Winston's War

  It seemed sensible, indeed possible; the Germans were much weaker in the isolated port so far beyond the Arctic Circle. So, incredibly, they had gone back to Churchill's original proposal, dismissed all those months ago.

  Chamberlain issued the orders. Pursue the campaign against Narvik with full speed. Forget Trondheim.

  “But don't tell the French, not yet. I fear they will leak it,” Chamberlain instructed. “And don't tell the Norwegians anything at all. They'll think we are abandoning them and refuse to help.” Churchill cleared his throat; something unpleasant was sticking in it.

  “And tell our own troops to hold their positions, not to evacuate for a few days more,” Chamberlain continued.

  “But why?” Churchill demanded, startled. “There are no military reasons I can think of for delaying the withdrawal.”

  “Political reasons, First Lord, political. We have a home front, too, remember. If we announce we are…”—he reached once again for that ambiguous, shameful word—“withdrawing from central Norway, it will have a terrible effect on public opinion. No, let us hold on for a few days longer and see whether we can temper the news with a victory at Narvik. Perhaps present the picture that we only went into central Norway in order to gain time for our real objective. Narvik.”

  “We are to instruct our troops there to hold their positions—their untenable positions—in the hope of…better headlines?”

  “We must never allow ourselves to forget that morale on the home front is the key to winning any war, First Lord,” Chamberlain responded testily. “As I'm sure you agree.”

  The key to winning a war. And to winning elections and staying in power. Furious thoughts about casting down the lives of brave men to save one's own were beginning to frame themselves in Churchill's mind, but he knew any such expression would have to be handled with the greatest care. In any event it was too late—Chamberlain had closed his folder, the War Cabinet was over. The pretense of success was to be maintained.

  And so it was. Two days after the decision to evacuate had been taken, the Times correspondent proclaimed that “the Allied war machine is working smoothly and efficiently along the front north of Trondheim—all the British and French troops we encountered were confident and cheerful.” The following day he wrote that “there is no truth whatever in the statement issued by the German Headquarters claiming a serious defeat of the Franco-British forces. In fact, real fighting has not yet begun round Trondheim, the Allies being busy preparing bases for operations.”

  Of course the real fighting had not begun. It was never going to begin. The same day as The Times published their confident explanation of “the truth,” a flotilla left Scapa to begin the evacuation.

  The spring had arrived, clothed in a cloak of many colors that was as vivid and inspiring as most Londoners could remember. Yet Burgess saw none of it. His world was drained of light and of hope. His eyes told the story—raw, rimmed with fatigue, staring back at him from a filthy mirror. There was stubble on his chin and his hair was soaked with sweat. He had tried it every way, going to bed sober, going to bed drunk, and getting so utterly obliterated that he had no idea where his bed was. Yet no matter how or where he lay, every morning his life still stank of fear. Rodney, the bank clerk, had told him they were still at it. Digging.

  He knew what he was supposed to do—it had been drummed into him a hundred times. Do nothing. Act entirely normally, that's what the manual said. But there was so little that was normal about Burgess, he was a man to whom the rules simply didn't apply.

  So he decided to act. To do something. To see Churchill—in person, face to face. He had to warn Churchill, to save him from the consequences, and if he could do that then perhaps, Burgess thought, he might also save himself. But he couldn't get to Churchill. Churchill was at war, a man who ate, slept, and worked in the most closely guarded building in the country, a building crawling with watchers who, presumably, were now suspicious of their First Lord, who would be monitoring his mail and telephone calls, would see every move Churchill made and who would mark down everyone he talked to. Burgess couldn't get to him there, not in the Admiralty, it would be a potential death trap.

  The face glared back at him from the mirror. He rubbed a finger across his teeth and dug the knuckles deep into his eyes, then he pulled at his hair, but nothing changed. He was still afraid. But it was as he was tugging at his sweat-soaked hair that the idea came to him. Mac. Of course, bloody Mac. The man who was always full of surprises, the worker of minor miracles. Whose empire was Trumper's, the barbers to kings and courtiers, statesmen and spies, almost everyone in the land who mattered.

