Winter of the World (Century Trilogy 2)

by Ken Follett

  There they heard the news from Westminster. Chamberlain was clinging to power. Billy learned that the Prime Minister had asked Labour Party leader Clement Attlee to become a Cabinet Minister, making the government a coalition of the three main parties.

  All three of them were aghast at this prospect. Chamberlain the appeaser would remain Prime Minister, and the Labour Party would be obliged to support him in a coalition government. It did not bear thinking about.

  ‘What did Attlee say?’ asked Lloyd.

  ‘That he would have to consult his National Executive Committee,’ Billy replied.

  ‘That’s us.’ Both Lloyd and Billy were members of the committee, which had a meeting scheduled for four o’clock that afternoon.

  ‘Right,’ said Ethel. ‘Let’s start canvassing, and find out how much support Chamberlain’s plan might have on our executive.’

  ‘None, I should think,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ said his mother. ‘There will be some who want to keep Churchill out at any price.’

  Lloyd spent the next few hours in constant political activity, talking to members of the committee and their friends and assistants, in cafés and bars in the pavilion and along the seafront. He ate no lunch, but drank so much tea that he felt he might have floated.

  He was disappointed to find that not everyone shared his view of Chamberlain and Churchill. There were a few pacifists left over from the last war, who wanted peace at any price, and approved of Chamberlain’s appeasement. On the other side, Welsh MPs still thought of Churchill as the Home Secretary who sent the troops in to break a strike in Tonypandy. That had been thirty years ago, but Lloyd was learning that memories could be long in politics.

  At half past three Lloyd and Billy walked along the seafront in a fresh breeze and entered the Highcliff Hotel, where the meeting was to be held. They thought that a majority of the committee were against accepting Chamberlain’s offer, but they could not be completely sure, and Lloyd was still worried about the result.

  They went into the room and sat at the long table with the other committee members. Promptly at four the party leader came in.

  Clem Attlee was a slim, quiet, unassuming man, neatly dressed, with a bald head and a moustache. He looked like a solicitor – which his father was – and people tended to underestimate him. In his dry, unemotional way he summarized, for the committee, the events of the last twenty-four hours, including Chamberlain’s offer of a coalition with Labour.

  Then he said: ‘I have two questions to ask you. The first is: Would you serve in a coalition government with Neville Chamberlain as Prime Minister?’

  There was a resounding ‘No!’ from the people around the table, more vehement than Lloyd had expected. He was thrilled. Chamberlain, friend of the Fascists, the betrayer of Spain, was finished. There was some justice in the world.

  Lloyd also noted how subtly the unassertive Attlee had controlled the meeting. He had not opened the subject for general discussion. His question had not been: What shall we do? He had not given people the chance to express uncertainty or dither. In his understated way he had put them all up against the wall and made them choose. And Lloyd felt sure the answer he got was the one he had wanted.

  Attlee said: ‘Then the second question is: Would you serve in a coalition under a different prime minister?’

  The answer was not so vocal, but it was Yes. As Lloyd looked around the table it was clear to him that almost everyone was in favour. If there were any against, they did not bother to ask for a vote.

  ‘In that case,’ said Attlee, ‘I shall tell Chamberlain that our party will serve in a coalition but only if he resigns and a new prime minister is appointed.’

  There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

  Lloyd noted how cleverly Attlee had avoided asking who they thought the new prime minister should be.

  Attlee said: ‘I shall now go and telephone Number Ten Downing Street.’

  He left the room.

  (viii)

  That evening Winston Churchill was summoned to Buckingham Palace, in accordance with tradition, and the King asked him to become Prime Minister.

  Lloyd had high hopes of Churchill, even if the man was a Conservative. Over the weekend Churchill made his dispositions. He formed a five-man War Cabinet including Clem Attlee and Arthur Greenwood, respectively leader and deputy leader of the Labour Party. Union leader Ernie Bevin became Minister of Labour. Clearly, Lloyd thought, Churchill intended to have a genuine cross-party government.

