The Splendid and the Vile

by Erik Larson

  In the course of the meeting, his secretary of the navy, Frank Knox, proposed an idea: Why not structure the transfer as a trade, in which America would give Britain the destroyers in return for access to British naval bases on various islands in the Atlantic, including Newfoundland and Bermuda? The law allowed the transfer of war materials if the result was an improvement in America’s security. The gain of strategic bases in return for obsolete destroyers seemed to meet the requirement.

  Roosevelt and the cabinet approved but, given the political climate, agreed that the exchange would still need the approval of Congress.

  Roosevelt asked a friendly senator, Claude Pepper, to introduce a bill authorizing the trade. For it to have any chance at all, it would need the endorsement of the Republican Party, but with so many Americans adamantly opposed to going to war, and an election on the horizon, this proved impossible to attain.

  Pepper told Roosevelt the bill had “no chance of passing.”

  * * *

  —

  ON THAT FRIDAY, CHURCHILL made Beaverbrook a full member of his War Cabinet and, soon afterward, of his defense committee. Beaverbrook joined with reluctance. He loathed committees—of any kind, at any level. A sign in his office shouted, “COMMITTEES TAKE THE PUNCH OUT OF WAR.”

  Meetings were the last thing he needed. “I was driven all through the day at the Aircraft Ministry with the need for more production,” he wrote in a private recollection. “I was harassed by the fear that our Air Force would go short of supplies. I was required to attend innumerable Cabinet meetings, and if I absented myself the Prime Minister would send for me.” Churchill would summon him for meetings of the defense committee that would extend late into the night, after which Churchill would retain him and continue the discussion in his sitting room.

  “The burden was too heavy,” Beaverbrook wrote. And Churchill, he noted, had an unfair advantage: his naps.

  * * *

  —

  ON SUNDAY, AUGUST 4, Churchill’s son, Randolph, returned home to 10 Downing Street, on leave from his army unit, the 4th Queen’s Own Hussars, looking lean and fit in his uniform.

  The first night began on a happy note, with a joyful dinner at 10 Downing with Pamela, Clementine, and Churchill, everyone in good spirits. After dinner, Churchill went back to work and Clementine retired to her bedroom, where she spent many evenings alone. She disliked many of her husband’s friends and colleagues and much preferred dining in her room, an austere chamber with a single bed and a sink; Churchill, meanwhile, held or attended dinners as often as five nights a week.

  Despite this being Randolph’s first night home in a while, he set off after dinner for the Savoy Hotel, by himself. He planned to meet a friend, H. R. Knickerbocker, an American journalist, and assured Pamela that he would be gone only a short time. The two men drank together until the hotel bar closed, then went to Knickerbocker’s room, where they polished off at least one bottle of brandy. Randolph returned to 10 Downing at six-ten the next morning, his arrival witnessed by Churchill’s security man, Inspector Thompson. Randolph stumbled from his car and made his way to Pamela’s room, too drunk even to change into his nightclothes.

  Thompson inspected the car.

  * * *

  —

  FOR PAMELA, RANDOLPH’S DRUNKENNESS and disheveled appearance were mortifying enough, but about an hour later, around seven-thirty A.M., a maid knocked on Pamela’s door and presented a note from Clementine, demanding to see her immediately.

  Clementine was livid. When angry, she had a habit of donning white gloves. She was wearing them now.

  “Where was Randolph last night?” she asked. “Do you have any idea what has happened?”

  Pamela knew, of course, that her husband had come home drunk, but judging by Clementine’s demeanor, there was more to come. At this point, Pamela began to cry.

  Clementine told her that Inspector Thompson, upon checking Randolph’s car, had discovered a collection of secret military maps inside, accessible to any passerby, a serious violation of security protocols.

  “What is going on?” Clementine asked.

  Pamela confronted Randolph, who offered fervent apologies. Shamefaced, he told her all that had occurred, and then told his father. Randolph apologized and promised to give up drinking. Clementine’s fury remained unabated: She banished Randolph from 10 Downing, forcing him to take up temporary residence at his men’s club, White’s, a seventeenth-century haven for many a disgraced husband, especially those, like Randolph, who were inclined toward gambling.

