Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  Tiny shudders of sympathy ran through the Dowager Queen, causing the four strands of jewels in her necklace to sparkle. She had long been tormented by the fate of her cousin, the last Tsar, who had been murdered with his entire family in the cellar at Ekaterinburg, led down the steps, repeatedly shot, then finished off with bayonets. No, not a proper fate for a king. Her shuddering became more violent and she moved her hand to the folds of her throat.

  Kennedy, meanwhile, was in excellent spirits. The seat of his trousers had been warmed thoroughly by the fire and the bourbon he was sipping was iced and excellent. It seemed an appropriate time for a little fun. “I agree with you, Foreign Secretary,” Kennedy offered, picking up the thread of the conversation. “It's a time when we all have to make choices. Tough choices.” A malicious pause. “Pity no one seems to have told Mr. Churchill that.”

  The Queen reacted as though she had suddenly found a pin in the cushion of the chair. “That man!” she gasped with an expression of pain.

  Halifax began to clear his throat, loudly, diplomatically, trying to give the Queen the opportunity to withdraw, but she was in her own house and would have none of it. She was, after all, a woman who carried with her the reputation of being a notorious kleptomaniac, and hosts who invited her for dinner would instruct the servants to lock away the best silver in case she took a liking to a piece and stuffed it in her handbag. She was not a woman who had ever been unduly sensitive about other people's feelings, and she had no intention of showing weakness now.

  “He crashes around like a bull who hasn't been fed for a week,” she persisted, treating herself to a huge sip of sherry. “Leaves wreckage everywhere he goes.”

  “Ma'am?” Kennedy inquired, wanting more, bending low.

  “My apologies, Ambassador, but…” For a moment it seemed she had shocked herself by her own indiscretion. Her face had gone pale beneath the powder, like snow-swept granite, and, taking Halifax's hint, she looked for some means of escape. She peered blindly across the saloon. “Edward, who is that woman? The one dressed like a Parisian actress?”

  “Um, the lady by the staircase?”

  “The one whose necklace appears to be nudging her navel. They can't be real, surely.”

  “The jewels, ma'am? Indeed they can. That is the wife of one of the King's bankers.”

  He offered the name and the Dowager Queen's nostrils flared in distaste, as though someone had just thrown a horsehair mattress on the fire. Not a guest who would have been invited in her day. This distraction wasn't working. Anyway, she argued with herself, why should she be seeking distraction? She was old, and with age went all sorts of allowances to indulge her whims, to jump in puddles and rattle the railings and pinch the silver just as she wished. Her husband was dead, she was no longer on parade. Why should she hold back?

  “I had forgotten that you are so recently arrived in our country, Ambassador. But since you have expressed an interest in Mr. Churchill, it would be rude of me not to advise you on the matter. You will soon get to know Mr. Churchill's record. An exceptional one, indeed.” She paused for effect and for breath. “He has never been loyal to anyone other than himself. He changes parties and friendships whenever it suits him. None of our business, of course, but when he begins blundering into matters of the Crown, that is quite another thing. Oh, it pains me, Mr. Kennedy, that my son Edward should have behaved so badly over the abdication. That was terrible enough for any family to bear. But Mr. Churchill proved himself to be utterly outrageous. Talked of forming a King's Party. Wanted Edward to stay on the throne and to turn the whole thing into a huge political row. Would have had That Woman as Queen!”

  Her Royal Annoyance disappeared into her sherry, unable for the moment to continue, while Kennedy felt forced to stifle a smile in order to maintain the stern face of diplomacy. If only “That Woman,” Wallis Simpson, had been a sour-faced German dumpling, how much easier Edward's path might have been…

  The Queen's head was up once more, her emotions on the flood. “Mr. Winston Churchill"—she was intent on putting him in his place—"Mr. Winston Churchill has done more than any other commoner since Cromwell to bring our family to the brink of ruin. Why, he might as well be a Bolshevik!”

  Halifax, anxious that the Queen Mother was diverting down avenues which might prove uncomfortable, picked up the explanation. “Winston has had many difficult times,” he explained to Kennedy, “but the abdication row was the worst. He came back to the Commons after what might be termed, um…a considerable lunch, and would not go quietly. Insisted on rising to make a speech, to argue against the abdication. When the matter was already settled.”

  The dowager muttered darkly. Kennedy thought he could make out the words “dog” and “vomit.”

  “It was, um, an extraordinary scene. He was jeered from all sides, to the point where he could take it no longer. Forced to leave the Chamber. Flogged from his post. His reputation has never recovered. A sad end to a considerable career. Who knows what—um, in other circumstances—might have been?”

  Kennedy had to work still harder to contain his amusement at Halifax's soft twisting of the stiletto and the outpouring of tortured r's. His entertainment was interrupted by what seemed at first sight to be an ostrich, an apparition in feathers that began to bob slowly up and down. It proved to be one of the guests, the wife of a senior diplomat, who was curtseying—once, twice—trying to catch the Dowager Queen's attention. The attempt failed miserably. The Queen stared unflinching with eyes that could pluck feathers at fifty paces. After all, this particular bird was one of that circle of society women who—like the banker's wife—had taken her son, the once-innocent Edward, under their wings and into their beds, ensuring that the handsome young prince wanted for neither experience nor education. Trouble was, they had also left him with a taste for the exotic which, in Queen Mary's view, had pushed him down the slippery sexual slope that had led to his ruin with That Woman. The Queen chose neither to forgive nor to forget, and the courtier moved on, distraught, flapping her freshly clipped wings.

  Kennedy returned them to their conversation. “So you don't think Mr. Churchill has much of a political future?”

  “The best is past, and some time ago,” Halifax muttered.

  The royal whalebone rattled. “It is all theater. He hasn't a smudge of support.”

  Kennedy loved this woman and it showed. Fiery, passionate, opinionated. Hell, if only they'd also given the Royal Family a brain, how different history might have been.

  “Ah, um, which brings me to another point, Ambassador,” Halifax continued. “On which the Prime Minister and I would much appreciate your support.”

  “You want New York back?”

  “Not quite our architectural style any longer, I think. No, it's Paramount, the um…picture company. They've put out a news film for the cinemas which is really—how can one put this?—not helpful. Goes on about what it calls the German diplomatic triumph and the sufferings in Czechoslovakia rather than um…the peace and security which the agreement has delivered to the whole of Europe. Censorship is out of the question, of course, I fully understand that, but I wondered—particularly with your background in Hollywood—could you have a word with Paramount? With the owners, perhaps? Encourage them to bring a little more balance to their productions?”

  “You mean twist a few arms. Break a few legs.”

  “I'm sure just a word in the right ear would be sufficient,” Halifax insisted.

  “Hey, but half of Hollywood is run by the sons of Israel. Fiddling their own tune. What can you expect…?”

  Their discussion was interrupted by a string quartet starting up. Something Middle European. Probably Bach. Coincidence, of course, but to the Queen it seemed like a heavenly fanfare, for at that moment the Prime Minister himself entered the room, dressed for dinner with his wife Anne on his arm.

  “Ah, Neville,” the Dowager Queen fluttered, shaken from her sherry, “it's Blessed Neville. At last! Now we can all rest in peace.”


  Neville. Blessed Neville. The saintly Neville. Everywhere he goes his name is on their lips and he is acclaimed from all sides. Peace—and praise—in his time. A task completed, a world saved. And a point proved. How ironic it is that of all the generations of mighty Chamberlains, he should be the one to make his mark, and how grotesque that, after what has been said in his praise, he should still feel insecure. But Neville has been raised in the shadows, almost a political afterthought, the son of Joseph and half-brother of Austen, both more obviously eminent than he. And yet neither made it to 10 Downing Street. But he has. He may not have wits as quick or tongue so lyrical, but what he lacks in natural gifts he has made up for with persistence and hard work—some call it blind stubbornness, a determination that has left him gray and close to the edge of utter exhaustion. His body has arrived at the point where cold iron grips him inside at night, and still lingers there in the morning. He has needed every ounce of that stubbornness and self-belief to enable him to carry on, but carry on he must. The peace of Europe depends upon it. So does the good name of his family.

  He is still feeling cold to his core as he drives—rather, is being driven—back from Sandringham House. The applause of the guests is ringing in his ears, the warmth of the King's handshake still upon his palm, but by God it's cold at night in these Fens. He wraps himself more tightly in the car blanket and tries to find comfort on the leather seats of the Austin. He wishes he could sleep, like his wife beside him, but sleep has learned to avoid him. It is dark outside, as it was when he flew back from Germany. He had never flown before but three times now he has made the trip, long and uncomfortable, like being thrown around in a tumbrel as it crosses uneven cobbles. But it has been worth the pain. As he flew back that last time along the Thames towards London, he realized he was following the path the bombers might take. And there below him, in all its electric splendor, had sat London and its millions of men, women, and children—his own grandchild included, born just days before he left—waiting. Waiting for him, waiting for Hitler, waiting defenseless for whatever might be thrown against them. But now there isn't going to be a war. And he hopes never to have to go up in an airplane again.

  He knows there are those who mock him, but only the types who would have mocked Jesus himself. Behind his back they call him the Undertaker, the Coroner, but not to his face, not any more. Even Hitler had shouted and stormed at him, his spittle landing on Chamberlain's cheek, and Horace Wilson had told him that during one of his private interviews in Berchtesgaden the Führer had become so agitated that he had screamed and fallen to the floor in a fit. He is the commonest little dog, the German leader, no doubt of that, but if he is half-mad then there is also the other half, and at least he is a man of business. And he, Neville Chamberlain, has done business with him—"the first man in many years who has got any concessions out of me,” as Hitler told him—and he has brought back a piece of paper bearing his signature on which the lives of hundreds of millions of Europeans depend. Herr Hitler has given his word.

  The visits to Germany have had their lighter moments, of course. When he arrived in Munich and stepped down from the plane, an SS guard of honor had been waiting ready for inspection. With skulls and crossbones on their collars. What, he had wondered, did they signify? Anyway, as they came to attention he remembered that he had left his umbrella on the plane and kept the SS waiting while he retrieved it. The great German army—held up by an umbrella! And they accuse him of having no sense of humor.

  He has achieved more than merely an absence of war, he has built the foundations for peace—a peace in which Britain will be at the heart of Europe, with real influence, helping shape its future rather than simply watching in impotence as a resurgent Germany grows increasingly dominant. “'Proaching Cambridge, sir,” the driver announces—God, miles still to go. His thoughts turn to his half-brother, Austen, and the Nobel Peace Prize he had been awarded for his efforts in bringing the nations of Europe together. And he wonders whether two brothers have ever separately won a Nobel Prize before. Not that he has been awarded the Peace Prize yet, of course, no point in jumping the guns (although he has, quite literally). But his brother had never had a poem dedicated to his honor by the Poet Laureate, John Masefield:

  As Priam to Achilles for his son,

  So you, into the night, divinely led,

  To ask that young men's bodies, not yet dead,

  Be given from the battle not begun.

  “What was that, darling?” His wife, Anne, stirs, woken from her sleep.

  “Sorry, my dear. Must've been talking out loud. Rest a while longer. Still a way to go.”

  And what had Queen Mary told him? Over dinner she took his hand—yes, actually touched him—and said she had received a letter from the Kaiser himself in which he had said—oh, the words burned bright—that he had “not the slightest doubt that Mr. Chamberlain was inspired by heaven and guided by God.” It makes him feel unbearably humble. He is sixty-nine, rapidly wearing out, undeniably mortal, yet with the hand of a Queen on his sleeve and his God at his shoulder. Still some, even within his own party, deny him. What would they have him do, for pity's sake? Cast humanity aside and launch upon another bloody war? What in heaven's name would they have him fight with? A French air force without wings? A Russian army with no scruples? Those people, that rag-bag of political mongrels around Churchill—armchair terriers who have urged him to introduce conscription, not just of men but of capital, too. Suggested he should take over the banks and much of business. Control their profits. Insanity! Doing the Bolsheviks' work for them. But what could he expect of Winston, waving around his whiskey and soda, desperately trying to obliterate the memories of his own manifold failures as a military leader. They would carve Gallipoli upon Churchill's gravestone, along with the names of the forty thousand British soldiers who were slaughtered there. Herr Hitler had called Churchill and the other warmongers “moerderen"—murderers. He had a point.

