WC02 - Never Surrender (27 page)

"You would do that?"

"Edward, I give you my word. As a gentleman. It would be my duty. As I believe it is your duty to stand beside the rest of your colleagues while this operation of evacuation proceeds. Until its end. Tomorrow, the day after at best, we are told."

Halifax moved onward, his domed head nodding upon his long neck as if the problem was too heavy for his strength to bear. Suddenly he stopped once more. "What is that?" he asked. He was pointing to an unkempt bale of straw standing on its end in the far corner of the otherwise immaculate garden, looking as though it might have been kicked all the way from Cornwall.

I call it Fritz. Use it for target practice. Even for a few bayonet thrusts. To keep my hand in. Just in case."

"Winston, you and your war .. ." Halifax wrung his hands in disbelief.

"We are both men of our convictions."

"Then let us put those convictions to the test. Inside the Cabinet. I will do as you suggest, even as I pray that we shall find another option to your war. To save us all from dying at German hands."

Churchill had to be content. He had bought a little more time through deception and a bald lie, but Halifax would not see that, not yet, blinded as he was by that inherent English weakness which required him to regard his colleague as a gentleman. But this wasn't a tea party; Churchill had no intention of ever passing quietly down Halifax's path of peace. That way, he muttered to himself, he was certain to die at German hands. Why, Ruth Mueller would shoot him herself.

All day they had stumbled along, Claude leaning ever more heavily upon Don's shoulder as the loose footing in the dunes slowed them to a crawl. They were forced to stop frequently, both to allow Claude's ankle to rest and to keep out of sight of Wehrmacht patrols that combed the beach area looking for stragglers. And Don's wound was worse than he'd thought; it felt as if a hot coal was being forced into his arm. As they had attempted to slip out of Calais, they'd almost been given away by a young dog, a cream-and-chestnut spaniel terrified by the bombing, which had barked and yelped at them incessantly, snapping at their heels. They would gladly have shot it, but they had no weapon, so instead they decided to quieten it by appealing to its better nature. It took some time and a sharp nip on Don's hand for it to emerge, but eventually the dog stopped yelping and came forward slowly with suspicion in its eye. These were men, in uniform; the dog had no reason to trust them. But eventually the bond was made and the dog quietened. Trouble was, it wouldn't leave them. They tried to shoo it away, threw sand at it, even stones, but it was the first game the dog had played in days and he scampered off only to return, and they were too slow to flee.

They had no food. Don was weakening, with shock and straightforward exhaustion. When, towards evening, they came across a farm cottage at the end of a rough track, they had little choice but to seek help. Claude knocked and was greeted by a weather-beaten and frightened woman. When Claude begged for shelter, she shook her head, so he asked instead for food. The woman disappeared inside, but when she returned and looked once again at Don, she began shouting and waving her arms.

"She doesn't like you," Claude explained. "You're English."

"Allies," Don exclaimed. "Allies!" and linked his arms together, but it had no effect. The woman gave Claude food, even made a point of giving food to the dog, but she offered Don nothing but abuse. She even produced a broom to wave him away; they noticed there was already a white towel tied to the handle.

They were forced to stagger on, the dog close at their heels, keeping well away from the roads, along endless, anonymous trails through the sand dunes, with Claude pointing the way. He explained they would have to make a wide detour around Gravelines, the port that stood between them and Dunkirk.

"You sure you won't get lost?" Don asked, when at last they could go no further and sat down to share what little food the woman had given to Claude.

"How can we miss Dunkirk?" he explained, pointing with a chewed leg of chicken.

The sight was unmistakable. Still some miles ahead, but even in the fading light they could see it. Wave after wave of sharp-winged dive-bombers in the sky, circling, hovering, then swooping with the urgency of hunting kestrels. Time after time. No opposition, nothing to disturb their intent. They would vanish from sight, only to reappear once more, climbing slowly back to the skies upon clouds of billowing smoke that rose beneath them.

That was Dunkirk.

