It was to prove the most concrete result of the leaders’ historic meeting and became known as the Atlantic Charter. It made headlines all around the world.
The symbolic importance of the Charter was immense, but from Churchill’s point of view it was still inadequate. It talked vaguely about the final destruction of the Nazi tyranny; it talked about Japan not at all. Churchill was later to mutter that the civil servant who drafted the document should have ordered another egg; it might have given him the chance to finish it.
After three days and nights, they parted. In the afternoon sun, Churchill stood on deck and waved his cap at every American ship as they passed, and continued to wave until they were almost out of sight. He continued to look west until the sun had finally fallen on his day. No lover ever wept more unashamedly than did he.
On the journey home they came upon an Allied convoy, seventy-two ships, sailing in twelve columns, the grubby, plodding workhorses of the Atlantic, laden with their Lend-Lease dowry and heading home. The Prince of Wales made two runs through the convoy, raising flags to signal ‘Good Voyage’, and signing it simply: ‘Churchill’. The crews of the freighters cheered wildly. They could see a small figure returning their wave from the bridge of the battleship, and they sensed rather than saw the two fingers raised aloft in the special salute that was beginning to become his signature: ‘Victory’.
The Prince of Wales stopped briefly at the Icelandic capital of Reykjavik. Churchill saw the country’s leaders, the crew saw naked bathers relaxing in the sun. Then the weather changed. That evening as they set sail once more, they ran into the jaws of a piercing storm, but nothing could dampen his spirits.
‘A little champagne to celebrate, sir?’ the steward enquired that evening in the wardroom.
‘I never drink a little champagne,’ Churchill said. ‘It is not a drink to trifle with. You should never suggest taking short measures of champagne, any more than you suggest a man should take short puffs of oxygen. Why, I’ve drunk half a bottle every night of my life since I was twenty-five. Forty-two years.’ He stared at those around him, his blue eyes flashing mischievously. ‘I reckon I could fill this entire wardroom with all the champagne I’ve drunk in my life.’
His claim prompted a heated debate. Measurements were taken, volumes calculated, figures scribbled, voices raised, until an admiral who had taken responsibility for the good name of the ship declared that the Prime Minister was wrong, that the champagne he had consumed would fill only half the room. Churchill looked astonished. He gazed around the wardroom in wonder, as though it were a temple.
‘Bugger,’ he said. ‘Hell of a lot to do before I’m seventy!’
It was in similar mood that he eventually arrived back in London, more than two weeks after he had departed. Huge crowds had gathered at King’s Cross to greet his train, with policemen hard-pushed to restrain their enthusiasm. Young boys shinned up lamp-posts for a better view, women porters climbed on top of their trunks, newsreel photographers stood on the roofs of their cars. A large official welcoming party had collected on the platform, including Clemmie and Churchill’s brother, Jack, but as the train pulled in with triumphal whistles and much venting of steam, the driver couldn’t see what was happening and in the confusion he stopped the train well short. Politicians, officials and photographers began to stampede up the platform in a race to be the first to greet him, but after a few moments of shouting and good-natured shoving their British reserve took control and they fell back to allow Clemmie through. The old man leant from the carriage window, still in his nautical uniform and cap, cigar in his hand, a wide beam on his face, waving until he was certain that the photographers had all they wanted. Then a bright hop from the carriage, a kiss on Clemmie’s cheek, a Victory-salute, a round of handshaking and a progress through the cheering crowd that was as enthusiastic as any he could remember since…
Since Munich. Since they had gathered at the airfield in Heston to embrace Neville Chamberlain after he came back from his meeting with Hitler, clutching his little piece of paper and promising peace in our time. Less than three years ago.
For a moment he felt as though a ghost were whispering warnings in his ear, but he ushered it quickly away. He wasn’t coming home with empty words of appeasement, he was pledging war! Together, side by side, in the air, on the battlegrounds, beneath the waters, upon the oceans and in every corner of the globe. Roosevelt had as good as guaranteed it. Churchill placed his cap on top of his cane and held it aloft like the laurels of victory. He’d gone with doubts, of course, like any nervous suitor, but he had wooed, and had won, hadn’t he? Now, surely, it was only a matter of time.