  His promise to quit drinking proved to be one of many pledges he could not keep.

  CHAPTER 27

  Directive No. 17

  AS PLANNING FOR THE INVASION of England progressed, Hitler issued a new directive, No. 17, which called for an all-out assault on the RAF. “The German Air Force is to overpower the English Air Force with all the forces at its command, in the shortest possible time,” Hitler wrote. “The attacks are to be directed primarily against flying units, their ground installations, and their supply organizations, but also against the aircraft industry, including that manufacturing anti-aircraft equipment.”

  Hitler reserved to himself “the right to decide on terror attacks as measures of reprisal.” His continued reluctance to authorize raids against central London and the civilian districts of other big cities had nothing to do with moral distaste but, rather, stemmed from his continued hope for a peace deal with Churchill and a wish to avoid reprisal raids on Berlin. This new campaign against the RAF was a milestone in the history of warfare, according to the Luftwaffe’s own later assessment. “For the first time…an air force was going to conduct, independent of operations by other services, an offensive which aimed at decisively smashing the enemy air force.” The question was, Could air power alone “undermine the general fighting power of the enemy by massed air attacks until he is ready to sue for peace?”

  The task of planning and executing this new strategic-bombing offensive fell to Hermann Göring, who code-named the launch date Adlertag, or Eagle Day. He set it first for August 5, then pushed it back to August 10, a Saturday. He had absolute confidence that his air force would fulfill Hitler’s wish. On Tuesday, August 6, he met with his senior air commanders at his country estate, Carinhall, to fashion a plan for the new campaign.

  Until now, the Luftwaffe had engaged in limited operations against England, intended to probe its air defenses and draw out RAF fighters. German bombers conducted short, isolated raids against communities in Cornwall, Devon, South Wales, and elsewhere. But now Göring, given as always to flamboyant gestures, envisioned a mass attack unlike anything history had seen, aimed at delivering an annihilating blow to Britain’s air defenses. He expected little resistance. According to reports by his intelligence chief, Beppo Schmid, the RAF had already been badly mauled, and could not possibly produce enough new aircraft to compensate for its losses. This meant the RAF’s strength was decreasing by the day. In Schmid’s appraisal, soon the RAF would have no serviceable aircraft at all.

  Goaded by Göring and fortified by Schmid’s reports, the air force commanders gathered at Carinhall decided they would need only four days to destroy what remained of the RAF’s fighter and bomber operations. After this, the Luftwaffe would proceed step by step, in day and night raids, to eliminate air bases and aircraft manufacturing centers throughout England—a bold plan, with one very large indeterminate and crucial variable: weather.

  Göring transferred hundreds of bombers to bases along the channel coast of France and in Norway. He planned an initial attack involving fifteen hundred aircraft, a modern armada meant to surprise and overwhelm the British. Once airborne, Göring’s bombers would need only six minutes to cross the channel.

  What Beppo Schmid’s reports depicted, however, was very different from what Luftwaffe pilots were experiencing in the air. “Göring refused to listen to hi
s fighter commanders’ protests that such claims were not realistic,” Luftwaffe ace Galland later told an American interrogator. In encounters with the RAF, German pilots found no hint of diminished strength or resolve.

  The big attack was to begin that coming Saturday. If all went well, invasion soon would follow.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Oh, Moon, Lovely Moon”

  ONE OF THE MOST DISTINCTIVE aspects of Churchill’s approach to leadership was his ability to switch tracks in an instant and focus earnestly on things that any other prime minister would have found trivial. Depending on one’s perspective, this was either an endearing trait or a bedevilment. To Churchill, everything mattered. On Friday, August 9, for example, amid a rising tide of urgent war matters, he found time to address a minute to the members of his War Cabinet on a subject dear to him: the length and writing style of the reports that arrived in his black box each day.

