Michael Dobbs - Never Surrender

‘The joy of it!’ Bracken threw his arms around in excitement. ‘After all these years, the chance to even the score. To do unto others …’ He clapped his hands. ‘You know, I’ve just been over to Downing Street. Thought I’d take a look. Went by the back gate into the secretaries’ rooms. Rushing around bundling everything into sacks and waste-paper baskets, they were, even had a fire roaring in one of the grates. Several in tears. It was as though the enemy had arrived.’

‘You don’t understand, Brendan: in their eyes, he has.’

Bracken lit himself a cigar using a petrol lighter that threw an immense flame, adding to the aerial confusion. ‘So – who is to be in this government of ours?’

‘My War Cabinet,’ Churchill responded, ‘will consist of four men, apart from myself.’ He cleared his throat as if making an official proclamation. ‘There will be Mr Attlee and Mr Greenwood from the Labour Party.’

Bracken shifted uneasily in his chair.

‘Lord Halifax.’

An eyebrow arched in disapproval.

‘And Mr Neville Chamberlain.’

Bracken gasped, momentarily brought to silence. ‘You cannot be serious.’

‘In most deadly earnest. Our lives may depend upon it.’

‘But …’ Suddenly the energy was upon him once more, his body contorting in exasperation. ‘They’re the four most bloody-minded men in the country. Two socialists with whom you’ve got nothing in common, the former Prime Minister who’s devoted most of his limited talents to keeping you at the outer edge of the universe, and …’ He wondered for a moment how best to sum up Edward Halifax, Churchill’s chief rival for the post. ‘And an Old Etonian.’

‘You’re right.’ Churchill smiled. Throughout all the years of drought Bracken had had an unquenchable talent for making him smile. ‘You are absolutely right. We need more Harrovians.’

‘Seriously, Winston, how can you include Chamberlain after everything that’s happened?’

‘Can’t you see, Brendan, it’s because of everything that has happened that I must embrace him? He is still the leader of the majority party in the House of Commons, and if I am to build a truly national government I must include him as well as the socialists.’ He picked up his pen and resumed his work. ‘That is what I have had to insist to Mr Attlee, who, I’m afraid, rather shares your opinion about Mr Chamberlain.’

‘But you’ve nothing in common with any of them.’

‘I can count on the claws of a chicken’s foot the number of men you and I can trust. It’s not enough. We need more.’ He finished off the letter with a flourish. ‘Which is why I have just written to the Kaiser enquiring whether, before the Wehrmacht arrives, he would wish to exchange his exile in Holland for a suitable small establishment in this country.’

Bracken choked on his drink, spluttering, when at last he could, ‘You expect the old Kaiser, the man who started the last bloody war, to help you in this one?’

‘No, I don’t expect that. But I would like it. I know him, of course. Attended manoeuvres with him in 1909. An odious and ill-formed man. But useful. If by any chance he would agree, oh, how it would distract Hitler. Take his eye off the ball. Kaiser versus the Fuehrer, German against German.’ He sealed the envelope he had been addressing and rang a hand bell. ‘I would do a deal with the Devil if only he would part company with Hitler for a moment. We do so desperately need some distraction. We have enemies enough without creating more. Which is why we must have Neville, and Edward Halifax, too. And all the rest.’

He rang the bell again, more impatiently.

‘And for me?’

‘For you, Brendan? Minister of Information, I thought. My own private Goebbels. Waging war with words. You’re good at that. And we have so little else with which to wage war.’

‘Thank you, Winston. With all my heart. But – no. I think I should be here, by your side. At least until you have the show up and running.’

‘You would refuse your own ministry?’

‘There are so few who know you, understand your ways.’

Suddenly Churchill rose to his feet and flung open the door behind his desk. It led to a corridor, and at its end, deep in conversation, stood two male secretaries. Churchill’s shoulders heaved in irritation.

‘Have you both been deafened by the blast of some enemy bomb?’ he shouted at them. ‘Can there be any other reason why you have failed to respond to my bell?’

Bemused, they looked towards him and started to approach.

‘Fly! Fly! Or shall I call the guard to encourage you at the point of a fixed bayonet?’

The first man broke into a hurried shuffle; the second, seeking salvation, ducked into an open office door. It was Colville who arrived, his face a cauldron of embarrassment and anger.

‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister. A little confusion in responsibilities. We were rather expecting you to arrive at Downing Street this evening.’

‘Downing Street is still the home of Mr Chamberlain. I have offered it to him and Mrs Chamberlain until they can make suitable alternative arrangements. In the meantime you are to attend upon me here.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. As I said, a matter of confusion.’

‘And you are to run, do you hear me? Every time you hear that bell, you run, not walk, for so long as this war is in progress. I will not have walkers.’

Colville swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry with resentment. Never in his public service had he been spoken to like this. Still, it made his decision all the easier. He wouldn’t put up with it for a moment longer than would be necessary to get himself a transfer. Submarines, for all he cared, after this.

‘Tell me, where did you go to school?’ Churchill demanded.

What? What had his wretched school to do with it? ‘Why, Harrow, sir. But a while after you.’

‘Ah, another Harrovian. We make good runners at Harrow. You’ll do.’

And so, through the accident of his education, Colville stood conscripted.

‘Now, get me Lord Halifax on the phone. I have an urgent letter for him to deliver.’

‘It’s gone midnight. His Lordship will be asleep in bed, I’m afraid, sir.’

‘You know that for a fact?’

‘I know His Lordship, sir.’

‘Nevertheless, get him on the phone for me.’

‘It will be a most exceptional pleasure for him,’ Colville responded, tripping over his own sarcasm.

Churchill thrust his head forward. It made him look like a cannonball in flight. ‘No, it will not be a pleasure for him at this hour. And in future it will not be exceptional, either. Pray inform His Lordship of that, and anyone else that matters.’

Without another word, Churchill went back to his work and began writing a fresh letter. Colville, his face ashen, backed slowly out of the door.

Bracken hooked his leg over the arm of his chair and began to chuckle. ‘As I said, Winston, there are so few who understand your ways. I think I’d better stay.’

Churchill’s head fell towards the notepaper. ‘Thank God there’s one person in this room who knows what to do.’

It had been like a triumphal progress from ancient times. Slowly the British army moved forward across the frontier into what, until that morning, had been the green fields and gentle canals of neutral Belgium. At every village and crossroads they were greeted like heroes. Old men shuffled forward in carpet slippers to offer them bottles of beer, with womenfolk at their side bearing baskets of cheeses and oranges, and daughters who climbed up on the vehicles with their snatches of schoolgirl English to hand out an abundance of flowers and kisses. The BEF advanced upon the enemy with lilac on their helmets and dictionaries in their pockets, and soon the songs of old could be heard encouraging them on their way – ‘Tipperary’, ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’, and a new one, a tune about how they were going to hang out their washing on the Siegfried Line.