Churchill thought different. If, at the time, he admired anything about the Russian leader at all, it was perhaps his ability to swill vodka and gorge throughout the night. From the beginning, Churchill and Stalin understood one another perfectly. The best authorities agree that Stalin knew well enough that Churchill recognized him as a merciless conspirator to whom the war was only incidental to Russia’s long-range aim of world conquest. On the other hand, it was plain to Stalin that Churchill’s attempted jockeyings, at each conference involving the big three leaders, had the age-old underlying British motives of postwar balance of power. The first meeting of Churchill and Stalin, in Moscow in August of 1942, resembled the head-on collision of two competitive bison. Churchill and Stalin share a few characteristics: each is capable of pursuing an ideal to the bitter death, each has a clairvoyance about the probable course of political events, they are rabidly patriotic in their different ways, they have almost unlimited mutual distrust, and they are gustatory champions in the grand style. For “Moscow No. 1,” as the English call the conference, Churchill put on his siren suit (which he had begun to refer to as his “rompers”), and flew to the Russian capital in an R.A.F. bomber.
An observer says that Stalin, a cobbler’s son without much distinction in the way of manners, goggled rudely at Churchill’s attire at the moment of their first tête-à-tête. Churchill did not appear to be interested in the dictator’s dress, which was the familiar gray Russian uniform. They got down to cases promptly. Talking through an interpreter, one Comrade Pavlov, Stalin expressed the opinion that Churchill’s North African campaign was trivial and inquired, in effect, when England really planned to get to work and fight. Churchill’s diplomatic sang-froid deserted him for a second; he jumped up to speak and pounded the heavy oaken table so hard with his right fist that some glasses at one end danced and rattled. At this point, the enigmatic Stalin got up and announced, through his vocal medium, who was becoming slightly rattled himself, “I don’t know what you’re saying, but, by God, I like your sentiments!” It was presumed by the English delegation that the Russian Premier approved of Churchill’s style of delivery rather than the words expressed. The group then recessed and threw down some vodka. By the second day, Churchill’s spirits had revived, and he continued his argument that England was doing her utmost to lift the Russian burden. But by the third day, still stalemated by Stalin’s mulish insistence on European landings, Churchill was, for him, badly depressed. He went back to his quarters, and, after a few warming nips of some first-rate brandy he had brought along, went into a distinguished tantrum. According to one member of the party, an aide tried to quiet him, pointing out that beyond doubt the room was wired for espionage. Churchill’s response was to approach each suspicious fixture in the place — wall lamps, pictures, recessed bric-a-brac — and address them with supremely eloquent abuse of everything Russian he could call to mind. The performance went on for several minutes, while the other occupants of the room were treated to a historic exercise of one of the world’s rich vocabularies. When the Prime Minister finished, with the Russian situation covered to his satisfaction, he said, “That will at least make for interesting reading.”
The Teheran Conference, in November 1943, with Roosevelt present, was a different story. A closer union of minds was evident, and the emphasis shifted to celebration. Preliminary to this meeting of the big three, Churchill and Roosevelt had met Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek for a series of talks in Cairo. The Mena Hotel and a number of surrounding villas were given over to visitors. Roosevelt’s plane was late, and Churchill wandered around worriedly trying to check on the reasons why. When it was reported in sight, he said to an associate, “Thank God for that. I am very relieved.” The Generalissimo and Madame Chiang Kai-shek, who occupied one villa, and President Roosevelt, who had another, found Churchill in one of his most gregarious moods. He seldom stayed put in his own establishment, but dropped in frequently on his war partners for informal chats, refreshment and, of course, business. In the gardens one afternoon, his old bent for arranging groups to be photographed came to the fore, but he ran into opposition. Roosevelt also appeared to have pronounced ideas on the subject, and, even more dismaying, Chiang Kai-shek expressed the most positive opinions of all. The picture hung up on the question of who was to sit in the center. Each of the leaders generously tried to arrange one of the others in this position, and the wrangling went on for an incredible length of time. The Generalissimo, by exercising his best military skill, finally had his way, and Roosevelt occupied the center chair while Churchill was placed on his left. The Prime Minister later confided to a friend that this was the way he had wanted it all along; his tone suggested that he had neatly outmaneuvered Chiang Kai-shek, general or no general.
At Teheran, Inspector Thompson says, Churchill showed his first anxiety of the war about personal danger. His most rabid enemies (an exceedingly spirited group) have never accused Marlborough’s descendant of faintheartedness. When Churchill said, “We have information that German agents have been dropped by parachute to try to assassinate one or all of us,” Thompson was gravely concerned. Churchill has always been capable of the heroic gesture — there are too many of these on his record for an accurate count — but in a time of national emergency he takes the practical view. From the airport at Teheran to the British Embassy, he sent the inspector on a “dummy run,” making the auto trip alone to see if any hostile bullets were flying about. There was not the slightest hint of cowardice in this act; rather it was the common-sense and even valiant decision of a man who felt that, if somebody had to be assassinated, Thompson was expendable.