  Headed, appropriately enough, by the succinct title “BREVITY,” the minute began: “To do our work, we all have to read a mass of papers. Nearly all of them are far too long. This wastes time, while energy has to be spent in looking for the essential points.”

  He set out four ways for his ministers and their staffs to improve their reports. First, he wrote, reports should “set out the main points in a series of short, crisp paragraphs.” If the report involved discussion of complicated matters or statistical analysis, this should be placed in an appendix.

  Often, he observed, a full report could be dispensed with entirely, in favor of an aide-mémoire “consisting of headings only, which can be expanded orally if needed.”

  Finally, he attacked the cumbersome prose that so often marked official reports. “Let us have an end to phrases such as these,” he wrote, and quoted two offenders:

  “It is also of importance to bear in mind the following considerations…”

  “Consideration should be given to the possibility of carrying into effect…”

  He wrote: “Most of these woolly phrases are mere padding, which can be left out altogether, or replaced by a single word. Let us not shrink from using the short expressive phrase, even if it is conversational.”

  The resulting prose, he wrote, “may at first seem rough as compared with the flat surface of officialese jargon. But the saving of time will be great, while the discipline of setting out the real points concisely will prove an aid to clear thinking.”

  That evening, as he had done almost every weekend thus far, he set off for the country. The private secretary on Chequers duty that weekend was John Colville, who rode in a separate car with Clementine and Mary. Other guests had already gathered at the house, or soon would, including Anthony Eden, Pug, and two key generals, who all converged to dine and sleep. Churchill also invited First Sea Lord Dudley Pound but failed to tell anyone else, which, as Colville noted, “occasioned some hectic rearranging of the dinner table.”

  After the meal, Mary and Clementine left the dining room, as per custom and Clementine’s preference.

  Among the men, the talk turned to the threat of invasion, and to measures taken to defend England. Anti-tank mines had been secreted along many of the country’s beaches, and these, wrote Colville, “had been shown to be most devastating.” Indeed, he noted, they had claimed the lives of a number of English citizens. Churchill told the story, possibly apocryphal, of an ill-starred golfer who managed to direct a golf ball onto an adjacent beach. Colville summarized the denouement in his diary: “He took his niblick down to the beach, played the ball, and all that remained afterward was the ball, which returned safely to the green.”

  After dinner, Churchill, the generals, and Admiral Pound moved to the Hawtrey Room, where large timbers had been installed to brace the structure against explosion. Within the room were innumerable treasures, among them a book dating to 1476. Meanwhile, Colville read memoranda and arranged the papers in Churchill’s black box.

  At one point, a German aircraft flew overhead. With Churchill in the lead, the group charged out into the garden to try to catch a glimpse of the plane.

  To the amusement of all, Admiral Pound tripped while descending the steps. Wrote Colville, “The First Sea Lord fell down first one flight of steps and then, having picked himself up disconsolately, he tumbled down another, ending in a heap on the ground where a sentry threatened him with a bayonet.”

  Pound righted himself, muttering, “This is not the place for a First Sea Lord.”

  Churchill, amused, said, “Try and remember you are an Admiral of the Fleet and not a Midshipman!”

  * * *

  —

  SATURDAY MORNING BROUGHT MORE work for Colville, in the form of cables to send and minutes to relay. He then had lunch “en famille,” with Churchill, Clementine, and Mary, “and it could not have been more enjoyable.” Churchill was “in the best of humors,” Colville wrote. “He talked brilliantly on every topic from Ruskin to Lord Baldwin, from the future of Europe to the strength of the Tory Party.” He complained about the dire lack of munitions and weapons for the army he was trying to build. “We shall win,” he declared, “but we don’t deserve it; at least, we do deserve it because of our virtues, but not because of our intelligence.”

  The talk turned silly. Colville began reciting bits of doggerel. One quatrain gave Churchill particular delight:

  Oh, Moon, lovely Moon, with thy beautiful face

  Careering throughout the boundaries of space

  Whenever I see thee, I think in my mind

  Shall I ever, oh ever, behold thy behind.

