The prime minister’s vow was at forfeit, and there was no way to redeem it. Only twenty-four hours earlier Inskip had acknowledged to the House that the RAF was outnumbered by Göring’s fleets of Heinkels, Messerschmitts, Junkers, and Focke-Wulfs. This was Winston’s day to speak for all who knew that sooner or later England must confront Hitler, and to observe it he had worked through the night, dictating and revising passages to polish one of his most brilliant philippics. The amendment of November 1934, he reminded the House, had been “the culmination of a long series of efforts to warn the Government of looming dangers.” Producing a discolored old newspaper, he quoted a Times account of one of his own 1933 speeches. He had said: “During the last four or five years the world has grown gravely darker…. We have steadily disarmed, partly with a sincere desire to give a lead to other countries, and partly through the severe financial pressure of the time. But a change must now be made. We must not continue longer on a course in which we alone are growing weaker while every other nation is growing stronger.”123
Unheeded, he had therefore moved his amendment the following year, and exacted Baldwin’s promise. In so doing, he now reminded the House, he had been “much censured by leading Conservative newspapers, and I remember that Mr Lloyd George congratulated the Prime Minister, who was then Lord President, on having so satisfactorily demolished my extravagant fears.”
That was the background: his concern in 1933 and, in 1934, his warning, which had been dismissed as “alarmist.” What would have been said then, he now wondered aloud, had he predicted what had actually happened since? Imagine that he had prophesied that Nazi Germany would spend billions of marks on weapons, creating a stupendous arsenal by organizing her industries for war “as the industries of no country have ever been,” building “a gigantic air force,” introducing conscription, occupying the Rhineland and fortifying it “with great skill,” launching a large submarine fleet “with our approval, signified by treaty,” and forming a standing army of thirty-nine divisions “of highly equipped troops,” with another eighty divisions “rapidly being prepared”—all momentous events which threatened the peace of Europe and defied covenants signed by the German government. Assume that he had foretold the disarray of the smaller powers in eastern and central Europe, the Belgian declaration of neutrality—“which, if the worst interpretation proves to be true, so greatly affects the security of this country”—and the transformation of Italy from an Anglo-French ally to an Axis partner—“Italy, whose industry is so much smaller, whose wealth and credit are a small fraction of this country’s,” yet who boasts an army of “eight million bayonets.”
He continued relentlessly: “Suppose all that had been forecast. Why, no one would have believed in the truth of such a nightmare tale. Yet just two years have gone by and we see it all in broad daylight. Where shall we be this time in two years? I hesitate to predict.”
But some things seemed certain. During 1937 the Wehrmacht would outnumber the French and increase in efficiency. The gap between the Luftwaffe and the Allied air forces—particularly the long-range bombers—would continue to grow. The French and British rearmament programs “will not by themselves be sufficient.” Therefore, the Western democracies should “gather round them all the elements of effective collective security… assembled on the basis of the Covenant of the League of Nations.” It was his great hope that “we may succeed again in achieving a position of superior force” and “not repeat the folly which we committed when we were all-powerful and supreme,” but instead “invite Germany to make common cause with us in assuaging the griefs of Europe and opening a new door to peace and disarmament.”
The House was waiting, quiet but alert. They knew he had not risen to propose joining hands with Hitler. He always opened with feints, often with studied praise of those he meant to execute. No one, he said, could withhold sympathy from Inskip, who “from time to time lets fall phrases or facts which show that he realizes, more than anyone on that bench it seems to me, the danger in which we stand.” One such phrase “came from his lips the other night.” In justifying his weak ministerial performance, he had called the period before he had taken office “years that the locust hath eaten.” Churchill intended to weave locusts in and out of his speech, but here he merely observed that “from the year 1932, certainly from the beginning of 1933, when Herr Hitler came to power, it was general knowledge in this country that serious rearmament had begun in Germany.” Then, with a genial smile, he turned toward the prime minister and expressed his pleasure at seeing him back in the chamber, “restored to vigour… recuperated by his rest and also, as we hear, rejuvenated.” Knowing Baldwin, Churchill said, he felt sure that he would not wish any “shrinking” from “real issues of criticism” over “his conduct of public affairs.” At any rate, Winston intended to “proceed in that sense.”
Now, like Ulysses, he bent his bow. His expression hardened; joviality faded; there was bite in his voice as, without taking his eyes off Baldwin, he declared that in matters of national security “there rests upon him inevitably the main responsibility for everything that had been done, or not done.” From his waistcoat he produced a piece of paper and let the arrow fly, slowly reciting Baldwin’s promise of March 8, 1934:
Any Government of this country—a National Government more than any, and this Government—will see to it that in air strength and air power this country shall no longer be in a position inferior to any country within striking distance of our shores.
