WC02 - Never Surrender

by Michael Dobbs

  "Then it eludes me, Prime Minister," Halifax responded calmly. "Opportunity for what?"

  "For counterattack! To mobilize our forces and take advantage of their tired and overstretched panzers before they can recover. I remember the twenty-first of March 1918. All experience shows that after five or six days they must halt for supplies I learnt this from the lips of Marshal Foch himself. Look, look!" His finger stabbed at the enemy salient protruding into France. "Once more they have exposed their neck like a wretch stretched out on a guillotine. So let us grab the moment to cut it off!"

  This time, I fear, the French are fighting with a decidedly blunt axe."

  "Then what do you propose as an alternative?" Churchill all but spat, his frustration bubbling over.

  "Prime Minister, I have neither your abilities nor experience in the military field. I leave the art of fighting to you and the late marshal." His artificial hand moved awkwardly across the papers set out before him on the table. "But I am a diplomat. That is a different game and perhaps we might play it with rather better fortune." He looked around the room, bringing the other Ministers and military men into the discussion. "At this point the impetus appears to be with Herr Hitler, but he is isolated, alone. If we can prevent other nations from siding with him we can perhaps help stem his progress. We all know that Italy is threatening to come into the war on his side. That would be a disaster which would threaten our Mediterranean possessions and make the situation of the French impossible. I suggest, with all the powers of persuasion I command' they all noted the implicit words of warning 'that the Prime Minister write immediately to Signor Mussolini and make it clear to him that we bear Italy no ill will, that the dialogue between us remains open, and that if the Italians have any cause for grievance with us it can be settled without turning the Mediterranean red with each other's blood."

  "Ah, play the Roman card," Attlee muttered.

  "You think it a sensible suggestion, Lord Privy Seal?" Churchill enquired.

  "I do," Attlee replied. "Nothing to be lost from it."

  "But what if he says he wants Gibraltar, or Malta, as prizes for his co-operation?" Which he would, damn him, like any jackal.

  "Better that such issues be resolved across the table than across a battlefield," Halifax insisted.

  Churchill stared at him; Halifax stared straight back. He had given his advice 'with all the powers of persuasion I command'. In the muted language of Halifax's world, the Foreign Secretary was announcing that he would not tolerate rejection. And Churchill could not withstand rebellion. He had no choice. Anyway, it was only a bloody letter.

  "An excellent idea," Churchill announced. "You have a draft for my consideration, Foreign Secretary?"

  "Of course."

  "Then it shall be done."

  Halifax nodded his gratitude. For a moment he tried to convince himself that perhaps it would work after all, this ill-conceived administration led by the charging bull that was Churchill, with himself to guard the gate of the corral. And suddenly Anthony Eden, the Secretary of State for War, was speaking. A fragile man, in Halifax's view, and his predecessor as Foreign Secretary until he had fallen out with Chamberlain over appeasement and flounced out of the Cabinet. Now they were all back together around the Cabinet table, as uneasy as ever. Halifax sat back as Eden reported on his attempts to raise an army of local volunteers to defend the homeland.

  "From all corners they have come forward," he said in hisx precise, over-trimmed voice. "In every town and every village, bands of determined men are gathering together for duties on the home front, arming themselves with shotguns, sporting rifles, clubs and spears .. ."

  Dear God, thought Halifax, is this what it has come to?

  The greatest empire in the world defended with clubs and spears? And by fools?

  He looked around the table, from man to man, from failed politicians to failing military commanders, and knew he had been wrong. This ill-conceived and mis constructed machine could not be made to work. It was written on all their brows. Britain had already lost the war.

  Don was confused. The BBC announcer had told them that Allied forces were counterattacking all along the front. Germans were being repelled at the Sedan salient, he claimed defiantly. So why were the 6th moving back once more?