  “Mac, listen,” Burgess barked moments later down the phone. “Mr. Churchill. He one of yours? At Trumper's?”

  “Not one of mine, exactly, Mr. Burgess. He belongs to Alfred.”

  “Churchill's a regular, then?”

  “We don't encourage casual relationships.”

  “So when? When is he coming in next?”

  Burgess heard the pages of a thick ledger being shuffled.

  “He's overdue. Seems to have canceled twice in the last ten days. There must be a war on or something.”

  “Mac, you bastard—”

  “Wednesday. He has a new appointment for Wednesday, Mr. Burgess.”

  For a few moments, on Wednesday, the First Lord would be emerging from his shell…

  And so, as Churchill stepped out from Alfred's chair, he found Burgess at the counter of Trumper's, seemingly engrossed in the study of a range of hair lotions.

  “Somehow you don't strike me as much of a hair-lotion man, Burgess,” Churchill growled in greeting.

  “Ah, Mr. Churchill, what a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence, Burgess, is for novelists and composers of operas, not historians like you and me.”

  “You're right. But since we've bumped into each other, it would be a pity not to take advantage of the opportunity. Do you have a moment?”

  “Ah! Why do I sense that another of our little talks is about to commence?” Alfred was hovering, stooping, holding forward a hat and cane for Churchill, who took them.

  “Brendan wouldn't approve, of course,” he continued, moving towards the door, “but for once he isn't looking. So let us take advantage of the sunshine. Walk with me. I need the distraction.” They stepped out into the bright daylight. Churchill's personal detective, Thompson, hovered a few yards to the rear, smothered in a drift of cigar smoke. Churchill set off at an extraordinarily brisk pace for a man of his years, almost at the charge as he threaded his way through the narrow and bustling alleyways of Shepherd Market. At first he didn't speak, his mind was elsewhere. In Norway. Not until they had reached Piccadilly and were waiting for the traffic to part did Churchill pay any attention to his companion.

  “Burgess, you look bloody awful,” Churchill snapped as they stood at the side of the broad road.

  “Not been sleeping well. Been worrying. About the war, I suppose.”

  “You always strike me as a man with something on his mind—something else on his mind. As though the agenda is never quite complete. The rest of us get round to Any Other Business and you've only just started. Can't be good for the nerves.”

  Burgess was startled by the insight and concerned where it might lead, but already Churchill was off, racing across the road at the charge, his silver-topped cane demanding that the traffic make way. Burgess followed, dodging delivery vans and bicycles.

  “It's going well, I hope, the war,” he offered as they gained the safety of Green Park on the far side.

  “Which war is that?” Churchill sniffed. “The one I'm trying to fight against the Nazis, or the one I am forced to fight every day against my own colleagues?”

  “I sense I'm not the only one with something on my mind.”

  “I apologize. Shouldn't have spoken like that. But…damn it, you know what war is like. Sometimes we're forced to wonder whose side we're on. Who the real enemy is.”

  “Amen,” B
urgess whispered.

  “How will history judge us, Burgess? Will they say of this time that we were bold and brave? Or that we were craven and sometimes downright cowardly?”

  “History is often blind. I suspect it will judge us on our results—on what we do, not our motives for doing it.”

  “My contemporaries have always judged me on what they deem to be my results. Gallipoli. The Gold Standard. I hope history will be more kind.”

  “History is written by the victors. I hope you'll end up writing every word yourself.”

  “A splendid idea! One I shall endeavor to follow.”

  “If only all my ideas were as acceptable.” There was an edge in his voice that made Churchill stop and face the younger man.

  “Burgess, you have something on your mind, and you've waylaid me in order to tell me about it. Pray get on with it.” And he was off again. They were passing in front of the Palace; Churchill raised his homburg in distant salute.

  “Mr. Churchill, it's about the money. The loan. A blind trust, of course, you not knowing where the money came from. And me, neither. It turns out that some of the money I managed to raise is foreign money.”