The outcome of the great retreat would depend upon many things. Courage, judgement, luck, the weather, and upon finding some way of squeezing enough time out of the situation to enable the ships to be guided in and the troops to be brought out. The importance of every hour could be measured in terms of lives and, in order to stretch the hours as long as he could, Churchill had torn up his rule book of personal ethics. He had lied. Brazenly, outrageously. While he exhorted others to their duties, he acted like a bankrupt desperately scrabbling for every last penny in the hope of fending off the bailiffs a moment longer. He had lied to Halifax. There would come a time when Halifax would surely realize that. But not just yet.

Churchill had even ridiculed his father's resignation. He remembered the moment all so clearly. He had been only twelve. At school. He had been used to boasting about his father to his friends, handing around his autograph, but in a single moment it all changed. His father had gone. And with the formidable eagerness that only young boys possess, his friends began to taunt and torment him. Winston's response was entirely instinctive. Before he had any information on the matter, he sprang to his father's defence, praising the resignation as an act of great conscience that history would shower with glowing accolades. But history was cruel. It had recorded the event as little more than a fit of pique, a temper tantrum, an act that had come as blessed relief to his colleagues. History had spent its time pouring mud all over his father's reputation.

Not that Randolph had minded too much; he'd gone mad and died. Now, from high on the wall of the study, the dark, protruding eyes stared down at the son, gently mocking.

Colville brought him back to the realities of the moment. "Apologies for disturbing you, Prime Minister, but it's Frau Mueller. We can't find her anywhere."

Churchill had asked to see her. She'd become a talisman, someone he could rely on to remind him that his cause was right and that he wasn't going mad like his father. Someone who would at least argue with him rather than conspire behind his back. But now she had gone, too.

"Another drowning rat," he muttered bitterly, and sipped at his whisky.

Colville continued to hover, agitated.

If you insist on prancing around like a bloody schoolboy in front of his naked sisters I shall use you for target practice," the old man barked irritably.

Colville immediately regretted what he was about to do. Churchill wasn't worth it, but .. .

"It's Mr. Kennedy."

"Our American friend." Churchill snorted. "Got himself into some truly unpleasant trouble, I trust."

"Got himself a little drunk."

"Regrettably I cannot condemn him for that."

"He invited me round for dinner this evening .. ."

"Tell me."

"It's

"I know it may not be a pleasant duty, Mr. Colville, but duty it nevertheless is. Anyway, I have a fair idea what that Yankee bastard was going on about. I may as well have it confirmed."

"He was saying how he'd been proven right all along. That England will soon be gone. The war is as good as lost. That it would all stop if it weren't for you."

"In that very last matter he may well be right."

"He told everyone that you don't represent the views of the British people."

"And that the British fleet should be sent to the other side of the Atlantic," Churchill growled, interrupting yet again.

"Yes," Colville stammered. "How did you know?"

"Because I've read it all before," Churchill responded wearily.

He glanced towards the buff-coloured box that was sent to him daily by the intelligence services and was reserved for his eyes only. One of its regular features was transcripts of Kennedy's phone calls and copies of his cables to Washington. It really was disgraceful conduct on Churchill's part, to have failed to cancel the taps and intercepts that the British intelligence services had placed on US embassy traffic. He kept reminding himself that he must get round to cancelling them, and he would. As soon as the bloody Americans entered the war. In the meantime, the conduct of the ambassador would be noted and one day used in evidence or blackmail or whatever method was most useful in wiping this man's existence from his life, for while Kennedy was in harness there was about as much chance of persuading Roosevelt to rally round as there was of Hitler taking up holy orders.

His most recent telegram sat in the box, intercepted on its way to Washington earlier that evening. "Only a miracle can save the BEF from being wiped out," it began. Bugger the man!

"You said there were others present at these outpourings?"

"Yes, sir. The Japanese ambassador, a couple of journalists, one of the Ministers we sacked, a Minister who perhaps we should have .. ."

"Strange company you keep, Mr. Colville." Churchill's tone was heavy with accusation, and it was too much for the young civil servant.

"That's odd, Mr. Churchill, because that's exactly what they said. As have many others. If I'd kept a bottle of decent claret for every time someone had asked me why I was working for you, I'd be sitting on one of the finest cellars in London."

"Insolence!"

"I must be confused. I thought it was loyalty. And my duty."

