Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  He did not mince his words or dull his blade. Looking into the eyes of the Opposition from the distance of only a few feet, he asked what they had been doing during the very long story of these past years when he and a few others had warned of the perils that lay ahead. Where were you? he demanded. Standing alongside the Government that they now attacked—in the appeasement lobby!

  But, in the same breath, he thanked them for the great and valuable aid they had given in more recent times. Like a stern parent, scolding, but making sure the infant knew of his enduring affection.

  He mesmerized colleagues who had grown thin on a diet of pinched views and lean rhetoric. He made them laugh, wince, then he made them serious before lifting their spirits once more.

  “In the brown hours, when baffling news comes, and disappointing news, I always turn for refreshment to the reports of the German wireless"—the words emerged hissing like steam from a locomotive. “I love to read the lies they tell of all the British ships they have sunk—so many times over—and to survey the Fools' Paradise in which they find it necessary to keep their deluded serfs and robots. The Germans have claimed to have sunk or damaged eleven battleships.” He leaned forward on the Dispatch Box, as though confiding in them. “Actually, two have been slightly damaged—neither of them withdrawn for a day from the service.” Then he shook his head as though imparting grave news. “We have, unhappily, lost eleven trawlers in the Government service at one time or another—and that explains all these 'battleships' in the German accounts!”

  And while he twisted and turned their emotions like battle flags in the wind, they played into his hands. Some Scottish Labour Members, clearly the worse for excitement which they had attempted to subdue in whiskey, began to interrupt him, rising unsteadily to hurl irrelevant points of order at him just as he was dealing with losses to the British and French merchant marine. And when he scolded them, they tried to suggest that he had sworn at them and used unparliamentary language. Yet every sober and sentient being in that place knew that Churchill had been using words the like of which had rarely before been heard in this place. Most on the Labour side writhed in embarrassment, almost every man and woman in the House was with him. So he turned to the most important issue of the moment, the Vote of Censure.

  The Labour Party he dismissed as nothing more than opportunistic mongrels—there were no votes to be gathered in on those benches. It was on the benches of his own side that this issue would be resolved, and he turned to face them, leaning on his elbow.

  “Exception has been taken because the Prime Minister has appealed to his friends. Well, he thought he had some friends, and I hope he has some friends.” He tried to catch their eyes, measuring their individual mettle. Not all of them would return his stare. “He certainly had a good many friends when things were going well,” Churchill observed, goading them one by one.

  But the clock was ticking, almost eleven, his time was running out. He turned to face the whole House. “Let me say,” he told them, “that I am not advocating controversy. We have stood it for the last two days, and if I have broken out, it is not because I mean to seek a quarrel with Honorable Gentlemen. On the contrary, I say, let pre-war feuds die: let personal quarrels be forgotten, and let us keep our hatreds for the common enemy. Let party interest be ignored, let all our energies be harnessed, let the whole ability and forces of the nation be buried into the struggle, and let all the strongest horses be pulling on the collar…”

  The rhetoric was, perhaps, beginning to get the better of him, but almost no one could hear as the tumult around him rose at the end of the most momentous debate any of those present had ever witnessed. Churchill's arm was waving, conducting to the last, until above the cacophony could be heard the voice of the Speaker.

  “The Question is: 'That this House do now adjourn.' All those as are of that opinion say 'Aye'…” Aye, they roared.

  “To the contrary.”

  And the noise in response was deafening.

  “Clear the Lobbies!” the Speaker commanded.

  And so they divide, and are divided. Men and women, Tories, Liberals, Labour, the tapsters and the men of conscience. A whole nation will divide on this night, some of them old friends who will never speak to each other again, and some of them young men who are soon to die.

  They crush together, intense, intoxicated, those filled with passion and others motivated by nothing more than a sense of confusion through which the Whips have helped guide them. False smiles, smiles of courage and confidence, are exchanged amongst Ministers. But no one is certain. Chamberlain knows his support will be diminished, yet with a majority of more than two hundred he has fat enough to spare. After Munich, some twenty of his own men had abstained, not a single one had voted against him. How much worse can it get?

  Behind him, good loyalists like Dickie rise from their trenches to do battle on his behalf. “Typical bloody Winston,” Dickie complains, “can never tell whose side he's on. Half of it complete bollocks. Scarcely understood a word at times.”

  “But magnificent words nonetheless,” Ian replies.

  “Can't fight a war with words, Ian.”

  “Then what shall we fight with?”

  Dickie's brow furrows in incomprehension. Perhaps he has misheard in the crush. “Whips tell me that some of our chaps will actually vote against us. Can you believe that? In time of war? Bloody shooting offense.”

  “How many?”

  “Oh, not enough, if you're worried. Can't be that many fools in the Tory Party. Whips think the majority'll be well over a hundred. I say well over a hundred and fifty.”

  “How sure are you?”

  “Put ten pounds on it. Interested?”

  But Ian shakes his head. It does not deter Dickie. As they mingle on the crowded floor of the Commons waiting to file into the Division Lobbies, he finds other colleagues willing to lay bets on the outcome.