  Lloyd packed his case ready to catch the train back to Aberowen. Once there, he expected to be quickly redeployed, probably to France. But he only needed an hour or two. He was desperate to learn the explanation of Daisy’s behaviour last Tuesday. Knowing he was going to see her soon increased his impatience to understand.

  Meanwhile, the German army rolled across Holland and Belgium, overcoming spirited opposition with a speed that shocked Lloyd. On Sunday evening Billy spoke on the phone to a contact in the War Office, and afterwards he and Lloyd borrowed an old school atlas from the boarding-house proprietress and studied the map of north-west Europe.

  Billy’s forefinger drew an east–west line from Dusseldorf through Brussels to Lille. ‘The Germans are thrusting at the softest part of the French defences, the northern section of the border with Belgium.’ His finger moved down the page. ‘Southern Belgium is bordered by the Ardennes Forest, a huge strip of hilly, wooded terrain virtually impassable to modern motorized armies. So my friend in the War Office says.’ His finger moved on. ‘Yet farther south, the French–German border is defended by a series of heavy fortifications called the Maginot Line, stretching all the way to Switzerland.’ His finger returned up the page. ‘But there are no fortifications between Belgium and northern France.’

  Lloyd was puzzled. ‘Did no one think of this until now?’

  ‘Of course we did. And we have a strategy to deal with it.’ Billy lowered his voice. ‘Called Plan D. It can’t be a secret any more, since we’re already implementing it. The best part of the French army, plus all of the British Expeditionary Force already over there, are pouring across the border into Belgium. They will form a solid line of defence at the Dyle River. That will stop the German advance.’

  Lloyd was not much reassured. ‘So we’re committing half our forces to Plan D?’

  ‘We need to make sure it works.’

  ‘It better.’

  They were interrupted by the proprietress, who brought Lloyd a telegram.

  It had to be from the army. He had given Colonel Ellis-Jones this address before going on leave. He was surprised he had not heard sooner. He ripped open the envelope. The cable said:

  DO NOT RETURN ABEROWEN STOP REPORT SOUTHAMPTON DOCKS IMMEDIATELY STOP A BIENTOT SIGNED ELLISJONES

  He was not going back to Tŷ Gwyn. Southampton was one of Britain’s largest ports, a common embarkation point for the Continent, and it was located just a few miles along the coast from Bournemouth, an hour perhaps by train or bus.

  Lloyd would not be seeing Daisy tomorrow, he realized with an ache in his heart. Perhaps he might never learn what she had wanted to tell him.

  Colonel Ellis-Jones’s à bientôt confirmed the obvious inference.

  Lloyd was going to France.

  7

  1940 (II)

  Erik von Ulrich spent the first three days of the Battle of France in a traffic jam.

  Erik and his friend Hermann Braun were part of a medical unit attached to the 2nd Panzer Division. They saw no action as they passed through southern Belgium, just mile after mile of hills and trees. They were in the Ardennes Forest, they reckoned. They travelled on narrow roads, many not even paved, and a broken-down tank could cause a fifty-mile tailback in no time. They were stationary, stuck in queues, more than they were moving.

  Hermann’s freckled face was set in a grimace of anxiety, and he muttered to Erik in an undertone no one else could hear: ‘This is stupid!’

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sp; ‘You should know better than to say that – you were in the Hitler Youth,’ said Erik quietly. ‘Have faith in the Führer.’ But he was not angry enough to denounce his friend.

  When they did move it was painfully uncomfortable. They sat on the hard wooden floor of an army truck as it bounced over tree roots and swerved around potholes. Erik longed for battle just so that he could get out of the damn truck.

  Hermann said more loudly: ‘What are we doing here?’

  Their boss, Dr Rainer Weiss, was sitting on a real seat beside the driver. ‘We are following the orders of the Führer, which are of course always correct.’ He said it straight-faced, but Erik felt sure he was being sarcastic. Major Weiss, a thin man with black hair and spectacles, often spoke cynically about the government and the military, but always in this enigmatic way, so that nothing could be proved against him. Anyway, the army could not afford to get rid of a good doctor at this point.

