The Last Lion Box Set: Winston Spencer Churchill, 1874 - 1965 (231 page)

He asked: “What is the remaining position of Czechoslovakia? Not only are they politically mutilated, but, economically and financially, they are in complete confusion.” Their banking and railroad nets were “severed and broken, their industries are curtailed, and the movement of their population is most cruel.” He gave an example: “The Sudeten miners, who are all Czechs and whose families have lived in that area for centuries, must now flee into an area where there are hardly any mines left for them to work.” He doubted—prophetically—that “in future the Czechoslovak State” could be “maintained as an independent entity. You will find that in a period of time which may be measured by years, but may be measured only by months, Czechoslovakia will be engulfed by the Nazi regime.”

As a true Conservative, Churchill sought guidance “in the wisdom of the past, for all wisdom is not new wisdom.” On holiday he had studied the reign of King Ethelred the Unready, and particularly “the rugged words of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, written a thousand years ago.” He quoted a sentence: “All these calamities fell upon us because of evil counsel, because tribute was not offered to them at the right time nor yet were they resisted; but when they had done the most evil, then was peace made with them.” So it was now: “We are in the presence of a disaster of the first magnitude which has befallen Great Britain and France. Do not let us blind ourselves to that. It must now be accepted that all the countries of Central and Eastern Europe will make the best terms they can with the triumphant Nazi Power.” The democracies’ loss of prestige, he told the House, beggared description. In Warsaw the British and French ambassadors sought to visit Colonel Józef Beck, Poland’s foreign minister. “The door was shut in their faces.” And what, he wondered, would be “the position of France and England this year and the year afterwards?” The German army probably outnumbered that of France now, “though not nearly so matured or perfected.” There were, he said, unexplored options; unfortunately, none were encouraging. But what he found “unendurable” was “the sense of our country falling into the power, into the orbit and influence of Nazi Germany, and of our existence becoming dependent upon their good will or pleasure…. In a very few years, perhaps in a very few months, we shall be confronted with demands” which “may affect the surrender of territory or the surrender of liberty.” A “policy of submission” would entail “restrictions” upon freedom of speech and the press. “Indeed, I hear it said sometimes now that we cannot allow the Nazi system of dictatorship to be criticised by ordinary, common English politicians.”

He did not “grudge our loyal, brave people… the natural, spontaneous outburst of joy and relief” when they learned that war was not imminent, “but they should know the truth. They should know that there has been gross neglect and deficiency in our defences; they should know that we have sustained a defeat without a war, the consequences of which will travel far with us along our road; they should know that we have passed an awful milestone in our history, when the whole equilibrium of Europe has been deranged, and that the terrible words have for the time being been pronounced against the Western democracies: ‘Thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting.’

L
ord Maugham called Churchill an “agitator” who should be “shot or hanged.”
The Times
reported that Churchill had “treated a crowded House to prophesies which made Jeremiah appear an optimist” and referred patronizingly to his “dismal sincerity.” His speech, according to the
Daily Express
, was “an alarmist oration by a man whose mind is soaked in the conquests of Marlborough,” and his failure to support the government “weakens his influence among members of the Conservative Party.” It did indeed; Robert Rhodes James notes that “the feeling against him in the party was now intense.”
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Parliament was still dominated by the privileged classes and their dread of the Soviets, a fear which Hitler played like a Stradivarius, repeatedly citing as his principal aim “
zur Bekämpfung des Bolschewismus
” (“the fight against bolshevism”). But out beyond Westminster and Whitehall—in the Midlands, the mines, the Lake District; the tributaries of the Thames, Humber, and Severn; and the commercial cities of Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, Sheffield, Leeds, and Bristol—there, once the first flush of gratitude for peace had passed, Munich became more controversial. In the House of Commons, once the big guns of Chamberlain’s critics had ceased fire—Duff Cooper, Eden, and Churchill as anchor man—the debate would proceed languidly.