  A few hours earlier there had been a trickle of refugees on the road in front of them, but now it had swelled to a stream that meandered as far as his eye could see, like a tangle of fishing net caught at the edge of the surf. It slowed the 6this progress to a crawl. The radiators that had frozen throughout winter began to overheat, and just after noon the convoy pulled into a farmyard for water and a little rest. Don hadn't slept in thirty hours.

  They were only miles from the border, almost back where they had started. Bizarrely, as they drew into the farmyard, they found a huge tent festooned with coloured banners in the neighbouring field. The circus was in town. Around the tent, the people of the circus were practising their arts, balancing on tightropes, juggling, tumbling, even washing down an elephant.

  "What am I to do?" the circus owner explained. He was short, like a Toby jug, sad, with a huge moustache. "I have three elephants, several lions, my wife's mother and eighteen other relatives. Where could we possibly go?"

  No one else had an answer, either. As they rested, Don noticed a young girl, the owner's daughter, riding around a makeshift ring balancing on the backs of two white horses. She waved. He waved back. The show must go on.

  And so did the 6th, more slowly than ever as they approached the border. A mile beyond the farmhouse they had to manoeuvre around two British Matilda tanks that had broken down. Don had heard there was a lot of that. He'd heard many things about the BEF that equipment was in short supply, badly packed and often sent to the wrong units; that the tanks had no wireless sets, that they were no match for the German panzers; that the twenty-five-pounders had arrived in France untested and unfired; that .. . well, there came a point when you didn't want to hear any more.

  He didn't hear the Luftwaffe, either. He was aching from lack of sleep and the constant grinding of low gears had left his ears ringing. Up ahead he could see that the column had come to a complete halt. Civilians were looking up into the sky and pointing; a few soldiers began firing their rifles. Then, from behind, came the dull crump of explosions, and suddenly the refugees were on the move again, scattering to the sides of the road and throwing themselves behind every available tree and piece of cover. When he saw tracer fire ripping the trees to shreds, Don decided to join them, head down in a ditch.

  And so the 6th survived their first encounter with hostile fire. Little damage was done on that occasion; most of the attention of the Luftwaffe appeared to be back down the road, from where Don could see a column of smoke rising, the only mark upon a cloudless sky. The circus tent must have seemed like a military bivouac from the air.

  As Don and the others began to emerge from their hiding places, they became aware of the sounds of a commotion. Screams. Shouts of dismay. Hooves clattering on the metalled road. Drawing ever nearer. Suddenly two white horses, their eyes red with fear, flew past. They were dragging something behind them, tangled in the reins, bouncing off the tarmac. Don ducked behind a tree and was sick.

  In Joe Kennedy's view, it had been a splendid evening. Dinner at the Italian embassy, theatre, a new flirtation, then back to Beaverbrook's for a drink. Beaverbrook's door just along from the Ritz Hotel was always open and awash with good company and gossip. The two men were excellent companions and Kennedy was a frequent house guest at Beaverbrook's country home at Cherkley, where he had fallen into the most pleasurable habit of sleeping with one of Beaverbrook's research assistants. All in the line of business, of course; she would whisper in his ear all through the night, then write him a weekly letter full of her own endearments and the press man's private news. Keeping abreast, as the ambassador put it.

  What he couldn't know was that the research assistant sent her letters through the Express office, where t
he manager would steam them open and copy the contents before posting them on. So everything got back to Beaverbrook keeping the American ambassador on his back, where he belonged, as His Lordship put it. No hard feelings. They were both businessmen, and information was a commodity from which they both made a handsome profit.

  It was around midnight. Kennedy was just tucking into a fresh bottle of the Beaverbrook bourbon when the telephone rang. A summons. The Prime Minister wanted to see him. He made a point of asking for another drink before he left.

  He found Churchill in his Admiralty workrooms. He had transformed the ground-floor dining room into an office, where he was pacing up and down, waving a glass, dictating to a female typist who was tapping out the words on a special silent machine. Churchill seemed not to notice his visitor, lost in concentration, and Colville scurried forward to guide the ambassador into the next room.

