Winston’s War (55 page)

“I feel as though someone has just walked across my grave,” the Prime Minister replied softly and with effort.

As unobtrusively as he could, Wilson began maneuvering his master towards the door.

“Just heard, Horace. Got a note,” Chamberlain was saying, his voice grown hoarse. “Daladier's gone. They kicked him out. His own people turned on him in the Chamber of Deputies and they kicked him out. Claimed he wasn't up to running a war.”

“That's his grave, not yours, Neville.”

“Reynaud's taken over. He'll insist on Norway. It'll happen now. The war's coming closer, we'll not be able to resist it.”

“We can handle it, Neville. You don't have to worry.”

“It's just that…this is what Winston wanted. Been demanding for months. Like a Catholic at his creed. Norway, Norway, nothing but Norway. Everywhere I look there's always bloody Winston.” He clutched feebly at Wilson's sleeve. “I have this tearing pain in my gut, you see. Finding the pain really rather difficult. Think I need to go and lie down for a while.”

Yet war does not allow for relaxation and rest. The Prime Minister's doctor was summoned and prescribed a period of recuperation and medical tests, but Chamberlain declined. There was no time, too much to do. The public and the French insisted—something must be done! Anyway, there were too many enemies who would take advantage of the slightest sign of weakness. No one must know. And he wouldn't be the first man to struggle on with ulcers. So the doctor increased the strength of the medication, gave strict instructions about his diet, and Chamberlain forged stubbornly, bravely, and distractedly onwards.

And in early April Chamberlain made a speech, full of confidence and vitality—his powers of physical recovery proving to be quite remarkable. He went to a party meeting in Westminster and told them he was ten times more confident of victory than he had been at the start of the war. The audience of party faithful loved it—and loved him, that's the whole point of being faithful. They applauded his every breath. Encouraged by such enthusiasm and borne along by their unquestioning
allegiance, he went on to announce that Britain was stronger than ever and all but unassailable—"Hitler has missed the bus!” he proclaimed in triumph, words plucked from the overheated air of blind loyalty inside the hall that were to find new life in headlines everywhere. Not quite as many as “Peace for our Time,” perhaps, but words which would come back to haunt him nevertheless.

Chamberlain knew about missing the bus—indeed, he and his colleagues had developed a considerable facility in the matter. They'd been considering military action against Norway since before Christmas and, with Churchill's bullying, had on several occasions almost decided to act. Yet there was always some reason for delay. Norway was neutral. Norway might be pushed into alliance with Germany. So might Sweden. What would the Americans think? How would the Germans react? What if it snowed, what if it thawed, what if the Norwegians resisted, and (more softly) what if it turned out to be another of Winston's Dardanelles? What if, what if, what if…? Norway might be the right place but it was never the right time, not until Daladier had been blown away and procrastination had become not salvation but a mortal sin.

So in the end, it all became a bit of a bugger's muddle. It descended to the point where, in the middle of an inspection of maps in the War Cabinet, Halifax had even mistaken the frontier between Norway and Sweden for a railway line. But it only went to show that, in Europe, frontiers weren't what they used to be.

Churchill was standing by the black marble fireplace, leaning on the mantelshelf, glass of whiskey to hand, studying the flames in the hearth, when Bracken with his customary lack of reticence burst into his Admiralty office.

“Ah, Brendan!” he greeted, his eyes rising from the fire. “Just in time. It's started. Norway!”

Bracken rushed over to the drinks table to fill his own glass. “So the old bastard buckled.”

“He has, as you so say, flagged down the bus and agreed to climb on board.”

“So what are we sending?”

“Mine-layers first. Then troops. Half the fleet.”

“To victory!” Bracken toasted. “By the weekend!”

“Don't be so bloody impetuous,” Churchill scolded. “You think Hitler's going to take this lying down? Marching into Norway's like pouring iodine on a porcupine's arse. He'll scream and shout. And fight.”

“Is that what Chamberlain thinks?”

“
Is that what Chamberlain thinks?
“ Churchill repeated the words, not attempting to hide his scorn. “My God, if he thought this operation would lead to a shooting match he'd be shoving horse shit down the muzzle of every gun we possess.”

“So…?” Bracken continued, baffled.

“Don't you see? Hitler will respond, he will fight. He knows no other response but war. And soon we shall be in the midst of chaos. Oh, it will be tough, a most terrible war, but it is the only way. Instead of devouring everything around him piece by piece, we shall force him to try to do it wholesale—and in attempting that, he will devour himself.”

“Sounds pretty bloody desperate.”

“We must have war, Brendan. It is the only way we shall beat the tyranny of Nazism.”

“Mother,” was all Bracken could think of offering, and poured himself another, considerably larger drink.

“It has started.” There was a peculiar light in Churchill's eyes, a glow of swirling energy remarkable in a man of his age. “Which is why we must prepare ourselves. I have a mission for you, Brendan, one of the highest importance. Sit down and pay attention.”

It was like school all over again, with Bracken desperately trying to understand what was going on.

“War will soon be upon us.”

“The Prime Minister says he's ten times more confident.”

“And so he might be—if we had ten times the men and ten times the arms! But we don't. We have a mighty navy, and an air force that at last is growing. I've seen the new airplanes—the Spitfires and the Hurricanes. They are few but formidable. Yet our army finds itself in desperate circumstances. Millions of conscripts flood to the flag but they are raw, untrained—and in many cases unarmed. Do you know, Brendan, recruits are being forced to drill with pitchforks, even broomsticks? We can't fight the Bosche with broomsticks!”

“You have a plan. You always have a plan.” Bracken made it sound like an accusation.

“We must have rifles. Our factories can't produce them quickly enough, but I think I know of factories which do.”

