Winston’s War (67 page)

And so Burgess grew ever more alarmed. Events were at the melting point and it seemed that every man's hands were on the bellows other than his own, and he couldn't even get near the action. For the first time in his life he began to envy those friends who'd gone off to fight in the civil war in Spain, even those who'd been buried there. At least they had played their
part. But he had been marked out to fight a different war. Not for him the simple fulfillment of picking up a rifle and aiming it at the enemy. His enemies were all around him, right at his elbow, yet all he could do was smile and buy them another bloody drink while they closed in.

He didn't know what to do, so with little idea of any purpose had gone in search of Churchill. But Churchill was not to be found—didn't want to be found. The closest Burgess got was to discover Bracken and Boothby on the far reaches of the terrace of the House of Commons where it overlooked the river. The night was chill, lit only by a crescent moon, but they took no notice of the cold. Bracken was even in his shirtsleeves. Both he and Boothby were extraordinarily drunk.

Bracken was stumbling up and down, shouting at his colleague with a savageness that comes only from alcohol and fear. It was his fault, Bracken was shouting, the most monumental of blunders, the stupidity of Sodom. Boothby didn't demur. He sat at a wooden table with his head bowed, jowls on his waistcoat, moving only to drink. Bracken's arms flailed the night air and at one point it seemed as though he was about to strike the other man, but it was only the prelude to yet another outpouring of Boothby's shortcomings. These were Churchill's men. And they were in despair.

“I was looking for Mr. Churchill,” Burgess interrupted, moving closer so they could recognize him.

“So are the hounds of Hell,” Bracken spat.

“Better you didn't find him,” Boothby added mournfully. “What's happened?”

“He's happened,” Bracken stormed, waving a fist at Boothby and turning his back on them both. “I've ruined it. Everything,” Boothby was mumbling into his glass.

“But how?”

Two dark eyes rose from the alcohol. “That's the point.
Buggered if I know. Only did as I was told. But Winston says I've bollocksed everything up. Ruined it. Never known him in such a rage. So violent. Said he was going to take the bloody Mausers and shove every one of 'em up me. Every single one of them. Can't say any more. Mustn't.” The effort seemed to have been too much for him and Boothby returned his attention to his glass.

“Mausers? I don't understand,” Burgess began, but Bracken was on him.

“Oh, so you don't understand. Stop the world while we take that one in. Mr. Burgess doesn't understand. Understand? Who the devil are you to understand? Leaping out of shadows—what the hell are you up to, Burgess?”

“I want to help.”

“Oh, forgive me. I mistook you for one of those freeloading shits who spend their time attaching themselves to people of importance and sucking them dry. Well, about the only decent thing to have come out of this mess is the fact that you, Mr. Burgess, have been wasting your damned time. You'll get nothing. No one is going to get anything, not Winston, not me, not Boothby here—and you are last on the list. Right at the very bottom.” Bracken's arm swept out dramatically in front of him, intended as a melodramatic gesture of dismissal, but he succeeded only in connecting with a bottle that stood on the parapet. It flew off into the darkness. Moments later, it splashed dully into the river below.

“I'm sorry you don't like me, Bracken…” Burgess continued. “Funny. I rather enjoy not liking you.”

“But I do want to help Mr. Churchill. If I can.”

“And how do you propose to do that? When Chamberlain wants Halifax. When the Whips want Halifax. When practically every spaniel in the Tory Party wants Halifax. When I suspect the blessed King and the bloody Archbishop of Canterbury want Halifax, and when it's a racing certainty that most of Fleet Street want him, too. Oh, but perhaps that doesn't matter any
longer, because Mr. Burgess has come to help.”

“Stop being a prick, Brendan,” Boothby growled. “Not his fault.”

“And you know what that gormless idiot Chamberlain has done?” Bracken continued, undeterred. “He can't make up his mind what to do—never could. So he's asked the bloody Socialists to decide for him.”

“What the hell have they got to do with it?”

“Everything! That cretin in Downing Street has asked the Labour Party to join a coalition and tell him who they'd prefer as his successor. The day after Winston tore them to shreds in the Chamber! Like asking Stalin who should be bloody Pope.” Bracken searched around for his bottle. Only slowly did he remember that it had gone. He picked up Boothby's and splashed what was left of its contents into his own glass, before sending it after the first. “So unless you're a worker of miracles—or at least know who most of the Labour leadership are shagging on the side—there's not much you can do. So, Mr. Burgess, I'd be obliged if you would do what you appear to do best, and bugger off.”