  There were two other medical orderlies in the truck, both older than Erik and Hermann. One of them, Christof, had a better answer to Hermann’s question. ‘Perhaps the French aren’t expecting us to attack here, because the terrain is so difficult.’

  His friend Manfred said: ‘We will have the advantage of surprise, and will encounter light defences.’

  Weiss said sarcastically: ‘Thanks for that lesson in tactics, you two – most enlightening.’ But he did not say they were wrong.

  Despite all that had happened there were still people who lacked faith in the Führer, to Erik’s amazement. His own family continued to close their eyes to the triumphs of the Nazis. His father, once a man of status and power, was now a pathetic figure. Instead of rejoicing in the conquest of barbarian Poland, he just moaned about ill-treatment of the Poles – which he must have heard about by listening illegally to a foreign radio station. Such behaviour could get them all into trouble – including Erik, who was guilty of not reporting it to the local Nazi block supervisor.

  Erik’s mother was just as bad. Every now and again she disappeared with small packages of smoked fish or eggs. She said nothing in explanation, but Erik felt sure she was taking them to Frau Rothmann, whose Jewish husband was no longer allowed to practise as a doctor.

  Despite that, Erik sent home a large slice of his army pay, knowing his parents would be cold and hungry if he did not. He hated their politics, but he loved them. They undoubtedly felt the same about his politics and him.

  Erik’s sister, Carla, had wanted to be a doctor, like Erik, and had been furious when it was made clear to her that in today’s Germany this was a man’s job. She was now training as a nurse, a much more appropriate role for a German girl. And she, too, was supporting their parents with her meagre pay.

  Erik and Hermann had wanted to join infantry units. Their idea of battle was to run at the enemy firing a rifle, and kill or be killed for the Fatherland. But they were not going to be killing anyone. Both had had one year of medical school, and such training was not to be wasted; so they were made medical orderlies.

  The fourth day in Belgium, Monday 13 May, was like the first three until the afternoon. Above the roar and snarl of hundreds of tank and truck engines, they began to hear another, louder sound. Aircraft were flying low over their heads and, not too far away, dropping bombs on someone. Erik’s nose twitched with the smell of high explosives.

  They stopped for their mid-afternoon break on high ground overlooking a meandering river valley. Major Weiss said the river was the Meuse, and they were west of the city of Sedan. So they had entered France. The planes of the Luftwaffe roared past them, one after another, diving towards the river a couple of miles away, bombing and strafing the scattered villages on the banks where, presumably, there were French defensive positions. Smoke rose from countless fires among the ruined cottages and farm buildings. The barrage was relentless, and Erik almost felt pity for anyone trapped in that inferno.

  This was the first action he had seen. Before long he would be in it, and perhaps some young French soldier would look from a safe vantage point and feel sorry for the Germans being maimed and killed. The thought made Erik’s heart thud with excitement like a big drum in his chest.

  Looking to the east, where the details of the landscape were obscured by distance, he could nevertheless see aircraft like specks, and columns of smoke rising through the air, and he realized that battle had been joined along several miles of this river.

  As he watched, the air bombardment came to an end, the planes turning and heading north, waggling their wings to say ‘Good luck’ as they passed overhead on their way home.

  Nearer to where Erik stood, on the flat plain leading to the river, the German tanks were going into action.

  They were two miles from the enemy, but already the French artillery was shelling them from the town. Erik was surprised that so many gunners had survived the air bombardment. But fire flashed in the ruins, the boom of cannon was heard across the fields, and fountains of French soil spurted where the shells landed. Erik saw a tank explode after a direct hit, smoke and metal and body parts spewing out of the volcano’s mouth, and he felt sick.

  But the French shelling did not stop the advance. The tanks crawled on relentlessly towards the stretch of river to the east of the town, which Weiss said was called Donchery. Behind them followed the infantry, in trucks and on foot.

  Hermann said: ‘The air attack wasn’t enough. Where’s our artillery? We need them to take out the big guns in the town, and give our tanks and infantry a chance to cross the river and establish a bridgehead.’