The House was still, but Churchill’s voice rose, as though he meant to be heard above a din: “Well, sir, I accepted that solemn promise.” He recalled that some of his friends, men less trusting than he, had demanded particulars, and Baldwin had then “showed less than his usual urbanity in chiding those Members for even venturing to doubt the intention of the Government to make good in every respect the pledge which he had so solemnly given in the afternoon.” Now, cuttingly, Winston said: “I do not think that responsibility was ever more directly assumed in a more personal manner.”
Baldwin was set up. Everyone expected an immediate attack on him. Baldwin himself did, and of course Winston knew that, so he left him hanging there and briefly dealt with what at first seemed to be the less incendiary issue of ministerial supervision of the armed forces. “The proper organization,” he said, “is four Departments—the Navy, the Army, the Air, and the Ministry of Supply, with the Minister for the Co-ordination of Defence over the four.” He observed that “practically everyone in the House is agreed upon this,” and—the tone was sharpening again—if Inskip “had known as much about the subject when he was appointed” as he must have learned by now, he would have insisted upon the reorganization. Now, committed, he stubbornly refused to alter his stand; he argued that a supply ministry would do more harm than good, disturb or delay military programs, upset the country, destroy trade, demoralize finance, and turn the country into “one vast munitions camp.” But then, surprisingly, Inskip had told the House, “ ‘The decision is not final.’ It would be reviewed again in a few weeks.” Churchill turned on him and asked: “What will you know in a few weeks about this matter that you do not know now, that you ought not to have known a year ago, and have not been told any time in the last six months? What is going to happen in the next few weeks which will invalidate all these magnificent arguments by which you have been overwhelmed, and suddenly make it worth your while to paralyze the export trade, to destroy the finances, and to turn the country into a great munitions camp?”
In the next minute Hoare wished he had never heard the word “fluid.”
The First Lord of the Admiralty… said, “We are always reviewing the position.” Everything, he assured us, is entirely fluid. I am sure that that is true. Anyone can see what the position is. The Government simply cannot make up their minds, or they cannot get the Prime Minister to make up his mind.
So they go on in strange paradox, decided only to be undecided, resolved to be irresolute, adamant for drift, soli
d for fluidity, all-powerful to be impotent. So we go on preparing more months and years—precious, perhaps vital to the greatness of Britain—for the locusts to eat. They will say to me, “A Ministry of Supply is not necessary, for all is going well.” I deny it. “The position is satisfactory.” It is not true. “All is proceeding according to plan.” We know what that means.
He was on them now, his vowels soaring and his consonants crashing as he reeled off dates, figures, and information new to those not on the front bench, revealing that 140,000 young Englishmen had volunteered for the territorials (reserves) only to find there were neither arms nor equipment for them; painting the shocking picture of the tank corps (“Nothing has been done in the years that the locusts have eaten for them”); decrying the army’s lack of antitank weapons, antiaircraft weapons, wireless sets. In comic relief, he related the story that a friend of his had come upon “a number of persons engaged in peculiar evolutions, genuflections and gestures.” He thought they must be gymnasts, evangelists, or “lunatics out for an airing,” but found instead, they were “a Searchlight Company of the London Territorials who were doing their exercises as well as they could without having the searchlights.” He waited a full moment, then ripped: “Yet we are told there is no need for a Ministry of Supply.”
Many MPs had been in the smoking room or the lobby when he rose, but word spread that this was worth watching, and the House had become crowded. Winston had assumed an almost biblical pose, his feet planted apart, his body immobile save for his head, which slowly toiled back and forth as his eyes swept the chamber and he told off his wrath in heavy cadence: “If we go on like this, and I do not see what power can prevent us from going on like this, some day there may be a terrible reckoning, and those who take the responsibility so entirely upon themselves are either of a hardy disposition or they are incapable of foreseeing the possibilities which may arise.”
Everyone anticipated what was coming next, and now, after one of those staged Churchillian entr’actes in which he feigned confusion, breaking the tension by appearing to fumble for a memorandum and then grope for a word, he resumed his stand, and, moving into another octave, turned to “the greatest matter of all, the air.” On Tuesday night, he recalled, Hoare had given them “the assurance that there is no foundation whatever for the statement that we are ‘vastly behindhand’ with our Air Force programme. It is clear from his words that we are behindhand. The only question is, what meaning does the First Lord attach to the word ‘vastly’? He also used the expression, about the progress of air expansion, that it was ‘not unsatisfactory.’ One does not know what his standard is….”
He broke off. This pause was heavy. Other MPs, whenever within earshot of Hoare, had left his sacrifice of Ethiopia unmentioned. Winston had cared little about the African kingdom; what rankled was Hoare’s mortal blow to the League of Nations, which, he believed, represented Europe’s greatest hope of salvation. To him sabotaging the principle of collective security forfeited any right to pity. He glowered at Hoare across the gangway and said slowly: “His standards change from time to time. In that speech of the eleventh of September [to the League of Nations] there was one standard, and in the Hoare-Laval Pact there was clearly another.”