  After lunch Colville, Clementine, and Mary climbed one of the adjacent hills. Colville and Mary turned the walk into a race, to see who could reach the top first. Colville won, but ended up “feeling iller than I have ever felt and was quite unable to see or think.”

  Mary’s appraisal of Colville was steadily improving, though she still had reservations. In her diary for Saturday, August 10, she wrote, “I like Jock but I think he is very ‘wet’ ”—“wet” being a British colloquial term for appearing to lack character or forcefulness. For his part, Colville continued warming to Mary as well. In his diary the next day he wrote, “Even though she takes herself a little seriously—as she confesses—she is a charming girl and very pleasant to look upon.”

  * * *

  —

  FOR HERMANN GÖRING THAT Saturday, there was disappointment: This was the day he had designated as Eagle Day, the start of his all-out campaign against the RAF, but bad weather over the south of England forced him to cancel the attack. He set the new start for the next morning, Sunday, August 11, but then postponed it again, to Tuesday, August 13.

  One consolation: With the moon by then well into its waxing gibbous phase, rising toward a full moon the coming weekend, those sorties designated to take place at night would be easier and more successful. Germany’s beam-navigation technology had reduced the Luftwaffe’s dependence on moonlight, but its pilots remained wary of the new system and still preferred attacking in clear weather over a landscape agleam with lunar light.

  * * *

  —

  IN BERLIN, WORKERS CONTINUED building grandstands in Pariser Platz, at the center of the city, to prepare for the victory parade that would mark the end of the war. “Today they painted them and installed two huge golden eagles,” wrote William Shirer in his diary entry for Sunday. “At each end they also are building gigantic replicas of the Iron Cross.” His hotel was on the same square, at one end of which stood the Brandenburger Tor—the Brandenburg Gate—through which the victorious army was to pass.

  Within Nazi Party circles, Shirer found, there was talk that Hitler wanted the stands ready before the end of the month.

  Part Three

  DREAD

  AUGUST–SEPTEMBER

  CHAPTER 29

  Eagle Day

  AT DAWN ON TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, two groups of Ger
man bombers totaling about sixty aircraft rose into the skies over Amiens, France, climbing in broad ascending circles to flight altitude, where they assembled in battle formations. This took half an hour. Getting so many planes into position was difficult even on clear days, but this morning the challenge was compounded by an unexpected change in the weather. A high-pressure zone over the Azores that had seemed poised to deliver fair weather in Europe had abruptly dissipated. Now heavy clouds covered the channel and the coasts of France and England, and fog clung to many German airfields. Over England’s southeastern coast, the ceiling was as low as four thousand feet.

  A third group of aircraft, with one hundred bombers, rose over Dieppe; a fourth, with forty planes, assembled north of Cherbourg; a fifth gathered over the Channel Islands. Once in formation, numbering well over two hundred bombers, the planes began making their way toward England.

  This was to be Hermann Göring’s big day, Adlertag, Eagle Day, the start of his all-out assault on the RAF to gain control of the air over England, so that Hitler could launch his invasion. Over the previous week, the Luftwaffe had launched lesser attacks, including forays against England’s chain of coastal radar stations, but it was time now for the main event. Göring planned to blacken the sky with aircraft in a display of aerial might that would stun the world. For this purpose, and for the sake of drama, he had amassed a force totaling twenty-three hundred aircraft, including 949 bombers, 336 dive-bombers, and 1,002 fighters. At last he would show Hitler, and the world, what his air force truly could do.

  No sooner did the attack begin, however, than the weather forced Göring to call it off. Although the Luftwaffe’s secret navigational beams now permitted its bombers to fly in overcast weather, a raid of this size and importance required good visibility. Fighters and bombers could not find each other in clouds; nor could they communicate directly with one another, and fighters lacked the equipment needed to follow the beams. The cancellation order failed to reach many of Göring’s units. In one case, a formation of eighty bombers set out for England while their designated escorts, which did receive the order, returned to base, leaving the bombers dangerously exposed. Their commander continued onward, apparently in the belief that the overcast skies would limit the RAF’s ability to find his force in the first place.