“Where?”

“In Germany. And you shall get them for me.” There was a stunned silence.

“Isn't it brilliant, Brendan?”

“Correct me if I've got any part of this wrong. But you want me to go…”

“To Europe. To the borders of the Reich itself. Belgium I suspect would be best.”

“And ask for a few thousand rifles.”

“Several hundred thousand. For which we will undoubtedly have to pay hard cash.”

“But don't you expect the Germans might be a trifle suspicious, even a little
uncooperative
, if I turn up on their doorstep and start buying all their rifles?”

“Well, I can't do it. So you'll have to. Look”—he began stabbing his finger around the map that hung on his wall—“Germany is surrounded by a host of neutral countries which
trade with the Reich in every sort of goods. So go to one, make suitable inquiries, and do a deal. You're a businessman, you know the ways of these things.”

“But if it's so easy, why don't we send the Minister of Supply?”

“Don't be an imbecile! The Germans would never sell arms to the British. So you must maintain the subterfuge that you are dealing on behalf of a neutral country, Brendan. But most importantly it must be done quickly. Today. Tomorrow, I beg you. Before the storm is upon us.”

Bracken examined Churchill intensely. The First Lord seemed sober, and sounded in deadly earnest. “It may come to nothing, of course, but unless we try…” he was saying, pursuing his theme.

“Brilliant,” Bracken applauded softly, “absolutely brilliant. But it cannot be me.”

“Why, pray?”

Why? Because it sounded crackpot. And bloody dangerous. Wasn't that enough? But also because Anna had telephoned, repentant, in tears of remorse for creating such a scene in the car, pleading with him to see her again, suggesting they might go away for a few days in the country to put it all behind them. He'd been feeling bad, out of sorts about that night, even a little embarrassed, but now her call smoothed through all those creases and happiness could be his again—if only he could find the time.

“Because of Norway, Winston, that's why. There'll be statements, debates, questions, all sorts of things going on in the House, just at the time you'll be tied down here in the Admiralty. You'll need me more than ever around the Tea Room and Smoking Room. So we send someone else, someone we can trust.”

“Who?”

“Why not Bob Boothby? He's perfect. Political nous, a business background. Totally loyal to you. Speaks fluent French, I

believe, Italian, too, and a bit of German.” Bracken was making it up as he went along—in truth he had no idea about Boothby's competence with languages, but his enthusiasm seemed more than adequate for the situation.

“Then find him, Brendan. Get him here this instant!” Churchill commanded. “Let's brief him and send him on his way.” So the call went out. Bracken briefed Boothby. And as he did so, neither of them could have been aware that every word of their conversation was being taken down in shorthand, and the transcript placed at the very top of Sir Joseph Ball's daily file.

April 1940.

I
n early April Jerry's battalion had been moved from its
training area at Thirsk to a staging post in Scotland where
they became part of the 146th Infantry Brigade. Word was
that they were going to see action—real action—before long,
and to most of them the prospect seemed considerably more
pleasing than the tedium of training on the moors. Other units
joined them, most of them Territorial units rather than regulars.
That made them wonder if this was, after all, going to be
simply another exercise rather than the real thing.

Late in the evening, as the light was fading, they were moved in a convoy of trucks bristling with camouflage to the port of Rosyth. The docks were full of barely controlled chaos as supplies of every description were being loaded on board two cruisers—vehicles, crates, sacks of food supplies, even live donkeys. Jerry also noticed a few fishing rods and sporting guns finding their way on board. So, it was definitely an exercise, but a huge one judging by the massive concentration of men and the impatience of their officers.

By early the following morning Jerry's battalion had been transferred aboard one of the cruisers and, after more than a
little bad temper between the quartermasters and the civilian dock workers, the last of the supplies had been crammed within its hull or piled high on every spare yard of deck. In the noise and confusion, one of the donkeys panicked. It began struggling violently in its cradle as it was being loaded, braying fearfully and swinging around many feet above the deck. Loading came to a complete halt as dockers and soldiers shouted recriminations, until the quartermaster drew his Webley and shot the beast as it swung. He announced he would not hesitate to draw his weapon again if there were any further delays. He did not limit his threat to donkeys. As dawn broke, everything was loaded and accounted for. Six hundred soldiers waited on board in a state of high expectation. Then new orders arrived. Disembark! With all possible speed! German ships had been sighted heading for the North Atlantic and the Royal Navy was needed elsewhere. In their haste the supplies on deck were thrown back—literally thrown back—onto the dockside, the cruiser's decks were cleared for action and, one hour after the order was given, the Royal Navy sailed. No time to unload the heavy equipment stacked in the holds; it was all still inside when the cruiser squadron steamed out of port.

Norway was an enigma of neutrality. It didn't have a foreign policy, or at least anything that could be mistaken as one. Its Government was made up of socialists, anti-militarists, and former Bolsheviks who clung grimly to the belief that the power of neutrality and international law would be sufficient to see them through. It was a country grotesquely ill-prepared to become the focus of foreign intrigue. It had no standing army to speak of, no submachine guns, no grenades, and no anti-aircraft guns. It was saving up for a tank so the soldiers might have the opportunity of at least seeing one, but it hadn't yet arrived. The air force existed in theory only—they had negotiated to buy a few trainers from Italy in exchange for supplies
of dried cod—and the navy possessed the two oldest ironclads in the world, the
Norge
and the
Eidsvold
, which hadn't left port since 1918. In military affairs it lacked any clear leadership—its Minister of Defense had once been arrested on a charge of spreading pacifism amongst Norwegian soldiers. It seemed that Norway could do little to prevent the British occupying its key strategic ports, no matter how badly equipped the invaders were when they came.