“So whose interest do you really represent, I wonder?”
“Yours, I hope.” But he knew the cards had fallen badly.
“Ever since we met you have shown a commendable desire for me to succeed—promoted me, encouraged me. But I sense you have your own agenda, like Cassius and his conspirators. I will not be your Brutus.”
“Then get used to havoc and the dogs of war.”
“Once I said you were an unexpected type of man, Burgess. A man who turns up when my world is falling apart. Somehow, I wish I needed to see a lot less of you.”
“Joe!” Horace Wilson hailed. “Welcome back to these shores. How fares the land of the free?”
“Preparing for dictatorship. Roosevelt wants a third term and'll cut a deal with the Devil to get it.”
“Seems to be uncommonly fashionable, dictatorship.”
“Which, in my none-too-humble opinion, Horace, may be no bad thing. Say what you like about Adolf, he's cleaning up a lot of the mess in Europe. Doing your dirty work for you.”
“His methods leave something to be desired.”
“Hey, it's Lebensraum. Everybody does it some time. What's your Empire if not Lebensraum? Hell, the United States of America itself is nothing but the mother of all experiments in Lebensraum. You guys should ease up on Adolf, while you can.”
“Ah, Joe, you do know Margot? The wife of the Minister of—”
“Sure I do.” The Ambassador held out his arm affectionately—perhaps almost a shade too intimately, considering the occasion—but she ignored it and returned only a glance of cold fury before disappearing into the depths of the Pillared Drawing Room in Downing Street, where guests had gathered to celebrate the Prime Minister's birthday.
“Memory of a she-elephant, Margot has. I always say forgive and forget.” He took another glass of champagne from the proffered silver tray. “Not a bad policy when it comes to Hitler, if you ask me.”
“The country's not in a mood to dabble with this forgiving and forgetting business, Joe. You know we just had the first civilian killed by a German air raid—up near Scapa?” His voice was quiet, his eyes roamed the room like a sentry on guard duty, even while his full attention was on Kennedy.
“First of millions, if you guys insist on it.”
“We scarcely insist upon it, it's more a matter of finding the appropriate way to avoid it.”
“My niece, Anna, keeps telling me the rumor is Norway.”
“Ah, the millstone of democracy—public opinion. Insists that we do something, but not in our own back yard. So there we have it. British public opinion wants something to be done far away across the sea, while French public opinion with equal vigor insists that something be done well away from France. The answer? Norway.”
“The answer is a horse's ass.”
“Well, without wishing to be accused of disloyalty, I have to acknowledge that the main enthusiast for fighting amongst the ice floes is Winston.”
“I repeat. A horse's ass.”
“But with a considerable streak of good fortune. Refuses to be kept down. My God, have we tried, but…”
“I took a trip to Arizona last year. Was thinking of buying a stud farm. Took me round on a horse that got uppity. They shot it.”
“Sadly, breeding statesmen is a less precise science than breeding horses.”
“Not in Germany, it ain't.” Wilson declined to respond but instead acknowledged a passing guest.
“So, it's Norway,” Kennedy persisted.
“It's a possibility. The French want it, Winston wants it. And the Norwegians exposed their own throats with that nonsense over the Altmark—left the Foreign Office arguments about the need to respect neutrality in shreds.”
“Then you'd better be prepared.”
“Joe, I can assure you, we've had plans, assessments, committees, evaluations, reports, and new plans until we can scarcely—”
“No, I meant you better be prepared—for failure.”
“You doubt our ability?”
“You tumble into Armageddon with barely an ally in the world—”
“We have the French.”
“Not even the French have the French! Yet you take on this war without enough planes or guns or tanks or soldiers—and now you want to go fishing in the fucking Arctic.”
“Even so…”
“All I'm saying is be prepared, Horace. If you win, fine and dandy—get ready to claim the credit for Neville as a great warrior. But if you don't, if it all goes belly up—then you'd better get yourselves prepared to pour every ounce of sewage that'll be coming your way straight over the head of Winston Churchill, just like you did at Gallipoli. Just be prepared, that's all I am saying.”
