Darkest Hour

by Anthony McCarten

  The visceral impact of these four words on Churchill over the course of forty years is undeniable. In his prescient essay of 1897, the young Winston described how ‘the orator is the embodiment of the passions of the multitude. Before he can inspire them with any emotion he must be swayed by it himself. When he would rouse their indignation his heart is filled with anger. Before he can move their tears his own must flow. To convince them he must himself believe.’ So it would seem Churchill was prepared for the stony reception he received in the House of Commons on 13 May – was perhaps even expecting it, because he was not just speaking to fellow politicians. He was speaking to the nation, the world, and indeed to history.

  Churchill needed to convey both the gravity of the situation the nation now faced and also to ask the people to trust him to lead them safely through to the bitter end. After the official preamble, the core of his speech follows an undulating climactic pattern of rhetoric: he begins by making it clear how dangerous the peril is, but then presents himself as the hope that will work tirelessly and fearlessly for them. He repeats this with two more stark assessments of danger but ends on a high note of courage and optimism. Classic stuff. Winston wanted his listeners to feel their new reality keenly but not to be afraid. He showed himself as a defiant leader, humbling himself to his people.

  Churchill skilfully employs two key rhetorical devices here, both drawn from antiquity. One is anacoenosis, a figure of speech in which an appeal is made to one’s listeners or opponents for their opinion or judgement as to the subject under discussion. He uses this in ‘You ask, what is our policy?’ and ‘You ask, what is our aim?’, bringing his listeners into the drama with him. The other device is anaphora, repetition of a word or words at the beginning of two or more successive verses, clauses or sentences. He repeats, ‘To wage war, by sea, land and air . . . to wage war against a monstrous tyranny’ and, ‘It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival.’

  In The Roar of the Lion, the historian Richard Toye describes how ‘the repetition of that single word “victory” five times within one sentence created an impressive sense of Churchill’s single-mindedness and determination; he did not promise victory, but he did promise to not stop short of it, and this meant that his warnings of blood and terror were accompanied with a sense of optimism’. In this way, Churchill appealed to the long-held tradition of British stoicism. Drawing on thoughts from his ‘Scaffolding of Rhetoric’ again, he knew that great oratory is a kind of clever trick, fooling the audience with ‘a series of vivid impressions which are replaced before they can be too closely examined and vanish before they can be assailed’.

  The Triple Jump of Rhetoric

  We are left with an emotion, then, but may not be quite sure how we came by it, and may not be inclined to understand why. How easily, down through the ages, have citizens been so beguiled.

  Structurally, we can see how these rhetorical techniques have been passed down from within the House of Commons too. In his book The History of the English-Speaking Peoples, Churchill referenced a speech given in 1800 by William Pitt when debating the British conflict with Napoleon during the French Revolution:

  [Mr. Fox] defies me to state, in one sentence, what is the object of the war. I know not whether I can do it in one sentence; but in one word I can tell him that it is ‘security’: security against a danger, the greatest that has ever threatened the world. It is security against a danger which never existed in any past period of society. It is security against a danger which in degree and extent was never equalled; against a danger which threatened all the nations of the earth; against a danger which has been resisted by all the nations of Europe, and resisted by none with so much success as by this nation, because by none has it been resisted so uniformly and with so much energy.

  In stark contrast to Hitler’s egomaniacal speeches – which emphasized the word ‘I’ – Churchill, whose years of study had honed his keen understanding of the nation he was now leading, knew the power of ‘We’ when exhorting the British public to take up such a fearful struggle. If the trial was to be presented in this speech as a clear battle between two empires – one democratic and good, the other totalitarian and utterly evil – then he knew that ‘We shall’ would far better serve than ‘Ich werde’. The short, simple Anglo-Saxon phrases came in cannonades of plural pronouns: ‘we have before us’, ‘with all our might’, ‘come then, let us go forward together with our united strength’. His business was to flatter a frightened people by casting them in lead roles in the great world drama; and, as we know, flattery will get you everywhere.

