Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  Will lead you from the rear.

  Clothed by Monty Burton,

  Fed on Lyons pies,

  Die for Jewish freedom

  As a Briton always dies…”

  He snatched the starched napkin he had tucked in his collar and began to wave it in the air. “Christ, Ian, might as well run up the white flag straight away. Sometimes you've got to ask yourself what the hell we're fighting for.”

  The sommelier, attracted by the noise and the flapping napkin, scurried to their side. “May I get you anything else, gentlemen?”

  “Well, what d'you think, Ian? Got time for Number Three?”

  The man from Romford sucked his teeth and sighed. He'd come about the piano. He said he needed it for his local TA unit, “to entertain the boys,” and there wasn't enough in the kitty. But Carol knew it was lies. He was simply trying to con her.

  From the back garden came the sounds of screams and laughter. Peter was back. After weeks of waiting for Armageddon from the air, London's mothers had begun to tire of false alarms. They wanted their children back, and their hosts in the country had been only too pleased to oblige. Perhaps the war would get sorted out after all. And Carol had her own Anderson shelter now, which Mac had dug into the back garden and which had become a fort, a ship, a prince's palace, a store room, a place for them all to hide from Red Indians and elephants. And from Mr. Goering.

  She had wanted only forty quid for the piano. An upright, decent condition. Superficial scratches. Forty quid. To get her through Christmas. It had been her grandmother's, a sort of heirloom, the only thing she had left of her childhood. As a kid she had sat and learned to play, and to escape, particularly from her father, when he was around. Tunes like “Nellie Dean” and “On Mother Kelly's Doorstep.” Her mother used to cry. It had a couple of wonky notes but nothing which, to Carol's mind, at least, lessened its enormous value as an instrument of pleasure and distraction. The man from Romford disagreed. He kept banging down on the key which produced no sound at all, and sighing.

  With Peter back, she was determined that this Christmas should be special, that the children shouldn't go without. Nowadays you couldn't rely on Christmas—couldn't rely on anything. But forty quid would get them through. Food. A few presents. Perhaps a fiver left over for the tea caddy. Dinner today had been a small tin of sardines, stretched to cover their pieces of toast by mixing in a handful of oats. As if they were horses. Forty quid would make all the difference, but the man from Romford was sucking his teeth fit to swallow. And offering only twenty-five.

  She didn't mind haggling, was used to it, knew more than most about the marketplace, but she needed the money more than Romford Man needed a second-hand piano with a couple of dodgy keys. From outside came the sounds of banging on the metal sheeting of the shelter, reminding her that they would be running back inside and demanding to be fed in a couple of hours. And they would want more than oats.

  She had to sell the piano, get through Christmas. And after that—well, she knew what she had to do. The thought of it made her hate herself, men even more, and Mac most of all. Elusive, mysterious, silent, non-committing Mac, the man with a soul so sensitive that she was only occasionally allowed to touch. And what she hated about him most of all was the turmoil he had brought into her life, changing everything around. Giving her hope. She could never forgive him for that.

  The money had dried up. Mr. Burgess had become unreliable, Mac said, always drunk, not been sober since the start of the war. And when he was drunk there was no money. So she sold whatever she had left.

  Now Romford Man was dragging the piano through the doorway. She told him to be careful, not to tear the linoleum, but already it was too late. She had twenty-eight pounds in her hand. It had just been announced that food rationing would begin at Christmas—butter, bacon, sugar, ham—and more would follow. So now she could rush down to the shops, stock up, while she could. On sardines.

  Merry Christmas, Mr. Hitler.

  It had to be resolved, this stand-off between the two most powerful men in the country, a circumstance that was sapping the will of the Cabinet and sowing confusion throughout the by-ways of Government. They both knew it had to be brought to an end—but how? They were of one Government, but two entirely different worlds, these sons of Birmingham and of Blenheim.

