Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  A prolonged silence. Chamberlain demanded they be silent. He stared around the House, his dark eyes alighting upon friend and foe alike, insisting they be still before he would tell them more. And they obeyed. His head fell towards the notes in front of him.

  “We have now withdrawn the whole of our forces from central Norway.”

  So there it was. Retreat. Defeat. It was said softly, as though to cushion the blow, but what was this? Chamberlain raising both eye and voice to meet the challenge of those around him. “We have now withdrawn the whole of our forces—from under the very noses of the German airplanes—without, so far as I am aware, losing a single man in this operation!”

  Not a single man? Could this be true? Then this was no Corunna, it was deliverance from the jaws of death and despair. Those crammed onto the Government benches around him fought to express their enthusiasm more loudly than the next.

  No, this was no defeat. The Germans had lost so many ships during their operations that it had altered the entire balance of naval power, he told them. A victory, by any other name. And there was still Narvik, too. “The balance of advantage still lies with us,” he enthused, “it is far too soon to strike the Norwegian balance sheet yet.”

  Chamberlain stood at the Dispatch Box, his fingers searching for the comforting touch of wood polished by a thousand hands, his chin high as his gaze swung around the crowded House—his House. He felt that surge of excitement that made all the travails of his task worthwhile—and that nowadays seemed to be the only thing capable of dulling the pain. It had been getting worse, more insistent, and soon he would listen to his doctors, slow down, find time for recuperation. But when brave British soldiers were dying in Norway, how could he rest? When the fate of a nation, of an Empire, of the whole globe perhaps, lay in his hands, how could he think of himself? History was in the making, and history would not wait for an old man's lower intestine to catch up with his breakfast.

  Cries of support were coming from behind him. He gave a small nod of appreciation, two bright red marks high on his cheeks. It had been a masterclass, one of his best. He was back in charge.

  Yet as he sat down, his whole being went cold. His legs gave way and he hit the leather bench with a sharp bump. A sudden thought had entered his mind, a thought that seemed to drain him of his composure. The thought that, somehow, he might just have made the most appalling mistake.

  Across the nation they heard Chamberlain's message through a filter of relief, fear, confusion, and shame. In his polished wooden cubicle in Trumper's, Mac discovered them all. Retired soldiers who understood, and who because of their understanding seemed suddenly to have grown much older; bankers who understood only money and who thanked the Lord for his mercy, and one of the Lord's own men—a vicar from Bayswater—who, in the instant that Mac had turned from him, was suddenly reduced to weeping. Rivers of shame trickled down his apple-red cheeks. “To have invaded a neutral nation was a mistake,” he pronounced. “But to have abandoned it is monstrous. I am English. I was proud of that fact. Now no foreigner will ever be able to trust an Englishman's word again.”

  Burgess heard Chamberlain speak, but was too frozen by fear to weep. It was Spain all over again. And Austria, and dismembered Czechoslovakia, and Albania and Poland. Where would it end? He no longer knew. Not with Norway and Denmark, of that he was certain. Perhaps this hell had no end.

  Sue Graham shared the tangled emotions of many. What was going on in Norway had no obvious or immediate impact on the genteel pace of events in Bournemouth, but in spite of the posters plastered around her post office, tongues wagged. A military campaign which one day had been a headlong rush to victory was now presented as triumph in retreat. You didn't need to be Albert Einstein to figure out the holes in that. But, for the moment at least, Sue was content to bathe in the relief that the men were on their way home. Better they be back with their tails between their legs than not be back at all. So that night she lit a candle in her bedroom and lifted down her box from the top of the wardrobe. She took out her wedding veil, smoothed out the creases with her fingertips, and put it on. Then she walked around the bedroom in a pair of Jerry's old shoes, just so she could touch him. Silly, really. Part of her wanted to scold herself—she was supposed to be Miss Practical—but even Miss Practical had to take an evening off occasionally. She re-read Jerry's last letter, as she had done a hundred times before, and suddenly her mind was filled with all sorts of images—dangers, hazards—that might have happened to him since he had written those words. Her thoughts disturbed her. She replaced the veil in its box and held the dried rose to her lips before tenderly placing it on top of the white lace. Only then did she realize how much it seemed like the color of blood.