  In ‘The Scaffolding of Rhetoric’ he wrote about how ‘the unreflecting often imagine that the effects of oratory are produced by the use of long words. The error of this idea will appear from what has been written. The shorter words of a language are usually the more ancient. Their meaning is more ingrained in the national character and they appeal with greater force to simple understandings . . . ’ The words in his speech followed such a method exactly: ‘battle’; ‘blood, toil, tears and sweat’; ‘war’; ‘victory’; ‘terror’; ‘survival’, ‘urge’; ‘hope’; and ‘united strength’.

  It was Plutarch, citing Plato, who wrote that rhetoric is ‘the art of working upon the souls of men by means of words, and that its chief business is the knowledge of men’s characters and passions which are, so to speak, the strings and stops of the soul and require a most skilful and delicate touch’. With this speech, Churchill succeeded in his objective of winning over his key audience – the public – and was rewarded with a rapturous response the following day. Contrary to the first-hand accounts from within the Chamber, both the Daily Telegraph and the Evening Standard reported that Churchill’s statement was ‘loudly cheered’. The Standard’s publication of an iconic cartoon by David Low would set the tone for the nation’s confidence in its new Prime Minister.

  As the newspapers went to print, the War Cabinet convened at No. 10 Downing Street to discuss the latest updates from the continent. Churchill informed the meeting that ‘he felt an air attack on their country was inevitable. Whatever course the war in France took’, it was now time for him to make a personal approach detailing the ‘seriousness of the situation’ to a man he hoped had been listening to his defiant speech: President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

  ALL BEHIND YOU. WINSTON

  TUESDAY, 14 MAY 1940

  HOLLAND IS OVERWHELMED AND IS PREDICTED TO BE IN GERMAN HANDS WITHIN DAYS

  AFTER A FIERCE TWO-DAY BATTLE, GERMAN PANZERS CROSS THE RIVER MEUSE INTO FRANCE

  CONFUSION PERSISTS OVER GERMAN STRATEGIC INTENTIONS

  THE SUPREME COMMANDER OF THE FRENCH ARMY, GENERAL MAURICE GAMELIN, IGNORES WARNINGS THAT GERMANY IS SETTING A TRAP, AND CONTINUES THE ADVANCE OF SOLDIERS INTO THE LOW COUNTRIES, LEAVING THE MAGINOT LINE POORLY DEFENDED

  7. The Worsening Situation

  The British people awoke on 14 May to newspapers heralding Churchill’s masterful performance in the Commons, echoing that cartoon message: ‘All behind you, Winston.’

  But the situation of the war was darkening fast. The largest invasion the world had ever seen – 3 million German troops in rapid advance (with another 2 million at home in uniform at the ready) – was happening so quickly that the Allies, with their primitive field telephones and telegrams and mud-caked motorbike despatch riders, struggled to grasp the sheer scale of the terror, or how best to counter so many threats.

  The daily routine of smoke-filled War Cabinet, Defence Committee and Chiefs of Staff Committee meetings continued unabated as fragments of the full picture emerged. In the War Rooms, the cramped underground bunker beneath Whitehall that served as the operational planning centre for Britain throughout the war, Churchill, in the Map Room, watched as coloured pins (green for Germany) were pressed into the large wall maps of Western Europe, only to be pulled out and advanced westward as each new telephoned report
came in. Churchill described these first days as ‘peculiar’ on account of how ‘one lived with the battle, upon which all thoughts were centred, and about which nothing could be done’.

  The War Cabinet assembled at No. 10 Downing Street at 11.30 a.m. to hear the latest updates. By now the Western Front was taking the brunt of the German assault, with the French Army withdrawing to Antwerp and trying to hold the line with the Belgians against German armoured and motorized divisions. The most serious thrust of attack was farther south on the Namur—Sedan (Belgian—French) front, where German soldiers had crossed the river Meuse into France. News such as this shook the War Cabinet to its core, for the Meuse since Roman times has served as a barrier, protecting the plains of France, Belgium and Holland from the ancient threat of invasion from the east.

