Churchill's Hour (26 page)

They cheered lustily. Britannia still ruled the waves.

‘This movement of our naval forces, in conjunction with the United States Main Fleet, may give practical proof, to all who have eyes to see, that the forces of freedom and democracy have not by any means reached the limits of their power!'

More cheering. And it might have seemed to many as if the US Navy was joining in. But his words were ambiguous, deliberately so, and the British fleet was not quite what it seemed. The backbone of the force was supposed to be a carrier that would provide it with air cover. Yet the
Indomitable
, which had been marked for the job, had run aground on a Caribbean
reef. Silly, these things happen, but without it the Admiralty protested that the other ships shouldn't be sent. They would be too vulnerable. The First Sea Lord made a considerable fuss about it at the Defence Committee and strongly urged delay. But Churchill had insisted. If there was to be any chance of deterring the Japanese, the ships had to go now, otherwise it would be too late. It was time to gamble.

‘I must admit that, having voted for the Japanese Alliance nearly forty years ago—in 1902,' he told his audience, ‘and having always done my very best to promote good relations with the island empire of Japan, and always having been a sentimental wellwisher to the Japanese and an admirer of their many gifts and qualities, I should view with keen sorrow the opening of a conflict between Japan and the English-speaking world.'

‘Keen sorrow'? A strange use of terms. But his tone suggested a measure of confidence. After all, he had talked not just of Britain but of ‘the Englishspeaking world'. What did he mean by that? He left barely a breath before he removed any measure of doubt.

‘The United States' time-honoured interests in the Far East are well known.'

He paused, then paused some more, catching their eyes and compelling their attention. He needed them to know that whichever else of his
words they listened to, these were the words they must heed.

‘The United States are doing their utmost to find ways of preserving peace in the Pacific. We do not know whether their efforts will be successful.' A pessimistic shake of the head, another pause. ‘But should they fail, I take this occasion to say—and it is my duty to say…'—he looked across to where the reporters sat, their faces expectant, their pencils poised, his voice now an uplifting rumble of defiance—‘that should the United States become involved in war with Japan, the British declaration will follow—within the hour!'

The whole hall began to cheer, loudly, and pound their fists upon the tables, even the jaded men of the press. It was an automatic response, almost like a football crowd, supporting the team, no matter what the odds, because they had only one team to support. When, later, they began to think about what he had said, they would realize that they were bound for yet more agonies and suffering. As if there weren't already enough cracks in their ceilings. And when they had thought about it some more, they would begin to wonder about the Americans. Were they part of this pact? If Britain were forced to declare war, would the Americans follow?

It was the greatest question of Churchill's time. In this hour, in this place of ruins, he had begun his game that would decide the future of the world. In
the note he had handed to Harriman, he had set out a course of action in three parts. A British naval force sent to the Far East. A larger American naval force to follow. And a joint declaration of war against Japan.

Churchill had begun to deliver. The question for him—and even more so for the Japanese—was how well America would play the game, too.

Words, words, words. Sometimes a man has nothing else to fight with. Throughout his years in the wilderness Churchill had laid into his own Government with little more than the breath in his body. Then, through the first terrible year of war, he seemed to have held back the bombers and the invasion barges with little more than rhetoric. When he spoke, the world had learnt to listen. And he was counting on that.

There were many who felt the full thunder of his words during these days, not just hapless Foreign Office clerks but Ministers, editors, colleagues and friends. No man could take the strain that Churchill bore without cracks appearing in his countenance. And on Armistice Day they were placed on display for all to see.

Sir Waldron Smithers was a backbench Member of Parliament, a man of dedicated appetites that centred mainly around religion and alcohol. He
visited both regularly. So when he and another colleague rose in the House of Commons to ask a pointed question about the salary paid to one of Churchill's closest advisers, Lord Cherwell, implying that he might even have German origins, the Prime Minister made no attempt to hide his temper. He was bloody, he was bellicose, he made a point of treating the questions with the utmost impatience and contempt.