  Erik wanted to punch him to shut his whining mouth. They were about to go into action – they had to be positive now!

  But Weiss said: ‘You’re right, Braun – but our artillery ammunition is gridlocked in the Ardennes Forest. We’ve only got forty-eight shells.’

  A red-faced major came running past, yelling: ‘Move out! Move out!’

  Major Weiss pointed and said: ‘We’ll set up our field dressing station over to the east, where you see that farmhouse.’ Erik made out a low grey roof about eight hundred yards from the river. ‘All right, get moving!’

  They jumped into the truck and roared down the hill. When they reached level ground they swerved left along a farm track. Erik wondered what they would do with the family that presumably lived in the building that was about to become an army hospital. Throw them out of their home, he guessed, and shoot them if they made trouble. But where would they go? They were in the middle of a battlefield.

  He need not have worried: they had already left.

  The building was half a mile from the worst of the fighting, Erik observed. He guessed there was no point setting up a dressing station within range of enemy guns.

  ‘Stretcher bearers, get going,’ Weiss shouted. ‘By the time you get back here we’ll be ready.’

  Erik and Hermann took a rolled-up stretcher and first aid kit from the medical supply truck and headed towards the battle. Christof and Manfred were just ahead of them, and a dozen of their comrades followed. This is it, Erik thought exultantly; this is our chance to be heroes. Who will keep his nerve under fire, and who will lose control and crawl into a hole and hide?

  They ran across the fields to the river. It was a long jog, and it was going to seem longer coming back, carrying a wounded man.

  They passed burned-out tanks but there were no survivors, and Erik averted his eyes from the scorched human remains smeared across the twisted metal. Shells fell around them, though not many: the river was lightly defended, and many of the guns had been taken out by the air attack. All the same, it was the first time in his life Erik had been shot at, and he felt the absurd, childish impulse to cover his eyes with his hands; but he kept running forward.

  Then a shell landed right in front of them.

  There was a terrific thud, and the earth shook as if a giant had stamped his foot. Christof and Manfred were hit directly, and Erik saw their bodies fly up into the air as if weightless. The blast threw Erik off his feet. As he l
ay on the ground, face up, he was showered with dirt from the explosion, but he was not injured. He struggled to his feet. Right in front of him were the mangled bodies of Christof and Manfred. Christof lay like a broken doll, as if all his limbs were disjointed. Manfred’s head had somehow been severed from his body and lay next to his booted feet.

  Erik was paralysed with horror. In medical school he had not had to deal with maimed and bleeding bodies. He was used to corpses in anatomy class – they had had one between two students, and he and Hermann had shared the cadaver of a shrivelled old woman – and he had watched living people being cut open on the operating table. But none of that had prepared him for this.

  He wanted nothing but to run away.

  He turned around. His mind was blank of every thought but fear. He started to walk back the way they had come, towards the forest, away from the battle, taking long, determined strides.

  Hermann saved him. He stood in front of Erik and said: ‘Where are you going? Don’t be a fool!’ Erik kept moving, and tried to walk past him. Hermann punched him in the stomach, really hard, and Erik folded over and fell to his knees.

  ‘Don’t run away!’ Hermann said urgently. ‘You’ll be shot for desertion! Pull yourself together!’

  While Erik was trying to catch his breath he came to his senses. He could not run away, he must not desert, he had to stay here, he realized. Slowly his willpower overcame his terror. Eventually he got to his feet.

  Hermann looked at him warily.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Erik. ‘I panicked. I’m all right now.’

  ‘Then pick up the stretcher and keep going.’

  Erik picked up the rolled stretcher, balanced it on his shoulder, turned around and ran on.

  Closer to the river, Erik and Hermann found themselves among infantry. Some were manhandling inflated rubber dinghies out of the backs of trucks and carrying them to the water’s edge, while the tanks tried to cover them by firing at the French defences. But Erik, rapidly recovering his mental powers, soon saw that it was a losing battle: the French were behind walls and inside buildings, while the German infantry were exposed on the bank of the river. As soon as they got a dinghy into the water, it came under intense machine-gun fire.