WC02 - Never Surrender (17 page)

The words had an extraordinary effect on the airman. His fists clenched. His face, up to that point so stiff with resentment, seemed to melt into a state that mixed revulsion with panic. His lips became twisted; his eyes lashed out in search of some elusive target. He couldn't find it, so instead he grabbed his crutch and began beating it against the bonnet of the jeep with all the might he could muster standing on one leg, until the bonnet was riddled with huge dents and the crutch had been left in many fragments.

When he had finished, tears had washed away every trace of his rage to reveal nothing but dishonour and degradation.

The sous-lieutenant was a Frenchman. This was his country, his soil, he wanted to fight for it but no one else would help, least of all his own countrymen. France was dying. He had been fleeing from the truth as furiously as he could, but he only had one foot and one man to help him. An unarmed Englishman. The truth had at last caught up with him. The heart of France had all but stopped beating.

The strength remaining in his one leg seemed to fail him and he slumped forward; Don rushed to catch him. He held the sous-lieutenant in his arms until the pain had hidden itself once more.

"Well, Pierre or Pascal or whatever your name is, I think it's about time we got you to Calais."

Friday 24 May. Churchill had been in charge for precisely fourteen days. The newspapers that morning were all of a similar mind, but it was the Evening Standard that captured the mood most vividly. Its headline was simple: 'prepare for THE WORST!'

It had poured with rain for the first time in months. It came like a harbinger of dark times, yet the ground still resisted the cut of the spade. In the moonlight, the gardener bent over his work, digging a hole broad and deep enough to bury a dog, hard against the brick wall that separated the garden from the churchyard. Owls screeched in the moist Essex night. Somewhere close at hand a fox barked sharply and pheasants spluttered their displeasure, but the gardener toiled on, piling shovelfuls of earth to one side.

He was not alone. A cigarette glowed in the darkness from beneath the branches of a nearby tree. The gardener muttered as his spade struck a thin root; he chopped through it and dug deeper.

Eventually he straightened. "I think it's ready, sir."

"Are you sure?"

The gardener climbed into the hole to give an indication of its depth. He had been told there must be no lights, no chance of them being seen. They had waited until almost midnight; the rest of the staff should be abed.

Chips Channon stepped forward. "Very well, Mortimer. You may proceed."

Two tin boxes wrapped in oilskin were lowered into the hole. The larger, lower box contained the diaries that Channon had been keeping since he was a young man. He stood in prayer for their safekeeping; he was burying part of himself, and, history would argue, the most important part. A second box was laid on top containing other precious possessions: his watches, Faberge curios, sentimental items.

Channon picked up a handful of the dry earth and let it trickle over the boxes, which sounded back at him like a muffled drum. "Until we are reunited," he whispered.

"God willing, this will all be unnecessary, sir," the gardener offered, beginning to pile on the rest of the soil.

Channon did not respond. God seemed to have been busy elsewhere these last few weeks, a world away from Essex.

For the first time in his life Channon was grateful for his American passport. He suspected he was going to need it.

"I hope you don't mind- a walk in the park, Joe. Nowadays I'm beginning to find my office a little .. ." he searched for a word 'claustrophobic'

"Edward, you've got an office like a palace. Biggest I've seen, outside of Hollywood."

"Nevertheless .. ."

"Nevertheless it's too close to Downing Street, eh?"

Halifax and Kennedy, the Minister and the Ambassador, stepped out around the lake of St. James's Park. Kennedy was enjoying himself; Halifax appeared strained. The bonds that had secured the many strands of his orderly life seemed to be on the point of dissolving. He'd been having difficulty sleeping, even on the nights when the telephone didn't ring.

"You heard that Boulogne's gone?" Kennedy enquired.

"Yes. That was one thing that did manage to filter its way through to me. Joe, it's all such a mess! I scarcely know what to do." He stopped, took out a handkerchief and wiped the inner lining of his bowler hat. "Rab suggested I should have a private word with you."

The American laughed. "Out here no eavesdroppers, no evidence."