  Carol, in her tiny house in Chigwell, did what a woman had to do. She fed her children, cleaned and cared for them, and prayed they wouldn't have to grow up as quickly as so many children in central Europe. Nothing formal about most of these prayers, just incantations muttered as she stood at the sink. And when she had finished praying, she knitted. She even knitted when she went to church, throughout the sermon. Mrs. Braithwaite scowled until she took on the appearance of an over-boiled potato, muttering darkly about disrespect. Carol simply smiled.

  Anna provided a comforting breast on which Bracken was able to pour out many of the troubles he saw surrounding him. She listened patiently to his graphic stories of the growing chaos both in Norway and in Westminster. This was a man's war. And what else could women do but listen, and weep, and knit?

  Yet this was Germany's war, too, and the Germans listened more carefully to Chamberlain's words than most. About the difficulties of withdrawing an army. About the evacuation. About how it had all been carried out right under the Germans' noses. It rankled, of course, to have been cheated of their victory-at-arms. Who could have guessed that the British would simply turn tail and run? And who could have known that the remorseless snows of Norway would have hidden the entire operation from view? Right under their very noses! For a short while—for a very short while—the German High Command could only stamp their feet in frustration at what seemed a hollow and somehow devalued victory.

  Then the stormclouds broke and a spotter plane returned with astonishing news. Namsos was still burning brightly from the bombing, and the flames cast a new light on events. The evacuation was not yet complete. Stragglers were still making their way to the harborside. British destroyers were lying off the coast waiting to pick them up. It wasn't yet over.

  Chamberlain had been caught in a silly, pointless boast. A parliamentary deceit designed to generate a few cheers and buy a little time. But that time had already run out, for now the Germans clapped their hands in delight. They could now ensure not only their enemy's defeat but also his humiliation. Make Umbrella Man look ridiculous. From that moment on the Germans poured all their awesome attentions at their enemy's most vulnerable point. Namsos.

  Jerry had little idea how he had made it to the hills above the port. Hunger. Cold. Fear. The Luftwaffe. With every uncertain, stumbling step he took they hounded him. When the sky above hadn't been dark and freezing, it was full of planes. German planes. In all his time in Norway, Jerry hadn't seen a single British aircraft. He felt deserted, betrayed.

  He had been part of the lead unit of the 146th as it had pushed south in a convoy of requisitioned buses and trucks, expecting to be in the vanguard of the assault on Trondheim. Yet suddenly Germans were everywhere, not only in front of them but also behind, shelling them, shredding the company to pieces. It was the first hostile fire that most of the 146th had experienced; for some it was to be the last. The attack on Jerry's company lasted less than twenty minutes, but in that time the advance of the 146th was turned to rout.

  There were many injured and no transport, which had slowed the retreat. As Signals, Jerry had been sent ahead to make contact with other units and request support. But the other units were also retreating. When at last he made fleeting contact on his short-range radio, he was told tha
t no help was available. “Return RV1,” he was instructed, “return RV1.” Retreat to Namsos. It was official. Every man for himself.

  A dozen times on that retreat, Jerry thought he would die, either from the bullets of the Luftwaffe planes that pursued him every stumbling mile of the way or from the still more remorseless cold. A dozen times he had almost succumbed to the temptation to lie down in the snow and sleep, to dream of home and of Sue. Yet it was precisely those thoughts that kept him from faltering, lashing him onwards.