“Mr. Ambassador, it's always so refreshing…” Wilson began, but suddenly seemed to startle. His roving eye had snagged elsewhere in the room. “Joe, forgive me. Something I need to attend to.” And with undiplomatic haste he disengaged himself from Kennedy's side and was threading his way through the throng until he was at his Prime Minister's shoulder.
“Neville, I hate to spoil your birthday, but you look done in,” he whispered. Chamberlain's features had turned the color of old wax, the eyes to glass. His back was rigid, his hand slightly trembling.
“I feel as though someone has just walked across my grave,” the Prime Minister replied softly and with effort.
As unobtrusively as he could, Wilson began maneuvering his master towards the door.
“Just heard, Horace. Got a note,” Chamberlain was saying, his voice grown hoarse. “Daladier's gone. They kicked him out. His own people turned on him in the Chamber of Deputies and they kicked him out. Claimed he wasn't up to running a war.”
“That's his grave, not yours, Neville.”
“Reynaud's taken over. He'll insist on Norway. It'll happen now. The war's coming closer, we'll not be able to resist it.”
“We can handle it, Neville. You don't have to worry.”
“It's just that…this is what Winston wanted. Been demanding for months. Like a Catholic at his creed. Norway, Norway, nothing but Norway. Everywhere I look there's always bloody Winston.” He clutched feebly at Wilson's sleeve. “I have this tearing pain in my gut, you see. Finding the pain really rather difficult. Think I need to go and lie down for a while.”
Yet war does not allow for relaxation and rest. The Prime Minister's doctor was summoned and prescribed a period of recuperation and medical tests, but Chamberlain declined. There was no time, too much to do. The public and the French insisted—something must be done! Anyway, there were too many enemies who would take advantage of the slightest sign of weakness. No one must know. And he wouldn't be the first man to struggle on with ulcers. So the doctor increased the strength of the medication, gave strict instructions about his diet, and Chamberlain forged stubbornly, bravely, and distractedly onwards.
And in early April Chamberlain made a speech, full of confidence and vitality—his powers of physical recovery proving to be quite remarkable. He went to a party meeting in Westminster and told them he was ten times more confident of victory than he had been at the start of the war. The audience of party faithful loved it—and loved him, that's the whole point of being faithful. They applauded his every breath. Encouraged by such enthusiasm and borne along by their unquestioning allegiance, he went on to announce that Britain was stronger than ever and all but unassailable—"Hitler has missed the bus!” he proclaimed in triumph, words plucked from the overheated air of blind loyalty inside the hall that were to find new life in headlines everywhere. Not quite as many as “Peace for our Time,” perhaps, but words which would come back to haunt him nevertheless.
Chamberlain knew about missing the bus—indeed, he and his colleagues had developed a considerable facility in the matter. They'd been considering military action against Norway since before Christmas and, with Churchill's bullying, had on several occasions almost decided to act. Yet there was always some reason for delay. Norway was neutral. Norway might be pushed
into alliance with Germany. So might Sweden. What would the Americans think? How would the Germans react? What if it snowed, what if it thawed, what if the Norwegians resisted, and (more softly) what if it turned out to be another of Winston's Dardanelles? What if, what if, what if…? Norway might be the right place but it was never the right time, not until Daladier had been blown away and procrastination had become not salvation but a mortal sin.
So in the end, it all became a bit of a bugger's muddle. It descended to the point where, in the middle of an inspection of maps in the War Cabinet, Halifax had even mistaken the frontier between Norway and Sweden for a railway line. But it only went to show that, in Europe, frontiers weren't what they used to be.
Churchill was standing by the black marble fireplace, leaning on the mantelshelf, glass of whiskey to hand, studying the flames in the hearth, when Bracken with his customary lack of reticence burst into his Admiralty office.
“Ah, Brendan!” he greeted, his eyes rising from the fire. “Just in time. It's started. Norway!”