The first day’s conference was held in the Soviet Embassy amidst an atmosphere of cordiality. In a curious way, President Roosevelt’s personality increased Stalin’s liking for Churchill. This is not derogatory of Roosevelt; more properly it is complimentary. As one of England’s wartime ministers puts it, “Roosevelt had an undisguisably patrician air; Churchill’s is feudal: the two are different, and the latter is the more readily assimilable by the peasant mind.” John Gunther in his book Roosevelt in Retrospect wrote of the relationship among the three: “The President made all-out efforts to win the Soviet dictator’s esteem; it pleased him that he and Stalin got along personally better than Churchill and Stalin did. But I have heard from several participants at the conference that Stalin was seemingly perplexed by Roosevelt, though he treated him with great deference. Churchill he could grapple with. Stalin gave the impression that he understood Churchill perfectly, and that there was even a community between them, as between lusty fellow rogues. But FDR was much more difficult, a new type of phenomenon puzzling to the glacier-like Russian’s mind, nervously elusive, too optimistic, strangely discursive, and perhaps naive.”
At the conference table Churchill smoked steadily on a gigantic black cigar, while Stalin, quite plainly impressed that anybody could continue to emit such a poisonous vapor and live, chain-smoked cigarettes in retaliation. Roosevelt smoked (cigarettes) too, but not with the application of his colleagues. Spirits were still high on the second day, when Churchill presented the dictator with the Stalingrad sword, a gift of King George and the British people, in tribute to the stout defense of the Russian city. For once, Stalin seemed pleased out of his impassivity. The sword was a beautiful piece of work. Taking it from the Prime Minister’s hands, he tilted it and the blade slipped out of the scabbard, but he grabbed it up agilely before it hit the floor. It was then agreed that the next day, November 30, Churchill’s sixty-ninth birthday, should be a day of rejoicing. There was a good deal of bickering about who should act as host. This was made more poignant by the fact that the Shah of Iran, in whose country the meeting was held, was the nominal host but was so overwhelmed by his visitors that he did little more than hover in the background like an uncomfortable busboy. Churchill won out. It was his birthday, he said, and nothing would do but he should entertain.
The party was remarkable not only for its historic value but
for its important contribution to the annals of carousing. Stalin warmed up nicely during the preliminary cocktail hour, when he drank an estimated quart of alcohol. The W.C.T.U. has never got much of a toehold in Russia. The land is climatically brisk, the national temper is morbid, and excess earnings, if any, have always been expended on hooch. As a consequence, children of ten and twelve can drink with the best-trained adults of Kentucky and Arkansas. It is a patriotic skill, like fire walking in India. Stalin had the bilingual Pavlov at his side, and together they ranged the great room of the British Embassy, Pavlov acting as pilot fish. Stalin chatted with animation. Indeed, he went at it so vigorously that Pavlov was running several lengths behind and only a handful of persons ever got the thread of the narrative. The Premier’s discourse was punctuated by breezy guffaws, with a good deal of head-waggling, and it was suggested, sotto voce, that he was recounting some especially savoured experience, possibly an old purge. Churchill led his thirty-four guests into the dining room, upon whose long, decorated table there rested a birthday cake with sixty-nine candles and, beside it, several presents. President Roosevelt had bought him a blue and white porcelain bowl whose accompanying card read, “For Winston Spencer Churchill, on his 69th birthday at Teheran, Iran, November 30, 1943, with my affection and may we be together for many years.”
Nearly all the guests were in exuberant condition by the time they were seated at the table. Churchill arose and announced that the toasts would be drunk Russian fashion, meaning that each toaster would walk around and clink glasses with the toastee. Then everybody began toasting everybody else, and the party moved into that warm, winy wonderland of mutual trust and affection. Churchill pledged Stalin’s health with the words, “I sometimes call you Joe, and you can call me Winston if you like, and I like to think of you as my very good friend.” Stalin made a rather typically Russian reply in which he said (according to Pavlov), “We want to be friends with Great Britain and America, and if they wish to be friends they can show it by their actions.” He proceeded around the table, banged Churchill’s glass with his own, and cried, “To my fighting friend!” Anthony Eden got up and proposed a graceful toast to Comrade Molotov and attempted to take a hearty swig, but discovered that he was holding an empty glass. “If I had something to drink, I would give a toast,” he told the company. On this trip Churchill had brought along a butler, Frank Sawyer, who now came scurrying out of the shadows with refreshment for Eden. Sawyer was no longer in the first flush of his youth, and his legs seemed about to fold, always the butler’s dread on high occasions. In recognition of this, Comrade Stalin collared Sawyer and stood him up at the table and toasted him. Then Stalin solemnly began what appeared to be a lengthy tribute to somebody or other only to have it interrupted by a waiter who came flying out of the kitchen and flung a bowl of pudding over him from head to foot. The incident looked very much like something dreamed up by Charlie Chaplin, the more so since the Russian Premier, clawing enough pudding off his face to make speaking physically practical, continued with dignity. Neither did he evince any sign of reproach toward the paralyzed waiter. There was a solid round of applause when he sat down, after a little difficulty finding his chair.
