‘Yes, Papa. And one from Randolph.’
‘Ah, I see. Then I suspect I’m not the only one carrying their troubles this evening.’
‘Randolph says he’s very happy with his promotion. A full colonel.’
‘And perhaps the additional pay will assist him to clear his wretched debts.’ Roosevelt. Randolph. All sympathy appeared to have been squeezed from the old man’s heart. There was room in his life for nothing but the winning of this war. Looking out of the window, it was not difficult to understand why.
They were drawing near to their destination. Ordinarily they would have gathered at the Guildhall, a splendid medieval structure that served as the City’s Parliament and was exceeded in magnificence only by the Great Hall at Westminster. But now it had burnt to a shell. So instead they would use the Mansion House, the residence of the Lord Mayor. It was a mere newcomer on the City scene, less than two hundred years old, and it lacked the soul of the Guildhall. But at least it still had its roof.
‘When the whole world insists that you are wrong, Pamela, isn’t there at least the smallest chance they are right?’ he asked as the car drew to a halt.
‘I remember what the world said at the time of Dunkirk, Papa, when they said Britain couldn’t fight on alone, that you should stop the fight and do a deal.’
‘We may soon be on our own again, and this time it will be so very much worse.’
‘There comes a point where the arguments have to be put aside and you reach down deep within yourself to rely on instinct.’
‘What, put aside all reason, all morality—and rely on instinct?’ He turned on her, troubled, wanting to test his own feelings through hers.
‘I’m not sure I’m the one to lecture you about morality. All I know is that you must be true to yourself, Papa. Above all, reach down within yourself and be true to what you find.’
‘And what do I do if, when I burrow down so deep, I meet the Devil halfway?’
Then he was out of the car and gone.
Many men had gathered to listen to his words in the Mansion House—not just the City men of money but twenty members of Churchill’s own Government, the three Chiefs of Staff and even the Archbishop of Canterbury—God, State and Mammon, all come to judge. As Churchill rose to address them, his eye caught upon the gaping cracks that ran through the plasterwork and the naked brickwork that disfigured many of the walls. There were ragged holes and patched windows, and beneath him rows of worn faces. These people needed reassurance, yet he had so little to give.
‘Alike in times of peace and war, the annual civic festival we have observed today has been, by long custom, the occasion for a speech at the Guildhall by the Prime Minister upon foreign affairs,’ he began. ‘This year our ancient Guildhall lies in ruins. Our foreign affairs are shrunken, and almost the whole of Europe is prostrate under the Nazi tyranny.’
This was not what they wanted to hear, but those seated in front of him today were not his main audience. They couldn’t know it, but they were no more than his supporting cast. They had been brought together to give his message a little weight, but his message would have wings, too—radio technicians had erected a bank of microphones in front of him, and pressmen sat at a table to one side. His words would reach every corner of the planet.
‘The condition of Europe is terrible in the last degree,’ he continued. ‘Hitler’s firing parties are busy every day in a dozen countries. Norwegians, Belgians, Frenchmen, Dutch, Poles, Czechs, Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, Greeks’—his voice lifted up the names like the tolling of a great bell—‘and above all in scale Russians, are being butchered by thousands—and by tens of thousands—after they have surrendered, while individual and mass executions have become part of the regular German routine.’
As he spoke, a cloud of dust broke away from the cracked plaster ceiling and settled upon the dark varnish of the rostrum and the table around him. The Lord Mayor’s wife pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe it away.
‘A river of blood has flowed and is flowing between the German race and the peoples of nearly all Europe. It is not the hot blood of battle, where good blows are given and returned. It is the cold blood of the execution yard and the scaffold, which leaves a stain indelible for generations and for centuries.’
They were beginning to warm up, slowly, nodding their heads. His voice rose in anger at the enemy.
‘Here, then, are the foundations upon which the “new order” of Europe is to be inaugurated. Here, then, is the house-warming festival of the Herrenvolk. Here, then, is the system of terrorism by which the Nazi criminals and their quisling accomplices seek to rule a dozen ancient, famous states of Europe, and if possible all the free nations of the world.’
His hand slapped the rostrum, more dust rose. And he promised them that never—never—would the future of Europe be confided to such bloodstained, accursed hands.
Now they applauded, but he cared little for it, for he was soon to come to the most critical part of his speech. He recounted to them the stories of some of their naval successes in the Mediterranean and Atlantic. Then he told them that he intended to go still further.
‘Owing to the effective help we are getting from the United States, owing to the sinking of the Bismarck, owing to the completion of our splendid new battleships and aircraft carriers of the largest size, I am able to announce to you…’—his eyes lifted; they waited on his words—‘that we now feel ourselves strong enough to provide a powerful naval force of heavy ships, with the necessary auxiliary vessels, for service if needed in the Indian and Pacific Oceans.’
They cheered lustily. Britannia still ruled the waves.
‘This movement of our naval forces, in conjunction with the United States Main Fleet, may give practical proof, to all who have eyes to see, that the forces of freedom and democracy have not by any means reached the limits of their power!’
