Winston’s War (40 page)

Once more the cheers rang out when, with Mrs. Chamberlain, the Prime Minister left Downing Street about 2:40 to drive to the House. The cheer was taken up by the crowds lining Whitehall and grew in volume as the dense throng outside the House joined in.

A woman standing on a refuge near the entrance to Palace Yard moved forward as the Prime Minister's car passed and held against the window a “Churchill” placard…

August had been a month of preparation for Churchill. He spent several days on a tour of inspection along the Maginot Line in France. It was undeniably a magnificent structure, impregnable where it stood, but he wondered why it didn't stretch all the way to the sea. Afterwards he had gone to spend a few days painting with an old friend, the artist Paul Maze, at a chateau west of Paris. They toiled for hours trying to capture the subtle magic of an ancient mill that stood near the banks of the River Eure. Churchill much preferred landscapes to portraiture—“they don't complain.” Others, less kindly, suggested his preference was simply because he couldn't spend longer than a few moments in contemplation of any person other than himself.

So Churchill painted, his world awash with colors and fine cognac, and he would have been happy, had he been able to forget. But Churchill was the last man in Europe able to forget or to ignore the events that were taking shape around him. He searched for fresh colors, but the realities of that August were all grays and browns. Suddenly he had turned to Maze and said: “This is the last picture we shall paint in peace for a very long time.” Then he packed his oils and returned immediately to England.

He went directly to Chartwell, where he spent his hours laying bricks to complete the kitchen of a cottage he was building in the grounds, and working on his History. On the evening of his return he was joined at Chartwell by a retired Scotland Yard inspector, W.H. Thompson, who had been his personal protection officer when he had last served in Government. Now Churchill felt in need of his services once more, for there were twenty thousand German Nazis in England, organized and potentially dangerous, and Churchill knew that, perhaps above all Englishmen, Hitler hated him. So he and Thompson took turns to sleep, and to be vigilant.

They also oiled his pistols.

“They say that London's in turmoil, sir,” Thompson observed as he removed the top slide and barrel off a Browning 9mm.

“I doubt that,” Churchill replied unhurriedly. He seemed to find satisfaction in disassembling and swabbing the weapons, a timeless ritual of preparation with brush and rod and swab that gave him something to do. “No, not turmoil, Mr. Thompson. Londoners do not so easily lose their heads. They're not chickens. But Downing Street, that may be another matter. I suspect Mr. Chamberlain is—at this very moment—sitting with his advisers, wondering how it could possibly be that the Nazis have embraced the Communists across a table which he himself has set.”

“They'll have you back, sir. They must.”

“Perhaps. I understand that several poster hoardings have appeared around London with the message: 'What Price Churchill?' Somebody obviously wants me. But I doubt they were put there by Mr. Chamberlain.”

They spent several minutes in deep silence, sitting on opposite sides of the desk in the study, swabbing, oiling, reassembling, reloading, treating the weapons with reverence as though they were preparing the Sacrament. Finally Churchill blessed them with what remained of his tumbler of whiskey, placed
the Browning in the top drawer of his desk so that it would be readily to hand as he worked, then weighed the other weapon, a Colt .45, in his hands. He had carried it in Flanders during the last war, it had served him well, and it seemed to satisfy him still. He rose, tried to stretch the aches and the age from his bones, and crossed to the open window which overlooked the short drive and the front wall that hid Chartwell—none too successfully—from the passing road. It was a glorious summer's evening, a red cast to the sky as the sun began to fall behind the bank of rhododendron bushes. On top of the wall squatted a gray squirrel, eating his evening meal while he enjoyed the last of the day's warmth. Churchill braced his heavy shoulders, stretched his neck until his chin was up, raised his pistol, and fired. The noise inside the study was spectacular, leaving a sour smell of burnt oil, while on the other side of the driveway several fragments of red brick spat out from a new hole that appeared some eighteen inches below the top of the wall. The squirrel scampered away in alarm, entirely unhurt.

“I am not prepared for this war, Thompson.”

“Neither is anyone.”