Churchill was taken aback by the rebuke. He was confused: by exhaustion, by events, not yet by alcohol, although that might come later as blessed relief. The protruding eyes of his father stared down at him once more, as though challenging him to follow along the same path, casting aside all advice and friendships and pouring abuse on all who dared question him. But Churchill had had enough. Where was he to find the strength to fight the devils of times past when he couldn't even cope with the devils of today?

He held out his glass. "Pour me a whisky and soda, very weak, there's a good boy."

It was as close to an apology as Churchill would allow himself, and Colville accepted it, along with the glass. He returned a few moments-later bearing whisky and a manila folder.

There's more?" Churchill raised his eyes wearily.

"Just arrived, sir. Belgium. The King. He intends to sue for peace. To surrender."

"Yes, yes, I know all the rumours."

"These aren't rumours. The surrender meeting has been arranged for two hours' time. The white flag's already flying."

And Churchill's last energies seemed to drain away. He couldn't open the folder but let it fall at his feet. He slumped in his chair; his voice was no more than a whisper.

"So soon? So soon? It cannot be. I had hoped believed at least a little more time."

As Colville watched, the old man seemed to deflate, to shrink, his resistance crumbling like a dried leaf.

"It is the end," he gasped.

Belgium. That bloodied field of Oudenarde and Waterloo, of Ypres and Passchendaele, the burial ground of brave men and empires, and now perhaps the British Empire, too. The Belgian army defended the eastern flank of the pocket around Dunkirk the pocket where the fate of Britain's Empire would be decided. Leopold, the King of the Belgians, loved the British, he'd been educated at Eton, but he loved Belgium more. He hadn't wanted this war, he had tried as hard as any man could to keep his country out of it, yet others had decided to turn it yet again into a dying place. Less than three weeks ago Belgium had been at peace, now there seemed only one way of returning it to that condition. Surrender.

And by the morning there would be a twenty-mile gap in the defences around Dunkirk. The BEF would surely be swept aside, stabbed in the back as they ran to the sea. Their fate could be measured in hours.

Churchill had no idea how long he remained fixed to his chair. Colville had gone, embarrassed, still hurt, left the old man to his misery. Churchill sat listening to the thumping of his heart or was it the footsteps of the hangman on his way up the stair? The minutes passed into hours, perhaps, but he did not stir. He was held by the eyes. He wanted guidance, forgiveness, but there was no pity to be found in them, only scorn for having forsaken his own father and dared to think he was the better man. And as he watched, the portrait began to laugh, to sneer, mocking the child for his failures. I might have thrown away a career, but what does that matter when they will hold you responsible for the ruin of an entire empire? I said you were no good, but you wouldn't listen. You fool, you failure!

Suddenly Churchill was standing before it, trembling in anger, defying his father and all the demeaning memories. "Damn you! Damn you!" he shouted, hurling his glass at the portrait. The glass shattered, covering the oil in whisky and causing a large tear above the left shoulder.

The rage had gone. He climbed the stairs to bed, with steps as heavy as if he were following the footsteps to Calvary. When he reached the top he stopped and sighed. "Waste of bloody good whisky," he muttered, before finding his way to bed.

TWELVE

Ramsay stretched his aching body across the circular chart table in the Naval Operations Room as he examined the large-scale charts spread upon it. He would have been forgiven by almost everyone if he had simply fallen asleep upon it, but he wouldn't have forgiven himself. He was one of those Englishmen who had personalities like a subterranean pool: dark, unmoving, and of unimaginable depth.

He was searching for a new sea route. The shortest route out of Dunkirk had become impossibly dangerous during daylight. It ran straight past Calais and Gravelines and their coastal guns, which were now firing German shells. To add to the chaos, Stukas and Heinkels had fallen upon the harbour in extraordinary number; they had the target of their dreams and were being offered the prize of a lifetime. Shells and bombs pounded everything below. Ships had been sunk, others forced to turn back to Dover, empty. The port was useless, all but destroyed, the town evacuated and all the British troops sent for safety to the dunes. A gigantic pall of black smoke from burning oil tanks spread across the port and could be seen from fifty miles away. The officer whom Ramsay had sent to Dunkirk to take charge had signalled: "Port continuously bombed all day and on fire. Embarkation possible only from beaches east of harbour. Send all ships and passenger ships there to anchor."