Halifax bit back his distaste. Kennedy irritated him: he was so tactless, so new world, so clearly on the make. And yet he was perceptive, could see the fault lines, the growing disloyalties perhaps because he was himself so congenitally disloyal. Halifax needed him. Whatever was left of the world after this war was finished would undoubtedly be new; it would be gauche, self-serving and overwhelmingly self-centred, no matter whether it was run by Germans or Americans. Halifax had once been Viceroy of India, a ruler of millions, but by this stage his ambition amounted to little more than the hope that, when the fuss had died down, there would be a modest corner of the world that could remain unashamedly traditional, run along lines that emphasized continuity and an old established order. If it meant having to sacrifice much of the Empire and British influence in the world, he could live with that. It was going to happen eventually, with or without the war. Empires came, and empires closed; the British had had a good innings. What did it matter if they retired early, and just a little hurt? He didn't want to fight for world supremacy; he didn't much want to fight at all.

"Joe, forgive me for being blunt. Matters in France are becoming so very difficult'

"Edward, you call that being blunt? France isn't difficult, it's a flaming disaster."

"It faces us with a dilemma. You see, there are those who hold that it would be impossible for Britain to fight this war on our own."

"Yeah, I've talked to a few. More than a few."

"If France were to collapse ... if that were to happen, America would be our only hope of continuing with the war. So let me put the matter directly. Are there any circumstances in which America will come and help us fight?"

The Ambassador thought for a moment. "If hell freezes or Alaska floats away. Otherwise, no."

"You are sure?"

"Edward, I've seen the telegrams that Winston's been sending Roosevelt. Practically down on his knees, begging for help. Saying catastrophe is just around the corner. Answer's still the same."

"Winston is always going on about America as if ... well, as if he expects the cavalry to coming riding to our rescue at any moment."

"So did Custer."

A pelican screeched from its rock in the middle of the lake. Halifax raised his head, looking anxiously towards Downing Street as if he expected to see Churchill at a window with a raised set of binoculars.

"Then if not war, would America be willing to help us pursue a peace?"

"What sort of peace?"

"Who can tell until we start talking? But an immediate end to the war, some agreement over Europe, the return of a few of Germany's colonies, perhaps. I think in the circumstances we would have to be flexible."

Kennedy didn't pause before replying. He knew what to expect; he'd been as well briefed by Butler as had Halifax.

"You know we'd help on that, Edward. No one wants this ridiculous war to continue. But I can't see Winston agreeing to it."

The Foreign Secretary's head bent like a heron staring into a murky pond. "Let us suppose for a moment that Winston weren't a problem. Could we do that, Joe? Just hypothetically? Where would that leave America?"

"Anxious. But not out of it. Problem is, Edward, you've got Germany and you've got Russia and hell, who knows what's gonna happen there? What we wouldn't want to see is a peace deal which ends up making either of those two more of a threat."

"Be a little more specific'

"Figure it this way. The jig is up for Britain. You talk peace now and you'll get a better deal than you will later on, but even so Hitler will demand you hand over your military. Army's not a problem, that's already as good as gone. Your air force, too. But the navy? Well, that's something else. You know we couldn't be happy if your Royal Navy ended up in Hitler's hands. Hell, in a couple of years' time it could end up in Moscow. Do I make myself clear?"

Halifax winced at the suggestion.

"So the way this particular game goes, Edward, is that we'll give you all the help with a peace that we can, so long as you give us your navy."

"Give it to you?"

"Sell it, loan it, scuttle it anything so long as it doesn't end up covered in swastikas or the hammer and sickle. And you'll find Hitler a hell of a sight more reasonable about a peace treaty if you don't have a navy. What's the point of playing poker with a man who's clean out of chips?"

"There might be only one problem with that."

"Which is?"

"Winston."

"Hell, I thought we were talking hypothetical."

"He seemed so remarkably unhypothetical at our last encounter."

"Then damn the hypothetical and start talking miracles, Edward. Because that's what you'll need if you're gonna climb out of this hole."