  "It's a message to- the President," Colville whispered, pouring Kennedy a drink and settling him into an armchair crafted in the form of two hideously ugly dolphins.

  Kennedy smirked. "Let you into a secret, Jock," he replied, assuming that any friend of Rab Butler's could be entrusted with a little gossip. "The President doesn't like him. Ever since they met, back in '18, right here in London. Says Churchill treated him like an unpleasant smell, then forgot they'd ever met." Kennedy shook his head dismissively. "But Roosevelt hasn't."

  Colville started. Could it be true? There had been rumours, but Churchill placed such faith in the American connection. Could he be so appallingly wrong?

  Of course he could.

  And now he was at their side, dragging Kennedy into his inner sanctum, checking the draft of the message as he continued to stride up and down. Then he thrust it at Kennedy. Through eyes that had grown bleary, the American tried to take it in.

  As you are no doubt aware, the scene has darkened swiftly. The enemy have a marked preponderance in the air .. . Hitler is working with specialized units in tanks and air. The small countries are simply smashed up, one by one, like matchwood .. . We expect to be attacked here ourselves, both from the air and by parachute and airborne troops, in the near future .. .

  Kennedy wiped his brow, trying to clear his mind.

  But I trust you realize, Mr. President, that the voice and force of the United States may count for nothing if they are withheld too long. You may have a completely subjugated, Nazified Europe established with astonishing swiftness, and the weight may be more than we can bear.

  Kennedy smiled to himself. He'd been warning about catastrophe all along, but it was breathtaking to hear it from Churchill, too. The bastard knew he was going to lose.

  All I ask now is that you should proclaim non-belligerency, which would mean that you would help us with everything short of actually engaging armed forces. Immediate needs are, first of all, the loan of forty or fifty of your older destroyers .. .

  There followed a long begging list that pleaded for old ships and new aircraft, financial credits and diplomatic support. When at last he looked up, he found Churchill staring at him.

  "Joe, we haven't always seen eye to eye," Churchill began, 'but I know your heart stands true." This was nonsense, they both knew it, and his words couldn't wash away the antipathy they felt for each other, but such deceits were all part of the game. "This is a message of the greatest importance. In the last few months your President and I have exchanged numerous messages, but none has been as fateful and urgent as this. I ask you to ensure that it is forwarded to the President immediately. Tonight. There is not an hour to waste."

  "Sure, Prime Minister." It was the first time he had addressed Churchill by that title. It stuck in his throat. Then I'd better get out of here." He rose and was almost through the door when Churchill called after him.

  "Never forget one thing, Joe," Churchill cried. "We shall fight on, alone if necessary. And we shall win."

  "Sure, Prime Minister."

  Colville saw him to the door. As they walked out into a clear and starlit night, Kennedy paused and waved the paper in his hand. "Jock, you heard it here first. There's just no way that Roosevelt can come out to play on this one. He's got a nominating convention in July, an election in November and a bunch of voters who'll go to hell before they watch American kids die in France once more. You understand me?"

  Colville nodded gloomily.

  "And one more piece of advice, Jock, friend to friend. Stop the old man drinking." And Kennedy was gone.

  Later he was to write, less than eloquently:

  I couldn't help but think as I sat there talking to Churchill how ill-conditioned he looked and the fact that there was a tray with plenty of liquor on it alongside him and he was drinking a Scotch highball, which I felt was indeed not the first one he had drunk that night, that, after all, the affairs of Great Britain might be in the hands of the most dynamic individual in Great Britain but certainly not in the hands of the best judgement in Great Britain. He was frankly worried about the situation but, as usual, he was clinging to the theory that, regardless of anything, we will never be beaten .. . I would say that a very definite shadow of defeat was hanging over them all last night.

  Henry Chichester was in his early forties. Secure job, steady income, and extremely well turned out for a man who'd been without a wife for so long. He took pride in his appearance and in the tidiness of the life around him; it was his way of showing that he could survive perfectly well on his own. Sadly for him, he failed to understand that it was precisely these qualities that attracted so many women to his congregation.

