In London, it seemed that not a thing was going right. On Saturday, the sixth day of December, reports from Russia told of the Germans still falling in fury upon Moscow, while in North Africa it became clear that the latest British offensive against Rommel was being ground into the sand.
And Max Beaverbrook had declared that he was going to resign. He said he was tired of fools getting in the way of his work and was exhausted by his asthma. Was it a ploy, another game, the start of a plot to replace Churchill himself? Or did he really mean it? Max would do anything for a headline.
The uncertainty took a terrible toll on Churchill. It came to a head at the meeting of the Chiefs of Staff over which Churchill himself presided, with Eden also in attendance. He was about to depart for Moscow—in the wake of Churchill and Beaverbrook—and was insistent on taking some gift with him. How about three hundred tanks? Or three hundred aircraft? Or both? The Chiefs of Staff were as desperate to bring the figure down as Eden was to push it up—after all, he argued, hadn’t Beaverbrook taken much more when he’d been to see Stalin? It was like some childish spat, boy scouts arguing over badges. And where was bloody Max? Plotting? Or truly suffering?
As the time moved towards midnight, Churchill could stand the bickering no longer.
‘We’re going round in circles,’ he said, banging the table in exasperation. ‘Let’s conclude. Ten squadrons, Anthony. Offer him ten squadrons—but only after the Libyan offensive is done with.’ He closed the file in front of him to indicate the discussion was at an end.
Yet the Chief of the Air Staff had other ideas. These were his aircraft, after all. And in the last war he had been a despatch rider during the retreat from Mons, so he knew a thing or two about being shot at by his own side.
‘Prime Minister, I’ve no objection in principle. Wish to help the Foreign Secretary, of course—and Comrade Stalin. But I think the numbers of craft involved and the timing are a little too definite. I must recommend we leave ourselves a bit of elbow room on this one. After all, we haven’t yet been able to establish that the Russians can even fly these machines.’
It was an entirely valid point, but set against the imminence of the end of the world, a dispute about ten squadrons seemed somehow desperately trivial. Suddenly Churchill could take it no longer. He hurled his papers across the table and accused them of deliberately obstructing his intentions. He said they were supposed to be men of ideas and initiatives but all they brought with them were their objections. And he swore most profoundly.
‘You can’t make up your bloody minds, so I’m going to make them up for you!’
He proceeded to gather the papers that he had hurled around the table, stuffing them back into his file and pretending to study them. All the while his chest heaved, his fists remained clenched, and for some considerable time his eyes were closed. He said not a word. He was pursuing private dragons, and wherever his mind was, it was not in this room.
Abruptly he slammed the covers of his file together and stalked out of the room.
For a few moments, these most powerful of men remained silent, stunned at what they had witnessed.
‘That was very sad,’ one of them said quietly.
‘Pathetic, really.’
‘Entirely unnecessary.’
‘Such a pity.’
‘God knows where we’d be without him’
‘But God knows where we shall go with him…’
He didn’t know where he should go, or what he should do. He had as yet done nothing, but doing nothing was the most momentous decision of all.
He invited the Americans for the weekend at Chequers—whatever happened he knew it must involve them—but Winant had official duties elsewhere and couldn’t make it until Sunday. He was summoned, nonetheless. Harriman came, bringing along his daughter, Kathleen, who had come to spend time with her father. It was her birthday, so Churchill instructed Sawyers to arrange a cake with candles for dinner on Saturday evening, yet when the lights were dimmed and it was brought in it caused surprise. It quickly became clear that Churchill, distracted, had grown confused. Her birthday wasn’t until the following day. Anyway, no one seemed to be much in the mood for celebration. The tension was affecting them all.
When Sawyers put him to bed that evening, it was, at first, in complete silence. They had a routine, long established, which meant there was little need for words. It was only after Churchill had climbed into bed that he spoke.
‘I must decide tomorrow. It is the last chance.’
‘What will yer do?’
‘I’m going to sleep on it.’
‘No yer won’t. You’ve not slept fer days.’
He sighed. ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Not fer me to say.’
