, subject to a plebiscite. Unfortunately, Herr Hitler announced last night he was not prepared to wait even so much as a week longer, and will invade on Saturday. Sir Horace Wilson saw him this morn
ing and warned him privately but very firmly that if France fulfils her treaty obligations to Czechoslovakia – which we still have every reason to believe she will – then we shall be obliged to support France.’ The Prime Minister put on his spectacles and picked up a telegram. ‘After his customary ranting and raving, Herr Hitler responded, according to our Ambassador in Berlin, in the following terms: “If France and England strike, let them do so. It is a matter of complete indifference to me. I am prepared for every eventuality. I can only take note of the position. It is Tuesday today, and by next Monday we shall all be at war.”’
Chamberlain put down the telegram and took a sip of water. Legat’s pen ran rapidly across the heavy paper: PM – latest from Berlin – breakdown of talks – violent reaction by Herr Hitler – ‘Next week we will be at war’ –
‘I shall of course continue my efforts to find a peaceful solution if one exists – although it’s hard at the moment to see what more can be done. But in the meantime, I fear we must prepare for the worst.’
Gort looked at each of his colleagues. ‘Prime Minister, we have drawn up a memorandum. It summarises our collective view of the military situation. Perhaps I might read out our conclusion?’
Chamberlain nodded.
‘“It is our opinion that no pressure that Great Britain and France can bring to bear, either by sea, on land, or in the air, could prevent Germany from overrunning Bohemia and from inflicting a decisive defeat on Czechoslovakia. The restoration of Czechoslovakia’s lost integrity could only be achieved by the defeat of Germany and as the outcome of a prolonged struggle, which from the outset must assume the character of an unlimited war.”’
Nobody spoke. Legat was acutely conscious of the scratching of his nib. Suddenly it sounded absurdly loud.
Eventually Chamberlain said, ‘This is the nightmare I have always dreaded. It’s as if we’ve learned nothing from the last war and we are reliving August 1914. One by one the countries of the world will be dragged in – and for what? We’ve already told the Czechs that once we’ve won, their nation in its present form cannot continue to exist. The three and a half million Sudeten Germans must have the right of self-determination. Therefore the separation of the Sudetenland from Germany will not even be an allied war aim. So for what would we be fighting?’
‘For the rule of law?’ suggested Gort.
‘For the rule of law. Indeed. And if it comes to it, we shall. But by God, I wish we could find some other way of upholding it!’ The Prime Minister briefly touched his hand to his forehead. His old-fashioned winged collar drew attention to his sinewy neck. His face was grey with exhaustion. But with an effort he recovered his usual businesslike manner. ‘What practical steps now need to be taken?’
Gort said, ‘We shall send two divisions to France immediately, as we have already agreed, to demonstrate our solidarity. They can be in position within three weeks and ready to fight eighteen days after that. But General Gamelin has made it quite clear the French have no intention of mounting anything more than token raids on Germany until next summer. Frankly, I doubt they’ll even do that. They’ll stay behind the Maginot Line.’
Newall added, ‘They’re waiting until we arrive in greater strength.’
‘And is the Air Force ready?’
Newall was sitting up very straight – a thin-faced man, skeletal almost, with a small grey moustache. ‘I have to say this comes at the worst possible time for us, Prime Minister. On paper, we have twenty-six squadrons available for home defence, but only six have modern aircraft. One has Spitfires. The other five have Hurricanes.’
‘But they are ready to fight?’
‘Some are.’
‘Some?’
‘I’m afraid there is a technical problem with the guns on the Hurricanes, Prime Minister – they freeze above fifteen thousand feet.’
‘What’s that you’re saying?’ Chamberlain leaned forwards as if he had not heard correctly.
‘We’re working on a solution, but it may take some time.’
‘No, what you are actually saying, Air Marshal, is that we have spent one and a half thousand million pounds on rearmament, the bulk of it on the air, and when it comes to it our warplanes don’t work.’
‘Our planning has always been predicated on there being no conflict with Germany before 1939 at the earliest.’
The Prime Minister turned his attention back to the Chief of the Imperial General Staff. ‘Lord Gort? Can’t the Army shoot down most of the attacking aircraft from the ground?’
‘I’m afraid we’re in a similar position to the Air Chief Marshal, Prime Minister. We only have about a third of the number of guns we believe are necessary to defend London, and most of those are obsolete relics from the last war. We are equally short of searchlights. We have no ranging or communication equipment … We were also counting on another year to prepare.’
Halfway through his answer Chamberlain seemed to have stopped listening. He had put on his spectacles again and was sorting through his papers. The atmosphere in the room had become uncomfortable.