But the matter was not to be left there.

Later that day, Sir Waldron was sitting in a leatherencrusted corner of the Smoking Room, the place where Members of Parliament retired for refreshment and gossip. It was crowded as usual, but Sir Waldron was alone at his table.

He became aware of a shadow falling across his life. He looked up to find Churchill, shaking like an infuriated bull.

‘Why in the Hell did you ask that question?' Churchill roared. ‘Don't you know he's one of my oldest and greatest friends?'

The entire room fell silent. All eyes were fixed upon Smithers. His lower jaw began to drop.

‘But Winston, I…'

‘Don't “Winston” me. I'm the bloody Prime Minister and I'm fighting a war to save this country,' he bellowed. ‘I don't get up in the morning expecting much help from people like you, but neither will I put up with idle sniping from those who know even
less about running this war than they do about holding their drink.'

Smithers was transfixed. He hadn't even got to his feet, and wouldn't be able to now; his knees were gently buckling. He pushed away his brandy and ginger. ‘Prime Minister, I can assure you of my total personal loyalty and…'

But there was little point in protesting. He had already been condemned without chance of reprieve.

‘You attack Cherwell, you attack me!'

‘I really don't think that anything I said—'

‘That's your trouble,' Churchill shouted, driving right through him. ‘Damn well didn't think about anything you said!'

The bemused knight was still trying to splutter his innocence when Churchill turned his back and stormed out.

As
The Times
reported, ‘The House got the impression that Mr Churchill is not in the mood for any gentle handling of critics of the Government.'

The dark cloud was still hanging over him on the following day when the King opened the new session of Parliament. The ceremony was traditionally followed by a debate in the House of Commons but, uniquely, on this occasion it took place on the floor of the House of Lords. The peers had taken pity on their commoner cousins and had moved out of their own chamber so that the elected politicians
could meet once more within the precincts of the Parliament building. This new home was a far more splendid affair than the Commons, its leather benches the colour of imperial claret rather than insipid green and surrounded by gilt that sparkled even on the darkest of days. The place had an altogether more relaxed atmosphere—until Churchill rose to his feet.

‘Mr Speaker, sir,' he opened with a gruff voice and more than a hint of impatience, ‘it has been aptly remarked that Ministers, and indeed all other public men, when they make speeches at the present time, have always to bear in mind three audiences: one our own fellow countrymen, secondly, our friends abroad, and thirdly, the enemy.'

He glared around him, as if to remind them that in his view the enemy was not necessarily confined to foreign shores.

‘This naturally makes the task of public speaking very difficult,' he continued, ‘and I hope that those who feel that their war work lies especially in the direction of criticism will make allowances for these difficulties inherent in the situation.'

They laughed, but his own taut smile suggested Churchill found little humour in the situation. His eyes caught Hore-Belisha, and said something very rude.

‘I hope they will also remember that no sensible person in wartime makes speeches because he wants
to. He makes them because he has to, and to no one does this apply more than the Prime Minister.' More glares. He didn't want to be here, and he wanted them to know that.

‘No, I tell you, it is impossible to please everybody. Whatever you say, some fault can be found…In war it is very hard to bring about successes, and very easy to make mistakes'—another profound glare—‘or to point them out when mistakes have been made.'

Some Members began to shuffle uneasily. This was neither elegant nor inspiring; what was its point?

‘There was a custom in ancient China that anyone who wished to criticize the Government could have the right to criticize,
provided
…'—he stuck his thumbs belligerently inside his waistcoat—‘he followed that up by committing suicide. Very great respect was paid to his words, and no ulterior motive was assigned. That seems to me to have been, from many points of view, a wise custom.'

He was beating them, flaying them for what he suggested was disloyalty. And throughout his speech he continued to give them back their own weight in criticism. It was petulant, a crusty old man barking at those who had the temerity to snap at his heels. He even attacked the
Daily Herald
for some grudging comment it had made about Christmas dinners. It had probably not been intended as a personal slight
but Churchill took it as such, and replied at extraordinary length.