‘No one else can say, Sawyers. No one else knows.’
The valet bent to pick up the socks from the floor, trying to ignore the question.
‘I feel very lonely, Sawyers. I don’t think I can do this alone. I think I shall have to speak out.’
Sawyers straightened. ‘Speak out? So who’d believe you?’ he said belligerently. ‘They’d only say yer gorrit all wrong again.’
‘What?’
‘Well, like yer did when you tried to save old King from abdicating.’
‘You’re right there, I suppose. He wasn’t worth it.’
Churchill’s career had been crowded with many moments when his judgement had proved disastrous, but Sawyers decided this was scarcely the time to recall them all.
‘And what’d yer tell ‘em anyhow?’ the valet continued. ‘That yer worked it all out on yer fingers?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s how yer do the household accounts.’
‘And I’m not so very good at that, am I?’
‘Below stairs, we have a rule, like. No one gets into trouble fer what they see and don’t say. Eyes open, mouth shut, that’s the way it works best. Particularly in a household like this ‘un.’
‘Above stairs it’s different. Usually quite the reverse.’
‘I’m not in the business o’ giving a Prime Minister advice. Not me job. Fold yer clothes, serve yer food, sweep up after yer, like, but you’re the one what gets paid for running this war. Not me. I’m a servant. Nowt wrong wi’ that. Proud to be so. Not got much to me name, but I do know that if Hitler were to get here I’d end up wi’ nowt. Wouldn’t be a servant, wouldn’t even be a slave. They’d put me up against a wall wi’ you in front of a firing squad, more than likely. And what wi’ the size o’ you and me after Mrs Landemare’s cooking, not much chance of ‘em missing, I suppose.’ He folded Churchill’s trousers immaculately and placed them on a hanger. ‘Whatever you decide is best, Mr Churchill. That’ll be right wi’ me. Have no doubts.’
‘Thank you, Sawyers.’
‘Goodness. Feel like I’ve been mekking a speech. That’s your job.’ He hesitated. “Cept sometimes…’
‘Go on. Please.’
‘Well, all I know is that yer mekk some right fine speeches, so yer do, but seems to me that some of yer best moments were when yer were kepping yer mouth shut. Like over Lord Halifax.’
‘Ah.’
It seemed so long ago when Neville Chamberlain, on the point of resignation, had summoned Churchill to the Cabinet Room and asked him to endorse Halifax as his successor. Churchill had gazed out of the window and said nothing. The moment—and Lord Halifax—had passed.
‘You make a powerful argument for saying nothing.’
‘Not giving advice. Just saying, like.’
‘And I thank you for it.’
‘I’m not the one to be telling what yer should do,’ the other man continued to grumble. ‘Particularly about something that’s already clean slipped me mind.’
For the first time in days, Churchill smiled.
Sawyers had begun vigorously brushing the lapels of Churchill’s jacket. ‘You don’t half make a mess wi’ yer dinner at times.’
‘Does it matter? That is not what history will remember me for, Sawyers.
It may well mark me down as its greatest scoundrel.’
‘That’ll depend.’
‘On what?’
‘Who writes it. Yer always talking about going back to Chartwell after it’s all over to write history o’ the war.’
‘But if I am to write it, I must win it first. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m not saying nowt. But if that’s what yer want, that’ll be fine by me, too.’
Sunday. The seventh day of the month. Winant was late for lunch, delayed by the demands of diplomacy. It seemed not to matter; food was little more than distraction to the earnest ambassador, particularly at times such as these. He had phoned ahead and apologized, insisting that the others begin their lunch without him, yet when his car drew up on the gravel before the front door of Chequers, he was surprised to see Churchill striding up and down, pulling impatiently at his cigar. A cold December wind was blowing, but he wore no overcoat.
‘Winston, my profound apologies…’
‘War,’ the Prime Minister barked, pacing relentlessly and neglecting the usual pleasantries of welcome. ‘D’you think there will be war?’
