Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  He flung the cigarette stub out of the window and hauled up a piece of dried fish that he kept dangling on a string from his windowsill, tearing off a piece before throwing the rest back out again. Breakfast on the run. But his mouth was so dry he couldn't chew, not until he'd poured himself two fingers of Jameson's and swilled it round the back of his gums.

  “To mastication,” he murmured, raising his glass to the straw-stuffed Regency buck that stood by the wardrobe. It stared back at him in reproach, the glass eyes seeming to follow him around the room. Sometimes it seemed as if the whole world was after him, even the stuffed animals. The apartment was crammed with artifacts, from a frigate in a bottle to an old American harmonium that he occasionally played, nothing of any great value, all garbage really. One day he'd get rid of it, along with the rest of his ludicrous life. He rubbed whiskey with his finger round his teeth to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. He always seemed to be drinking whiskey, more than he'd intended to, and more still to get rid of the hangover. He would chew garlic to get rid of the smell of whiskey, then drive ludicrously fast to see if he could get rid of all the things that bothered him. His friends said he'd kill himself eventually, and maybe they were right. It was amazing how many friends he had, all things considered.

  It would be another one of those days. He would arrive late at Broadcasting House and they would shout at him, so he would shout back and yet again try to get them to use Churchill. He knew they would refuse, because they were under instructions from above. But in all the shouting about Churchill they would forget he looked like a tramp and had been late yet again. So he would have just one more drink to fortify himself and be on his way.

  It was at that point that the eiderdown moved. It was piled high on one side of the bed, a tangle of old silk and cigarette burns, and out from beneath it protruded a calf, then a thigh, followed by the most gorgeous arse he'd seen since…? Since last night. Victoria Station, one of his habitual hunting grounds, where if ever he was stopped and questioned he could always argue that he was on his way home, just round the corner, officer. The arse moved. It belonged to a young bellboy from Claridge's. He couldn't remember his name. Which in the scramble last night hadn't mattered a damn, but in the damp light of day seemed—well, unnecessarily rude. So Burgess decided he'd spend a little more time with his guest that morning, give himself the opportunity to find out the lad's name. And if it made him still later at the BBC, what did it matter? The war would wait. That was official.

  Brendan Bracken was one of those figures who could be described as many things, but mostly he was outrageous. He would also, soon, become one of the most powerful men in the country.

  Bracken was a fantasist. He was also the Member of Parliament for North Paddington. He was Irish by birth but claimed to be an orphan from Australia where his parents had been killed in a bush fire. In fact, his father had been a stonemason and also a member of the Republican Brotherhood, an illegal Irish nationalist organization on whose behalf he would go round blowing up Anglo-Irish walls and buildings. The following day he would appear cheerfully on the doorstep and offer to repair them. Perhaps he passed on to his son the capacity for vivid imagination.

  Bracken went through life lying about his origins, about his education—at times he would suggest he had gone to Oxford University—and even about his parentage. When he attached himself to Winston Churchill and worked his way up to become the elder man's indispensable right arm, rumors began to circulate that he was Churchill's illegitimate son. He did nothing to discourage these rumors, and perhaps even started them.

  Bracken did more than invent the world around him, he invented many worlds and seemed to be able to move guilelessly from one to another. People knew it was largely nonsense, but the brashness and energy he devoted to his fantasies persuaded others to go along with them. It was so much easier than calling his bluff. By October 1938 he was thirty-seven years of age with a safe parliamentary seat and was being driven around in his own custom-built Bentley. Still he had trouble being taken seriously.

  Yet he wanted so desperately to be taken seriously. Which was why, when he entered the Members' Lobby beside the great oak doors leading to the chamber of the House of Commons and was greeted by Duff Cooper, he was deeply confused. For Duffie had been part of the team. Cooper had been Churchill's drinking partner, dining companion, and intimate colleague in the battle against Chamberlain and appeasement. It had been an awesome team, one of them inside the Cabinet, the other rampaging freely outside, but now it was all unraveling. Cooper, Churchill's last great ally inside the corridors of power, was gone. Churchill was despondent. Whichever way Bracken looked at it and turned it over in his mind, Chamberlain had won.