  They had just finished Cabinet. A tetchy affair. The gout had got to Chamberlain and he could no longer walk without considerable pain. He had been forced to use the service lift to descend from his attic bedroom, and two policemen called from duty outside Number Ten had carried him into the Cabinet Room, placing him like a rag doll in his chair. After that, the Prime Minister's notorious lack of patience with his colleagues had been distributed widely without any obvious sign of favor, and they all seemed keen to gather their papers and scurry off to their next engagement. It seemed an inappropriate moment, perhaps, to invite the Prime Minister to dinner, but that is what Churchill had done. In all their long years serving together in Parliament they had never once broken bread or shared anything other than business, and neither of them could mistake Churchill's invitation as being other than an offer of peace.

  “If you feel up to it, Prime Minister,” Churchill had added, perhaps incautiously.

  Chamberlain's steely eyes had flashed—in pain or irritation?—and he had mumbled his acceptance. He could scarcely refuse.

  So they had come together in Churchill's apartment in Admiralty House, he and Clemmie with Chamberlain—still leaning heavily on a walking stick—and his considerably younger wife Annie, who was as socially competent as Neville had always proven stiff. It was she who threw the regular Downing Street parties for the good and the great, three nights in a row in order that the flowers and hired crockery could be made to stretch, keeping everyone circulating between the state rooms in order to enhance the social value of the occasion and to avoid undue strain on the weak floors. Yet, while both kitchen and floors creaked and strained, Chamberlain would remain working in his study. A serious man. Not good at the small-talk required of social occasions and, with gout, even worse at drink. He declined Churchill's proffered whiskey.

  “Ah, twenty years serving arm-entwined-in-arm in the great chamber of Parliament, Neville, and never before dined together. How foolish of us to allow so much time to slip by,” Churchill enthused, ushering Chamberlain to his seat at the table.

  Chamberlain refrained from reminding Churchill that much of those twenty years had been spent not so much arm-in-arm as at each other's throats. He took his seat and grabbed a soup spoon.

  It was during the soup that they were interrupted by a flush-faced lieutenant, hot foot from the War Room below. “Pardon the interruption, ladies, gentlemen, but beg to report latest intelligence.” For a moment he seemed a little uncertain to whom he should reveal his news, First Lord or Prime Minister. Unable to decide on the etiquette, he stared at the blackout curtains and offered a crisp, sightless salute. “U-boat sunk on the western approaches to Ireland forty minutes ago.”

  “In your honor, Prime Minister!” Churchill exclaimed, jumping from his seat. His eyes were moist. “My dear Neville, I feel at this moment almost overwhelmed with emotion. You and I…we haven't always seen eye to eye, but they were such petty differences compared with the awesome task which now confronts us.” More tears welled. “And I must tell you that I have never felt so much honor in service as I feel tonight, serving in your Government.”

  Chamberlain offered a nod of acknowledgment, inwardly mortified at such an unmanly display of emotion, and immediately Churchill was transformed into a whirlwind of activity. He began pacing the room, demanding details of the officer, issuing messages of congratulation, refilling glasses and raising a toast to the Royal Navy, insensible to the fact that the Prime Minister was drinking only water.

  “Prisoners, Lieutenant?”

  “No survivors reported, sir.”

  “Oh, dear,” murmured the Prime Minister's wife into her napkin.

  “Ah, t
he sea, my dear Mrs. Chamberlain, tumbling with tempest and vicissitudes—”

  “As I know to my cost,” Chamberlain cut across him, concerned that Churchill was about to launch upon a panegyric that would take him through any numbers of odysseys and all the way to pudding.

  “Do you, Neville? But I thought you were a Brummie, born and bred.”

  Chamberlain was never the most sharing of men when it came to personal details, but he resolved on this occasion to make an exception—it was, at least, an opportunity to listen to something other than Churchill. He cleared his throat. “Sisal,” he ventured.

  It had the required effect. Churchill remained silent, a look of bewilderment spreading across his face. Chamberlain grabbed his opportunity.