  Until at last he was there. Above Namsos. This place had a chilling, almost savage beauty to it. Before him in the moonlight stretched the fjord which, now it was no longer filled with the biting snow of his arrival, was magnificent. Away to his right he could see the mystical, swirling colors of the aurora borealis, the Northern Lights, as though Heaven itself had been waiting to greet him. And beneath him lay Namsos. Not the Namsos he had left less than two weeks before, but a Namsos without shape or form, a town that retained nothing but its name, a wasteland illuminated by the flickering of yellow fires that still clung to the wreckage of what once had been homes and churches and schools and wharves. And beyond the town, out in the fjord, he began to make out the shapes of ships skulking in the dark. British ships, evacuating the troops.

  It was a sight that appeared terrible to him. But it meant he would soon be home.

  They had gone to pray. To beseech the Almighty. It had been Halifax's suggestion, a moment spent with their Maker before they went their respective ways to the Houses of Parliament, and Chamberlain had accepted with alacrity. He had the sense that unrest was mounting around him, and it would be no bad thing to remind God on whose side He was fighting. So they had stopped by St. Margaret's, across the road from the parliament buildings.

  Ball and Wilson had accompanied them, and knelt a few rows back. Ball was in bad humor—a little bending of the knee had been an idea which carried with it considerable publicity potential, but it had also been made at the last minute and he hadn't been able to contact the picture desks in time. There was almost nobody to witness this act of homage, except for God Himself, and Ball had doubts whether He was playing at home nowadays.

  “How bad is it, Joe?” Wilson whispered.

  “When did you last see me down on my bloody knees?”

  “I don't like the smell of it myself. Did you see the Guardian this morning? All that claptrap about Neville's 'capacity for self-delusion,' how it had become a 'national peril'?”

  “They're getting out of line. I'm calling in all sorts of favors, but those parasites don't seem to understand the concept of loyalty.”

  Wilson's nostrils flared, taking in the lingering aroma of candle wax and spent incense. “The troops will return from Norway dragging disaster behind them. Someone will have to pay a price.”

  “Then it had better not be Neville. Or you and me. It's our necks on the line, too, you know.”

  “If not us, then who?”

  Ball chewed a pudgy knuckle. “We take the high ground. As decent men. Start by blaming the Norwegians. Quisling and all the rest, who let us down just as we were risking everything to come to their aid.”

  “For God's sake, Joe, not even Neville could swallow that. We need stronger meat, I think.”

  An archdeacon from the neighboring abbey came scurrying in. He had heard of the arrival of the two eminent guests and was now busy offering them a blessing.

  “Dammit it, we'll be here all day,” Ball snapped. “There's always Winston, of course.”

  “Yes, always Winston.”

  “Norway was his baby.”

  “And all those bloody rifles, too.”

  “What news?”

  “Boothby's come back saying he's found enough for an entire army. All he needs now is the money. Winston's demanded that we pay.” Chamberlain and Halifax had now risen from their knees and were talking quietly to the archdeacon. Wilson and Ball crossed themselves and stretched the ache from their legs.

  “Talking of Winston and money, Joe…”

  “Almost there, Horace. Almost there.”

  “For heaven's sake,” Wilson snapped, his impatience bursting through, “how long do these things take?”

  “Ah, that's the beauty of it. The reason it's proving difficult is because it's foreign.”

  “Oh, dear God, if that's so then we have him…”

  “Not quite yet, Horace. The money was passed through an obscure trading company called Omni-Carriers. Bank in Geneva, mistress in Vienna, usual sort of thing. We can't touch it directly, so I've got the SIS boys digging away. See what Omni's really up to.”

  “But foreign. Don't you see what that means?”

  “I see what it might mean.”

  “He's hiding something.”

  “Of course he's hiding something. But what? We can't go coshing the truth out of the First Lord of the Admiralty in the middle of a bloody war. We need some other names for that.”

  “His diaries. You've checked?”

  “While he was in Paris. But nothing out of the ordinary, apart from his multitude of arse-wipers like Boothby and Bracken.”

  “You checked his office diaries?”

  “Of course his office diaries.”