Winant was still only half out of the car. He straightened slowly, his clothes more than usually crumpled after his journey. ‘Yes,’ he replied simply, brushing his forelock from his eyes.
Churchill suddenly stopped his pacing and turned on him with startling vehemence.
‘If they declare war on you, Gil, we shall declare war on them within the hour. Within the minute!’ He was agitated, stabbing at the ambassador with his cigar.
‘Yes, Prime Minister, I understand. You’ve made that very clear and in public.’
‘So what I very much need to know is this. If they declare war on us, will you declare war on them? Will you join the dance?’
It seemed a strange performance to Winant. Churchill already had the answer, he knew what the ambassador must say.
‘Has something happened, Winston?’ the American asked, perturbed.
‘No. I just need to know. Need to hear it. We will back you. Will you back us?’
Winant’s tone grew formal. ‘You know I can’t answer that, Prime Minister. Under our Constitution, only the Congress has the right to declare war.’
Churchill had been standing before him with his fists clenched as though ready to fight, but as he listened to Winant’s words his shoulders fell and the energy seemed to drain from his body. ‘I was hoping—just hoping—you might have had fresh instructions,’ he said softly.
‘My hands are tied. As are the President’s.’
Churchill’s jaw was set. ‘I had allowed myself to hope, Gil. It would have made things so much easier.’
‘There is nothing I can say.’
‘Nothing you can say, eh?’ Churchill said, slowly echoing the other man’s words and shaking his head in sorrow.
Winant was perplexed. The old man appeared crestfallen, yet their exchange couldn’t possibly have come as a surprise. He felt there was some part of the conversation he was missing.
Churchill took one last pull at his cigar before hurling it into the bleak flowerbed. He had smoked less than an inch. His eyes were rimmed with tears, his voice so choking with emotion that the words emerged only with difficulty.
‘You are my friend, Gil. And we are late, you know. Come in and get washed so the two of us can go into lunch. We can at least do that together, can’t we?’
They dined together, too, with Harriman, Kathleen and Pamela, yet Churchill found no pleasure in it. He sat morose, his face grim, making no attempt to join in the conversation. He had withdrawn deep within himself.
Sawyers came in with a small portable wireless set that he placed on the table. The old man liked to listen when the news was read at nine o’clock. It was the most comprehensive news broadcast of the day and he rarely missed it, yet tonight he seemed to have lost all interest. He sat with his head in his hands, saying nothing. It was almost a belated half-thought when he reached out and flipped the lid of the wireless set to bring up the voice of Alvar Liddell, the newsreader. The headlines were already being read—reports about fighting on the Russian front and depressing news about a tank battle in Libya. The others picked up their conversation to avoid dwelling too long on gloom.
It was only at the end that a fragment about the Pacific was mentioned. Something about the Hawaiian Islands, but it was lost in the banter. Then it was more news about Tobruk.
And still he sat, head in hands.
‘Yer not listening tonight, then?’ Sawyers enquired, gruffly, in a voice that seemed unnaturally tight.
Only slowly did the old man’s head begin to rise.
‘Didn’t it say something about Pearl Harbor?’ Harriman murmured.
‘No, no, I thought it said Pearl River,’ someone else chimed in.
Already Liddell was announcing that the weekly Brains Trust programme would begin immediately after the news.
Churchill suddenly sat bolt upright, alert, as though trying to catch an echo of the missed item that might still be lingering in the room.
‘Did he say something about an attack?’
Even as Churchill spoke, the newsreader began to read out a fuller report in clipped, unemotional tones.
‘The news has just been given that Japanese aircraft have raided Pearl Harbor, the American naval base in Hawaii…’
Churchill was snatching for the volume knob.
‘…The announcement of the attack was made in a brief statement by President Roosevelt. Naval and military targets on the principal Hawaiian island of Oahu have also been attacked. No further details are yet available.’
Churchill appeared bewildered. ‘Did we hear him right?’
‘That’s what he said,’ Sawyers replied, almost belligerently. ‘Those Jap monkeys have gone and bombed America.’