“Last week as I stood upon those awesome defensive works of the Maginot Line, I saw defiance all around me. The French have erected a great banner that proclaims to the world
'Liberte! Egalité! Fraternité!'
Across from that and in full view, the Germans have erected a still larger banner that screams
'Ein Volk! Ein Reich! Ein Führer!' “
Churchill turned from the window. “And do you know what we have, Inspector?”

He shrugged.

“We have a sign at Dover that says—'Welcome to England. Please Disembark Quietly in Order Not to Disturb Local Residents.'” Churchill shook his head in sorrow, tears welling in his eyes. “That's the first thing they'll see, when they come.”

During the short time that was left to him, Churchill worked into the night on his History, while Thompson watched over
him. nI the early hours of the first of September, Churchill retired to his spartan bedroom next to his study, surrounded by its photographs of Lord Randolph. While he slept, Germany invaded Poland. Churchill was roused by a phone call shortly after dawn from the Polish Ambassador who told him that, even as they were speaking, bombs were falling on Warsaw and tanks were rolling through every major crossing on the country's western border. Poles were already dying, soon Poland itself would be dead. He asked Churchill to do whatever he could.

Churchill immediately telephoned General Ironside, the Inspector-General of Overseas Forces. The general in turn telephoned the War Office. No one there had heard a thing.

Still Chamberlain fought for his peace. He would not declare war. He announced that Britain would honor its obligations to Poland and issued a warning to Germany that it must withdraw, but gave no time limit. He took emergency powers which swept away democracy and placed all effective powers in the hands of Ministers and civil servants. He sent messages to Hitler through ambassadors and intermediaries and hoped for a reply that offered even the dimmest chink of light. There was talk of Italian mediation. If only the Germans would withdraw, then anything was possible.

Chamberlain pitched for peace while Britain prepared for war. The evacuation of three million children began from the cities. Blackouts were imposed across the land. Church bells were silenced, held in reserve for the invasion that everyone feared would come. The crowds which only days beforehand had cheered and waved, now stood silent.

And while Poland suffered and bled, Government MPs packed the Smoking Room and distracted themselves with drink. “I have never seen so much drink being consumed before,” wrote one veteran civil servant…

“Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!”

“Quite agree, Ian, old boy.”

“How the hell did we get ourselves into this mess?'

“How did Neville get us into it, don't you mean?”

“Damn it all, don't you remember Neville last year? Going on about quarrels in faraway places between people of whom we know nothing. That's what he said about Czechoslovakia. And Poland's even farther away.”

“Bloody suicide to get involved with Poland. Ivan one side, Adolf the other.”

“He hasn't declared war—yet.”

“Be thankful for small mercies and large drinks. Another?”

“Bloody fool question.”

He waved at a harassed steward. “Trusted Neville, don't you know. Relied on his word that there wasn't going to be any bloody war. He promised, Ian. So I've gone and done a damned fool thing. Kept all the money here. In Blighty.”

“All of it?”

“Patriotic duty—well, most of it's the little woman's, anyway. Tried to have a word with her about it once but—well, you know how it is. One of those damned times we weren't exactly talking.”

A short silence dedicated to drink.

“Anyway, so it's all still sitting there. In the bank and in investments. Shot to buggery, most of them. Should've got out while I could. Now it's too late, all these exchange controls and everything.”

“And conscription.”

“Don't be so mournful, Ian, we're far too old for that bloody nonsense.”

“I was thinking of Cecil, my son. He's twenty-two.”

“Poor sod.”

“Already got his call-up papers. I've asked my solicitor to look into it. Perhaps an exemption on medical grounds. He's got a gammy elbow, you know, can't fire a gun. Couldn't hit a pheasant if it came up and kissed him.”

“What, Cecil?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought he got a rowing blue at Oxford a couple of years ago…”

More silence.

“Damn Neville.” Said softly but with passion.

“But we're not at war yet, Ian. Maybe Neville's got something up his sleeve.”

“And Winston banging on the door.”

“I hear that half the Cabinet are up in arms, can't understand why Neville hasn't declared war already. There's talk of a coup.”

“Caesar is to bleed? And who's supposed to be playing Cassius?”

“They say Leslie's the ringleader.”