More cheering. And it might have seemed to many as if the US Navy was joining in. But his words were ambiguous, deliberately so, and the British fleet was not quite what it seemed. The backbone of the force was supposed to be a carrier that would provide it with air cover. Yet the Indomitable, which had been marked for the job, had run aground on a Caribbean reef. Silly, these things happen, but without it the Admiralty protested that the other ships shouldn’t be sent. They would be too vulnerable. The First Sea Lord made a considerable fuss about it at the Defence Committee and strongly urged delay. But Churchill had insisted. If there was to be any chance of deterring the Japanese, the ships had to go now, otherwise it would be too late. It was time to gamble.
‘I must admit that, having voted for the Japanese Alliance nearly forty years ago—in 1902,’ he told his audience, ‘and having always done my very best to promote good relations with the island empire of Japan, and always having been a sentimental wellwisher to the Japanese and an admirer of their many gifts and qualities, I should view with keen sorrow the opening of a conflict between Japan and the English-speaking world.’
‘Keen sorrow’? A strange use of terms. But his tone suggested a measure of confidence. After all, he had talked not just of Britain but of ‘the Englishspeaking world’. What did he mean by that? He left barely a breath before he removed any measure of doubt.
‘The United States’ time-honoured interests in the Far East are well known.’
He paused, then paused some more, catching their eyes and compelling their attention. He needed them to know that whichever else of his words they listened to, these were the words they must heed.
‘The United States are doing their utmost to find ways of preserving peace in the Pacific. We do not know whether their efforts will be successful.’ A pessimistic shake of the head, another pause. ‘But should they fail, I take this occasion to say—and it is my duty to say…’—he looked across to where the reporters sat, their faces expectant, their pencils poised, his voice now an uplifting rumble of defiance—‘that should the United States become involved in war with Japan, the British dec
laration will follow—within the hour!’
The whole hall began to cheer, loudly, and pound their fists upon the tables, even the jaded men of the press. It was an automatic response, almost like a football crowd, supporting the team, no matter what the odds, because they had only one team to support. When, later, they began to think about what he had said, they would realize that they were bound for yet more agonies and suffering. As if there weren’t already enough cracks in their ceilings. And when they had thought about it some more, they would begin to wonder about the Americans. Were they part of this pact? If Britain were forced to declare war, would the Americans follow?
It was the greatest question of Churchill’s time. In this hour, in this place of ruins, he had begun his game that would decide the future of the world. In the note he had handed to Harriman, he had set out a course of action in three parts. A British naval force sent to the Far East. A larger American naval force to follow. And a joint declaration of war against Japan.
Churchill had begun to deliver. The question for him—and even more so for the Japanese—was how well America would play the game, too.
Words, words, words. Sometimes a man has nothing else to fight with. Throughout his years in the wilderness Churchill had laid into his own Government with little more than the breath in his body. Then, through the first terrible year of war, he seemed to have held back the bombers and the invasion barges with little more than rhetoric. When he spoke, the world had learnt to listen. And he was counting on that.
There were many who felt the full thunder of his words during these days, not just hapless Foreign Office clerks but Ministers, editors, colleagues and friends. No man could take the strain that Churchill bore without cracks appearing in his countenance. And on Armistice Day they were placed on display for all to see.
Sir Waldron Smithers was a backbench Member of Parliament, a man of dedicated appetites that centred mainly around religion and alcohol. He visited both regularly. So when he and another colleague rose in the House of Commons to ask a pointed question about the salary paid to one of Churchill’s closest advisers, Lord Cherwell, implying that he might even have German origins, the Prime Minister made no attempt to hide his temper. He was bloody, he was bellicose, he made a point of treating the questions with the utmost impatience and contempt.
But the matter was not to be left there.
Later that day, Sir Waldron was sitting in a leatherencrusted corner of the Smoking Room, the place where Members of Parliament retired for refreshment and gossip. It was crowded as usual, but Sir Waldron was alone at his table.
He became aware of a shadow falling across his life. He looked up to find Churchill, shaking like an infuriated bull.
‘Why in the Hell did you ask that question?’ Churchill roared. ‘Don’t you know he’s one of my oldest and greatest friends?’
The entire room fell silent. All eyes were fixed upon Smithers. His lower jaw began to drop.
‘But Winston, I…’
‘Don’t “Winston” me. I’m the bloody Prime Minister and I’m fighting a war to save this country,’ he bellowed. ‘I don’t get up in the morning expecting much help from people like you, but neither will I put up with idle sniping from those who know even less about running this war than they do about holding their drink.’
Smithers was transfixed. He hadn’t even got to his feet, and wouldn’t be able to now; his knees were gently buckling. He pushed away his brandy and ginger. ‘Prime Minister, I can assure you of my total personal loyalty and…’
But there was little point in protesting. He had already been condemned without chance of reprieve.
‘You attack Cherwell, you attack me!’
‘I really don’t think that anything I said—’
‘That’s your trouble,’ Churchill shouted, driving right through him. ‘Damn well didn’t think about anything you said!’
The bemused knight was still trying to splutter his innocence when Churchill turned his back and stormed out.
As The Times reported, ‘The House got the impression that Mr Churchill is not in the mood for any gentle handling of critics of the Government.’