  They begin to make their way towards the doors which lead into the Division Lobbies. Very quickly it becomes apparent that, unlike Munich, many in the Conservative cause are now intent not on simply abstaining but on actively voting against their Government. One MP joins the file that leads through the Opposition lobby; it is the first time in his life he has voted against his own side. He is in tears.

  As more Tories join the Opposition ranks, the cries of “Quislings!” and “Rats!” follow them. Yet as the confusion of a crowded House begins to sort itself through, their number seems to grow. Most visible amongst the rebels are those in military uniform—not just Admiral Keyes, but a brigadier-general and also colonels and captains and majors and wing-commanders. Almost every serving officer in the House is voting against the Government. Some of them are giving the last vote they will ever give. Joining them are those, like Amery and Harold Macmillan and Duff Cooper and Hore-Belisha, who over the years have been spurned by the Prime Minister. Their moment for retribution is at hand. Revenge will be taken as a feast.

  Yet even as they file through to vote, Chamberlain's goblins are at work, grabbing elbows, whispering in ears, suggesting that the Prime Minister will see them the following day, is about to reconstruct the Government, that he understands their concerns—and their ambitions. That one final act of loyalty will be enough to propel them into ministerial office. The Chief Whip has his arms around the shoulder of one Member even as he is about to enter the Opposition Lobby. He puts forward arguments, offers inducements, but to no avail. Then, on the very threshold, a name is whispered, that of a young woman who is far too young to be the Member's wife and far too exotic to be his daughter. The Member turns, there is a nervous tic at the corner of his mouth. He looks into the eyes of his Chief Whip, and tells him that at least the Nazis are honest. They herd the Jews through the doors with rifles and bayonets. Right now I'd rather be a Jew in Germany than walk behind you, he says. Then he turns his back and continues on his way.

  Dickie is encouraged by a colleague to double the size of the bet they have just agreed, but he declines. Too
many from his side of the House seem to be disappearing into the wrong Lobby. “Judas! Rot in hell!” he shouts as a familiar form disappears through the wrong door. They shuffle forward. Ian's head hangs in exhaustion.

  “Time to show them what loyalty's all about,” Dickie mutters as at last they reach the point of no return. “Eh, Ian?” Suddenly Ian's head is up, meeting his old friend's eye. “Goodbye,” he says. Then he turns his back.

  Ian is one of forty-one Members on the Government side who vote against Chamberlain. In addition, more than sixty abstain, yet still it is not enough to overcome the mountainous majority of more than two hundred that the Prime Minister holds. As the Whips line up before the Speaker to announce the result, the Government tellers stand to the right—the traditional place of victory.

  For the Government—281. For the Opposition—200.

  A majority shriveled to eighty-one.

  Chamberlain has won the vote, but in doing so has lost every shred of credibility. His moral authority hangs on him in rags.

  Stupefaction fills the air, which is almost too heavy to breathe. Then a chant begins to rise, one or two voices at first but it spreads like a plague and soon it has swept through half the House. “Go! Go! Go! Go!” they are shouting. Even on the Government side, feet can be heard pounding in time to the chant. Harold Macmillan, who has just voted against his own Prime Minister, gets to his feet and through the tumult begins to sing “Rule Britannia.” Screams of abuse are hurled at him from his own side, and before he can finish he is physically hauled back into his seat.

  Chamberlain is the first to leave. He looks thoughtful and sad. As he makes his way to the door his supporters rise and cheer him, but they stop as soon as he disappears.

  Twenty months earlier he had returned from Munich and been greeted as a messiah. Now, outside in the dark, there are no crowds to cheer him. There is nothing but endless shadow. He is on his own.

  “Max! Glad I've found you. Could do with a little help.”

  Beaverbrook's face split into a huge grin of welcome as Ball drew closer. “Evening, Joe. And quite an evening, too.”

  “Yes. Stormy waters. Need you to provide a bit of ballast. Steady the ship.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Front page of the Standard tomorrow. A bit of scene setting. You know, how the country needs Neville's experience more than ever. How the rebels are doing Goebbels's job for him.”

  “I see.”

  “Give a lead to the others. Steady nerves, cool brows. The usual stuff. Before they start to panic.” Beaverbrook drew on his cigar and examined the glowing tip. “They're already panicking, Joe.”

  “All the more reason to calm them. Pour oil on troubled waters.”

  “Seems to me Neville's not in troubled waters but in deep shit. Right up to his wing collar.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don't see the point of jumping in after him.”

  “For God's sake, you're not joining them, are you?” The press man shrugged. “Hey, today's rebels, tomorrow's rulers.”

  “After all we've done for you.”

  Slowly, and with a growl: “What—exactly—have you done for me?”

  “Given you the sort of access and stories your competitors would give their right testicle for.”

  More cigar smoke. “Joe, my old friend, I see it entirely the other way round. It's me who's been giving you—front pages, editorial columns, opinion pieces extolling your non-existent virtues and attacking everyone you didn't like. Seems to me I've already done my bit.”

  “One last push, Max, that's all I ask.”

  “And one last push is all it's likely to take, Joe. Neville's as good as dead.”

  A pause riddled with uncertainty. “So…what are you planning to do?”