Rarely had they seen their Prime Minister so bullish. He beamed, he bubbled, he ordered that photographs of the summit should be distributed as widely as possible: ‘Let the whole world see the President and the Prime Minister joined as one, Christian soldiers marching as to war!’ He had gone with the objective of bringing the Americans into the war, and he reported to the Cabinet that he had all but succeeded. The President would become more and more provocative; he sought only the proper excuse to ask Congress for a formal declaration of war. ‘Everything will be done to force an incident,’ Churchill told his Cabinet.
Yet distance and the passage of days dimmed the dream. Like a wayward lover returning to his legitimate spouse, Roosevelt fell back into line once he was tucked up in Washington. At his first press conference, he was asked if the United States was any closer to war. He flatly denied it. War? What war?
Many Americans drifted into greater isolation. ‘Because they have not fired a shot or dropped a bomb, the vast majority of them cling to the delusion that they are at peace,’ The Times reported. ‘Many persons in all parts of the country are tempted to believe that, as Hitler had turned east, the war was withdrawing from the west and from the Atlantic and that their own security was assured.’
The same issue of the newspaper carried a map of Russia. It showed the German Army advancing on Leningrad, Kiev, Kharkov, Moscow, beyond Minsk, surrounding Odessa…Stalin had his balls on a butcher’s block, so Americans rejoiced—and relaxed. The Bill to extend military service stumbled through the US Senate by a single vote.
In Paris, ten thousand Jews were arrested and sent to concentration camps. Elsewhere in France, the leaders of a peaceful anti-German march were executed.
In London, as though to sum up the futility of it all, the Food Education Society announced that ‘half a dozen young nasturtium leaves placed between two slices of bread and margarine make a tasty sandwich, especially for those who find margarine unpalatable.’
All this took place within four days of Churchill’s triumphal return.
Pamela had come in response to a strange message from Sawyers.
‘He needs yer, Miss Pamela.’
‘I doubt that, Sawyers.’
‘He’s not himself. Could do wi’ a friendly face around.’
‘I’m not sure I fall into that category. Has he asked for me?’
‘Not exactly, but…very out o’ sorts, he is. I think you should come.’
So, not knowing what to expect, she had set out for Chequers on a late-night train. It immediately seemed to be a bad idea. The train was packed, nothing but standing room, and the air stiff with cigarette smoke and the stench of stale bodies. The other passengers were mostly soldiers starting their weekend leave; as they squeezed past, several deliberately barged her with their gas masks, taking the opportunity while apologizing to examine her all too closely. One of them, an officer, waited for the train to sway then fell provocatively against her, his breath soaked in Craven A and beer, his hand resting on her breast. From beneath an overtrimmed moustache, he suggested bluntly that they might have sex in the lavatory.
‘I don’t think so, thank you,’ she replied, removing his hand. ‘Looking at you, I think there are already enough bastards in this world.’
‘Not to worry, little girl. I can wait till you grow up. Plenty of others,’ he snee
red, shuffling on.
The train’s progress was frustratingly slow, with much blowing of steam and the frequent application of brakes. Timetables meant nothing in war. Outside Chalfont St Peter it came to a complete stop for almost two hours. The atmosphere had grown desperately heavy, lit by nothing more than darkblue blackout lamps and the glow of a hundred cigarettes. She began to think she might faint. The officer was shambling back towards her, more drunk than ever; she took her hatpin and held it prominently in front of her breasts. He wasn’t going to fondle her again without a fight. He turned away.
But he didn’t disappear for long. As soon as their train rattled into the darkness of Wendover station, he was there at the door, a leer on his face, forcing her to squeeze past his body.
‘Excuse me, please.’
He didn’t move.