The dark cloud was still hanging over him on the following day when the King opened the new session of Parliament. The ceremony was traditionally followed by a debate in the House of Commons but, uniquely, on this occasion it took place on the floor of the House of Lords. The peers had taken pity on their commoner cousins and had moved out of their own chamber so that the elected politicians could meet once more within the precincts of the Parliament building. This new home was a far more splendid affair than the Commons, its leather benches the colour of imperial claret rather than insipid green and surrounded by gilt that sparkled even on the darkest of days. The place had an altogether more relaxed atmosphere—until Churchill rose to his feet.
‘Mr Speaker, sir,’ he opened with a gruff voice and more than a hint of impatience, ‘it has been aptly remarked that Ministers, and indeed all other public men, when they make speeches at the present time, have always to bear in mind three audiences: one our own fellow countrymen, secondly, our friends abroad, and thirdly, the enemy.’
He glared around him, as if to remind them that in his view the enemy was not necessarily confined to foreign shores.
‘This naturally makes the task of public speaking very difficult,’ he continued, ‘and I hope that those who feel that their war work lies especially in the direction of criticism will make allowances for these difficulties inherent in the situation.’
They laughed, but his own taut smile suggested Churchill found little humour in the situation. His eyes caught Hore-Belisha, and said something very rude.
‘I hope they will also remember that no sensible person in wartime makes speeches because he wants to. He makes them because he has to, and to no one does this apply more than the Prime Minister.’ More glares. He didn’t want to be here, and he wanted them to know that.
‘No, I tell you, it is impossible to please everybody. Whatever you say, some fault can be found…In war it is very hard to bring about successes, and very easy to make mistakes’—another profound glare—‘or to point them out when mistakes have been made.’
Some Members began to shuffle uneasily. This was neither elegant nor inspiring; what was its point?
‘There was a custom in ancient China that anyone who wished to criticize the Government could have the right to criticize, provided…’—he stuck his thumbs belligerently inside his waistcoat—‘he followed that up by committing suicide. Very great respect was paid to his words, and no ulterior motive was assigned. That seems to me to have been, from many points of view, a wise custom.’
He was beating them, flaying them for what he suggested was disloyalty. And throughout his speech he continued to give them back their own weight in criticism. It was petulant, a crusty old man barking at those who had the temerity to snap at his heels. He even attacked the Daily Herald for some grudging comment it had made about Christmas dinners. It had probably not been intended as a personal slight but Churchill took it as such, and replied at extraordinary length.
It seemed strange that at a moment when the world was about to lose its grip on its self-control, the great man should insist on going on—and on, and on, as he did—about potatoes and sugar beet, dairy cows and meat cattle, even finding a mention for the humble chicken. It was the old man at his least gracious—and yet, though severely stretched in spirit and body, Churchill hadn’t lost sight of his objective. At the very start of his speech he had set out the proposition that his words would be listened to, not simply by friends at home and abroad, but also by their enemies. That had also been the point of his speech earlier in the week at the Mansion House. Now he was going to provide something for the enemy to chew on.
‘There is nothing that Hitler will dislike more than my recital of these prosaic but unassailable facts. There is nothing that he and his Nazi regime dread more than the proof that we are capable of fighting a
prolonged war, and the proof of the failure of their efforts to starve us into submission.’
There was no transcending oratory in this—Hitler didn’t deserve the honour of fine phrases. But now Churchill came to his point.
‘In the various remarks which the Deputy Fuehrer, Herr Hess, has let fall from time to time during his sojourn in our midst, nothing has been more clear than that Hitler relied upon the starvation attack even more than upon the invasion to bring us to our knees. His hopes were centred upon starvation, as his boasts have made the world aware. So far as 1941 at least is concerned, those hopes have been dashed to the ground.’
And that was it. It wasn’t so much about food, but about Rudolf Hess. Almost Churchill’s first words on the matter since the man had arrived six months earlier. Hitler would pick up on that, of course. Now in Berlin they would hear the words of defiance, the insistence that Britain was still resolute. Yet what they would remember more than anything else was the news that Hitler’s right-hand man, Rudolf Hess, was still alive and, tantalizingly, still talking.
What he was talking about, Churchill was content to leave to Adolf Hitler’s peculiarly febrile imagination.
‘I feel so wretched tired, Sawyers.’
Winter. The last of the leaves were gone and an insistent east wind slid through gaps around the illfitting window. For once he was glad of the thick blackout curtain. The window rattled, the curtain shivered in the draught, and so did Churchill.
‘I’ll fetch Nelson,’ the valet said.
‘I’ll need more than a bloody cat. Light me a fire, would you, Sawyers?’ The plea seemed uncharacteristically plaintive.
‘Hot toddy. That’ll do the trick,’ the valet suggested, tucking in a trailing blanket.
‘I heard someone say that alcohol cools the body down.’
‘Also sends you to sleep. So’s you won’t notice, like.’
‘In Russia, the snows have begun to fall and the ice has taken its grip on the war. They say that bodies are being found—German bodies—frozen to death. Dressed in women’s furs. You understand what that means?’