  “Brendan,” Cooper greeted him, taking him by the arm. “At last a friendly face. Beginning to feel about as popular as Dr. Crippen standing here.”

  “Hello, Duffie. Glad I've been able to find you. Wanted you to know that we're all behind you.”

  “Ah, words of comfort. Good, because that's what I'd like. Would you come and sit beside me on the benches while I make my speech? You know, moral support. Someone to lean on when the old legs go a little wobbly.”

  Instead of replying, Bracken produced a large handkerchief and with some care blew his nose. He was always complaining of sinus trouble. And it gave him time to manufacture his response.

  “Be honored to, Duffie—but you know that's not possible. Got to be on duty beside Winston.”

  Churchill always took the same place on the green leather benches of the House, on the front row just a few feet along from where Government ministers themselves sat. Resignation speeches, by tradition, were made from farther back.

  “But surely on this one occasion…” Cooper began to urge. A thread of steel had wrapped itself around his smile.

  “Duffie, you know what Winston's like.”

  “My God, it's like being abandoned on a desert island.”

  Before he could continue his protest they were interrupted by a penetrating American voice with a distinctive Boston Irish twang.

  “Ah, the man of the moment. Not changed your mind, I hope.”

  “Your Excellency,” Cooper responded, not even trying to contain his dislike. Joseph Kennedy, the United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James's, was one of the least diplomatic envoys ever provided by Washington. His admiration for the efficiency and ambition of the German Reich was as deep-rooted as the contempt he retained for the decaying, chaotic democracies of the Old World, and he took no trouble to hide either.

  “Brought along a couple of guests to see the performance. My son, Jack"—he introduced a fresh-faced man in his early twenties, but looking younger—"and someone you may already know. Captain Charles Lindbergh.” The aviator, the first man to fly the Atlantic alone and famed throughout the world, held out his hand.

  “I'm delighted you should think my performance worthy of such an audience, Joe. I'll try not to disappoint.”

  “You already have, Duffie. If you'd had your way, you'd already be at war against Hitler. You might as well take a dip in a bath of acid.”

  “What did I tell you, Brendan. A veritable Dr. Crippen.”

  “Look, ask Lindie here. He's been telling me all about the Luftwaffe—and he knows, goddamn it. They can send up ten times the number of planes as you, the French, and the Russians put together. His view is that in a shooting war London wouldn't last a week—is that what you want?”

  “That's what puzzles me, Joe. Here we are—according to you—totally without any option. And there was me thinking we'd won the last war.”

  “That's where you Brits always get it wrong, Duffie. We won the last war. America bailed you out in '17. Fifty thousand dead to prove it. Damned if we're gonna do that again.”

  “We'd fight alone, if necessary.”

  “Fight! What the hell you got to fight with? Hitler's got more planes, more tanks, more divisions, more everything.” His finger was stabbing in the direction of Cooper's w
aistcoat. “Hey, you know what happened to your English unemployment this month?”

  Cooper, who wasn't following the American's train of thought, shook his head. “I've had other things on my mind…”

  “Through the goddamn roof. Again. Nearly two million. Your factories are closing down and producing nothing but cobwebs. Meanwhile the Führer's got his factories working to splitting point. Building the biggest army and air force this side of the Atlantic. Face it, Duffie, you guys've got about as much chance as a cock in a convent. What are you gonna do when the Wehrmacht comes marching down Whitehall? Throw cricket balls at 'em?”

  A flush of anger had risen in Cooper's cheeks. “And what will you do when he's turned Europe into a dictatorship? When the world is dominated by Communism and Fascism? When America is cut off from its markets, without friends? When Hitler can hold you to ransom?”