  “Consider my options. Very carefully.”

  “You can't mean Winston. Whatever you do, don't think Winston. He's up to no good, Max.”

  “Tonight I thought he was terrific.”

  “But he's up to something, Max.” Ball bit his lip, uncertain how far he should go. “All sorts of questions coming through about his money. It's dirty.”

  “Same thing could be said of half the Cabinet. You dig deep enough and you'll uncover all kinds of skeletons. Your Government's squatting on a damned graveyard.”

  “But Winston's pushing to be PM. Number One. We can't have him in Downing Street and not know where he gets his money from.”

  “He doesn't get it from me, Joe, that I promise. Not any longer. I fired him, remember? At your suggestion.” Beaverbrook examined the other man while he ground out the stub of his cigar until it was nothing but scraps. “Just one of many things I suspect I'm going to live to regret.”

  May 9, 1940.

  Churchill was the king of the night, but the nights are long in Westminster.

  After the vote Chamberlain had picked his way around his colleagues' knees and withdrawn to his office immediately behind the Speaker's Chair. Even with the doors closed he could hear the uproar that was continuing outside—laughter, outrage, euphoria, open drunkenness. Inside there was nothing but emptiness. It was the emptiness and its silence that did it for him, screaming at him that it was over, that he'd have to go, tender his resignation and let someone else try to dig his way out of the stables. Yet even as his hand reached out for a tumbler of whiskey he found other voices in the night, urging him to hold fast, to wait and see how the pieces fell, even to continue pushing at a few pieces himself. It wasn't simply the humiliation of rebellion that angered Chamberlain—disloyalty, after all, is scarcely novel to any leader—but what seemed to grate inside until it made him raw was the contrast that had been created by Churchill's dazzling performance, more pantomime than parliamentary, which if it had been designed to show up the rest of them could not have been delivered to more telling effect. Bloody Winston at it again, performing his own play. A man they could never truly trust.

  Yet a majority of eighty-one was just that. A majority. Many Prime Ministers had survived on less—a point which Wilson and Ball hammered home when at last they arrived. Resignation, they insisted, was simply not an option. But he was aware that they had their own interests to promote. They needed him, lived in his shadow, could never survive the full glare of daylight where they would wilt like lettuce. There were other considerations, too. If he were to go, there would be the manner of his going. If it came to that, it must be in his own way, not simply pushed out by ingratitude and music-hall posturing.

  But not yet. And, extraordinarily, Churchill seemed to agree. The previous night, after the vote and hot on the heels of Ball and Wilson, Churchill had stormed into the Prime Minister's office, wafting cigar smoke and excitement, to insist that Chamberlain should carry on. Full speed ahead. No turning back. And why had he done that? What was his real motivation? You always wondered that about Winston. Was it just the passion of the moment, Churchill's unquenchable thirst for battle—any battle? Or was he, perhaps, trying to force Chamberlain out on a limb? So far out that he would drop? Yes, with Winston you always wondered.

  Chamberlain listened to others, and plotted his own course. By the time Edward Halifax and Churchill presented themselves in the Cabinet Room the following morning, Chamberlain was able to tell them that he had determined to form a coalition Government which he would lead. Bring in others to help shoulder the responsibility—and the blame.

  “Embrace Attlee and his cohorts?” Churchill muttered, his brow creased in concern. “Rather share my bed with fleas.”

  “It's my bed we are talking about,” the Prime Minister reminded him.

  “Have they indicated they would be willing?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And what if they won't?” he pressed.

  “Then I suppose it must be someone else. You or Edward,” Chamberlain replied.

  Somehow the creases of concern seemed to disappear, and in Chamberlain's eye there was no mistaking how much brighter Churchill's brow seemed to grow with t
he news.

  Damn him.

  Burgess hadn't made it to bed that night. He'd been trying to drown his anxiety by celebrating “The Downfall” with Driberg. After a series of increasingly lurid toasts he had made it only as far as his overstuffed armchair. Now he woke with the bells of Armageddon thundering in his ear, a shirt that stared back at him in disbelief, and a bladder that threatened to relieve him of the last vestiges of his dignity. The bells were still ringing even after he had relieved himself. Someone must want him very badly.

  He picked up the insistent telephone and shouted something very rude, hoping it might be his stepfather, who was a steadfast Chamberlain man.

  But it was Mac, who told him he needed a shave—insisted on it. And there was something in his tone which told Burgess that his morning of celebration was finished before it had even begun.

  Everyone knew Leo Amery had been made bitter by disappointment, explained Wilson. Relieve him of his disappointment and suddenly he would remember that Cromwell was nothing more than a passing demagogue, a tyrant whose body had been dragged from its grave and its head stuck on a pike until it rotted, warts and all.

  “Let's raise his sights,” Wilson encouraged.

  “How far?” his Prime Minister inquired.

  “As high as is necessary. If we can get Amery to climb on board the others might follow.”

  “And if not?”

  Wilson had no answer for that. And it was unusual, Chamberlain reflected, for Wilson to have no answer.

  So Amery was summoned. He appeared disgruntled to find Wilson present, and discomfited to be facing his leader so soon after his mighty words had come between them.