  Holland could not resist for long. Lord Halifax informed the War Cabinet that earlier that morning he had been approached by the French Ambassador, who expressed serious concerns regarding a message received from Queen Wilhelmina of Holland, now installed in Buckingham Palace by King George VI. The French had interpreted her words as an indication that the Dutch were considering peace negotiations with Germany. In an attempt to allay French fears, Halifax had said that his interpretation of the message was quite the opposite and that the attitude of the Dutch Government was unyielding: they showed no appetite for peace talks.

  As for Italy’s threat to enter the war at Germany’s side, Halifax alerted the War Cabinet to a telegram he had received from the British Ambassador in Rome, advising that ‘we should not regard any verbal provocation from Italy as so intolerable as to drive us into a declaration of war [with Italy] . . . Unless Signor Mussolini has already decided to take the plunge, there are three or four weeks left for him to make up his mind on military performance whether to come in or not.’ The intentions of Mussolini would prove critical far sooner than three or four weeks, and would cause an irreparable schism between the War Cabinet’s two leading figures, Halifax and Churchill. In the meantime, there were more urgent matters at hand.

  Churchill attended the Chiefs of Staff Committee at 6 p.m. and the War Cabinet at 7 p.m., informing each of them of a telephone message from the French Prime Minister, Paul Reynaud:

  Germany intends to deliver a mortal blow towards Paris. The German Army has broken through our fortified line south of Sedan. The reason is we cannot resist the combined attacks of heavy tanks and bomber squadrons. To stop the German drive whilst there is still time and to allow our counter-attack to succeed, it is necessary to cut off the German tanks and bombers supporting them. It can only be done by an enormous force of fighters. You were kind enough to send 4 squadrons which is more than you promised, but if we are to win this battle, which might be decisive for the whole war, it is necessary to send at once, if possible to-day, 10 more squadrons. Without such support, we cannot be sure of stopping the German advance between Sedan and Paris. Between Sedan and Paris there are no fortifications left to be compared with the line to be re-established at almost any cost.

  I am confident that in this crisis the English help will not fail us.

  The ease with which the Germans crossed the river Meuse had come as a shock to the French. To cross so quickly General Ironside believed they must have had ‘amphibious tanks protected by armour impervious to the fire of the French tanks’. Again, the ‘situation was too obscure’ to enable the War Cabinet to commit to sending further troops to France. Instead they deemed it ‘essential that information should be obtained at the earliest possible moment, not only about what had happened but also regarding the future intentions of the French’ and whether or not they were even capable of mounting a sufficient counter-attack.

  Since the morning’s War Cabinet, Lord Halifax had received confirmation from a British naval attaché in Rome that ‘merchant vessels were being assembled and armed at various ports . . . and that mines and net defences were being laid’. But a contradictory report had also come from the British Ambassador in Rome that a reliable source with the ‘highest Fascist standing had quoted Signor Mussolini as having categorically declared that Italy would not go to war’. Discussions ensued over whether it was better to do nothing or to explore protective measures such as closing the Suez Canal to prevent the passage of Italian supplies. Churchill concluded that ‘the most prudent course would be to wait and see what action the Italians took and to take our decision in that light’. The meeting then adjourned until the following day, and Winston returned to the Admiralty to continue working.

  A makeshift personal ‘war room’ had been set up for Churchill in the drawing room at Admiralty House. Jock Colville recalled that amid the ‘curious ugly dolphin furniture’ which prompted Churchill to call the place the ‘fish room’, space was made for a private secretary and one of Winston’s specially trained ‘night-women-typists’. ‘At the side of his desk stands a table laden with bottles of whisky etc. On the desk itself are all manner of things: toothpicks, gold medals (which he uses as paper-weights), special cuffs to save his coat sleeves from becoming dirty, and innumerable pills and powders.’