  Kennedy smiled coldly, not rising to the bait. He nodded towards the Chamber. “You're gonna go in there and make a fool of yourself, Duffie.”

  “Stop pulling your punches, Joe.”

  “Hell, it's not the time to pull punches with the situation in Europe.”

  “My point precisely.”

  “Then, as I said, it should be a fine performance. Damn fine. Gotta go claim our seats now. See you around.” Then, in a final act of insult to the former First Lord, he turned to Bracken, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. “Nice talking with you, Mr. Bracken. Come to dinner later in the week. I'll give you a call.” “That would be splendid…”

  Bracken replied, before realizing how insensitive he must have appeared to his parliamentary colleague. He turned to offer some words of remorse, but it was too late. He'd gone.

  Duff Cooper had got it wrong. He wasn't going to be alone on the benches. When he rose to make his resignation speech, the Government whips had ensured he was surrounded by a platoon of loyalists who saw it as their duty to make his moment in the parliamentary spotlight as uncomfortable as possible. By tradition resignation speeches are meant to be heard in silence and Hansard, the official record of parliamentary proceedings, is renowned for its inability to hear insults and inappropriate interruptions even if they ring round the ancient rafters. But The Times also published extensive verbatim extracts of parliamentary proceedings, and their report was unable to hide the crude treatment Cooper received at the hands of members of his own party.

  They surrounded him, intimidated him, jeered and scoffed at him. Destroyed many friendships. Only when he mentioned the name of the Prime Minister did they cheer, then fell into sullen silence when he said that, no matter how he had tried, he couldn't believe what the Prime Minister believed. “And so I can be of no assistance to him or his Government,” Cooper continued, looking around him, eyes flooded with sorrow. “I should only be a hindrance.” Growls of agreement began to rise about him like flood water. “It is much better that I should go.” And Order Papers were waved like a breaking sea that threatened to wash him away. He stood in their midst like a rock, lonely, defiant, mouth dry as the abuse continued.

  Yet gradually a hush fell. Perhaps his tormentors grew ashamed, or simply ran out of breath. In any event, Cooper's dignity at last was allowed to shine through, without interruption.

  “I have forfeited a great deal. I have given up an office which I loved, work in which I was deeply interested, and a staff of which any man might be proud. I have given up association in that work with my colleagues with whom I have maintained for many years the most harmonious relations, not only as colleagues but as friends. I have given up the privilege of serving as lieutenant to a leader whom I still regard with the deepest admiration and affection.”

  He was looking directly at Chamberlain, who refused to return his stare.

  “I have ruined, perhaps, my political career. That is a little matter.

  I have retained something which is to me of greater value—I can still walk about the world with my head erect.”

  Only then did he sit down. And still the Prime Minister would not look at him.

  For a place of such eminence and influence, Downing Street was architecturally extraordinarily undistinguished. Even after the extensive renovations to Number Ten undertaken by Neville Chamberlain and his wife, required in part by the need to shore up floors that were sagging and in danger of collapse, much of the interior remained remarkably dark and cramped. A place of elves and goblins. Two of the most voracious of these goblins were Sir Horace Wilson and Sir Joseph Ball.

  Wilson's official title was the Government's Chief Industrial Adviser, which did no justice to his real influence. In practice he was recognized as being Chamberlain's most trusted assistant. He had accompanied the Prime Minister on all three of his flying visits to Hitler in the previous month and had even been dispatched to talk with the German leader on his own. “He is the most remarkable man in England,” Chamberlain had once told colleagues, “I couldn't live a day without him.” Wilson controlled most of the levers of Government. Meanwhile his close colleague Ball controlled the political machinery. He was the director of the Conservative Research Department, the policy-making body for the Tory Party, and was also the official in charge of publicity and propaganda at party headquarters. Ironically he had turned down Guy Burgess when Burgess had applied to become an employee of the Conservative Party after leaving Cambridge. He thought him too scruffy.

