Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  Then he is there. He stumbles onto a quayside that is full of equipment of all kinds—vehicles, a dozen trucks, heaps of rifles, boxes, oil drums, stores, some abandoned, others only recently arrived and never touched. There are even two Bofors anti-aircraft guns, waiting for their orders to go to war. But Jerry is no longer interested in war, he's interested in nothing but survival. And now he is at the water's edge.

  But they are gone. He is alone on this dockside, but on the water in the distance he can see a turbulent wake, and he follows that to a point where he can just make out the ghostly outline of a small tender rapidly disappearing into the dark. He shouts, but his cries echo back unheard. Shouts again, waves his arms, but it is pointless. Armies in retreat don't look back.

  Yet Jerry is not done. Nearby, lying in the snow, is a motor-bike, a Norton, thrown to the ground and forsaken. Jerry hauls it upright and sits astride, pointing it out to sea. He kicks the engine into life, switches on the headlamp, flashes it at the retreating boat. Nothing. He flashes again, blows the horn—it must be so difficult to see against the fires of a burning town, but it's all he's got. Then it seems to him that the boat is no longer disappearing but is hovering just on the edge of his vision. He flashes again. And again, “SOS—SOS.”

  At last a lamp flashes in response, “IDENTIFY.” They've seen him!

  “SGT WHITE B COY KOYLI.”

  But they are cautious, fearful of a ruse by the German mountain troops they know are in hot pursuit.

  “MOTTO,” they demand.

  Oh, but they know what they're about, these boys. His legs begin to tremble as relief floods through and overwhelms his body. His fingers are trembling, too, on the light switch.

  “CEDE NULLIS.”

  Smoke is blowing across the quayside, blotting out the lamplight. They ask him to repeat. He flicks the switch.

  “NEVER BLOODY YIELD.”

  Then an interminable pause, before they respond:

  “RETURNING.”

  And the distant shadow is moving once more, but this time growing larger. It all seems too slow for him, but the sea has its own pace. Jerry is off his bike, standing in the snow, staring out to sea from where his rescuers are coming, waving his arms in welcome.

  The British are abandoning Namsos, and leaving behind their honor. Under direct orders from London they have failed to inform the Norwegians of their withdrawal, and are leaving their allies hopelessly exposed. Consumed by a sense of personal shame, the commander of the Namsos operation has written to his Norwegian counterpart, apologizing for the impossible circumstances they both find themselves in. He has also tried to find some token, some mark of recompense, which might in some small part make up for the sense of betrayal the other man inevitably feels. “We are leaving a quantity of material here which I hope you can come and take, and know it will be of value to you and your gallant force.” The material he speaks of now lies abandoned on the quayside all around Jerry.

  Yet in the confusion of retreat, objectives are inevitably compromised. No one has told the captain of the destroyer about the intention to leave supplies for the Norwegians. As far as he can tell, anything that is left behind will soon fall into the hands of the pursuing Germans. So as soon as he hears that the last boat has left the quay, he issues orders for it all to be destroyed. It is the early hours of May 3, 1940. The guns of the British destroyer rain down their fire upon the dockside until everything is destroyed. In the process, they kill Sergeant Jerry White.

  The last British blood to be shed in Namsos, spreading out across white snow. Like a rose upon lace.

  May 7, 1940.

  Christ, bit savage, didn't you think, Ian? All that claptrapin the press?”

  “Going for the jugular, that's for sure.”

  “Don't care for it. So damned unfair.”

  “Even the Mail's calling for a change.”

  The pair of old warriors are forcing their way through the crowded House in search of seats, trying to avoid the knots of colleagues and conspirators that seem to have gathered at every point.

  “Mail, too?” Dickie shakes his head. “Vultures! Only a few months ago they were singing his praises. Hitler's too. My God what has happened to this place?”

  “Defeat.”

  “So we've been in a scrap. Got a bit of a bloody nose. But it's not as if London's being bombed.”