  “When I was a young man, barely twenty, my father got it into his head that we should make a fortune growing sisal. In the West Indies. Concocted this great plan. Found an island about forty miles from Nassau—barely inhabited, he thought it was ideal. You know he was always an Empire man, my father. Insisted it should be a family business—but my brother, Austen, was already in Parliament and so…it fell to me, the youngest son. Off I went. The place was called Andros. Built a harbor, even a little railway to carry out all the sisal we were going to produce. Spent the next five years stripped to the waist, up to my knees in every kind of manure, fighting hurricanes, salt spray, dysentery, mosquitoes, sunstroke—and, of course, the local native laborers. Robber barons, I always called them. Almost went native myself, half naked most of the time, washed in the sea. Cut off from civilization. One year when the supply boat was late because of the storms we survived on coconuts and fish for a week, then when the boat finally turned up we drank a month's supply of beer in a single weekend. A hard life—but a fine one, battling the elements. Made a man of me.”

  The room was silent. It was the longest personal statement Churchill had ever heard him make and he was loath to interrupt, wanting more. Chamberlain's chin was up, his eyes fluttering as they gazed at the pictures of a distant past, reliving the dream. But he would say no more, until Churchill urged him on.

  “Five years,” he whispered in awe. “One did one's duty.”

  “And still to this day. But what happened, Neville? Pray tell us.”

  “Ah, of course, you would want the conclusion. Sea won, of course. Always does in the end. One night there blew up the vilest of storms and washed away half the crop and two of the native boys—me, too, almost. Rest of the crop went rotten, and the laborers with it. Wouldn't work any more, even when I threatened them with a lashing.” He sniffed. “They were right, of course. No place for sisal, let alone a white man. Always being cut off by the sea. Should have realized that when we discovered no one lived there in the first place. Anyway, I came back to England, confronted Father—not best pleased, I can tell you. Fifty thousand pounds wasted, he shouted. And five years of my life, I reminded him. No, that wasn't wasted, he said, you must learn from your failures. In which case they will no longer be failures.”

  “I know what he means,” Churchill mumbled softly.

  “So instead of a pioneer…I became Prime Minister.” Chamberlain smiled, affecting modesty, and the ladies laughed accommodatingly.

  “Such an inspiration,” Churchill barked, banging the table and spilling his wine. He took no notice; he was a disgracefully untidy eater.

  “Well, you've scarcely done badly yourself, Winston. In other circumstances, you might have become Prime Minister instead of me. Not enough failures to build on, that's been your problem.”

  Clementine choked on her wine but Churchill hadn't even noticed the slight. Neither had Chamberlain, it had been entirely unintended.

  “No, Neville, your story of the sea. Being cut off. That's the inspiration. For the first time, thanks to you, I think I see the way ahead.”

  “For what?”

  “For the war. For beating Germany!” He swept aside his plate and, despite the sternest of Clemmie's looks, began dipping his finger into his glass of fine Burgundy in order to draw a simple map on the linen tablecloth. “Norway!” he announced with pride.

  Chamberlain seemed thunderstruck, almost as if he had suffered a stroke. It was his wife who revealed what was in all their minds. “But I don't understand, Mr. Churchill.” It was his cue, and the performance began. “This stain here"—he indicated an unpleasant mark on the edge of the table—"is Germany and this"—he grabbed a salt cellar and banged it down on his map—"is the Swedish iron workings at Gallivare and Kiruna. Now they are vital to the German war effort, Hitler's war machine obtains almost nine out of every ten parts of its iron ore from here. So…” His right hand slapped down firmly on the table. “This is the Baltic Sea and this"—the left hand came down, spilling much of the contents of the salt cellar—"is the Atlantic Ocean. During the summer, the iron ore for Germany sails through the Baltic, but for almost five months every winter it's frozen solid. So then the iron ore has to come across to the Norwegian port of Narvik—on the Atlantic. And is sailed south until it falls into Hitler's maw.” Churchill's face glowed with pride as if he had just unraveled the secrets of the atom.

  “But I'm still not sure…” Annie Chamberlain ventured.

  “My Navy controls the North Atlantic. If we can force the iron ore ships out from the coastal seaways of Norway into open water, we shall be able to blast them into the deep, and with them will founder any hope Hitler has of winning this war!”