  “But he wouldn't be stupid enough to meet anyone in his office, would he?”

  “Where else? He goes nowhere now except for the House and the Admiralty. And we tap all of his telephones.”

  “But is there another diary? A personal diary? For his appointments outside the office?”

  “What personal? He doesn't have the time. He lives in the bloody Admiralty, remember, the flat above the shop?”

  “He lives in the Admiralty,” Wilson repeated slowly, his lips moving as though reciting some half-forgotten prayer. “Of course. So all of his visitors, even the personal ones, would have to go through the Admiralty reception. Past the doorkeeper. Be recorded in the doorkeeper's daily log.”

  “So what?” Ball asked cautiously, not yet up to speed.

  “So find the doorkeeper's log. Today! Now! Check it against his diary. See if he's had any other visitors.”

  “Visitors? What sort of visitors?”

  “Those who didn't make it onto the first list. Who had no official or obvious personal reason for being there. The one-off callers. Those he saw on his own. You check it out and come up with a list of names. Shouldn't be more than a handful—as you say, he doesn't have the time. Unless he deliberately made some. If there are any devils at our elbow, that's where we'll find them.”

  “Then what?”

  For the first time in days Wilson allowed a thin smile to replace his frown.

  “You come up with a name, Joe. And that, I strongly suspect, will be an end to Winston's little war.”

  It isn't clear how Jerry can make it to the dockside. For a man whose physical resources have been consumed by fatigue, it seems impossible to cover nearly ten miles in under two hours. But fear carries him, and thoughts of home, every step and stumble of his way down the mountainside, pushing him, forcing him on, picking him up when he falls. He thinks of Sue. Where the drifts of snow lie thick, her smile gives him strength; when he becomes disorientated and lost, she whispers to him, guiding him towards the glow in the night that is the burning of Namsos.

  As he draws closer, Jerry knows he is no longer alone. He begins to find abandoned buses, broken trucks, redundant supplies, on all sides the wreckage of retreat that has been cast aside by those who have gone before. And every time his path leads him up to a vantage point, he sees with ever more clarity the signs of the evacuation below him—the outlines of men scurrying between the fires, of small boats leaving the makeshift wooden quays, the shadow of a destroyer lurking at anchor beyond. He knows they won't wait for him, for soon daylight will arrive and death waits for any ship stuck motionless in Namsos fjord. By dawn, they will be gone. Jerry stumbles on.

  He passes more abandoned vehicles. A baker's truck, several private cars, even cruelly bent bicycles. An
d gun emplacements where, until perhaps only minutes earlier, the British rearguard watched and waited for the order to fall back on the port. It seems they were armed with nothing more substantial than Bren guns—they have left the tripods behind, along with boxes of unused ammunition. They were all taking part in a race against time, a race in which Jerry started several laps behind.

  Now he can see them. Clearly. Less than two miles away. Can even hear an occasional shout of command, but it's drowned out by the thudding of the engine of a crowded trawler as it disappears into the darkness. Jerry shouts back, waves his arms, but it is useless. His legs feel on fire, as though he's being burned at the stake. He wants it to stop. His body and his mind are screaming at each other, insisting the other give way. He drags himself forward.

  Now he is in the town, or where the town has been. Nothing left but smoke, moving like banks of fog across his path, burning his throat, trying to suffocate him. Half-collapsed walls that look down on him in reproach. The front of a church, windows blown out, staring sightless, like a skull. Fires flickering everywhere, marking the gateway to Viking hell. He will soon be there. But as he catches glimpses of the dockside, it seems there are now only a few men left, and only one boat.

  Still the stench of rotting fish pervades the place, fighting its way through the choking dust, taking him back to the time when they arrived, so full of hope and expectation. The memory fills him with anger, for what has happened has been no accident of war but raw, bloody, inexcusable incompetence. Incompetence that has killed so many of his mates and has all but done for him. But not yet.