It seemed strange that at a moment when the world was about to lose its grip on its self-control, the great man should insist on going on—and on, and on, as he did—about potatoes and sugar beet, dairy cows and meat cattle, even finding a mention for the humble chicken. It was the old man at his least gracious—and yet, though severely stretched in spirit and body, Churchill hadn't lost sight of his objective. At the very start of his speech he had set out the proposition that his words would be listened to, not simply by friends at home and abroad, but also by their enemies. That had also been the point of his speech earlier in the week at the Mansion House. Now he was going to provide something for the enemy to chew on.

‘There is nothing that Hitler will dislike more than my recital of these prosaic but unassailable facts. There is nothing that he and his Nazi regime dread more than the proof that we are capable of fighting a prolonged war, and the proof of the failure of their efforts to starve us into submission.'

There was no transcending oratory in this—Hitler didn't deserve the honour of fine phrases. But now Churchill came to his point.

‘In the various remarks which the Deputy Fuehrer, Herr Hess, has let fall from time to time during his sojourn in our midst, nothing has been more clear
than that Hitler relied upon the starvation attack even more than upon the invasion to bring us to our knees. His hopes were centred upon starvation, as his boasts have made the world aware. So far as 1941 at least is concerned, those hopes have been dashed to the ground.'

And that was it. It wasn't so much about food, but about Rudolf Hess. Almost Churchill's first words on the matter since the man had arrived six months earlier. Hitler would pick up on that, of course. Now in Berlin they would hear the words of defiance, the insistence that Britain was still resolute. Yet what they would remember more than anything else was the news that Hitler's right-hand man, Rudolf Hess, was still alive and, tantalizingly, still talking.

What he was talking about, Churchill was content to leave to Adolf Hitler's peculiarly febrile imagination.

‘I feel so wretched tired, Sawyers.'

Winter. The last of the leaves were gone and an insistent east wind slid through gaps around the illfitting window. For once he was glad of the thick blackout curtain. The window rattled, the curtain shivered in the draught, and so did Churchill.

‘I'll fetch Nelson,' the valet said.

‘I'll need more than a bloody cat. Light me a fire,
would you, Sawyers?' The plea seemed uncharacteristically plaintive.

‘Hot toddy. That'll do the trick,' the valet suggested, tucking in a trailing blanket.

‘I heard someone say that alcohol cools the body down.'

‘Also sends you to sleep. So's you won't notice, like.'

‘In Russia, the snows have begun to fall and the ice has taken its grip on the war. They say that bodies are being found—German bodies—frozen to death. Dressed in women's furs. You understand what that means?'

‘Best be sticking to proper underwear, me mother would say.'

‘No, you fool. It means Hitler isn't prepared. He's forgotten his history. He's not ready to meet the challenge of camping out upon the frozen steppes through the onslaught of winter.' He pulled the blanket up around his chest. ‘It is a game of Russian roulette. The invader always loses. Forfeits everything. It is the disaster of Napoleon all over again.'

‘Then I'd best be fetching toddy—and Nelson, too. Fer luck.'

The
Prince of Wales
was the most modern of ships. Thirty-five thousand tons of marine malice that had been commissioned less than eight months
previously. She was so new that when she had sailed into action against the
Bismarck
she still had civilian fitters on board; then she had sailed for Placentia Bay with the Prime Minister and secured her place in history. Her life had been brief, but already the
Prince of Wales
was the most famous battleship afloat.

The entire world knew of her intentions—Churchill had made sure of that. Her route would take her to Freetown in west Africa and Cape Town in South Africa on her way to the Far East, with every stop accompanied by a blaze of publicity. Yet, while this greatest of British battleships was still making her way through the grinding tropical heat, on the far side of the world another naval force was being brought together in absolute secrecy.