Boulogne had gone. They would fall upon Calais next. And back in London they seemed to be either ignorant or indifferent. Or was it incapable?

The young captain had followed his instructions to the letter. Much to his surprise, they had worked. A bloodied face and a battle-stained tunic was still so unusual in the corridors of Whitehall that it got the bearer past most of the roadblocks before anyone had time to recover from their surprise and ask him what he was up to until he had reached all the way to the Upper War Room in the Admiralty.

The Chiefs of Staff were gathered with their staff men for the evening conference, but Churchill was late, still at dinner, keeping them all waiting, and their mood was fractious.

"Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing here, Captain?" one of the Chiefs barked as the young officer appeared in the room. He offered a salute that had lost its starch; the eyes were glazed with fatigue.

"I have just come from Calais, sir."

"Ah! How's it going?"

"It's not, sir. Not going at all. It's .. ."

Chaos. A total balls-up. An unmitigated bloody fiasco. But he didn't say so. These were the men responsible and a captain couldn't overwhelm the Chiefs of Staff with a frontal assault.

"My commanding officer sent me, sir. He wanted you to know the situation. First hand." He glanced behind them at the situation map pinned to the wall. It still showed British units in Boulogne.

"Then you'd better give your report, Captain," one of the Chiefs barked. No one asked him to sit down, even though his knees were trembling with exhaustion.

"Sir, the situation is desperate."

"Desperate? Get a grip on yourself, Captain, you're clearly very tired. Perhaps you don't realize that we've just sent you reinforcements."

"Sir, we have been sent many things, but none of them are of much use for reinforcement."

"We sent you a battalion of tanks only yesterday."

"Sir, the tanks haven't yet been unloaded."

"Ridiculous! And inexcusable!" There was an impatient rustling of papers.

"Sir .. It was his moment, and he knew it could not be repeated. It was the only chance he would get, perhaps the only chance the entire garrison at Calais would get. But he hadn't slept for three days and he was still deaf in one ear from the blast of a shell that had killed the man standing next to him. The dead man's blood was still on his uniform. His CO had urged caution and self-control, but his control was slipping away with his every word. How could these men know what they had to do unless they were told the truth?

"It just isn't working. You see, the tanks are loaded in the bottom of the supply ships along with the other heavy vehicles. We need them most but they are the last things to come off. I know that's according to regulations but .. . Above them are packed all the artillery guns and machine-guns. They're packed according to regulations, too, in thick mineral jelly for a sea voyage, even though it's only Calais. And on top of that is loaded the fuel for the tanks, once again all done according to regulations. But the fuel comes in four-gallon cans. It's taking hours to shift them. The mineral jelly's taking more hours to clean from each gun. Then we discovered that they've been shipped without any ammunition. Half the parts are missing. The whole dock area is under constant bombardment, there is no electrical supply for the cranes so the stevedores are refusing to work and'

"Enough! Pull yourself together, man."

"Sir, with respect, it's impossible to hold off a German advance with guns that have no ammunition and tanks that are sitting at the bottom of a supply ship!"

He'd lost it. Everyone knew it, including the captain himself. And it was the only chance he would have.

"Captain, you are clearly overwrought. You can get some rest now."

"Sir'

"Leave, Captain!"

It had all fallen apart, and it was his fault. He had never known such shame.

At that moment the door opened. Churchill bustled in, followed by cigar smoke and Brendan Bracken.

"Ah! What have we here?" the Prime Minister exclaimed, eyeing the dishevelled state of the captain. "A warrior, by the look of you. Good to have one around at last."

"The captain was just on his way out."

"Mr. Churchill, I was bringing messages from my commanding officer."

"And you must take a message back to your commanding officer that it's his responsibility to sort matters out, not to come complaining here," an encrusted military voice interjected, growling in warning. Tell him to make proper use of the reinforcements we've sent."

"The reinforcements have arrived?" Churchill enquired. "Excellent."

"We sent another battalion of infantry yesterday," the voice added. "Queen Victoria's Rifles." He decided to omit any reference to the tanks. Just in case.