In humbler neighborhoods it was another story, now that Spain had taught rank-and-file workmen that fascism could not be stopped without bloodshed. This awareness was by no means confined to them. In Mayfair, Park Lane, and Bloomsbury, the wives of many Conservative MPs denounced their husbands’ support for Chamberlain’s appeasements.

These heated exchanges were not confined to the United Kingdom—England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. Britain was still the world’s sole superpower. The repercussions of decisions made in Whitehall and Downing Street were felt almost everywhere—throughout the Dominions and even in the United States, which was bumbling about, playing blindman’s buff with the twin games of pacifism and isolationism. Churchill afterward wrote: “Among the Conservatives, families and friends in intimate contact were divided by a degree the like of which I have never seen. Men and women, long bound by party ties, the social amenities, and family connections, glared at one another in scorn and anger.” His daughter Mary remembers: “Looking back, it is difficult to describe the feelings of anger, shame, and bitterness felt by those who opposed the Munich Agreement.” And Lady Diana Cooper recalled that “husbands and wives stopped speaking to one another, fathers and sons said unforgivable things to one another; it was as if the entire country was in labor, straining to give birth. And in a way it was.”
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Harold Macmillan believed that the new, proud Britain was two years in gestation and had been conceived in the summer of 1938, when dissident Tories, mostly young, began to form factions critical of the Chamberlain government. The followers of Leo Amery were stronger once he broke with HMG, but the most visible group was still Eden’s. Eden’s followers were pursued by the press; many of their leaders had distinguished themselves in the war, and they were commonly regarded as the next generation of ministers. Taken as a whole, however, they were altogether too civil, too respectful of their elders, too reluctant to take firm stands, and far too unimaginative to acquire the élan and vigor of successful Young Turks. They avoided offending the prime minister; they carefully disassociated themselves from Churchill and his tiny band; when Duncan Sandys expressed interest in attending one of their meetings, he was told that his presence was not required. In these weaknesses they reflected the flaws of their leader. Eden’s departure from the Foreign Office had been the political sensation of the season, but his resignation speech was so crafted to avoid affronting anyone that, as Macmillan noted, it “left Members somewhat uncertain as to what all the row was about.” At a Queen’s Hall rally protesting Munich, Eden’s discretion, according to Liddell Hart, irritated the audience, which grew restless. As he sat down, Violet Bonham Carter proposed the ritualistic vote of gratitude, but later she said she felt more like moving a vote of censure. Eden’s chief asset then was that he was neither Neville Chamberlain nor Winston Churchill.
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In retrospect it seems that once Britain had grasped the price Chamberlain paid for Hitler’s signature, the people should have turned to Churchill. In time they did, but public opinion is slow to coalesce, and as winter deepened and 1939 arrived, England vacillated. Certainly the average Briton was appalled by the Czech sellout. A poll taken after Godesberg showed that two out of every three Englishmen had disapproved of the Anglo-French proposals as too generous to Germany. Walking home on the evening of September 22, Duff Cooper had encountered a “vast procession… marching down Whitehall crying ‘Stand by the Czechs’ and ‘Chamberlain must go.’ ” Yet England was not ready for Churchill. Capitulation to Hitler was unpopular, but the revulsion against a renewal of trench warfare remained. Although Winston’s repeated calls for a defense buildup had been intended to avoid war, it was clear to all that, once committed, he would relish a good fight. As a Labour candidate had charged in 1923, he was “militant to the fingertips.” In the wake of Munich a House critic effectively quoted A. G. Gardiner’s comment made thirty years earlier: “Churchill will write his name in history; take care that he does not write it in blood.”
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Macmillan recalled that “Everyone knew that so great was the strength of the Government in the country that nothing could seriously shake them in Parliament. At our almost daily conferences with our friends, we had the gloomiest forebodings. The tide was, at present, too strong. It was flowing against us—especially Churchill.” Increasingly the dissidents’ meetings were furtive, almost conspiratorial. Nicolson confided to his wife that he had attended “a hush-hush meeting” of a dozen MPs, including Eden, Amery, Macmillan, Sidney Herbert, and Duff Cooper. They had “decided that we should not advertise ourselves as a group or even call ourselves a group.” It is difficult to understand what they hoped to accomplish; they would “merely meet together from time to time, exchange views, and organise ourselves for a revolt if needed.” But they were too timid and far too respectable to rebel; Nicolson characterized them as “all good Tories and sensible men. This group is distinct from the Churchill group…. I feel happier about this.”
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Part of Churchill’s particular alienation may be traced to his megalomania, a source of strength in public life but distasteful to many in private. Boothby remarked that “ ‘Thou shall have no other gods but me’ has always been the first, and the most significant, of his Commandments.” Desmond Morton wrote a journalist long afterward: “The full truth, I believe, is that Winston’s ‘friends’ must be persons who were of use to him. The idea of having a friend who was of no practical use to him, but being a friend because he liked him, had no place.” To be sure, Morton’s comment was made late in life, when he had become embittered because Churchill had not given him a more prominent role in the wartime government. But even Violet Bonham Carter, who adored Winston, conceded that “He demanded partisanship from a friend, or, at the worst, acquiescence.”
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However, that was not why parliamentarians who had come to share his views avoided him in the House. Churchill was considered dangerous. If an MP had ministerial ambitions, association with Winston could kill his chances, and what could be the point of that? Because Churchill always seemed confident, strong, and self-assured, it never occurred to them that he might welcome a pat on the back, or a few pleasant words commending him for a great speech, despite the editorials, despite the lord chancellor’s opinion that he should be introduced to a firing squad, or the noose of hemp, for having delivered it. The prime minister might notice, or hear of it. Since his acclamatory reception at the airport and at Downing Street, Chamberlain had acquired messianic airs.