  “But how do you expect to do that? Force the ore ships out of Norwegian waters?” Chamberlain prodded.

  “By mining 'em! I'll get the Navy mine-layers to sow the coastal seas as though it were springtime in Suffolk.”

  “But…But…” Chamberlain's lower lip began to quiver in astonishment. “Norway is a neutral country. It would be an act of war.”

  “An act of survival! Hitler couldn't last more than two months—three months at most—if we did the job properly.”

  “First Lord, I think I must remind you that we went to war in order to protect the integrity of neutral countries.”

  “And I venture to suggest, Prime Minister, that the only way we shall succeed in that task is by winning the war.” They had slipped into official mode, rehearsing the arguments that they knew eventually would erupt across the Cabinet table.

  “The Queen of Norway is our own King's aunt,” Chamberlain protested.

  “Which is why they will understand. Even support us.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Chamberlain insisted, pushing his pudding to one side. “You expect Norwegians to support an unannounced attack on their own country?”

  “It's the stuff of diplomacy. We have a Foreign Secretary, set him to work! And glory in the victory that by next spring could be ours—a victory inspired by your own story tonight.” That much, Mrs. Churchill knew, was tosh. She had heard Winston rehearsing the argument in his bath that afternoon. She suspected the entire evening had been set up precisely for this purpose, but her musings were interrupted by a second officer, this time a Lieutenant Commander, who arrived to declare that another U-boat had been reported sunk.

  “An omen, an omen,” Churchill declared, rising to perform a little jig of joy and insisting on yet another toast. He could be so like a schoolboy. Chamberlain did not join in the toast. He would not be bullied into aggravating his gout by a man who was merely the newest member of his Government, even less would he be bullied into launching a full-scale war by him, either.

  “If we were to attack Norway, the consequences could be incalculable,” Chamberlain declared, returning to his theme.

  “And if we don't mount such an attack, there will be no doubt about the consequences. Hitler will get every bit of iron ore he needs for his war machine, which he will then turn in its fullest might upon us.”

  “We don't need an all-out war to beat Hitler. They can't hold out forever. They can't eat iron ore. There are reports coming out of Poland of people already starving.”

  “The Jews are starving, Nev
ille, no one else. And if he ever goes short of anything, Hitler will do what he's always done. Invade another country.”

  “Perhaps.” Chamberlain placed his napkin on the table, folding it neatly to indicate that the evening was over. Churchill's was still tucked firmly into his collar. “Since it is…” Chamberlain scratched away at his trousers for the right word—"an inspiration of yours, you will undoubtedly wish to give the matter prolonged thought.” It was meant to indicate an idea that had not found its day.

  “I shall expect the entire Cabinet to give the matter prolonged thought, Prime Minister,” Churchill growled defiantly. “I shall circulate papers forthwith.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I insist…” Suddenly Churchill's nerve seemed to fail him, or perhaps he realized that the evening was not working out in the way he had planned, that there never had been a chance of beguiling Chamberlain on board, that he must take the long route. His life seemed such a succession of long routes. “I insist only that you and your lovely wife shall come again soon, Neville. It has been a most outstanding occasion.” The pleasantries of departure were undertaken and it was as Churchill was helping Chamberlain and his wife into their coats that they were disturbed for yet a third time by an officer scurrying from the War Room.

  “This time they have sent us a full Commander,” Churchill exclaimed, “a sure sign of good news. I have found that if ever the accounts are unpalatable, they send nothing but a midshipman with a scribbled note.”

  “Beg to report a third U-boat sunk this evening, gentlemen,” the Commander offered. “Caught on the surface near the Northern Approaches. Thought you'd want to know.”

  “This is truly exceptional! Nothing like this ever happened in a single day before. The Royal Navy does you honor, Prime Minister.” Churchill offered the lines with typical enthusiasm, even though he knew that flattery as well as alcohol had been wasted on the Prime Minister this evening.

  “Are you sure you didn't arrange all this on purpose, Mr. Churchill, for our benefit?” Mrs. Chamberlain ventured coyly—and with singular insight.