Bracken rushed over to the drinks table to fill his own glass. “So the old bastard buckled.”
“He has, as you so say, flagged down the bus and agreed to climb on board.”
“So what are we sending?”
“Mine-layers first. Then troops. Half the fleet.”
“To victory!” Bracken toasted. “By the weekend!”
“Don't be so bloody impetuous,” Churchill scolded. “You think Hitler's going to take this lying down? Marching into Norway's like pouring iodine on a porcupine's arse. He'll scream and shout. And fight.”
“Is that what Chamberlain thinks?”
“Is that what Chamberlain thinks?” Churchill repeated the words, not attempting to hide his scorn. “My God, if he thought this operation would lead to a shooting match he'd be shoving horse shit down the muzzle of every gun we possess.”
“So…?” Bracken continued, baffled.
“Don't you see? Hitler will respond, he will fight. He knows no other response but war. And soon we shall be in the midst of chaos. Oh, it will be tough, a most terrible war, but it is the only way. Instead of devouring everything around him piece by piece, we shall force him to try to do it wholesale—and in attempting that, he will devour himself.”
“Sounds pretty bloody desperate.”
“We must have war, Brendan. It is the only way we shall beat the tyranny of Nazism.”
“Mother,” was all Bracken could think of offering, and poured himself another, considerably larger drink.
“It has started.” There was a peculiar light in Churchill's eyes, a glow of swirling energy remarkable in a man of his age. “Which is why we must prepare ourselves. I have a mission for you, Brendan, one of the highest importance. Sit down and pay attention.”
It was like school all over again, with Bracken desperately trying to understand what was going on.
“War will soon be upon us.”
“The Prime Minister says he's ten times more confident.”
“And so he might be—if we had ten times the men and ten times the arms! But we don't. We have a mighty navy, and an air force that at last is growing. I've seen the new airplanes—the Spitfires and the Hurricanes. They are few but formidable. Yet our army finds itself in desperate circumstances. Millions of conscripts flood to the flag but they are raw, untrained—and in many cases unarmed. Do you know, Brendan, recruits are being forced to drill with pitchforks, even broomsticks? We can't fight the Bosche with broomsticks!”
“You have a plan. You always have a plan.” Bracken made it sound like an accusation.
“We must have rifles. Our factories can't produce them quickly enough, but I think I know of factories which do.”
“Where?”
“In Germany. And you shall get them for me.” There was a stunned silence.
“Isn't it brilliant, Brendan?”
“Correct me if I've got any part of this wrong. But you want me to go…”
“To Europe. To the borders of the Reich itself. Belgium I suspect would be best.”
“And ask for a few thousand rifles.”
“Several hundred thousand. For which we will undoubtedly have to pay hard cash.”
“But don't you expect the Germans might be a trifle suspicious, even a little uncooperative, if I turn up on their doorstep and start buying all their rifles?”
“Well, I can't do it. So you'll have to. Look”—he began stabbing his finger around the map that hung on his wall—“Germany is surrounded by a host of neutral countries which trade with the Reich in every sort of goods. So go to one, make suitable inquiries, and do a deal. You're a businessman, you know the ways of these things.”
“But if it's so easy, why don't we send the Minister of Supply?”
“Don't be an imbecile! The Germans would never sell arms to the British. So you must maintain the subterfuge that you are dealing on behalf of a neutral country, Brendan. But most importantly it must be done quickly. Today. Tomorrow, I beg you. Before the storm is upon us.”
Bracken examined Churchill intensely. The First Lord seemed sober, and sounded in deadly earnest. “It may come to nothing, of course, but unless we try…” he was saying, pursuing his theme.
“Brilliant,” Bracken applauded softly, “absolutely brilliant. But it cannot be me.”
“Why, pray?”
Why? Because it sounded crackpot. And bloody dangerous. Wasn't that enough? But also because Anna had telephoned, repentant, in tears of remorse for creating such a scene in the car, pleading with him to see her again, suggesting they might go away for a few days in the country to put it all behind them. He'd been feeling bad, out of sorts about that night, even a little embarrassed, but now her call smoothed through all those creases and happiness could be his again—if only he could find the time.