She stepped forward. With a flick of her wrist the top corner of her suitcase caught him directly in the groin. It folded him like a concertina.
‘You just can’t rely on women nowadays,’ she whispered, stepping past.
The station platform was in complete darkness, the night air filled with steam and coal smoke that tasted of sulphur. A beam of torchlight was weaving its way towards her, and behind the beam she made out the bald head of Sawyers.
‘Am I glad to see you,’ she said, handing him the suitcase.
‘Entirely mutual, miss,’ he responded. He led her towards an army staff car with a Guardsman at the wheel.
‘Courtesy o’ Coldstreams, miss. No taxis after midnight. We thought you’d best be having a lift.’
‘It’s gone two in the morning. You must be exhausted,’ she said, looking into his bleary eyes as he opened the rear door. ‘But won’t you be missed?’
‘I put him to bed early. He didn’t sleep at all last night. Not like him.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know and he won’t tell. That’s why I was thinking yer might be able to help. You two seem to have an uncommon relationship, like.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He don’t shout at you.’
‘Sawyers, I’m very much afraid he’s not even talking to me.’
‘He don’t hold grudges, miss, you know that. ‘Cept on Hitler.’
Soon they were driving up the long tree-lined avenue that led to the house. The War Office had wanted to have all the trees felled, fearing that on a clear night they gave the Luftwaffe a straight run at Chequers, but Churchill had refused. ‘I plan to knock a few trees down in Berlin first,’ he told them.
The front door closed quietly behind them. ‘You go on ahead, Sawyers,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to be up again in a few hours.’
‘Thank you, miss. I’ll just put yer case in yer room. Goodnight.’ He climbed the stairs and made his way along the bedroom corridor. His progress was entirely silent; he seemed to know which floorboards creaked. She wished Averell had such skill.
She followed him slowly up the stairs, passing Winston’s bedroom. A light was shining from beneath the door. She hesitated, then knocked gently. She found him sitting up in his four-poster bed, clad in white silk pyjamas, staring at nothing. Papers lay strewn around him but gave the impression of being untouched. A cold cigar was in his hand. His whisky glass was empty.
‘Papa?’
His eyes flickered briefly in her direction, but he said nothing. Perhaps she was still an outcast in his camp.
‘Papa?’ she said once more. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’
Stiffly he shook his head.
She couldn’t decide whether to withdraw or to stay. He looked hostile, wanting to be alone, the lower jaw jutting forward, but some instinct—and Sawyers’ warning—forced her to make one last effort.
‘How did it go, Papa? With the President?’
His words came slowly. ‘I am no longer sure,’ he mumbled, almost inaudibly.
‘Did you like him?’
‘I thought it went well. Thought he liked me. There was a bond, it seemed, a coming together. But I was stupid, had forgotten we’d met before. I think that might have hurt him. First impressions, so important.’ At last his eyes came up to meet her. ‘I failed.’
‘Why do you think that?’ She stepped forward and nestled on the end of his bed.
‘We dined together, discussed together, drank together. Even prayed together. Oh, but I gave him such a mighty service on the deck of the Prince of Wales. Chose the hymns myself. Two mighty flags draped from the bridge, the fighting men of both our nations joined in prayer and in song.’
‘I’ve seen the photographs. I think the whole world has.’
‘I was so sure I couldn’t fail. Onward Christian soldiers! Churchill and Roosevelt, centre stage, with God himself waiting to walk on from the wings. But…’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘I was wrong. I saw the President as a mighty buffalo, stamping with impatience and ready to charge forth across the plains of duty.’ His voice grew firmer. ‘Turns out he’s not a buffalo but a jack rabbit. Never know which bloody hole he’s going to pop out of next.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
Suddenly red anger was burning through the exhaustion in his eyes. ‘I went there for war, Pamela. Sailed halfway round the globe so I could hear him say that he would take up arms until all our enemies are swept to the darkest corners of Hell. But instead…’ He waved his cold cigar in scorn. ‘At our very first meeting he suggests we talk about the terms for peace. His wretched Atlantic Charter.’
