‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’ she had cried.
‘I wonder if I shall,’ Nelson had replied. ‘I feel I should not. You are married and I am married, and the magic and the music of the ballroom stand out very clearly in the dawn. Your life is here; my life is there. We must obey our creeds and codes. I know I must not come back. And I know nothing in this world will keep me away.’
And, glittering in the corner of Harriman’s eye from her place at the end of the sofa, sat Pamela. Somehow he felt they were all part of this film, all three of them, and their relationship was playing a role in this war every bit as vital and as personal as that being acted out between Emma and Nelson. Yet he wasn’t sure of the script. And he wanted very much to be back in Pamela’s bed.
When the film had finally clattered to its end, he turned to his host.
‘Useful weapon, a blind eye,’ he said, stumbling over the words, knowing now that he was more than a little drunk.
‘I wish I had a blind eye, my dear Averell,’ the old man replied, wiping his eyes with a huge handkerchief. ‘At times I fear I see things all too clearly.’
‘Does truth always catch up with a man?’
‘What is truth? History is littered with victors and villains, but the difference is rarely more than a matter of who won and who lost. Victory has a thousand followers, while treachery is always left to stand alone. Yet what is treachery, other than failure? If Nelson had lost at Trafalgar, he would have been tried and condemned and we should all spit on his memory. As they will spit on me, Averell, if I fail.’
‘So I drink to your victory,’ Harriman offered, raising his glass.
‘Then to victory! And damn its cost! For without victory, there will be nothing left of any value. So Nelson broke the rules, he put his telescope to his blind eye and he disobeyed, at times he deceived. But he never lost hope, and he never, never, never gave in. If that was good enough for him, it’ll do for me.’
He hoisted himself to his feet. ‘I feel a little tired. I must take myself off for a bath and then bed. I bid you both goodnight.’
Without another word, he disappeared from the room. They could hear him plodding up the stairs, humming the tune of ‘Danny Boy’.
‘Sawyers, pretend for a moment you are a common crook,’ Churchill suggested as he scrubbed away in his bath.
‘Very well, zur,’ the valet called from the bedroom.
‘You have two neighbours. You wish to take unfair advantage of both. Indeed, you wish to beat them both to a pulp.’
‘What would I want to do that fer?’
‘Because you are a villain, you fool!’ The outburst caused Churchill to lose the soap, and there was a moment of cursing while he retrieved it.
‘Your neighbours are an old man and his young son. The son is tall, very powerful, more than a match for you in strength and speed. He represents a profound danger. On the other hand, the old man is not. You know that almost whatever the circumstance, if you had to deal with the old man on his own, you would be able to overpower him.’
‘How old would the old man be, then? About your age? Or even older?’
‘Sawyers, you are a pedant!’
‘If you say so, zur.’
‘Dammit. Assume he’s about my age, man. If you prefer it, exactly my age. Will that satisfy you? Now listen!’
‘I’m doing me best. But someone kepps shouting. Mekks it difficult, like.’
An impatient snort erupted from within the bathroom. ‘Listen! You have one opportunity to mount an attack, and in surprise. Either on the man alone, or the son, or both together. After the initial attack, you will know that whoever is left standing will be warned and therefore wary. You may attack from behind, is that clear?’
A silence. ‘Will I be attacking him wi’ a hammer or an iron bar, like? Or what?’
‘Does it make a difference?’
‘Not sure. Never beaten anyone to a pulp before.’
‘Sawyers—pray—bear with me. Just a little while longer.’ Churchill began once more, his voice rising in cadence, his hand beating like an oar upon the soapy water to mark every fresh thought. ‘You have—a hammer. You are going to attack—from behind. And in surprise. Just once, before you have to engage the wrath of whomsoever has survived the initial onslaught. Is that clear?’
The servant was standing at the door, holding a huge white towel, looking dubious.
‘Now tell me, Sawyers. Who do you attack first?’
‘The big ‘un, of course.’
‘And why?’
‘I can deal with the old man later. Best be getting the big bastard first, like. It’s obvious.’
Churchill rose from his bath. The water cascaded around their feet. ‘Sawyers, you are brilliant.’
‘Why, thank you, zur.’
‘If you are right, you may have just changed the course of history. And let loose the dogs of war.’
She was beautiful, she was young—far too young for a man of fifty—and they were both married to other people. Futile. So he had told her it was over, but he hadn’t meant it. Pamela made him feel alive, and when a man didn’t know how soon he was to die amidst the madness of this war, life meant everything.
He had followed Churchill up the stairs and for some time he paced his room, befuddled by the flight and the alcohol, wondering what he might say. He tried to gauge her mood. She had been very quiet, but she’d had little chance beside the torrents that had flowed from Winston during the evening. She had shown no signs of resentment, yet perhaps she was simply being no more than polite, in the English way.
He paced back and forth, retracing the arguments in his mind until nothing made a lot of sense any more. In the end it came down to one very simple thought. What did he have to lose?
A faint light shone from beneath her door. He knocked very lightly. There was no reply. Gently, he pulled at the handle and stepped forward. He had the intention of saying something trite about his fiftieth birthday.