“Because of Norway, Winston, that's why. There'll be statements, debates, questions, all sorts of things going on in the House, just at the time you'll be tied down here in the Admiralty. You'll need me more than ever around the Tea Room and Smoking Room. So we send someone else, someone we can trust.”
“Who?”
“Why not Bob Boothby? He's perfect. Political nous, a business background. Totally loyal to you. Speaks fluent French, I
believe, Italian, too, and a bit of German.” Bracken was making it up as he went along—in truth he had no idea about Boothby's competence with languages, but his enthusiasm seemed more than adequate for the situation.
“Then find him, Brendan. Get him here this instant!” Churchill commanded. “Let's brief him and send him on his way.” So the call went out. Bracken briefed Boothby. And as he did so, neither of them could have been aware that every word of their conversation was being taken down in shorthand, and the transcript placed at the very top of Sir Joseph Ball's daily file.
April 1940.
In early April Jerry's battalion had been moved from its training area at Thirsk to a staging post in Scotland where they became part of the 146th Infantry Brigade. Word was that they were going to see action—real action—before long, and to most of them the prospect seemed considerably more pleasing than the tedium of training on the moors. Other units joined them, most of them Territorial units rather than regulars. That made them wonder if this was, after all, going to be simply another exercise rather than the real thing.
Late in the evening, as the light was fading, they were moved in a convoy of trucks bristling with camouflage to the port of Rosyth. The docks were full of barely controlled chaos as supplies of every description were being loaded on board two cruisers—vehicles, crates, sacks of food supplies, even live donkeys. Jerry also noticed a few fishing rods and sporting guns finding their way on board. So, it was definitely an exercise, but a huge one judging by the massive concentration of men and the impatience of their officers.
By early the following morning Jerry's battalion had been transferred aboard one of the cruisers and, after more than a little bad temper between the q
uartermasters and the civilian dock workers, the last of the supplies had been crammed within its hull or piled high on every spare yard of deck. In the noise and confusion, one of the donkeys panicked. It began struggling violently in its cradle as it was being loaded, braying fearfully and swinging around many feet above the deck. Loading came to a complete halt as dockers and soldiers shouted recriminations, until the quartermaster drew his Webley and shot the beast as it swung. He announced he would not hesitate to draw his weapon again if there were any further delays. He did not limit his threat to donkeys. As dawn broke, everything was loaded and accounted for. Six hundred soldiers waited on board in a state of high expectation. Then new orders arrived. Disembark! With all possible speed! German ships had been sighted heading for the North Atlantic and the Royal Navy was needed elsewhere. In their haste the supplies on deck were thrown back—literally thrown back—onto the dockside, the cruiser's decks were cleared for action and, one hour after the order was given, the Royal Navy sailed. No time to unload the heavy equipment stacked in the holds; it was all still inside when the cruiser squadron steamed out of port.
Norway was an enigma of neutrality. It didn't have a foreign policy, or at least anything that could be mistaken as one. Its Government was made up of socialists, anti-militarists, and former Bolsheviks who clung grimly to the belief that the power of neutrality and international law would be sufficient to see them through. It was a country grotesquely ill-prepared to become the focus of foreign intrigue. It had no standing army to speak of, no submachine guns, no grenades, and no anti-aircraft guns. It was saving up for a tank so the soldiers might have the opportunity of at least seeing one, but it hadn't yet arrived. The air force existed in theory only—they had negotiated to buy a few trainers from Italy in exchange for supplies of dried cod—and the navy possessed the two oldest ironclads in the world, the Norge and the Eidsvold, which hadn't left port since 1918. In military affairs it lacked any clear leadership—its Minister of Defense had once been arrested on a charge of spreading pacifism amongst Norwegian soldiers. It seemed that Norway could do little to prevent the British occupying its key strategic ports, no matter how badly equipped the invaders were when they came.
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