Legat continued writing calmly, smoothing the awkward facts into bureaucratic prose – PM expressed concern at adequacy of home air defence – but the orderly mechanism of his mind was disturbed. Once again, he couldn’t escape the image of his children in gas masks.
Chamberlain had found what he was looking for. ‘The Joint Intelligence Committee estimates there will be one hundred and fifty thousand casualties in London by the end of the first week of bombing. Six hundred thousand by the end of two months.’
‘That’s unlikely to happen immediately. We assume that to begin with, the Germans will direct their principal bombing force against the Czechs.’
‘And when the Czechs have been defeated – then what?’
‘Then we don’t know. We should certainly use the time available to take precautions, and start evacuating London tomorrow.’
‘And how prepared is the Navy?’
The First Sea Lord was a striking presence, a good head taller than anyone else in the room. His grizzled skull was bald, his face deeply scoured, as if it had been exposed to the elements too long. ‘We have some shortages of escort vessels and minesweepers. Our capital ships require fuelling and arming; some of the crews are on leave. We shall need to announce mobilisation as quickly as possible.’
‘When would you need to do that, to be operational by the first of October?’
‘Today.’
Chamberlain sat back in his chair. His forefingers tapped the table. ‘Of course that would mean we would mobilise before the Germans.’
‘Partially mobilise, Prime Minister. And there is something else to be said for it: it would have the effect of showing Hitler we aren’t bluffing – that if it comes to it, we are prepared to fight. It might even make him think twice.’
‘It might. Or it might push him into war. Remember, I have stared into that man’s eyes on two occasions now, and in my judgement, if there is one thing he cannot tolerate, it is losing face.’
‘But surely if we’re going to fight it’s important he should be left in no doubt of that fact? It would be a tragedy if he interpreted your courageous visits and your sincere efforts for peace as a sign of weakness. Wasn’t that the mistake the Germans made in 1914? They thought we weren’t serious.’
Chamberlain folded his arms and stared at the table. Legat couldn’t tell whether the gesture meant he had rejected the suggestion or was considering it. Shrewd of Backhouse to flatter him, he thought. The PM had few obvious weaknesses but strangely for such a shy man his besetting vice was vanity. The seconds ticked by. Finally, he looked up at Backhouse and nodded. ‘Very well. Mobilise.’
The First Sea Lord stubbed out his cigarette and stuffed his papers into his briefcase. ‘I’d better get back to the Admiralty.’
The others rose with him, grateful to escape.
Chamberlain called up to them, ‘I would like you to hold yourselves in readiness to brief senior ministers later t
oday. In the meantime, we should avoid doing or saying anything that contributes to a mood of public panic, or forces Hitler into a position from which he cannot back down, even at the eleventh hour.’
After the Chiefs of Staff had gone, Chamberlain let out a long sigh and rested his head in his hand. Glancing sideways, he seemed to notice Legat for the first time. ‘Were you making a note of all of that?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister.’
‘Destroy it.’
2
In Wilhelmstrasse, in the heart of the government sector of Berlin, in the sprawling three-storey nineteenth-century building that housed the German Foreign Ministry, Paul von Hartmann was contemplating a telegram that had come in overnight from London.
CONFIDENTIAL
LONDON 26 SEPTEMBER 1938
IN THE NAME OF OUR OLD FRIENDSHIP AND OUR COMMON DESIRE FOR PEACE BETWEEN OUR PEOPLES I DO URGE YOUR EXCELLENCY TO USE YOUR INFLUENCE TO POSTPONE THE DECISIVE MOVEMENT OF OCTOBER FIRST TO A LATER DATE THAT TIME MAY BE GIVEN TO ALLAY PRESENT PASSIONS AND PROVIDE OPPORTUNITIES FOR REACHING ADJUSTMENT OF DETAILS
ROTHERMERE FOURTEEN STRATTON HOUSE PICCADILLY LONDON
Hartmann lit a cigarette and considered what sort of response was required. In the seven months since Ribbentrop had taken over as Foreign Minister he had been called upon many times to translate incoming messages from English into German and then to draft replies in the Minister’s name. At first he had adopted the traditional, formal, neutral tone of a professional diplomat. But many of these early efforts had been rejected as insufficiently National Socialist; some had even been returned to him by SS-Sturmbannführer Sauer of Ribbentrop’s staff, with a thick black line scrawled through them. He had been forced to recognise that if his career was to prosper a certain adjustment of style would be necessary. Gradually therefore he had trained himself to mimic the Minister’s bombastic manner and radical world view, and it was in this spirit that he set to work answering the owner of the Daily Mail, his pen scraping and stabbing at the paper as he worked himself into a state of faux-outrage. His concluding paragraph in particular struck him as masterly: