Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  “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 hi
s 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.

  When once again he turned to face her, she was half-naked and trembling. Had made herself defenseless. His to devour. As he moved towards her, she raised her hands to cover her breasts. “For you, Brendan. Only for you.” She was sobbing, as though in fear.

  He embraced her, put his arms around her, didn't touch her breasts but kissed her and pulled the cotton dress back over her shoulders. Because he knew that was what she wanted, and because this time it was his choice. She whimpered with relief and kissed him all the more eagerly and thanked him. “Soon, darling Brendan, soon,” she breathed into in his ear.

  “I was worried,” he began in half-apology. “Thought, on the bridge, that you were embarrassed to have me near. Almost ashamed.”

  “Embarrassed only by Uncle Joe and Mr. Churchill. And a little angry. They make it so difficult for you and me.”

  “Two of a kind.”

  “They seem to enjoy fighting each other.”

  “Those two would be going at each other even if there were no war.”

  She ran her fingers through the hair that had flopped across his forehead, trying to push it back into some semblance of order. “Brendan, do you think…there might be peace soon?”

  “Not if Winston has his way.”

  “He seems to enjoy fighting.”

  “Too true. And sometimes too much.”

  “Really?”

  “He's a great man, of course, don't get me wrong, but some-times…Hell, he even wants to fight the Irish. As if Hitler wasn't enough.”

  “I don't understand, darling.”

  “The Irish won't let us use their naval bases. Winston's furious with them. Claims they're legally bound to do so. And if they don't agree we—well, he says we should simply occupy them.”

  “Take them by force?”

  “Chamberlain and Halifax say it's madness. And probably it is. We'd never get another Irish volunteer. And it would have about the same effect in America as sailing a gunboat up the Mississippi.”

  “Your Mr. Churchill has a lot of ideas. And a lot of enemies. According to Uncle Joe, Halifax told him that the first thing Mr. Churchill did when he got to the Admiralty was to order a bottle of whiskey, and the second thing…”

  “Was to drink it. Hah! It's probably true. But I doubt if the Ireland nonsense will come to much, anyway. Winston's got other fish to fry.”

  “Like?”

  “Well…” Bracken hesitated. This was a sensitive area. Absolutely need-to-know, but then he shouldn't really know, either. Winston could be such a gossip. And Anna was gazing up at him, her dress falling forward, exposing herself once more, trusting him.

  “He wants to send a task force to the Baltic.”

  “That would make sense, I suppose.”

  “But they can't get the battleships through the narrows between Denmark and Sweden, you see. Less than two miles wide at some points, no depth. So…” He swallowed, sounded awkward, glanced down her dress once more. “He wants to float the fleet across. Put caissons—huge floating balloons—around them so they can get through the shallows and…”

  “Sounds…exciting.”

  “Bloody dangerous. Half the Admiralty thinks it would be a nightmare. Winston's always full of ideas. Sometimes gets ahead of himself.”

  “And what do you think about it, Brendan?”

  “Think about it? I'm not even supposed to know about it—and neither are you.”

  “Then I shall forget about your silly ships right this moment.” She kissed him, pressing herself into him. “And don't let others make us join in their ridiculous battles. Let's just keep it like this, Brendan, you and me, until the time is right.”

  Entwined in her arms, he couldn't help but agree. He'd won, he was master in his own house and of their relationship. When it came to the physical stuff, he was content to be patient—after all, it was much more important that she should believe in him than that she should climb into bed with him. He was happy. And in his happiness, he had failed utterly to realize that, once again, Anna was in control.

  “Had no choice, Ian. No option but to move into this place.” Ian looked around the grand dining room of the Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane. “We're at war, Dickie. We all have our sacrifices to make.”

  “You're telling me. Cookie buggered off to join the Army, damned fool. Old enough to know better, I told him, but what can you do? The man was determined to go and get his bollocks shot away. I told him straight, I did. He was leaving me in most unfortunate circumstances and he shouldn't expect his job back afterwards.”

  “Man's propensity for selfishness never ceases to amaze.”

  “So I'm cook-less. Without cook. Completely cooked up. I was faced with this awful dilemma. Move into the Dorchester—or go back to Deirdre in the country. Well, I can tell you, it'd take one of Fritzi's bayonets to get me back with her outside of weekends and holy days, so I'm afraid it's this place. For the duration.”

  “I've known worse foxholes.”

  “But you see, Ian, you see,” Dickie insisted, waving a loaded fork, “it's the perfect place. Magnificent cellars—”

  “Can't complain,” Ian muttered, raising his glass. “What is it? Lafite or Latour?”

  “Even better. A Léoville-Las-Cases, 1899, when they still knew how to make the stuff. Drink up, old fella. 'Nother on its way.”

  “Be a shame to see it all disappear down a German gullet, I suppose.”

  “But that's what's so wonderful about the cellars. Even got a place to sleep in during an air raid, sheets and all. So if Goering pops over, the gong goes, we disappear into the cellar, enjoy a bottle of something or other, then sleep like babes. They'
ve even got somewhere reserved for Halifax. He'll be my neighbor. Play my cards right, could end this war with a job in Government.”

  “Only if we win.”

  “Bit old-fashioned, isn't it, Ian, this idea of winning or losing? Seems to me Uncle Adolf had it just about right. Time to draw stumps. Otherwise we all lose.”

  “Neville seems to have other ideas.”

  “Winston's ideas, you mean. I tell you, Ian, my postbag was jam-packed with letters saying we should grasp the offer, stop it right here and now. And if he wants a few hundred miles of fly-blown Africa, let him have it, I say. And let 'im suffer. After all, what's Africa ever done for England?”

  A sommelier interrupted, proffering the second bottle of claret. Dickie declined to try it and waved for him to pour.

  “But then, Dickie, I think of Cookie. And the others like him. The ordinary folk, the type that perhaps don't write letters.”

  “Can't write. Cookie could barely make out a shopping list.”

  “Perhaps. But there's a lot of Cookies out there who seem determined to fight this one to the bitter end.”

  “You know why, Ian, do you know why? 'Cause they've got nothing to lose. Remember 1917? One minute Russkies are at war with Fritzi, next thing they've got a revolution on their hands. Could happen here, mark my words.” He dove into his glass. Silently Ian calculated his companion had just sunk two weeks' wages for Cookie and his kind.

  “This isn't Russia, Dickie.”

  “Isn't it? Isn't it, by Christ? They had Trotsky the Jew in charge of their army, and we've got Horab-Elisha. Destroying the War Office he is, my soldiering chums tell me, turning everything on its head.” A sudden burst of English mustard caused him to gasp, and he quenched the fire in yet more ancient claret. “Know what they sing as they march, Ian? The British Army?” He began to chant gruffly, conducting himself with his fork and growing louder with each breath.

  “Onward Christian Soldiers,

  You have naught to fear,

  Israel Hore-Belisha