Why, it was clear. Hitler would collapse under the weight of his own success. Give him Belgium, give him France, give him anything he wanted, and soon he would be utterly vanquished…The brigadier's colleagues sat stunned, but the smell of blood was in his nostrils and he knew from his experience in the trenches that once you'd started you never dared stop or you'd end up with your balls hanging on the wire. No chance of that. On to Berlin! “And I shall say to all my friends, whatever may be their different shades of opinion,” he exclaimed, pointing to his Prime Minister, “that if you are convinced you can find a better man, then put him there!” It was only the first half of the thought, of course, merely setting up what he intended to be the coup de grace, but the savior of the Somme had unwisely paused for breath in the middle of his onward charge. Suddenly he was caught in the middle of no-man's land. Stuck in the mud. Bugger. He struggled onward, ever more recklessly, trying to dodge the enemy fire that was bursting forth on all sides, determined to bury his blade to the hilt. “But if you believe that this kind of attack in the Press, this sabotage, is wrong, if you still believe in democracy, then do not let those of us who are fighting for democracy take our orders from the biggest dictator of all—the Press!”
What—bigger than Hitler? Bigger even than Joe Stalin? Well, it was a point of view, and one that was to prove extraordinarily effective in having the brigadier's name removed from the Telegraph's Christmas card list. He resumed his seat, breathless. Below and in front of him, Chamberlain did not stir, dare not move. His mind froze. Was this the best they could do? Was he to find himself defended not by valiant knights but by court jesters and fools?
The House of Commons was being turned into a stage for the playing-out of an historic masterpiece, and from the wings entered Sir Roger Keyes, dressed for the part in the full uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet, six rows of medals gleaming at his chest. The Admiral's military record was long, impeccable, indeed heroic; this was a man who knew war. He was also a parliamentarian who had considered carefully the part he must play in this drama. “I have come to the House of Commons today in uniform, for the first time, because I wish to speak for some officers and men of the fighting, sea-going Navy who are very unhappy.”
Friends, Britons, countrymen, lend me your ears, for I come to talk of honorable men, whom we shall then devour. And with forensic ability Keyes proceeded to rip the heart out of Chamberlain. He talked of damned insults. Of a shocking story of ineptitude. Of things that ought not to have been allowed to happen. Of a battle which should have been a triumph but a battle which had become, instead, a historic tragedy—yes, he used that word. Tragedy. No duplicitous nonsense about the balance of advantage still lying with this country and how it was no worse than a broken fan-belt. The House reeled. Not in living memory had a Prime Minister's arguments been so ably dissected to expose the cancer within.
Then he spoke of Churchill.
“I have great admiration and affection for my Right Honorable Friend the First Lord of the Admiralty.”
What was this? Another honorable man to be thrown to the mob? But no, Keyes had an entirely different purpose. He talked of Churchill's brilliant conceptions, of the unfairness with which in the past he had been treated, and he also spoke of the future. “I am longing to see proper use made of his great abilities. But I cannot believe it will be done under the existing system.” The existing system? But the existing system was…
Chamberlain. Who sat as though iron had entered his soul. Then, presently, when he had found the strength to move, he left the Chamber to faltering cheers from some on his own side. He would listen to no more of the debate that evening. And so it was that he was not present to witness the final drama of the day played out by a fellow Member from Birmingham. Leo Amery was one of those nearly-nearly men, a politician who had enjoyed high office but never the highest. He was diminutive, almost Napoleonic, and always had a little too much to say for his colleagues' comfort. But this was a day of discomforts, so when later that evening he caught the Speaker's eye and gained the floor of a sparsely attended Chamber, other Members began to drift back from the dining rooms and bars. The House was still only half full by the time he declared that “there are no loyalties today except to the common cause,” but the benches filled steadily as, for nearly forty minutes, he shredded his own Government for its failures in Norway. “It is a bad story, a story of lack of provision and of preparation, a story of indecision, slowness, and fear of taking risks.” Damning criticism by any measure, but…“If only it stood alone. Unfortunately, it does not.” Then he mocked his own Prime Minister's words about Hitler having missed the bus. He said such claims were very far from the truth—which was about as close as a Member could come to calling Chamberlain a fool and a liar.
“We cannot go on as we are,” he declared. “There must be change. Believe me, as long as our present methods prevail, all our valor and all our resources are not going to see us through…”
What? We might lose this war? Yet as he flung his unpalatable truths at them, not a single voice was raised in contradiction.
Parliament itself is on trial, he told them. And recalling another occasion when Parliament had been put to the test, he reminded them of the words of Oliver Cromwell in denouncing the failures of his own companions when it seemed that all might be lost. “Your troops are most of them old, decayed, serving men and tapsters and such kind…You must get men of spirit that are likely to go as far as they will go, or you will be beaten still.”
Chamberlain's Government—Old? Decayed? Serving men and tapsters?
Even as the House reeled from the insults, Amery was back.
“We are fighting today for our life, for our liberty, for our all. We cannot go on being led as we are. I have quoted certain words of Oliver Cromwell.” He hesitated, for until this moment he had not known whether he would use the words that he was about to use, but as his eyes hovered over so many of those self-serving men and tapsters in front of him, his last doubts were swept aside. “I will quote certain other words. I do it with great reluctance, because I am speaking of those who are old friends and associates of mine, but they are words which I think are applicable to the present situation. This is what Cromwell said to the Long Parliament when he thought it was no longer fit to conduct the affairs of the nation.”
The House was motionless, more than silent. They were witnessing one of the great parliamentary speeches and were about to be part of its final act.
“You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you! In the name of God—go!”
Terrible words. And suddenly they all knew that a new game had emerged. This was no longer a debate about Norway, but a debate about Chamberlain and all his works, and on that debate would depend not simply one man's life but perhaps the lives of an entire country. They hung their heads in shame, in sorrow, in anger, and some in fear, but whatever their motives or loyalties, when the day's business had finished they rushed from the Chamber to their cabals and to their corners, and they plotted. And chief amongst the plotters were the Labour Party. Since the start of this war they had been forced to sit impotent, never certain when to support and when to oppose, but that uncertainty had been swept away by the tide of abuse that had begun to sweep along the back benches and which might yet rise so high as to sweep this Government clean away. So they decided to turn what had begun as a matter of debate into a matter for absolute decision. When they returned on the following day, the Labour leadership announced that at its end, in five hours' time, the Labour Party would force upon the House a vote of confidence. Lose it, and Chamberlain must go.
Wearily the Prime Minister rose to his feet. Must he fight enemies on every front? But he was owed—so many of those in this House owed him—and it was time to call in their debt. “This is a time of national danger, and we are facing a relentless enemy who must be fought by the united action of this country. It may well be that it is a duty to criticize the Gove
rnment—”
“Disgraceful!” a voice barked. It was Dickie, jabbing his finger at the Opposition. “Who are they working for? The Wehrmacht?”
Chamberlain waved his hand gratefully in the air. “I don't seek to evade criticism. But I say this to my friends in the House—and I have friends in this House.” He smiled thinly as voices of support were raised around him. “No Government can prosecute a war efficiently unless it has public and parliamentary support. I accept the challenge. I welcome it, indeed!” He looked across his own benches, an edge of menace in his eyes. “At least we shall see who is with us, and who is against us. And I call on my friends to support us.” So, they would be flushed out of their corners, these men of whispered conspiracies, into the scorching light of day, where they could be identified. And dealt with. Perhaps the Labour Party had done him a favor, after all. And there was no chance of the Government losing the vote. The Prime Minister resumed his seat, content.
Prime Ministers cling to their office with tenacity and, when they are no longer in office, cling with even more ferocity to their reputations. Sometimes a reputation is all they have left. One former Prime Minister still sat in the House of Commons, a politician with a reputation that eclipsed every other man of his age. David Lloyd George had been the victorious Prime Minister of the last war and had brought the country through its time of peril with a mixture of nerve, energy, imagination, insult, gentle corruption, and blinding Welsh oratory which had transformed him into a parliamentary legend. He was now elderly, seventy-seven, and increasingly frail, yet his country was at war once more and everything he had achieved was under threat. As he rose unsteadily to his feet, clad in his ubiquitous blue suit with his mane of white hair falling around his temples, his voice was low—so low they had to ask him to speak up. But when he did, they heard words they would remember for the rest of their lives.
“I intervene with more reluctance than usual in this debate. I hesitated whether I should take part in it at all, but feel that I ought to say something, from such experience as I have had in the past of the conduct of war. In victory, and in disaster.” He praised the gallantry of the country's fighting men, his voice rising and his arms spreading wide, drawing in every single man and woman present. “We are all, all of us, equally proud of them. It thrills us to read the stories.” They were nodding their agreement on the Government front bench, it seemed that he was reaching out for the common ground. He had, after all, been an appeaser, he hadn't wanted this war either. Yet he was reaching out only for their throats. “All the more shame, then, that we should have made fools of them.”
The pack began to growl at him, tried to intimidate him, but he had been far too long in this place to care. He brushed aside their interventions.
“Everybody knows that what was done was done half-heartedly. Ineffectively. Without drive, and unintelligently. For three or four years I thought to myself that the facts with regard to Germany were being exaggerated by the First Lord"—he wagged a bony finger in the direction of Churchill—“because the Prime Minister told us they were not true.” He shook his head in sorrow, his white hair falling like a shroud about his face. “But the First Lord was right.”
Churchill, sitting beside Chamberlain, steadfastly examined his socks. The old Welshman was handing out compliments as though offering grubs to fish; years of experience had taught Churchill that, when it came to Lloyd George, there was usually a barb hidden in there somewhere.
“Then came the war,” the old statesman continued. “The tempo was hardly speeded up. There was the same leisureliness and inefficiency. Will anybody tell me that he is satisfied with what we have done?” His eyes roved around the House, challenging them, demanding a response. “Is anybody here satisfied with the steps we took?”
No one would take him on.
“So, nobody is satisfied. The whole world knows that. And here we are, in the worst strategic position in which this country has ever been placed.”
Chamberlain, seated at Churchill's side, slapped his knee with irritation, and Lloyd George saw the sign of weakness in his old foe. He pounced.
“The Prime Minister is right when he says we must face this challenge as a people and not as a party, not as a personal issue. So the Prime Minister has no right to make his personality inseparable from the interests of the country.”
“What do you mean?” Chamberlain snapped. “I did no such thing. Personality ought to have no place in these matters.” Other objections were hurled from the Government benches, to which Lloyd George responded with nothing more than a smile until their fury had been spent and he could be heard once more. His voice rose to the ancient timbers of the roof.
“The Prime Minister said: 'I have got my friends.' Yes, he has got his friends. But it's not a question of who are the Prime Minister's friends,” he mocked. “It is a far bigger issue than that.” From a distance of no more than a few feet, Lloyd George caught Chamberlain's eye and held it as a hook holds a leaping salmon. “The Prime Minister must remember that he has met this formidable foe of ours in peace and in war. He has always been worsted. He is in no position to appeal on the grounds of friendship. He has appealed for sacrifice. The nation is prepared for sacrifice—so long as it has leadership.”
Now the Welshman's voice had dropped, grown soft once more, sad, like a lover's farewell. “I say solemnly that the Prime Minister should give an example of sacrifice, because there is nothing which can contribute more to victory in this war"—and here a breath, a pause, a fraction of time which seemed endless while they waited for the words—“than that he should sacrifice his seals of office.”
The old man was finished, so unsteady that several hands had to help him regain his seat. There were no helping hands for Chamberlain.
And so it continued. Hours of torture. The Government swung like a man in a noose, legs kicking in desperation, slowly dying. For many it was a hideous sight and they sought refuge in the bars, killing their pain. Yet as ten o'clock approached, they were all back in their places. One final rescue attempt was about to be launched. The case for clemency and for cutting down the prisoner was to be put by none other than Winston Churchill himself.
Churchill sat back against the leather bench and smiled wistfully. How ironic, he thought, that he, a man who had been accused of ratting and re-ratting all his political life, should have jumped aboard a ship that was so clearly foundering. He had spent most of the last two days listening to the debate and there was no doubt that this ship of state was listing so perilously that it would require no more than the gentlest of ill-winds to push it over. He had watched as the Tory Whips had moved among the Government benches, urging, imploring, at times impugning, but few would help man the pumps and those who did, like Croft, would have helped more simply by jumping overboard.
They all knew his position was faintly absurd, that Chamberlain and his Ministers should be defended by a man they had shunned, a man they had kept out of office for so many years and who had perhaps so much to gain from their failure. Temptation enough for most men to pull their punches, but the House was to discover once again what it already knew. Winston Churchill was quite unlike most men.
It was already past ten. The last Opposition speaker, Alexander, was drawing to a close and ridiculing the Prime Minister's appeal to friendship, as so many others had done. Damn his friendship, what of victory, he demanded? What of the years of folly based on endless ignorance? And Churchill had less than an hour to pick up the pieces. They were all looking at him, every one of them knowing that in his heart Churchill agreed with almost every word of criticism that had been hurled at the Government.
It was almost time. Alexander was mounting one final and deeply personal assault upon the Prime Minister. Chamberlain was seated beside his First Lord, shoulder to shoulder, and so cold Churchill could feel it even through the clothing. He thought the Prime Minister might be trembling—or was it he who was trembling? Always a final flush of nerves, never take this place for granted.
It was a rowdy House, poured neat from the bottle, and Alexander was struggling through his final words. Churchill scribbled a line, made a final shuffle of his notes, searched nervously in his waistcoat pocket. It was the first time he had summed up a debate for a decade—a decade in which those on the Government benches around him had been his implacable foes, and those in front of him had not been the enemy but his only allies. For a moment he felt like a fighting cock confronting his own image in a mirror, confused, uncertain where or whom to attack.
No more room for doubts. He was on his feet, surveying the House, demanding its attention. As he did so, Lloyd George offered him a broad and unmistakable wink.
So Churchill began. He defended the Government's actions in Norway, not only in detail but with more eloquence than all the other Government Ministers combined, telling them of the evacuation of twelve thousand British soldiers which “was accomplished with very great skill and, I may also add, with very good luck.” He refused to imply that a great victory had been scored; instead he spoke of results that “were very bad and very disappointing.”
Yet through his very reason he began to establish his argument. The expedition was far from perfect, might have been better, but remember the circumstances. “If Sweden had come to the rescue of Norway, if her troops had entered, and if her air bases had been at the disposal of the Royal Air Force, very different positions might have been established.” But what had the Swedes done instead? “Nothing but criticize"—he gazed around him—“like so many others.”
He explained, he castigated, painted vivid scenes with words, told them of bouquets of torpedoes, of waters where squadrons of transports might be cut to rags, of the rapacious Nazi empire of Hungryland, and brought home to them the awesome realities of combat, particularly upon the Germans.
“I said the toll on the enemy would be heavy, and heavy indeed it has been. There has been a ghastly success—seven thousand or eight thousand men have been drowned, and thousands of corpses have been washed up on the rocks at the entrance of Oslo. At the foot of the lighthouse, the most frightful scenes have been witnessed. But what does the loss of seven or eight thousand men matter to a totalitarian state? What do they matter to a Government such as that which we are fighting?”
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