Stalin came out of this birthday party with sincere respect for Churchill the man. In later meetings he always tried to get the Prime Minister apart for private digestive duels. As a rule, Churchill was not loath. People around them, watching this apparent byplay and recognizing its peculiar essentiality to the conduct of the war, conceived a lasting admiration for two of the great constitutions of all time. Many British politicians feel that Churchill made an ally of Stalin by his top performance at the board. It has been conjectured with horror how Stalin would have reacted to, say, Sir Stafford Cripps, the ascetic, who might well have thrown a raw carrot binge and brought the alliance tumbling down with a single stroke. All through the war Churchill matched the Russians flagon for flagon, only pulling leather, as the saying goes, once. In a later meeting in Moscow, Stalin led Churchill out of the dining room at 2 A.M. and said, “Now we will have our own party.” The group had just spent five hours running through champagne, several kinds of still wine, brandy, vodka, foot-high mounds of black caviar, nearly every known species of fish, and joints of the customary meats.
Stalin and Churchill went down a long corridor, made frequent turns into other corridors, and at length entered a small but elegant banquet room. On the table was a whole suckling pig. “We shall divide it,” said the Russian Premier with satisfaction. Churchill took a glass of vodka and then spoke the words that must have been painful to him. “I am incapable of eating any more at the present time,” he told Stalin; whereupon his host sat down and ate the entire pig by himself. There is no reason to believe that Stalin ever held this lapse against Churchill. On the contrary, people who should know feel that the Russian has missed his old drinking companion. They think he will always believe, as he told Bernard Shaw and Lady Astor a few years ago, “You can’t shut Churchill out of public life. When the British get into trouble again they will send for their old war horse.”
Chapter 26
THE BURDENS of leadership take an incalculable toll in the passage of six war years, but Churchill seemed never to tire. He traveled thousands of miles, he worked each night until everyone else had gone to bed, and he arose refreshed to hurl the oratorical thunders that rallied a people from despondency and defeat. His physicians and advisers were unable to dissuade him from foolish expenditures of his resources. Before the Normandy invasion, he insisted, in England, on taking General Eisenhower and General Bradley to a range for a three-handed shoot with a carbine. Both officers were honestly amazed at his marksmanship. Against the earnest counsel of his aides, he boarded the destroyer Kelvin, after the invasion got under way, and crossed to the French coast. Passing the German artillery positions, he ordered the destroyer captain to “give them a salvo.” Several persons on board, including General Smuts and Sir Alan Brooke, thought the captain was going to refuse, and they envisioned a lively ruckus. After a moment’s dismayed meditation, the captain turned and gave the command. Churchill expressed chagrin that the Germans had not fired back. Perhaps as compensation, he talked some field officers into conveying him to the Siegfried Line, where he chalked “Hitler, Personally” on a shell and pulled the lanyard of the gun. (He had previously tried to climb into a tank headed for action, but was ejected.)
By the spring of 1945, some of his household thought that Churchill showed signs of emotional wear. He had begun to reminisce about Chartwell. He told Thompson, “If I am able to go to Chartwell, I would like to build some cottages on my land for ex-servicemen to live in.” The news of President Roosevelt’s death, a few days later, provided undoubtedly his worst moment of the war. Thompson’s bell rang at midnight, and he went into the Prime Minister’s study to find him weeping and saying, “Terrible, terrible.” A few minutes later, Churchill said, “He was a great friend to us. He gave us immeasurable help at a time when we most needed it. I have lost a good friend and one who got things done. We now have to start all over again.”
When the end approached in Europe, Churchill kept deploring the fact that Roosevelt could not have lived to see the fruits of their alliance. His sorrow over the President’s death was nearly matched by his delight at the belated demise of Premier Mussolini. Churchill announced this latter event to guests in his house by rushing into his dining room and crying, “Ah, the bloody beast is dead!” May 8, 1945, was his, and England’s great day of the war; beside it the final coming of victory was a poor anticlimax. The enemy that lay across only twenty miles of water, the Hun that had leveled Europe periodically since the Dark Ages, was again struck down into impotency. The crowds pressed in toward 10 Downing Street as Churchill again commenced a triumphant drive to the House of Commons. By the time the procession reached Parliament Square, he had clambered up on top of the front seat in the open car and was standing bareheaded, grinning and making his sign of victory. At one point he realized that
he’d left his cigars behind. “Go to the Annex and get one,” he yelled to Thompson. “They expect to see it.”
The House was filled to bursting. One Member present has written that, while waiting, “I saw Churchill sitting in the backbench seat he had occupied for ten long years of the ‘wilderness.’ ... I saw Churchill, standing at the dispatch box, in good times and bad, grimly telling the nation to expect nothing but hard tidings, jovially congratulating it on successes, urging and encouraging everybody to greater efforts, announcing, with satisfaction and pride, the victories that came our way, without depression the setbacks that came, too. I saw him in good times and bad, cheery and irritable, but always ready with the appropriate word.”
Winston Churchill: An Informal Study of Greatness Page 39