  “Foreign money? From where? From whom?”

  “I don't know for sure—there were intermediaries—but it seems to me that at times like this any sort of foreign money might be…uncomfortable.”

  “How much foreign money?”

  “Too much. Sorry, I should have been more careful.”

  “Bloody right you should have been more careful. Have you any idea what they'll do if they find out I'm living in some foreigner's pocket?”

  “I'm aware—”

  “So whose money is it, Burgess?”

  “I don't know.”

  “From where, then? If you know it's foreign you must know from where.”

  “I can't be certain.”

  Suddenly Churchill had stopped again and turned on Burgess. “Damn you. Who the hell are they?”

  “I don't know, I can't tell you. That was the whole point of setting up a blind trust.”

  “And I must have been blind to have trusted you.”

  “I was only trying to help.”

  “Help your bloody self!”

  “No, you! You, Mr. Churchill. A most remarkable man, perhaps the only man for these times.”

  “So why do you seem intent on throwing me to my enemies?”

  Churchill's fists were clenched, as though he were about to hit the younger man. Thompson, the detective, hovered a yard closer.

  “You expect me to believe that you raised money without knowing where it came from?” Churchill continued, his face flushed with anger. Burgess stood his ground.

  “And do you, Mr. Churchill, expect history to believe that you put money in your pocket without knowing where it came from?”

  “Damn your insolence!”

  Thompson drew still closer but Churchill waved him away.

  “How dare you, Burgess.”

  “I dare because I have no choice. If this matter ever becomes public and causes you embarrassment, it will be no more than a drop in the ocean of difficulties it will cause me. I know that in the scheme of things, what happens to me is unimportant, but whether you like it or not, Mr. Churchill, you and I are in this together.” The old man was breathing heavily, chewing at his cigar. Then, once more, he was off, striding through St. James's Park towards Whitehall. Burgess raced after him.

  “What will you do, sir?”

  “Do? Do?” His cane flew out in front of him as though scything through unseen enemies. “I suppose I could go to the Prime Minister. Explain the situation. Pray he will understand. Then we shall both dig a bloody huge hole in which to bury you, Burgess.”

  “He'll shove you in after me. You know that, don't you? You'd better have an alternative.”

  “You have any suggestions?” Churchill spat.

  “Return the money. Replace it from another source. Shouldn't be too difficult. When you took that money you were an outcast with nowhere else to turn, but now you are First Lord. I suspect such things weigh heavily in a man's bank balance.”

  “It might provide me with a measure of protection.”

  “And if anyone inquires you'll be able to swear on a stack of bibles you have no idea where the original money came from.”

  “You've already thought all this through, haven't you, Burgess? Part of your wretched agenda.”

  Burgess said nothing. He was afraid Churchill saw clean through him. They were now at the bridge across the lake. The clock tower of the Admiralty rose in the distance. Churchill faced him once more.

  “This is the point at which we must part, Burgess.”

  Burgess hung his head, uncharacteristically contrite. “I am so sorry.”

  “So am I, so am I. And now I fear Mr. Bracken will like you even less.”

  “You can taste the blood. Straight from the battlefield,” Beaverbrook muttered, swirling the caramel liquid round in his glass until it caught the light from the candles. “It's Napoleon, the real McCoy, you know, Joe. From the Imperial cellars. Hell, the French know a thing or two about living.”

  “And dying.”

  “Christ's sake, you're not going to spend the whole goddamn evening crowing, are you? All that 'I-told-you-so' crap? You know I'm with you on this lousy war.”

  “It's gonna get worse before it gets terrible, Max. Know the latest thing I heard? Remember the antiaircraft guns they sent to Namsos and made such a fuss about? They had no predictors, no aiming sights on them. To use a technical term, they're Totally Fucking Useless. Takes a truly half-assed military brain to take months planning the invasion of a pathetic country like Norway and still screw it up.”

  “Not just Norway. You hear about the Brits in France? Got just seventeen light tanks between 'em. Hitler must be quaking in his boots.”