‘But I thought…’
Suddenly the dead cigar went flying across the room. ‘I didn’t go there for peace, Pamela. I went for war!’
‘The Charter talks about those things we are fighting for.’
‘But he’s not bloody fighting, is he? And have you read that piece of paper? Do you understand it? I’ve read it a hundred times, but I don’t. Pious nonsense about peace and love and affirming the right of all peoples’—he spat out the words—‘to choose the form of Government under which they will live.’
‘Not an excellent idea?’ she enquired cautiously.
‘What? We’re fighting this war to save the British Empire, not to have it torn limb from limb, woman! Give democracy to natives who still worship witchdoctors? You might as well feed them gin.’
‘But you agreed, you signed.’
His hands had become fists, shaking with frustration above the blanket, wanting to lash out but unable to find a target. Then the strings that held his fury together were cut, and he slumped back helpless on his pillow.
‘I had to sign it, Pamela, had to. We need him. But he hates the Empire. And I think he may hate me.’
‘Averell says not. In his letter he says the President is intrigued by you, likes you enormously. Thinks you’re wonderfully crusty and cutely old-fashioned.’
‘Ah, Averell.’
‘He did warn you, Papa. That you were setting your sights too high.’
‘Good advice. I need more of it. I could do with him here right now.’
‘So could I, Papa.’
Churchill coloured and fumbled for a new cigar.
‘Do you know when he will be coming back, Papa?’
‘We’re sending him to Moscow, Pamela, with Max Beaverbrook. To see how we can help our Bolshevist brethren and make sure they stay in the fight.’
‘Not just to keep him away?’
‘I admit that part of me wishes he had never come.’
‘Part of me, too, Papa. Please understand that. But we don’t control these things.’
‘I do so wish…’ His voice trailed away.
‘Me, too, Papa,’ she said, knowing what he was thinking.
‘Bloody Americans!’ he sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment, searching for peace, but it was futile. ‘They will never join this war, Pamela. Roosevelt keeps looking over his shoulder, saying he needs more time. But time won’t wait for his caution to turn to courage. Already the panzers are pointing at the door of the Kremlin, while every evening
the sparks from the campfires of Nippon glow more fiercely in the east. Our enemies have no intention of holding back while the President gets his wheelchair out of the mud.’
‘That’s cruel.’
‘These are cruel times. They show no mercy. Soon we shall be fighting not only in Europe and upon the Atlantic and in the air above our own hearths, but across great swathes of Asia, too. That is a war we cannot survive, Pamela, not on our own. And what use will it be if President Roosevelt and his beloved public opinion then decide to join the war, when we are left paralysed and choking on our own blood? No. We need him now. We need the might of his America, and we cannot wait.’
Pamela rose and went to the decanter of whisky that stood beside his bed.
‘You have a knack of knowing what I want,’ he said.
She poured, a good two fingers’ worth, but as he reached for it she drank it herself.
‘Right now, Papa, I think my need is every bit as great as yours.’ She swallowed the last drops, spluttering as the harsh alcohol fought its way down her throat. ‘I’ve never known you even to think about the possibility of defeat.’
‘And no one else shall. For the others I will carry on as long as I have strength, shouting defiance and making pretence, reassuring them all that we are still masters of our own fate. Masters of our own fate!’ He mocked his own words. ‘That’s what I told the House of Commons. But it is an illusion. Our fate has been placed in the hands of others.’
‘Why do you tell me this?’
‘Because I have to tell someone. And because I think you understand me, perhaps better at times than I understand myself.’
She leant across to squeeze his hand, and he kept hold of it.
‘We need a miracle, Pamela. That, or the Americans. And I confess I have not spoken to God nearly as much as perhaps I should have done.’ He shrugged. ‘Which leaves the Americans.’
‘But they don’t seem to be in a mood to be swayed.’