From the end of the table, Winant looked on, taking in a fragment of history that would live with him for the rest of his life. Armageddon. Yet for a moment of such extraordinary drama there was something out of place. It seemed strange that a servant should be breaking so impetuously into their conversation, and still stranger that he was smiling.
‘But…Today? I thought…The timing…’ Churchill mumbled in confusion, struggling to fix his mind upon what he had heard. Then the pieces seemed to fall into place. He thumped the dining table and sprang to his feet. ‘We shall fight! We shall declare war upon Japan!’
Winant’s face was creased with concern. ‘Shouldn’t we get confirmation or something? After all, it’s only the BBC. We can’t go to war on the word of the BBC.’
‘Then,’ Churchill said, smiling even more broadly than the valet, ‘we shall telephone the President. He will know.’
Before dawn, the Japanese fleet had arrived at a point less than three hundred miles north of Pearl Harbor. The carriers swung into the wind; it was a heavy sea, unsettled, but it would have to do. The first wave of aircraft took off while it was still dark—torpedo planes, high-level bombers, dive bombers, fighters—accompanied by the roars and frantic waves of those left behind.
Once the flight decks had been cleared, a second wave of planes was ferried up from the hangar decks. Dawn was breaking as they set off south towards Hawaii.
Just before eight in the morning, Hawaiian time, and almost unopposed, the Japanese planes hurled themselves upon Pearl Harbor. They found the ships waiting in line on what was called Battleship Row while, almost unbelievably, they discovered the Americans had huddled all their planes together in the middle of the airfields to guard against sabotage. At first there was some confusion amongst the Japanese as to whether the torpedo planes or bombers should attack first, but it made little difference. The devastation was immense.
The attack lasted for almost two hours. Within minutes of its start, the battleship Arizona, which eight days previously had so proudly adorned the programme for the Army-Navy football game, exploded in an earth-shaking ball of flame. More than a thousand of its crew were killed ins
tantly. The battleship Oklahoma capsized soon after. Sixteen other ships were sunk or seriously damaged. The morning had started with nine American battleships in the Pacific; by its end only two remained operational.
Nearly two hundred American aircraft were destroyed.
The human toll could only be reckoned after the flames had died and the smoke had cleared. 2,403 Americans were dead.
Pearl Harbor would be officially declared the worst military and naval disaster in American history.
The President, of course, did not yet know all this. Confusion reigned, the details would come later, but for the moment it was enough that they had been attacked. ‘We’re all in the same boat now,’ he told Churchill, somewhat clumsily. ‘I’m going to ask Congress tomorrow for a declaration of war against Japan.’
Against Japan…
‘And we shall follow your declaration within the hour, as we promised,’ Churchill replied, standing over a phone in the study.
‘Have they attacked British territory, too?’
‘I do not know. I expect they shall. But it doesn’t matter. America is our dearest friend, your enemy is our enemy. That is enough.’
The fingers of war had reached across the widest oceans in the world.
‘We must meet again. I shall come to you,’ Churchill said.
‘Of course. It’ll be hell here in Washington for a while, and you’ll be up to your eyes, too, but…’ Roosevelt was about to suggest a date in the New Year. Churchill was having none of it.
‘Have no care for me. Nothing is more important than that the world sees us together, united. I shall be there within the week.’
Roosevelt was about to object, it was too soon, he could do without Churchill trying to run his war for him, but there were so many other battles to fight that there seemed little point in opening yet another front.
‘Be seeing you, Winston.’
‘Indeed, my dear friend,’ Churchill replied. He stared at the receiver, then replaced it on its cradle as gently as a priest putting aside the chalice after Communion.
The world had changed. All was bustle. The study filled with secretaries, Americans, guests. He embraced Winant, Harriman, welcomed them to the war. Another telephone was ringing. News that the Japanese were attacking Malaya, too. And a map, unrolled on the desk, of Pearl Harbor and Hawaii. Churchill bent low to examine it, then jerked in surprise. He swore. No one seemed surprised. ‘There will be work for many hands this night,’ he announced. ‘No one shall rest.’ Then he swept from the room.
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