Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  The arrival of an insipid, washed-out dawn sent them scrabbling in the snow looking for their supplies. Soon crates lay strewn along the dockside, their sides ripped open as increasingly anxious soldiers prayed that the contents had been mislabeled and inside were the snowshoes, maps, searchlights, mortars, medical supplies, and rangefinders they so desperately needed. Jerry kicked open one crate marked “Signals Support” to discover it was crammed with typewriters. The one next to it contained nothing but bicycles.

  “They forgot the picnic hampers,” someone muttered.

  Back in Britain, the operation was declared to be a triumph. While Jerry stood with frozen slush slopping over the ankles of his boots, almost every editor in Fleet Street seemed to be stepping out to the sound of beating drums.

  Carol had read the newspapers, as many of them as she could borrow, even if they were days old, and as she read she remembered Mac. Stubborn, considerate, vulnerable, mysterious Mac. She couldn't read a thing without being reminded of him, and that morning Peter had looked up from his toast and asked once again where Mac was. She couldn't tell him, she didn't know. Bloody man. But learning to read had changed her life—one of the many ways Mac had changed things. She read reports of the heroic battle for Norway, how to make the Anderson shelter more comfortable, and how she and the other women left at home should be “doing their bit” to help win the war. It led her to the door of Mrs. Marjorie Braithwaite.

  Marjorie Braithwaite was what they appropriately termed a pillar of the community. Early fifties, stout, with a considerable voice that she used to dominate most proceedings in which she was involved. These proceedings were many, since her husband was a magistrate and she was chairman of the local WI and Red Cross. Marjorie Braithwaite was a public figure, at least in her own mind. She was also a regular worshipper at the local church, and it was at church that Carol had on occasion exchanged a few passing words with her. They could scarcely claim to know each other well, yet Mrs. Braithwaite, Carol thought, would be just the woman to help.

  She walked up the short gravel path that lay behind the Braithwaites' front hedge. She was nervous. She had learned to deal with most types, but the likes of Marjorie Braithwaite went considerably beyond her experience. As she approached the door of the large Victorian semi, the gravel made a sharp scrunching sound beneath her feet, as if complaining that she was trespassing. After some hesitation, she knocked.

  Mrs. Braithwaite answered. “Yes?” She was breathing heavily as stout women do. A second woman peered over her shoulder. Carol had interrupted them at tea.

  “Mrs. Braithwaite, my name is Carol Bell. From the church,” the visitor began.

  “We know who you are, don't we, Agnes?”

  The woman at her shoulder nodded. Mrs. Braithwaite was examining Carol intently, as though searching for freckles, until Carol realized she was looking for signs of the bruises left by her beating. The scar at the top of her cheek caused by the smashed earring still hadn't fully healed, and perhaps it would never heal completely. She'd tried to hide the marks, of course, would have stayed at home for a week by choice, but she couldn't, not with two kids. She hadn't been to church while her face was cut and certainly hadn't seen Mrs. Braithwaite, but clearly the word had got round. She was a woman with a black eye and no husband. Enough said.

  “What do you want, Mrs. Bell? It is Mrs. Bell, isn't it?”

  “I was wondering…” Carol faltered, flinching beneath the intensity of the other woman's gaze, “I read this article in the newspaper, you see. 'Knitting for Norway.' You know, gloves, balaclavas, socks, that sort of thing. For our soldiers over there. I … I wanted to help, but I don't have no wool.”

  “You don't have no wool?” Mrs. Braithwaite repeated solidly, while Agnes tittered.

  “So I was wondering…d'you know anyone who might be able to spare some wool? Old wool? Anything I could…”

  “Mrs. Bell"—the title was stretched out as though Mrs. Braithwaite was projecting from the back of the Old Vic—"this is a respectable neighborhood. We don't encourage begging at the door.”

  “I'm not begging, Mrs. Braithwaite. I'm only trying to do something for the boys.”