But there was no point. She was standing beside the bed, washed in the light of a reading lamp, the shadows accentuating her shape and her nakedness. To Harriman, she had never looked more compelling. It was an image, a snapshot, that was to wrap itself around his memory and cling to him for the rest of his life.
‘Why is it,’ she whispered, ‘that you Americans are so late for simply everything?’
Late—but optimistic. An American trait.
There were still many optimists in America, in spite of the news. Large numbers of Japanese troops were reported heading south towards Indo-China from Shanghai, but since the only target they could attack was British, not American, it seemed not to matter so very much. And although it became clear that something was up with the Japanese Navy, many US analysts greeted it with a shrug of the shoulders. What could the Japs do? They wouldn’t dare. If the Nips were headed anywhere, it was probably south, towards Singapore. The British again.
The United States of America had nothing to fear. The annual Army-Navy football game was about to be played and the commemorative programme had a dramatic photograph of the USS Arizona forging its way through a huge swell. ‘It is significant,’ the programme suggested, ‘that despite the claims of air enthusiasts, no battleship has yet been sunk by bombs.’ So there was no great cause for concern. Anyway, the Arizona was safely tucked up in port, halfway across the Pacific, in Pearl Harbor.
Inevitably, this came as little comfort to the British. Intelligence reports began to arrive suggesting that all Japanese merchantmen were returning to home waters at a pace that would bring them back by the first week of December. A most sensible precaution, if you were about to start a war.
Intelligence also picked up a strange pattern to Japanese naval radio traffic, with mentions of the refuelling of a task force. But what task force? It added to the pressure. And, with every day that passed, the army of Nippon ignored the threat of the economic sanctions and poured south into Indo-China.
Confronted by so many signs,
Churchill found little reassurance in a Foreign Office analysis that concluded the Japanese would give way so long as the Americans stood resolute and firm. ‘The broad experience of the Foreign Office in giving way to any show of resolution may not be relevant to this situation,’ he scribbled in the margin in red ink.
The United States had a Foreign Office, too. It was known as the State Department. It ran on similar principles, driven by a need to embrace the arts of diplomacy and the belief that war represented failure on their part. So, when the Japanese envoy Kurusu arrived in Washington, they talked, and they talked. And when that produced nothing, they talked some more. After all, no one else seemed to have any better suggestion.
26 November 1941. Tankan Bay.
The order came through. Proceed.
The departure had its problems. The Akagi, the flagship of the task force, fouled her propeller on a cable and divers had to be sent down to clear it. But soon they were under way through the freezing mists of the bay. Almost no one on board knew where they were headed or what their mission might be, but at last it had begun and they were happy. For a military man, unlike a diplomat, anything is better than sitting around waiting.
While others pursued their plans and plotted their schemes, the most important man of all, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, remained an enigma. He was for war, and he was against it; he was ready to wage war without the Congress, yet he couldn’t move a spent cartridge case without their approval. The mists that floated off the Potomac and settled upon the American capital provided an ideal cover for those who, in truth, weren’t sure of their way.
Other American politicians were less difficult to pin down. The US Congressmen who crowded into the Cabinet Room in Downing Street were courteous, but clear. They didn’t want their country ‘getting dragged into no foreign shooting war’, as one put it.
‘You are from the South, sir?’
‘Virginia, Mr Churchill.’
‘Then you will know that there are times when, no matter with what reluctance, a state must fight for what it holds to be right.’
‘Home and hearth, Mr Churchill. I’ll fight for that any time. But our boys camped out in Europe twenty years ago. Many of ‘em didn’t make it back. Don’t seem to have made a deal of difference.’
The American politicians were on a fact-finding tour, but the facts they had found didn’t appear to have left them much impressed. They had seen all too much of the shabby clothes and shuffling queues, the thin faces of the children, the wasteland that had once been a city. It was not what they wanted for their own.
‘We respect your ardour, Mr Churchill, but we also have to listen to Mr Gallup. He tells us that not one in five of the folks back home want to get involved in this war.’
‘No one wants war, gentlemen,’ the Prime Minister said from his chair in front of the fireplace, ‘but America is the greatest power on earth. That condition brings with it jealous enemies—many of them. They will not let you rest. I believe they will force you into this war, and sooner rather than later.’
‘We believe other outcomes are possible, sir. Consider this—as we must. Russia may collapse. Then in the spring you might get invaded, while most of your boys are away fighting in the Middle East. I hate to think of it, but this time next year, instead of more war as you predict, there might be no war at all. It might all be over. And we’re not about to buy a ticket for a show just as the last dancer’s on her way out the door.’
‘This act, gentlemen, is far from finished.’
‘You suggesting invasion isn’t possible?’
‘I am not.’
‘So what happens if the Germans arrive here and you folks get overrun?’
The question propelled Churchill to his feet. His chin was forward, his eyes burned with the passion of a tormented bull and the words emerged like the rumble of distant thunder. ‘Then, sir, as we lie choking in our own blood, with dying hands we shall pass the torch to you.’
There was an embarrassed silence. Then the Congressmen filed out with barely another word.