  The car is rolling down the A10 now, his thoughts rolling with it, past the acres of glasshouses that carpet the Lea Valley, approaching the outskirts of Cheshunt. The anger has warmed him inside but he remains exhausted almost to the point of despair. The driver slows to take a bend and through the darkness the Prime Minister can see the outline of a church, and a notice that announces it to be St. Clement's. Oranges and lemons, said the bells of St. Clement's…And St. Martin's, the Old Bailey, Shoreditch, Stepney, Old Bow. The candle is here to light him to bed. And here comes the chopper to chop off his head—chip, chop, chip, chop—the last man's dead! In his tormented mind, Chamberlain has a vision. The heart of London has been ripped out by bombers, the church spires are burning like funeral pyres, and in their light he can see Winston Churchill, astride it all, holding the axe! Chip—chop—chip—chop. Oh, but this is no children's game, there is no need for him to run away. Chip—chop—chip. He thinks he can hear the methodical rhythm of the axe as it falls, but it is only the beating of the car engine. His body aches, his mind is swimming with fatigue and a small tear begins to trace an uncertain path down his cheek. He wonders vaguely why he is crying, but arrives at no clear answer. He doesn't make a habit of crying, can't remember the last time he did so. Oh, yes, it was as a young child, when he refused to get out of the bath and his father had punished him…

  He dwells on memories of yesterday, perhaps because he dare not dwell on tomorrow. Sometimes, at that vanishing point as wakefulness dips into sleep, Chamberlain has a vision that London is burning after all and he has got the whole thing wrong. The crowds are no longer cheering and both God and the Queen have turned their backs. But it is only a dream. As they pass Queen Eleanor's memorial at Waltham Cross, finally he falls into a fitful sleep.

  Late nights were spreading like a disease in Downing Street. They disrupted the process of calm thought and careful digestion. They were not to be encouraged.

  “I'll follow you in a minute, my dear,” Chamberlain promised as his wife set foot on the stairs. They both knew she woul
d be asleep in her own room long before he made it up to the second floor. There came a point where the body was too exhausted to relax, and he had long since passed that point. He would need a drink and to pace a little before he could think of retiring, perhaps refresh himself from a few of the thousands of letters and telegrams waiting for him.

  As he wandered in search of distraction through the darkened corridors, he discovered a chink of light shining from beneath the door of the anteroom next to the Cabinet Room. The elfin grove. Muffled laughter. He was drawn to it like a moth.

  The merriment ceased as Horace Wilson and Joseph Ball looked up in concern. “Everything in order, Neville?” Ball inquired. They were used to the tides of exhaustion that had swept across their master in recent weeks, but the face at the door was more lugubrious, the moustache more determinedly drooped, than ever.

  “Things in order? Perhaps you should tell me. You two always seem to know so much more about what's going on than do I.”

  The Prime Minister sank into a chair and held out his hand. It was immediately filled with a glass of white wine. Tired eyes lifted in silent thanks. So often he found there was no need to use words with these elves, they had an uncanny ability to understand his needs—and particularly Wilson, whom he had inherited from the previous administration of Baldwin. At times it seemed to be the finest part of his inheritance. Softly spoken, pale eyes, fastidious by habit, understated but extraordinarily determined. From the start Wilson and the new Prime Minister had been natural colleagues, one the Government's Chief Industrial Adviser, the other a former Birmingham businessman, both seeing virtue in compromise and believing pragmatism to be a guiding principle. Politics were, after all, simply about business, a matter of making deals.