  “Ah, yes, the boys.” The pillar of the community inflated and drew herself up to her full five foot two, causing her shoes to squeak. “I want to tell you, Mrs. Bell, that we have standards in our little community. Don't we, Agnes?”

  “Most certainly we do,” the other pillar simpered.

  “Sickens us, doesn't it, Agnes? The way some people try to take advantage while the rest of the country is fighting for its life.”

  “Take advantage? I was only asking for a little wool.”

  “I understand you're a busy woman, Mrs. Bell—yes, a Very Busy Woman. So let me not beat about the bush. We are fighting this war for the survival of common decency and family values. Regular families, where the husband goes out to war and the wife stays home to cook. That's why Mr. Chamberlain has told us to fight the Germans, because the Germans are degenerates. So this war is a war against all forms of degeneracy. God's war, if you like. Do I make myself clear?”

  “What's that got to do with a bit of wool?” Carol asked, perplexed.

  “I have no wool for you. Nor do I know anybody who is likely to have wool for you. And I would recommend you give some thought to why we are fighting this war before you come disturbing respectable people in their own homes. Come, Agnes, we mustn't waste any more time. We have tea to attend to!” And with that, the door was closed firmly in her face.

  Carol stood at the doorstep for some while, struggling to control her grief. She had always known it would come at some point—as it had come in every place she had ever lived—where the gossip started and spread and eventually forced her from her home. Risk of the job. But here she had hoped it would be different, with Peter settled at school, with little Lindy growing so fast, and with Mac…She had been so careful, until the beating gave her away. The scar on her cheek was throbbing and she wanted very much to burst into tears, but she refused. She wouldn't give Mrs. Braithwaite the satisfaction. She would wait until she got home.

  Brussels, the capital of neutral Belgium, emerged beneath a sprawling mat of cloud as Boothby's plane flew in. Soon the war that had erupted in the skies and seas around Norway would stretch even to this part of Europe, but for the moment all was quiet and Brussels lay oblivious to the arrows of reality that already had been set aside for it.

  Immediately upon his arrival Boothby sought out the head of British military intelligence in the city. He had expected to find him at the center of a hub of frenetic endeavor, but instead found him eating lunch with another officer who, it turned out, was the only member of his staff. Yet they were as helpful as they could be in the circumstances. They advised him to travel to Liège. From the top of the cathedral spire there, he was told, you could see clean over the German border and into the Ruhr, if the exhaust fumes from the panzers cleared for long enough. But don't stay there long, they warned him, in fact don't stay anywhere in this part of the world too long. All these exhaust fumes were enough to give a man a cough that was likely to end up killing him.

  They made two phone calls on his behalf and that afternoon Boothby caught a train to Liège. A man clasping a bunch of daffodils met him beneath the station clock, and by teatime Boothby had been told what they could supply. Nine thousand rifles, more than a hundred machine guns, and a thousand light automatics.

  Boothby remained unconvinced. Daffodils? Beneath the clock at the railway station? Could it be that easy? Boothby peppered them with questions. Were all the arms new? He was assured they would be delivered still in their factory wrappings. What form of payment did they require? Why, a banker's draft, made out in U.S. dollars, of course—what did he think they were running, a fruit stall? And delivery, could they arrange immediate delivery, Boothby demanded? At this point his contacts sucked their teeth. Immediate delivery would not be possible, they apologized—the guns had to come all the way from C
ologne, which was a drive of seventy miles, and there were customs officials to be bribed. Could he wait until breakfast?

  But still he was not satisfied. Nine thousand rifles were nowhere near enough, he had instructions to purchase many, many more. They explained that this would be difficult, even in exchange for U.S. dollars, but if he could persuade his masters to deal in uncut diamonds then anything might be possible.

  They directed him to Amsterdam.

  He left the following morning, nursing a slight hangover and unaware that he was being followed every mile of the way.