  Wilson and Ball shared many things—a background in the secret services (both had been officers in MI5), virulent anti-Semitism, a passionate belief in the policy of appeasement, and above all a devotion to Neville Chamberlain that went far beyond any job description. They were formidable, and in some quarters were justifiably feared.

  Now these two eminent servants of the people sat in Wilson's office, a small room that ran off the Cabinet Room itself. It was already dark, the curtains drawn, the only light provided by two green-hooded lamps placed on desks by the tall windows, lending a conspiratorial atmosphere which both men enjoyed. Ball had just come off the phone from talking with one of the directors of the Yorkshire Post. Not for the first time they were discussing the predilections of the editor, Arthur Mann, a persistent man who seemed determined to be impressed by the resignation speech of Duff Cooper.

  Phrases like “personal grudge” and “loss of grip” had littered Ball's conversation, but he seemed to be making little headway. Mann was a notoriously stubborn anti-appeaser, the director had explained, and he wasn't sure what anyone could do. “For heaven's sake, Jamie, whose bloody newspaper is it? Why do you let him kick you around like that? For God's sake, get a grip. No sane man wants to reconquer Berlin for the Jews.” Ball mouthed the words slowly, hoping they might sink firmly into the other man's mind. “This is a matter of survival. And not just the country's survival, your survival as a newspaper, too. Look what's happened to your damned advertising revenues. A summer of war scares and the bottom's fallen out of your market. Down—what? Thirty percent? Precisely. So long as you encourage cranks like Duff Cooper to go on whipping up war scares you can watch your profits shrivel like a baby in bath water. Nobody's going to buy a bloody thing. Look at the economy in Germany—that's the sort of thing we want here, not blood all over your balance sheet. You want war? 'Course not. But that's exactly what you'll get if you carry on crawling up the arse of Duff Cooper and his crowd.” At last the argument seemed to have struck home, the director promised to see what he could do, and the conversation was resolved with promises of lunch.

  It had been a profitable evening's work. Other newspapers had been leant on, too. Ball scratched his stomach, contented. By morning Duff Cooper's obituary would be suitably disfigured.

  At that moment there came a knock on the door and a head appeared. It belonged to Geoffrey Dawson, the editor of The Times. As always in the dark corners of Chamberlain's Whitehall, he was welcomed like a general returned to his camp. “Thought I might find you two old rogues here,” he said. “Need to take your mind.”

  “And a glass of sherry, t
oo, Geoffrey.”

  The editor made himself comfortable in a cracked leather armchair by the fireplace, wriggling in order to reacquaint himself with an old friend. “Just taken tea with Edward at the Foreign Office.” The “Edward” in question was Lord Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, and it was Dawson's custom to meet with him on a frequent basis, particularly when preparing a trenchant editorial. They were long-standing personal friends, their lives intertwined. Both were Etonians and North Yorkshiremen, High Anglicans who worshipped and hunted foxes together.

  “He was helpful, I trust,” Wilson prompted.

  “As always. Got a pocket full of editorials that'll take me right up to the weekend. But that's not what I'm concerned about. It's my young pup of a parliamentary reporter, Anthony Winn. He's written some god-awful eulogy about Duff Cooper's resignation speech this afternoon, about its nobility, how it was a resounding parliamentary success, its barbs striking home. How it shamed the Government's troops into silence, even. That sort of stuff.”

  “Then change it.”

  “Steady on, Joey. Editorials are one thing. Chopping a news reporter's copy around is considerably more tricky. A little like kicking cradles. Not made any easier by the fact that, according to my sources, he's got it absolutely bloody right.”

  Wilson and Ball glanced at each other uneasily. “Right only on the day, perhaps. Not in the overall context,” Wilson mused. “He had to go. Duffie is a man who lives his life on the very edge of disaster. Not a man of sound judgment, Geoffrey—why, just look at his women. Pulls them off the street. Some of them are foreign, with completely inappropriate contacts…I sometimes wonder whether his rather lurid liaisons haven't weakened his mind.”