  It is a gentlemen's club, full of old leather and tradition, but today the House is not a place of comfort. A mustiness hangs in the air, a combination of late nights, anxiety, and male bodies too closely packed. But Ian has found a small gap in the crowd, the suggestion of a space on the final row of leather benches at the back of the House. It will give them an excellent view of proceedings. They squeeze themselves in.

  “You really think it's possible?” Dickie presses when, after much pushing and apology to either side, his ample trousers finally make contact with green leather.

  “What?”

  His voice falls to a whisper. “You know—Neville.”

  “Something's got to happen. We can't go on as we are,” Ian replies.

  But further discussion is cut off as, beneath them, the Prime Minister makes his entrance, emerging from behind the Speaker's Chair to pick his way carefully like a crane across the outstretched legs of his colleagues who have already gathered on the front bench. A chorus of support rises from the Government benches, organized by the Whips, but Ian notes that very few of his colleagues get to their feet in order to welcome their leader. A secure seat seems to command a greater value.

  Chamberlain, too, notes the restraint. In a fickle world a Prime Minister is only as good as his last performance and Chamberlain has acknowledged—privately and only to himself—that he misjudged his performance of the previous week. He presented the matter of the withdrawal from central Norway in a positive light, but now the troops are back and in their wake have come crawling the military correspondents with their wails and woe. They are like the camp followers of old, these satirists and cynics, wandering across the battlefield after the danger has passed in order to rob the bodies. He despises them. He had despised them even when he controlled them. Now that they are proving to have an appetite for carrion, he despises them all the more.

  He knows this will be a day of significance. He has dressed carefully. A fresh wing collar, as always, and the tie that his wife bought for him to celebrate the birth of their first grandchild. He wants to present his best appearance, but beneath the silk shirt and tailored jacket he can't help noticing how thin he has grown, how advancing years have begun to wear him away. Not the man he had once been. But neither is the country what it had once been, even twenty months ago, when he returned from Munich and they had all—yes, all of them—hailed him and his works. Now they display the gratitude of sea gulls.

  He has driven the short distance to the House. He wanted to walk, but there were crowds, some of them displaying unhelpful placards, and he has to keep his mind focused, to rise above them, so high that their slings and arrows will simply never reach. And as he settles into his seat by the Dispatch Box he acknowledges the cheer of his colleagues—a self-conscious sort of cheer, perhaps, but enough to drown the inevitable heckles. He can't help noticing that the House is exceptionally crowded, packed tight. The thought crosses his mind that it looks like an evacuation ship, but he quickly dismisses such nonsense.

  The cheering and waving of Order Papers along the Government benches has subsided now. Slowly the House begins to settle, preparing itself. As it does so, a voice with a deep Lancashire accent penetrates to every corner.

  “There 'e is. The fella who missed the bus.”

  And the House once more is in disorder, the Opposition benches roaring their approval, all the careful work of the Whips undone. Chamberlain bows and smiles at the Member, gracefully acknowledging the thrust, and silently vowing vengeance by whatever means he can bring to bear. But now the floor is his. The debate on the operations in Norway gets underway, two days of it. His wa
lk with destiny is about to begin.

  He grips the Dispatch Box with both hands, steadying himself, like an athlete about to leap. He starts by praising the magnificent gallantry of the British troops. A facile point to make and one that is impossible to oppose. Nothing gained but a little time. So they wait, and watch, like crows strung out along telephone wires, hoping for carrion.

  The withdrawal from central Norway, he acknowledges, has created a profound shock both in this House and in the country.

  “All over the world!” someone cries.

  God, is he to be interrupted before he's begun? He scowls at the Speaker, who pretends to be looking at his notes.

  Some have suggested that Ministers are to blame for the shock of the withdrawal, and he acknowledges that Ministers must expect to be blamed for everything. His tone is slightly condescending. He stands tall, braces his shoulders in order to show that he is big enough to take any amount of blame.