  “There is some treachery here, I think.”

  “Hard words, Horace.”

  “For hard times, Neville.”

  “There must be an innocent explanation. Has to be.”

  “Negotiating for thousands of rifles and wanting hundreds of thousands more?”

  “We are desperately short of rifles.”

  “German rifles, Neville? They're German. There can be no innocence in that.”

  “For the Home Guard—why not for the Home Guard?”

  “They would then be Winston's Guards.”

  “A Fifth Column?”

  “A Quisling Column. Armed. Worse than Norway. To do Winston's bidding.”

  “It seems utterly incredible.”

  “So was leaking the date of the invasion. Yet it happened.”

  “And then there's the money, Neville.”

  “You've found out where he gets it from, Joe?”

  “A blind trust. The tracks extraordinarily well hidden.”

  “Secret money?”

  “And a lot of it.”

  “Can there be an innocent explanation?”

  “As innocent as a Mauser pointing at your chest.”

  “We must find out where the money comes from.”

  “Spare no effort, Joe,” Wilson encouraged. “Break a few bankers' legs.”

  “It'll be a pleasure.”

  “Rifles? Hidden gold? Invasion secrets?” The Prime Minister's voice grew tight. “Perhaps I should have him arrested.”

  “Not yet, Neville. Let's dig over the ground a little first. Discover more about the money. We'll go through his diaries. Find out who he's been meeting. See how many worms we turn up.”

  “Ambition, envy, impatience—those things I can understand in Winston. But not this.”

  “Perhaps he is mad, like his father, or simply riddled with greed, but whatever the disease it makes him dangerous.”

  “A pity, perhaps, we could not have arranged for him to be in Namsos. That would have put an end to his suffering.”

  Peter had at last been put to bed, and Lindy had long been asleep. Quiet time. Carol sat beside a lamp with tears trickling slowly down her cheeks. But these weren't tears of humiliation. These were tears of pride. She had decided that Mrs. Braithwaite and her kind weren't worth the blubber from which they were built. Carol knew that what she was doing wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference to the war, but it would make a difference to her. A tiny, insignificant act of defiance. Yet if that defiance were repeated a thousand times over and a hundred thousand times more, then an entire nation might defy the whirlwind that was about to be hurled at it.

  Carol sat with her favorite woolen jumper on her knee, unraveling it thread by thread. When she had finished, she picked up her needles and started to knit.

  The clerk at Churchill's bank had told him. Rodney, that honey-lipped creature who kept Burgess informed of all the comings and goings around Churchill's financial affairs. Rodney told him there was competition. Other people making inquiries. Official-type people, who wanted to know where Churchill got his money. He knew they were official types and that it was urgent because the branch manager had jumped on him from a great height after lunch, which was unusual because on most days after lunch the manager suffered from sleeping sickness. He had demanded that Churchill's files be brought from the archives, and now they were locked in his desk.

  Burgess didn't like the questions, because he knew that those asking them wouldn't like the answers when they found them, as eventually they would. Burgess hadn't made the arrangements himself, but knew that the money would have been “washed” several times, passing through a series of different accounts. Washed carefully, because it was dirty money. Not Jewish, as he had suggested to Churchill, but Russian money soaked in blood, the blood of Tsars and peasants and Poles and Finns.

  It might take them time to get to the bottom of it, but they were still digging, so Rodney had said. Digging Burgess's grave. And Churchill's, too. Suddenly he was afraid, more afraid than he had ever felt in his life. Too scared even to drink, at least for that first night. But by Christ he made up for it on the second, and every night thereafter. Yet in spite of it all, he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he had dreams filled with silent, faceless men who were getting ever closer.

  April–May 1940.