  They brought their troubles to him, believing he would understand. Some of their difficulties were philosophical -was it a sin to instruct children to lie if strangers asked them for directions? Some were purely theological should they pray for the souls of German dead? But mostly they were intensely personal. A young parishioner had turned up at his door that morning, sobbing in distress and wanting to know whether she would be condemned if she gave herself to her boyfriend before he went off to war. The vicar had offered her a cup of tea, a clean handkerchief and a homily about how it would be wrong to put aside personal morality simply because of the war. It seemed to help.

  Later that morning, a sad-eyed pensioner had taken the wedding ring from her finger and pressed it into his hand, begging him to make sure it would be used for the war effort. She'd heard that German women were giving up their wedding bands, and she wanted to do her bit. He had pressed it back upon her. If that was the practice in Germany, he told her, it was the best reason he could think for an Englishwoman not to do anything of the sort. That, too, had helped.

  With every word of comfort, the reputation of the Reverend Chichester rose in the eyes of his parishioners. It left him feeling a fraud. He made most of it up. God knew what the answers were to their questions, but he didn't. How could he talk to others about the wickedness of lies, when he wouldn't own up to the truth about his own son? He praised others for maintaining their moral codes, yet that was precisely what he had condemned Don for. The certainties in his life had gone, and what was left was obscured in clouds of spiritual dust.

  He couldn't find sanctuary even in his church. He'd had another visitor that morning, a man from the War Office with a large paper file and a considerably smaller map of Dover, who had announced that he was requisitioning the tower of St. Ignatius for use as an observatory. They were going to watch for enemy parachutists. Chichester had enquired whether this was wise since St. Ignatius was the only tall building in the area that didn't have a telephone, but the man from the ministry was adamant, warning that he could have Chichester arrested if he caused difficulties, vicar or no vicar. Chichester responded that the lack of a telephone would be more likely to cause the difficulties, and left it at that. Perhaps he'd ask for a good peal of the bells at the weekend, just to ensure that those above the belfry were awake.

  Even those wretched maps of the battlefield in The Times had begun causing trouble. He'd pinned the latest one up in the porch that mor
ning. Still no fronts marked on it; in fact, it contained very little information at all. To the untrained eye they all looked the same. Except the Reverend Chichester noticed that the map, day by day, was moving ever farther westward.

  Convoy. The dictionary talked about an escort designed for honour, guidance or protection. If that were so, the 6th no longer seemed to merit the term. They had moved back, even beyond the defensive works the BEF had spent so many months constructing, but it had done nothing to halt the tide of withdrawal. They had begun the day based at a chateau, had moved back to a small brewery at Laventie and were now on the move for the third time that day. The order and discipline that Don had associated with a life in the army had broken down with astonishing speed they had lost all contact with the Casualty Clearing Station and had no idea where it had been moved. The station was supposed to assess the injured and hand them on for treatment, but now the 6th had to carry the wounded with them, crammed into the back of the ambulances. Many were too badly injured to make it. They were left behind with large red crosses pinned on their uniforms.

  The number of casualties had begun to grow. Belgians, French, a few British, many civilians. The Luftwaffe was attacking indiscriminately, firing at ambulances, women, children, farm stock anything to increase the mayhem and slow down the retreat. There could only be one point to this: the panzers weren't far behind.

  The BBC announced that Brussels was not threatened -news that would have come as a shock to the grieving owner of the circus. And if Brussels wasn't being threatened, how was it that Don could hear the din of battle around Tournai, thirty miles further west?

  The Medical Corps manual he'd trained with was no bloody use. It had nothing about how to deal with confusion and chaos. Don found himself doing whatever was required -tearing up sheets for bandages, boiling tools for the surgeons, disposing of the waste bits of war. He even had to start foraging for food a NAAFI truck had driven past shortly after dawn, throwing out a little food and some cartons of cigarettes, but it hadn't stopped and they'd had nothing since.