  “What's he doing—waiting for the bus?” Lancashire cries out again.

  Not that tired jibe again…Inside he wriggles with rage, but presses on. If anyone is to blame, he declares, it is not Ministers but those who raised expectations about the venture in Norway which were never justified. Expectations that were so ridiculous they might indeed have been invented by the enemy. Expectations that were completely unfounded and certainly never endorsed by Ministers.

  Such side-stepping of responsibility causes uproar. Outrage sweeps along the benches of Opposition members in front of him. Catcalls ring in his ears, while from behind he can sense only a dull silence. They are being slow, his own men, perhaps languid after too good a lunch, but languid's no bloody good to him. His eyes fasten on to the Chief Whip seated at the end of the Front Bench, whose hand begins to beat on the back of the bench, like a galley master beating time for the slaves. Tumult erupts and the Speaker is at last dragged from his torpor. “Don't you want to listen to him?” the Speaker demands in rebuke. “We've heard all the excuses before,” a shout comes back.

  It's time to pursue them. At moments like this Chamberlain sometimes wonders who the real enemy is. Don't exaggerate our difficulties, don't you dare exaggerate our difficulties, he scolds them, don't do the Wehrmacht's work for them. Heavens, it's nowhere near as bad as Gallipoli!

  Ah, that eternal, irresistible comparison. Gallipoli. All eyes on the Opposition benches float towards Churchill, seated beside his Prime Minister, brooding.

  No, this time, Chamberlain continues, our losses have been really quite light. Very well, so we've suffered a certain loss of prestige, and perhaps a certain color has been given to the legend of German invincibility. And I grant you that our enemies are for the moment crowing. The Prime Minister spreads his hands, nothing to hide, indicating how reasonable he can be. But reason never won the day in the House, and he's beginning to lose control. Press on quickly.

  So, you ask, why did we set our sights on Trondheim, knowing how difficult and how hazardous the task would be? Well, how many reasons do you want? But the most important reason is that we were asked to do so by the Norwegians themselves. Brave Norwegians, extraordinary courage, resisting the German bully—who would deny them? Anyone here? Stand up and identify yourselves if you would have dared refuse!

  So why did you run away, then? a voice demands.

  We went to their assistance because we are decent men who respect the freedom and right to neutrality of small nations (very well, so we invaded their neutrality and laid a few mine-fields ourselves, but that was nothing compared with what the Germans have done…).

  So why did you withdraw…?

  He ignores the repeated jibe. If we hadn't gone to their help, he insists, what would that have looked like? They would have said we were only interested in the iron ore! Which, of course, is so far from being the case!

  Out of his sightline Churchill's large head, resting on his chest, remains motionless, except for one eyebrow which suddenly arches in—in what? Disagreement? Mockery? Gentle surprise? To the Opposition it looks as though the truth is struggling to get out.

  Understand our strategy, Chamberlain insists. Germany has vast and well-equipped armies. She could attack us at any time and at any place. We must be ready to meet that threat!

  Pardon me, they shout, but isn't that what Winston has been saying all these years? Isn't that precisely why you let him starve in the wilderness?

  Churchill's head, eyebrow, jaw, every muscle of him, remain like stone beside his leader.

  Chamberlain waves his arms in contempt. Some of you are always full of cheap jibes. Accusing every Minister of being either complacent or defeatist. Me, I've always tried to steer a middle course.

  You couldn't steer a bloody bus, they cry.

  Look, unlike some, I've never sought to raise undue expectations… Tell that to Joey Ball!

  …or to make the people's flesh creep by painting pictures of unmitigated gloom.

  Missed the bus, they cry again.

  That's it. He's had enough. Time to deal with these vermin… Don't twist my words. I used those words in totally different circumstances. Before the invasion of Norway. Three days before!

  Oh, bugger, he knows he's lost. Got too bloody sensitive for his own good, let them get under his skin. And what's worse, he's allowed it to show. Get back—get back to where you need to be, Neville. Mountain top, lofty visions, not down in the sewer with the rats.