  At around 10.30 p.m. a ‘motley gathering appeared’, comprised of General Ismay; Anthony Eden, Minister for War; Sir Arthur Sinclair, Minister for Air; David Margesson, the Tory Chief Whip, whom Churchill had decided to keep on; Lord Beaverbrook, recently appointed Minister of Aircraft Production; and Joseph Kennedy, the American Ambassador (and father of JFK). Colville called them ‘strange bedfellows indeed!’ and listened while they discussed the German advance – with noted ‘alarmist and . . . untrustworthy opinions of Mr. Kennedy’.

  Churchill once more worked well past 1 a.m., but was up at 7 a.m. on 15 May to speak with the French Prime Minister. The news was terrible. Reynaud was described by Churchill as being in a ‘very excited mood’; late the previous evening the French counter-attack south of the Sedan had failed, so ‘the road to Paris was open and the battle was lost. He even talked of giving up.’ The last thing Churchill needed was his country’s strongest ally losing its head, surrendering the fight and leaving Britain alone against the brute force of the Nazis. Churchill set about talking Reynaud down off the ledge:

  He [Reynaud] must not be misled by panic-stricken messages [military despatches] of this kind; that only a small proportion of the French Army was yet engaged and that the Germans who had broken through would be in a vulnerable position. He also said several times that, whatever the French did, we would continue to fight to the last.

  M. Reynaud asked that we might send further troops to their assistance. The Prime Minister pointed out that, as he well knew, this was impossible.

  The Prime Minister asked and obtained M. Reynaud’s permission to speak direct to General Georges [France’s Commander-in-Chief of the North East Front]. General Georges rang up later on, shortly after 9 a.m.

  Fortunately, Churchill’s conversation with the General proved infinitely more calm, and he subsequently informed the 10 a.m. Chiefs of Staff Committee meeting and the 11 a.m. War Cabinet that while ‘the situation was undoubtedly serious . . . the Germans had broken through on a fairly wide front, but this was now plugged’.

  Plugged? The good news was pounced upon and passed on.

  But the relief was short-lived. Lord Halifax had troubling news. Firstly, the Netherlands Minister in London had called him that morning to inform him that the Dutch would be ‘announcing the surrender of Rotterdam and Utrecht in order to save further useless loss of life’. Alfred ‘Duff’ Cooper, Churchill’s new Minister for Information, immediately sensed the possible PR disaster should the British people hear of the Dutch proclamation in the press and panic that the Netherlands was now out of the war. Churchill agreed that ‘it should be made clear that the action announced . . . amounted to no more than a military capitulation in a particular area’.

  Halifax’s second piece of bad news for the War Cabinet concerned a report from Joseph Kennedy, who had been informed by a colleague in Rome that:

  the situation h
ad become so serious that . . . now he thought that the odds were 10 to 1 on her [Italy] going in with Germany . . . Signor Mussolini had already made up his mind. He was convinced that the information in regard to military operations which Herr Hitler had given to Signor Mussolini in the past had always been correct; and the information which Herr Hitler had sent that day showed a complete German victory in Belgium and the Netherlands.

  A grave mood fell over the room. If Italy entered the war, then France, facing two enemies, would be even less likely to survive. In this context, Britain might soon be the only nation standing between Hitler and his total domination of Europe. General Ironside wrote in his diary:

  The war is coming nearer and nearer to us and it makes one think all the more. We are living in a new phase of history the course of which no man can foresee. Nobody believed we should be engaged in war, certainly not in a death struggle so soon. We made no preparations, even for war industry to be developed, and we cannot now catch up. It is too late. The year may see us beaten, but it cannot bring us to the defeat of Germany, unless it is by economic means.

  Halifax, who increasingly looked to Italy for a ray of hope, suggested that it ‘might be of some value if the Prime Minister . . . were to send a communication to Signor Mussolini’. Churchill readily agreed to do so, as well as outlining the ‘particulars of the personal message which it had been agreed he should send to President Roosevelt informing him of the seriousness of the situation’.