  Bob Boothby's train to Amsterdam was remarkably punctual, considering the atmosphere of uncertainty that was growing throughout Holland. From the station he walked to the Amstel Hotel, a nineteenth-century gingerbread confection on the banks of the city's main river. He gave his name as Brown to the receptionist, which he hoped he pronounced as Braun, and was escorted immediately up the rear stairs to a private room at the back of the hotel on the second floor. He found four men sitting round a green-baize table. He appeared to have interrupted a languid game of cards. There were only four chairs, but as soon as Boothby entered one of the men rose and took up position by the door. The others introduced themselves with nothing more than a handshake.

  Thirty-five minutes later, he had been offered four hundred thousand new German Mausers, with one thousand rounds of ammunition each. He was told delivery could start the following week and could be completed in a maximum of three. The bulk of the rifles were still in Germany, but they could be swiftly moved to any port in Belgium he required. Payment was to be in uncut diamonds, on delivery in Belgium.

  However, for a surcharge of twenty-five percent they would also accept payment in dollars through a nominated bank in the United States. Boothby suggested a European bank, but they shook their heads.

  “Not even the Bank of England.”

  “You doubt its word?” Boothby inquired.

  “No. Simply its future ownership. It would not be comfortable for us if the records of this transaction fell into German hands.”

  “Impossible!” They simply shrugged.

  “Tell me—how can I explain to my masters how these weapons found their way out of Germany? How can you guarantee their delivery?”

  “Many Germans hate the Nazis—industrialists, customs officers, even some within the Wehrmacht itself. And even those who don't hate the Nazis have an extraordinary affection for dollars. There are so many military vehicles moving every hour of every day just across the border in Germany that no one notices the odd truck which disappears in the darkness. More trucks than ever are on the move right now, that's why the quantities we can offer are so large. And why the time we have is so short.”

  “Then on behalf of my Government—”

  “Your neutral Government,” they emphasized, toying with him. They knew.

  “I accept. I'll return home to confirm the details and you shall hear from me forthwith.”

  “Then go now, and go swiftly. Time is not on your side.”

  “You said three weeks.”

  “Maybe less. And remind your Government of one thing.”

  “Which is what?”

  “If you don't use these rifles, then the Germans will.”

  The British press, fed by Government communiqués, would have none of it. Retreat? Impossible! So they announced that it was the Germans who were retreating, abandoning aerodromes. On the twenty-third of April they claimed that British forces had made a rapid thrust into the heart of central Norway and were enjoying considerable success. On the twenty-sixth they claimed that “anti-aircraft artillery had been landed at Namsos in ti
me to protect still further Allied landings.” Yet by then the Government had already decided to abandon the campaign.

  Well, it was only a secondary objective anyway, the main priority had always been Narvik to the north. Hadn't it? And it wasn't really the Government's fault that the operation had been delayed time after time. Not the Government's fault that the officer placed in charge of the campaign in central Norway had suffered a stroke on the Duke of York's steps on the very night he had been appointed and been found senseless. Or that his successor's plane had crash-landed, injuring everyone on board, while flying north to visit the embarkation points in Scotland. It wasn't Neville Chamberlain's fault that the campaign had turned into a fiasco, not his fault that the Wehrmacht had got there first or that within days the Luftwaffe had reduced the wooden port of Namsos to smoldering ash.

  Yet still the 146th pressed on. They were spread along a front many scores of miles long in their eagerness to get to Trondheim, but now the ice that was supposed to protect their flank was melting and the Germans were outflanking them, threatening to rip them to pieces. Yet they pressed on, because no one had told them that their campaign had already been abandoned.

  Churchill had not favored the attack on Trondheim; his interest had been focused on Narvik, further north, from where the iron ore was shipped. He had agreed to Chamberlain's insistence on the Trondheim campaign only with reluctance. Yet now Chamberlain had changed his mind. It wasn't working. Time to run. It left Churchill feeling powerless, almost humiliated. “If we must withdraw,” he told his Cabinet colleagues, “then let us at least throw our full force at Narvik. Hold back the iron ore. With a little good fortune we might achieve that within days. Salvage something.”