Lowering his key Churchill told the House, in general terms, of the July deputation to Baldwin. Baldwin had said Winston’s facts and figures were “exaggerated,” but after checking them over the ensuing three months, Churchill had found them to be absolutely accurate, “and were it not that foreign ears listen to all we say, or if we were in secret session, I would repeat my statement here.” A lucid, rapid-fire summation of Europe’s balance of air power followed, comparing British and German might and reminding the House that “We were promised most solemnly by the Government that air parity with Germany would be maintained by the home defence forces. At the present time, putting everything at the very best, we are… only about two-thirds as strong as the German air force.” Once more his baleful eye fell on Hoare. The first lord had confirmed Churchill’s estimates of both Luftwaffe and RAF strength, yet said: “I am authorised to say that the position is satisfactory.” Winston declared: “I simply cannot understand it. Perhaps the Prime Minister will explain the position.”
The House, he submitted, had no choice but to demand an inquiry by six to eight “independent Members, responsible, experienced, discreet,” who would “make a brief report to the House, whether of reassurance or of suggestion for remedying the shortcomings. That, I think”—and this was the first sign that he would not confine his fire to the Treasury Bench—“is what any Parliament worthy of the name would do in these circumstances…. I hope that Members of the House of Commons will rise above considerations of party discipline, and will insist upon knowing where we stand in a matter which affects our liberties and our lives.” Before approaching his peroration he delivered a straight shot at Baldwin. “I should have thought that the Government, and above all the Prime Minister, whose load is so heavy, would have welcomed such a suggestion.”
Then:
Owing to past neglect, in the face of the plainest warnings, we have now entered upon a period of danger greater than has befallen Britain since the U-boat campaign was crushed…. The era of procrastination, of half-measures, of soothing and baffling expedients, of delays, is coming to its close. In its place we are entering a period of consequences…. Germany may well reach the culminating point of her gigantic military preparations…. If we can shorten this period in which the German Army will begin to be so much larger than the French Army, and before the British Air Force has come to play its complementary part, we may be the architects who build the peace of the world on sure foundations.124
Here another speaker would have ended. But Winston was not finished with them. The quintessential Churchill of the 1930s stood proudly alone. He had not been swayed by public opinion. But others had, and he meant to put them on notice. If he offended them they had it coming. One cannot imagine Franklin Roosevelt condemning Congress, or Hitler—though he could have done it with impunity—the Reichstag. Churchill could, and did, damn the House of Commons. And it was the finest passage in his speech. Harold Nicolson, watching, noted: “His style is more considered and slower than usual, but he drives his points home like a sledgehammer.”125 Even The Times described his coda as “brilliant”:
Two things, I confess, have staggered me, after a long parliamentary experience, in these debates. The first has been the dangers that have so swiftly come upon us in a few years, and have been transforming our position and the whole outlook of the world. Secondly, I have been staggered by the failure of the House of Commons to react effectively against those dangers. That, I am bound to say, I never expected. I would never have believed that we should have been allowed to go on getting into this plight, month by month and year by year, and that even the Government’s own confessions of error would have produced no concentration of parliamentary opinion and force capable of lifting our efforts to the level of emergency. I say that unless the House resolves to find out the truth for itself it will have committed an act of abdication of duty without parallel in its long history.126
Baldwin’s reply—halting in delivery and appalling in content—has, in the words of one historian, “haunted his reputation to and beyond the grave.” “He speaks slowly,” Nicolson wrote, “and with evident physical effort.” One of the whips whispered: “This will take three months energy out of him.” Toward the end of his speech, Nicolson thought his voice was as “limp as if he were a tired walker on a long road. The House realizes that the dear old man has come to the end of his vitality.”127
The result was shocking. He was talking extemporarily—he usually did; that was part of his charm—but for once his celebrated candor betrayed him. He said: “I want to speak to the House with the utmost frankness…. The difference of opinion between Mr. Churchill and myself is in the years 1933 onwards.” After reminding them of the financial crisis then, and remarking that in establishing and
enforcing policy “a democracy is almost always two years behind the dictator,” he declared: “I put before the whole House my own views with an appalling frankness.” Speaking of 1933 and 1934, he reminded them that “at that time there was probably a stronger pacifist feeling running through the country than at any time since the war.”
Suddenly he was talking, not about the threat to British lives and homes, but of votes, campaign slogans, and by-elections in which any candidate “who made the most guarded reference to the question of defence was mobbed for it.” That, he said, “was the feeling of the country in 1933. My position as the leader of a great party was not altogether a comfortable one.” After the East Fulham results, in which a previously safe Tory seat was lost resoundingly “on no issue but the pacifist,” he had asked himself “what chance there was within the next year or two of that feeling being so changed that the country would give a mandate for rearmament? Supposing I had gone to the country and said that Germany was rearming and that we must rearm, does anybody think that this pacific democracy would have rallied to that cry at that moment? I cannot think of anything that would have made the loss of the election from my point of view more certain.”128