  “Time to do a deal. Quit while they're not too far behind. Leave Europe to work out its own thing—you know…”

  “Destiny?”

  “You always were a man with words, Max. Yeah, let 'em work out their own destiny. No need to get involved.”

  “That's what Neville's always wanted. Still wants, I suspect.”

  “But what Neville wants and what Neville gets…” A prolonged silence.

  “You been hearing the noises, too?”

  “A lot of fluttering in the chicken coop. They're expecting a fox.”

  “Who do you hear crowing loudest?”

  “The glamour boys. Duff Cooper, Hore-Belisha. All those moaners and martyrs who drag their discontent behind them like a cross.”

  “Neville will be OK, though.” But there was a question mark hovering somewhere around the end of the thought, an inflexion of uncertainty.

  “It's not possible. Daladier—and Neville?”

  “It's all falling apart. Just like I said it would.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So what happens next?”

  “The Brits get fucked.”

  “Can I persuade His Excellency to be a little more precise?”

  “OK, so Neville might get fucked, too.”

  “Not brilliant timing for me. The Express has backed him all the way. I've always thought it inconvenient to change horses while you're getting your ass shot at.”

  “Better make sure you choose the right horse, then.”

  “So if not Neville…?”

  “Pray it's not Winston. Get down on your knees and pray! How much damage can one man do in a single lifetime? This fiasco in Norway—it's like Gallipoli and the Dardanelles all over again. Will the Brits never learn?”

  “You'd think he'd have enough experience to avoid another disaster.”

  “It's been Winston's game all along. For months now. Norway and nothing but Norway. Like a cracked record that can't switch itself off.”

  “Practically bullied Neville into it, so I heard. So my newspapers will be saying.”

  “Spreading the shit.”

  “There'll be more than enough o
f it to cover them both.”

  “So who comes out from this one smelling like roses?”

  “Why, Halifax, of course.”

  “God's doorkeeper?”

  “He's solid. Sound. The man who didn't want British troops traipsing around Norway in the first place and had the sense to let everyone know it.”

  “Give me strength. And more cognac.”

  “What's wrong with Edward?”

  “Nothing that a couple of centuries of careful breeding with mates other than his first-cousins couldn't cure.”

  “Can't all be as genetically prolific as the Kennedys.”

  “I'll drink to that.”

  “Which reminds me, Joe. That little French ally of yours I've been hearing so much about. D'you have her under exclusive contract—or might you be interested in a little lease-lend?”

  Chamberlain had heard the mutterings—well, some of them, at least. Whispers don't usually travel as far as Downing Street. But a tide of concern was washing at his door that could no longer be ignored. Some were even saying that the war was being lost. So he instructed the Whips to put it about that it was all the fault of Winston—another one of his dismal failures—while he himself decided to make a statement to the House of Commons. To show them that he, Neville Chamberlain, was still very much in control. Still the silly rumor mill.

  It was, even by his own high standards, a masterpiece. The House was packed, anxious. They hung on his every word, knowing that disaster and defeat were knocking at their door.

  “We decided last week that we must abandon any idea of taking Trondheim,” he began, “and that we must therefore withdraw our troops.” (Ah, that was fine, then, we had decided, not the Germans with all their wretched air superiority and outflanking maneuvers. So long as we were still in control of things…)

  Chamberlain's tone grew more somber, and the House hushed to hear him.

  “The operation of withdrawal in the face of the enemy is one which has always been recognized as amongst the most delicate and difficult of operations.” Wise heads nodded in understanding. “And the action of Sir John Moore at Corunna, although accompanied by heavy loss of life, including the commander, has taken its place among the classic examples of British military skill.” (Skill? More like a bloody disaster. A British army which had retreated through the freezing ice and slush of Galicia, hacked to pieces along every mile of the way until the pursuing army of Napoleon had grown too exhausted to continue the mutilation. What was left of the British force had been allowed to steal away by ship. My God, he's preparing us for another Corunna…)