  He forges on, piling clichés around him for protection. No time for bickering, for division amongst ourselves. Time for closing ranks, for setting our teeth. For unity. For party loyalty. For friendship!

  He even appeals to the Labour Party for help. No, no! they cry—as he knew they would. What? You won't help with the war effort? he sneers.

  They erupt in frustration. He grips the Dispatch Box. The eyes of the Whips travel like cattle prods around the House, goading, inciting, compelling. Mixed amongst the chaos there are cries of shame. Some of them are coming not from in front of him but from behind, from his own benches.

  He has almost finished. Run out of clichés. I don't claim to be infallible, he tells them. I'm not above receiving help and advice from others. For I recognize an overriding national objective—as every true Englishman does—to prepare for the trials that lie ahead. We must put all our strength into preparing for these great trials, and so steadily to increase our strength until we ourselves will be able to deliver our blows, wherever and whenever we will!

  It's not great, so far as perorations go, scarcely the stuff of Shakespeare, but he's never had Winston's skills. Yet he has confronted the whirlwind and not been swept off his feet. At last he can sit down, to the applause of his own men and to shouts of consternation from the rest. He is satisfied. He is also utterly exhausted.

  Of all the many perils that lie in wait for the statesman, the greatest are his friends. As Chamberlain sat down matters were still, perhaps, in the balance. The first to offer a response was Clement Attlee, the leader of the Labour Party, who in his clipped public-school tones taunted Chamberlain with being the man who had an almost uninterrupted career of failure and who had missed every bus of the last ten years. Then it was the turn of Sir Archibald Sinclair, the Liberal leader, who described at length the failings of the Norwegian campaign—Territorials, ill-trained boys sent to do men's jobs, and dying for the privilege.

  Yet such taunts were of little account. It is difficult for Opposition leaders to shine in such an arena, for grand words of denunciation are no more than is expected of them. So Chamberlain was still free and in control when the next speaker rose to his feet. A Government stalwart, a senior backbencher, a knight of the shires and a brigadier-general all rolled into one. Sir Henry Page Croft was a veteran of the Somme campaign who had witnessed the spilling of much blood. He was about to inflict praise upon his leader from which Chamberlain would never recover.

  The brigadier drew himself up to his full height. From where he was looking, the rows of the Opposition benches stretched out befo
re him like enemy trenches shorn of their barbed wire—my God, but he was used to this, had seen it all before in France and the fields of Flanders. In his mind he carried the orders of the day, delivered by the Chief Whip himself, and in his hand he held a few notes which like a bayonet he would soon be plunging repeatedly into the breast of the enemy. A few short breaths to fill the lungs, a licking of dry lips, and he was over the top…

  First he thrust at Attlee, followed by a lunge at Sinclair, but these were minor skirmishes. His sights were trained upon a target he described contemptuously as “our own Quislings"—the treacherous and treasonous scribblers of the press who “have enrolled themselves under Dr. Goebbels.” These creatures, he accused, have turned “a minor technical mishap into a great disaster for British arms.”

  A minor technical mishap. Well, there it was. The difficulties in Norway were really nothing worse than a broken fan-belt. From two rows behind him, Dickie could be heard offering voluble support.

  Yes, the brigadier continued, the Quislings in our press were defeatists—but where was the defeat? There had been no defeat, nothing but glorious victory! (Even Dickie had to pause in order to get hold of this one.) Hitler had been lured into one of the great strategic blunders of all time, Croft insisted. “He has done the very thing which the whole of the German staff have preached against for the past one hundred years. He has extended his right flank by over one thousand miles. He must keep at least one hundred thousand men in Norway until the end of the war…” The statistics were thrown around the Chamber like grenades, the noise was deafening. “Who can doubt,” he thundered, “that Hitler, with his right flank stretched out one thousand miles, subject always to possible attack by sea power, has entered upon a road which is a departure from all military reason and strategy?”