Winston’s War (45 page)

And so a campaign was born, not so much out of confidence but out of naked convenience. Behind a smokescreen of cigar fumes, Beaverbrook hid a broad grin of satisfaction. He had brought them exactly to the point where he wanted them to be—and where Horace Wilson, over lunch, had told him they should be. By the time pudding was served there had even been mutterings about a Ministry in a reformed postwar Government for Beaverbrook himself. All in all, a good day's work.

“Then let us propagand! Distribute the pieces of silver and run up the white flag,” Beaverbrook instructed.

“And if no one salutes?”

Beaverbrook considered the point for a moment, then smiled.

“Why,
then
we jump into bed with Winston.”

For centuries the park of St. James's that backs onto Whitehall has been a leafy retreat in the heart of London. In Tudor times, when Westminster was a sprawling and deeply unsanitary medieval place, the people poured forth from their hovels beside the noxious waters of the Thames to enjoy the pleasures of fresh air and the jousts that were held in the park. There were also other entertainments—bear-baiting, cock-
fighting, the imported French game of pall-mall or bowls, and “cooing” or “coupling” seats for those who preferred more sedentary sport. After dark, many a young girl would emerge from the cobbled alleyways of Mayfair to earn a living propped up against the trunk of one of the trees as a drunk took his pleasure while she, as often as not, relieved him not only of her fee but also the rest of the contents of his pocket. St. James's Park, for all its genteel and neatly trimmed appearance, has always been—and remains—a field of many follies.

It was where the paths of Churchill and Kennedy crossed in the early afternoon, on the narrow bridge that stretched across the lake. They had both been busy at lunch, consuming a volatile mixture of intrigue and alcohol—Churchill during a barnstorming performance before an all-party group of backbenchers at the Reform Club, while the American had lunched amidst the more restrained but no less conspiratorial atmosphere of the royal palace that stood at the park's western end. Kennedy was on his way to Downing Street on the other side, accompanied by Anna and a man in his mid-thirties.

“Ah, Mr. Ambassador,” Churchill growled, raising his hat. Bracken, who was beside him, did the same.

“Mr. First Lord.” The hatless Kennedy nodded in his direction. There was no warmth in the exchange, Churchill having difficulty deciding whether the American's odd form of greeting was merely an example of his crassness or an attempt at being comic. “You know my niece Anna,” Kennedy continued, “and this”—he indicated the tall and blue-eyed man to his right—“is Mr. Bjorn Svensson.” There was no further explanation; it seemed the minimum to satisfy the requirements of politeness. Bracken was ignored by the Ambassador, a slight which he put down to familiarity and provincialism. Even Anna only managed a coy, nervous smile.

Churchill turned towards the Swede. “Mr. Svensson and I have met. Over dinner at the ambassadorial residence a year ago, I think. Businessman, eh?”

The Swede nodded, revealing a thinning head of hair. “We didn't get much opportunity to talk on that occasion, Mr. Churchill.”

“Indeed. Seem to remember I walked out—eh, Joe?”

“So you did, Winston. So you did.”

“Heard about you, Mr. Svensson. Spend a lot of time in Germany. You run messages.”

“Not at all,” the Swede protested, his manner mild and elegant. “I simply like to keep both sides…informed. Aware of what each other is thinking, as well as saying. These are difficult times for everyone, Mr. Churchill, and I try to help.”

Churchill sniffed.

“Just come from Buck House, Winston. The King was eager as an alley cat to hear what Bjorn here had to say,” Kennedy continued, embarking on a little game of one-upmanship.

Churchill sniffed again, more consciously. Lunch at the palace—and neither Kennedy nor the Swede was wearing a hat. “I trust you found His Majesty in robust condition.”

“Excellent, thank you, Mr. Churchill,” the Swede responded, his elegance standing in contrast to the Ambassador's brusqueness. “He was most interested in Herr Hitler's offer of peace talks.”

“Can't have this Phoney War getting out of hand, Winston,” Kennedy interjected.

“I prefer to call it the Twilight War, Joe. The twilight that comes just before the descent of darkness.”

“Come on, Winston, this is the chance for you guys to get out of the hole. It was madness to guarantee Poland when you had no chance of defending it. But it was a little local conflict a million miles from here. For God's sake keep it that way.”

“And when the next little local conflict erupts…?”

“Who gives a damn? Nothing to do with us. Let 'em play their damn-fool games—nothing says we have to go in and bat for them.”

“This is not a game—”

“Call it what you will, still wasn't worth a single dead American or Brit. Not then, not now. Think the King agrees. Prefers to shoot grouse rather than his first cousins.”

“We restock the grouse out of season. Sadly, war is a little more uncompromising.” They were sparring, but their punches were grazing ever more closely by, tugging at the thin veil of civility that covered them. Their voices were growing louder, more intransigent, and the others in the group drew imperceptibly back, like seconds at a duel.

“Which is why, Mr. Ambassador,” Churchill continued, returning to formality to cover the nakedness of their feelings, “we shall be grateful when your country resolves to provide us with the materiel to prosecute this war to the limit.”

“We're neutral.”

“Yes, but your President assures me of his fullest sympathy…” If it had been intended as a riposte in their game of contacts, it failed, for although Churchill had his own open line to the American President—as much as it seemed Kennedy had to the Royal Family and Downing Street—the Ambassador responded with a barely disguised snort of contempt. “Sure, sure, sympathy's everywhere. It's a commodity traded openly in Washington right now. And it's going cheap. Trouble is, the sort of stuff you want for your war is going at a hefty premium.”

“We hope for more than sympathy. Favorable terms—even open support.”

“Nuts. This war has nothing to do with America.”

“Mr. Roosevelt assures me—”

“Old Rattle Brain—” Kennedy couldn't restrain his impatience. “Believe me, he's got more than enough on his plate to bother pulling Europe's chestnuts out of the fire. New Deal on
the rocks, twelve million unemployed, a re-election campaign this time next year. If he wants to get involved in your mess it's only because he's got so much to cover up.”

“This is not about gaining advantage in some election campaign, this is about the survival of democracy itself.”

“Wanna know what I think about democracy, Winston? I think what Dr. Gallup thinks. That ninety-six percent of Americans want nothing to do with your war—not a damn thing. And if Rattle Brain forgets that, he'll find plenty of others at the nominating convention next year who'll be more than ready to wipe the salt off his peanuts.”

“Your ambitions burn bright.”

“And your ambition could end up wiping out half of humanity!” They stood astride the bridge, two Horatios unwilling to give quarter, surrounded by expectant ducks. Churchill had his left foot planted forward, as though waiting to deliver a punch, while the taller American stretched to his limit so he could gaze down from an imperious height. He was breathing heavily, battling with contempt.

“You start a wider war, Winston, and you're gonna get whupped. Look around you,” the American demanded, waving his hand towards the extraordinary roofscape of minarets and ornate bell towers that rose above Whitehall. “All this is going to get laid flat the first week of any real war.” He leaned closer, almost conspiratorial. “You haven't got the planes or the guns to stop it—and between you and me, most of your Cabinet colleagues haven't got the guts, either. You got guts, Winston, I give you that—I put that down to your being half-American. But you still haven't understood. The only winners of that little war will be the Communists and Jews.”

“Oh, spare me your confounded conspiracies! You see Jews in every corner.”

“Yeah—and in the Supreme Court, in the U.S. Treasury, in the State Department, and most of all in the White House. Rattle Brain's found hideyholes for them everywhere—Baruch, Morgenthau, Lehman, Frankfurter. They're running the shop. And they've got their hands in the pockets of every arms manufacturer in the business.”

“We hold these truths to be self-evident,” Churchill quoted, his voice carrying across the lake. “That
all
men are created equal. That they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.”

“Sure. And there's another self-evident truth which the Founding Fathers didn't bother scribbling down 'cause it's so damned obvious. That you don't go guaranteeing a ridiculous country like Poland which you can't defend and which no longer exists.”

“Honor insists that we continue.”

“Jesus H. Christ, even George the Third knew when the game was up—and he was a raving lunatic!” Churchill turned away, gripping the railing that ran along the bridge, head bowed, afraid for a moment that he might lose control of himself. Overhead a fist of starlings suddenly turned the sky dark, screaming as though they had just been hatched in hell.

“Winston, for God's sake listen. Bjorn here was in Berlin three days ago, saw half the Nazi big-hitters, even Goering. Hitler wants a peace. He's got Poland, doesn't want any more—well, maybe a few chunks of Africa as colonies, but nothing he's not willing to negotiate on. You can have peace inside a week. All you got to do is ask.”

Churchill turned slowly, his round face suffused with rage, his hands tight bundles of knuckles. “Hitler is a hyena who has broken every rule of justice and common decency. He has waylaid one country after another, and like a hyena he will be
back for more until there is nothing left on the continent of Europe but bleached bones and memories. You talk of democracy and the will of the people, Mr. Ambassador. And I tell you that it is the will of this mighty nation of freedom-loving peoples that we shall never cease or desist until the disease of Hitlerism has been purged from this planet—not by promises, not by pieces of paper, not by asking Mr. Hitler nicely if he will be so kind—but by fire! War is very cruel. It goes on for so long. But that is the price of liberty. And we shall so bend ourselves to our task and withstand any sacrifice until the governance of Europe is returned once more to its free people, and we Britons can once again sleep soundly in our beds.”

Kennedy was silent for a moment, shaking his head. “Winston, if words could win a war, old Adolf'd be signing surrender documents by sundown. But they don't—and he won't either. And until he does, I'm going to take Mr. Svensson here off to have tea with the Prime Minister and see if there isn't another way.” He smiled, a twisted, scornful effort, and stepped past the hunched figure of Churchill, followed by Anna and the Swede himself, who gave Churchill a severe bow like a passing priest handing out penance. As they reached the far side of the bridge, Kennedy turned. “Must do this again sometime, Winston. Enjoyed it, dammit!” With that he was gone.

Churchill stood motionless for many moments, his whole frame trembling slightly, tears in his eyes, until in a movement of explosive energy he snatched off his hat and threw it to the ground. It rolled off the bridge and into the lake. The ducks scattered in alarm.

When he turned, she was naked down to the waist, had slipped the shoulders of her dress, letting it fall, exposing the breasts, with nipples that were small and made of pink coral. She appeared almost childlike.

“For you, Brendan,” she whispered, a catch in her voice.

They had argued, his temper frayed by frustration, and now he felt racked with guilt, as though his mother had caught him with his hands down his own trousers. His relationship with Anna was going nowhere, had advanced scarcely at all since the day he had stumbled into his proposal of marriage to her and she had said no, not yet. That was what she had said, wasn't it? Not yet? Since that moment they would meet, would dine, would laugh, would whisper endearments and devotions, and then not see each other for a week and often two. Her duties to her uncle would not allow more frequent encounters—as, in truth, his duties to politics and particularly to Churchill were also formidable obstacles—and they had remained little more than kissing cousins, and she would laugh gently and move away every time he, in his own awkward fashion, tried to pursue the matter. During their encounter on the bridge she had as good as ignored him. Understandable in the circumstances, perhaps, but no eye language, no little secret sign of intimacy; it was almost as though she were ashamed. It had rankled.

His patience had snapped, not so much because he felt driven by any animal urge to possess her—he'd been mercifully relaxed about those sort of lusts, perhaps the monks in Tipperary had beaten much of that nonsense out of him—but because he knew he was not in control. So he had shouted. Raised his arms and his voice. Said he could not respect her as a woman if he could not respect himself, as a man. The ridiculous thing was that he didn't particularly want to throw her onto the sofa and ravish her, but he wanted to know that he'd be allowed to if that's what took his fancy. A matter of being in control. So he had lost his temper—the effect was impressive, with his eyes magnified and made wild by his bottle-bottom glasses, the hair erupting down his forehead, the hands flailing, his bad teeth placed on prominent display—and she had begun to sob. He had no idea how to handle a woman in distress so he had ranted some more, just to ram home the point, and
moved away to find another cigarette.