On Thursday, the day after Churchill had spoken, the prime minister moved for an adjournment of the House until November 1. Attlee, Sinclair, and several Conservatives—Macmillan the most vehement of them—strongly protested. Churchill urged a two-day session in mid-October; it was “derogatory to Parliament,” he said, “that it should be thought unfit, as it were, to be attending to these grave matters, that it should be sent away upon a holiday in one of the most formidable periods through which we have lived.” Chamberlain replied shabbily that the Speaker decided when the House would be recalled, to which Winston instantly retorted: “But only on the advice of His Majesty’s Government.” Every MP knew that. Chamberlain called his remark “unworthy… tittle tattle,” and now it was between the two of them; Winston, desperately in need of support, got none. He wrote No. 10, protesting the prime minister’s slur, and the P.M. responded: “I am sorry if you think my remarks were offensive, but I must say that I think you are singularly sensitive for a man who so constantly attacks others. I considered your remarks highly offensive to me and to those with whom I have been working…. You cannot expect me to allow you to do all the hitting and never hit back.”
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Churchill returned to Chartwell profoundly depressed. He canceled a lecture at the Imperial Defence College, explaining, “I am so distressed by the change in the situation that I haven’t the heart to address myself to the task to which you invited me at present.” Paul Reynaud and Georges Mandel, outraged by Munich, had resigned from the French cabinet, and Winston wrote Reynaud: “I cannot see what foreign policy is now open to the French Republic. No minor State will risk its future upon the guarantee of France. I am indulging in no pretensions upon our own account…. Can we make head against the Nazi domination, or ought we
severally
to make the best terms possible with it—while trying to rearm? Or is a common effort still possible?” His nephew John George Churchill later told Martin Gilbert: “The gloom after Munich was absolutely terrific. At Chartwell there were occasions just alone with him when the despondency was overwhelming.” To an old Canadian friend Winston wrote on October 11: “I am now greatly distressed, and for the time being staggered by the situation. Hitherto the peace-loving Powers have been definitely stronger than the Dictators, but next year we must expect a different balance.”
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