The northern Pacific was relentless. Huge seas, unremitting gales, impenetrable fog. Yet the task force made four hundred miles a day. They attempted to sail in precise formation with the carriers in two parallel lines of three, the tankers trailing behind, the cruisers and battleships guarding the flanks, but during the hours of darkness the tankers would stray, and in the morning the destroyers were forced to round them up again like sheep dogs.
Refuelling in such conditions was a nightmare. Hoses would become unbuckled and lash violently across the decks. Several sailors were swept overboard. The sea showed no mercy.
The fleet was running on high-grade fuel to reduce smoke and sparks, rubbish was stored on board rather than being thrown into the seas, everything was done that could be done to erase all sign of their passing. Radio silence was absolute; transmitters were disabled to make sure of it.
Beneath the decks the task force carried more than four hundred aircraft; bombers, fighters, spotters, torpedo planes. They were constantly checked, their oil changed, their engines warmed, their pilots given exercises to keep them alert.
Inevitably, those on board speculated about their destination. With so many tankers around, they were clearly set to cover a long distance—as far as Singapore, the Philippines, Indonesia, perhaps. But why the carriers, why the planes? Now that the Japanese had air bases at Saigon, they already had aircraft within striking distance of all of these targets. Anyway, the task force was steaming east, not south.
Héloise had fallen in love with her bicycle. No longer did she pester for time off in London; she seemed content to wrap herself in the local countryside around Chequers, cycling to the village of Ellesborough or covering the several miles to the towns of Wendover and Great Missenden, often through inclement weather and sometimes even at night. Mrs Landemare smiled. It seemed simple enough. Héloise had found a boyfriend.
Yet Héloise had other distractions. She no longer met with the Japanese gentleman—there was no chance of an inconspicuous meeting with any Oriental so far away from London at an unsettled time like this—but he had a friend who worked in the Spanish Embassy and was young enough to pass as her lover, if need be. On some of her cycling trips, Héloise would call him from a public telephone at a prescribed time, and a day or so later she would meet with him. She quickly discovered that the number she was calling was also a public telephone. She had been given another number, but was told that was strictly for emergencies.
Yet most of the time Héloise simply cycled, so that people would grow accustomed to her coming and her going. She wanted no one to raise an eyebrow or to ask intrusive questions whenever she decided to get on her cycle and pedal away. She wanted cover. Just in case of an emergency.
29 November 1941. No more room for doubt. The Japanese were up to something. But no one knew what.
The British Chiefs of Staff met to discuss the growing pile of intelligence reports. They considered all the options they could think of—that the Japanese were preparing to strike against Thailand and Singapore, perhaps the Philippines or even the frozen wastes of Russia. Almost every possibility was put before them, but they couldn’t reach a conclusion. They were clear on only two points. That something was about to happen. And, in the words of their unanimous report, that ‘we should avoid taking any action which would involve us in a war with Japan unless we were certain that America would join us.’
In other words, run away as far and as fast as possible. Britain was too weak to resist on her own, but that had been the case for months, and the Japanese knew it. Ever since the capture of the Automedon.
The report of the Chiefs of Staff went directly to Churchill. When he had read it, he let forth a great sigh, as though his last breath were leaving his body. Then he reached for his whisky.
‘Bugger it,’ he muttered to the shadows around him, ‘I’m just too old to run.’
Sawyers drew back the curtains, then settled the tray on his b
ed.
‘What’s this?’ Churchill growled, not looking up from his papers.
‘Champagne. Smoked salmon. Scrambled egg. More champagne if yer want it. By way of marking the occasion. Happy birthday.’
‘There is little enough rejoicing to be squeezed out of the day at my age, Sawyers.’
Churchill was sixty-seven years old. And he felt it. He’d had no rest, his sleep overflowed with nightmares—or, in truth, one repeated nightmare. In his dream he was waiting, helpless, bound hand and foot beside a road. Roosevelt was walking by—walking by—on the other side. Churchill tried to call out, but as loudly as he hollered and screamed there was no sound. Roosevelt disappeared without even a backward glance.
Churchill found a dread in waiting for America to decide whether the British Empire should live or die. He had come to the point where he feared falling asleep almost as much as he did waking, yet whether in his dreams or in daylight, the result was the same. Roosevelt passed on by.
That morning, Churchill had drafted a telegram to the President asking outright for a declaration of war. He couldn’t command, so instead he had crawled. ‘I realize your constitutional difficulties, but it would be tragic…I beg you to consider whether, at some moment you choose right…Forgive me, my dear friend, for presuming to press such a course…’ The words of supplication had made him feel physically sick; he was in no mood for Mrs Landemare’s salmon and egg.
Sawyers poured him a glass of champagne. ‘A birthday wish,’ he suggested. ‘You’re allowed on yer birthday.’
‘What could I possibly wish for?’
‘No war. I would. And for Japs to drop down hole.’
‘It’s too late for that. We will have war. Perhaps even today.’
‘It’s Sunday,’ Sawyers protested.
‘They always attack on a Sunday. Our Christian day of rest, when they can take us unawares. Oh, dear God,’ he sighed, falling back upon his pillow, clutching another note from his box. It was from the War Office. An analysis in the most emphatic and insistent terms.
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