“Hore-Belisha! Well, that's fine, just dandy. We're going to war on the say-so of little Leslie.”

“He's Minister of War.” “He's a bloody Levantine, so he can scarcely lay claim to being objective. Probably got investments in Poland. Some bakery he owns with a second cousin. And we're expected to go to war to pull his assets out of the oven? I think not.”

“It's one monstrous mess, Dickie. What do you think we should do?”

A period of silent contemplation.

“'Nother drink?”

As German troops began their mutilation of Poland, Chamberlain had at last summoned Churchill. He explained that he had long been thinking of recasting the Government and asking him to join, and now that time had come. Would he consider a seat in the War Cabinet? Churchill had offered both his thanks and his acceptance, and had even shed a tear. Chamberlain instructed him to remain on hand to
await developments.

So Churchill returned to his London home in Morpeth Mansions to “await developments,” but they stubbornly refused to present themselves. There was no declaration of war, and no War Cabinet. For two days he waited for a summons that failed to arrive, struggling to believe he had not been systematically cheated.

Others were less hesitant in reaching a judgment. Bracken burst in, blood in his cheeks and Boothby in tow.

“Monstrous! Two days now they've been bombing Poland and still Chamberlain hides. The lobbies reek of rebellion.” He helped himself to a drink without asking, downed it in a gulp, then refilled it to the brim.

“Still no call, Winston?” Boothby asked, following Bracken's example with the whiskey.

The cigar glowed in impatience.

“No matter. The people are with you. They're marching outside the gates of Palace Yard right now, waving their 'Churchill' posters.”

“Then let us pray their enthusiasms prove infectious.”

“Listen to yourself!” Bracken exploded. He began striding around the room, throwing arms and words about in the wildest manner, his soul swept up in a hurricane. “How can you wait for Chamberlain? It'll never happen, Winston. The rumors are everywhere. He's still trying to concoct some deal with the Germans—Horace Wilson pulling every string—Neville down on his knees again. Can you imagine? Another Munich? Is there no end to their shame?”

“The bottom of that barrel is deeper than any of us could have imagined.”

“It's treason.”

“He has a certain lust for peace. Doesn't make him evil.”

“We've been talking with some of the others,” Boothby joined in, gravel in his throat. “We all agree. You must break him, Winston. Go to the House. Straight away. Gather our colleagues. March on Downing Street and demand—”

“That is ridiculous. No one but the wretched Wehrmacht is going to march on Downing Street. You don't discourage an invasion by starting a civil war.”

“We can't fight with him at the helm.”

“He is the leader of our party.”

“The party? The party?” Bracken's turn again, almost shouting in contempt. “The party won't do a bloody thing. It's rotten to the core. The more mistakes he makes, the more blunders he commits, the more opportunities he throws away—the more they plead that we must pull together. Unity. Discipline. Follow my leader. Like Gadarene swine wallowing in their own muck.”

“Brendan—you must stop! You must learn to harbor your hate. Don't spread it around. Save it for Hitler and his Huns, not Mr. Chamberlain. The time will come when we shall need him.”

“Did Jesus need Judas!”

“Chamberlain is exhausted—”

“By ambition!”

“He has given me his word.”

“What, the same word he's hawked around half of Europe?”

“Nevertheless…” For once, Churchill seemed to struggle for words. “Nevertheless, I shall wait for his call.”

Boothby was no less emphatic. “Winston, it's no good jumping over the sty wall and wallowing alongside him. You've got to sweep him aside.”

“Be a butcher?”

“Not a butcher, a bloody patriot!”

“You dare to doubt my patriotism, Bob?”

“No, Winston, just your appetite for power. For Christ's sake—and I mean for Christ's sake—someone has to lead us into this bloody war!”

They had pierced him, had set his ambition against his duty, and for once he found the two difficult to reconcile. Angered
at them, and even more at himself, he chewed silently on his cigar. But Boothby would not wait. He swept up the jacket he had thrown casually over the back of a chair and made for the door, turning as he was about to disappear.

“OK, you wait, Winston. Go ahead and be patient. And pray to God above that the Poles will find some way of understanding.”