Burgess turned away—there was no point in lingering. Bracken was beyond him and Boothby seemed to be losing a private battle with coherence. He left them by the river. What was the point? He couldn't work miracles, and didn't know anything of the nocturnal practices of the Labour leadership. But as he walked away, he remembered somebody who might.

Driberg was in Bournemouth for the Labour Party conference. Burgess even knew which hotel he was staying at. But when he telephoned, Driberg wasn't there. And probably wouldn't be there until breakfast time. The most expensive hotel in the whole of Bournemouth, and he preferred to spend his nights under the bloody pier.

Bournemouth wasn't the only location where the night
was full of activity. On a front that stretched more than two hundred miles, from the Dutch border near the North Sea to the forest of the Ardennes in the south, the mighty divisions of Hitler's Wehrmacht were on the move.

(Evening Standard, Friday, May 10, 1940)

NAZIS INVADE HOLLAND, BELGIUM,
LUXEMBOURG: FRENCH TOWNS BOMBED

BRITISH TROOPS MARCH: R.A.F. BASES
IN FRANCE ATTACKED

Total war burst into the greatest conflagration in history today as Hitler smashed his way into Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg, and bombed many towns in France. Bombs were also dropped on Switzerland.

A series of simultaneous air raids was made on points in a ring around Paris. Nancy, Lille, Lyons, Colmar, Pontoise, Luxeuil, Maubeuge, Valenciennes, and Villers-Cotterets were also bombed. Sixteen people were killed at Nancy alone.

Other reports say that Calais and Dunkirk were attacked. The airport at Lyons was raided for two hours.

Brussels has been “bombed terrifically,” according to a New York message. Antwerp, too, has been bombed.

Swarms of warplanes bombed all the Belgian airports and many in Holland. Parachute troops landed at many points. R.A.F. bases in France were also attacked…

They held the first emergency Cabinet meeting at eight. It was intended to discuss the outbreak of war across a massive front. It was also the meeting at which most of his Cabinet colleagues expected Chamberlain to announce his resignation. But he didn't. Not a mention.

Neither did he touch on the subject when they met again at eleven-thirty. The discussion was all about the future direction of the war, how they would resist the onslaught of the Hun—until someone, no one was later quite sure who, raised the far more sensitive subject of the future direction of the Government.

But Chamberlain's plans had changed. As Ball had told him earlier that morning when the first reports of the new German onslaught were coming through, every puff of artillery smoke has a silver lining.

“Government?” Chamberlain responded stiffly. “I would have thought that such a matter would be the last concern in anyone's mind this morning. The situation seems to me to be clear. Whatever might have been the difficulties occasioned by Wednesday's vote, the German advance has rendered them all irrelevant.” He cleared his throat, betraying his nervousness. “Wednesday was Norway. Today we are dealing with a threat of far greater enormity and much closer to home. My responsibility is to get on with the task of meeting that threat. There's a job to be done, and I intend to get on with it. In doing that I feel sure I shall enjoy the overwhelming sentiment both in Parliament and in the country. And, of course, around this table.”

He stared at them, trying to catch their eyes, but no one was looking at him, except for Winston, who seemed on the verge of tears. They sat stunned.
Taceo consentire
—in silence, consent. So, they weren't going to change horses after all, not in the middle of a stampede…

“Therefore, gentlemen, if we can turn to the matter in hand.”

Then someone cleared his throat. Broke that silence. Someone wanted to speak. Suddenly all heads were up, staring. It was Kingsley Wood, the Air Secretary.

“Before we proceed, Prime Minister, may I impose upon our many years of friendship?”

Chamberlain nodded his assent. Wood was a party man, a loyalist. No harm in him endorsing the sentiment. Make sure we're all rowing in the same direction. But Wood was a man who had changed—or been changed. He didn't want to row in the same direction as his leader any longer, not after he'd learnt that Chamberlain was about to toss him out of the lifeboat to appease the sharks.

“As a friend, Prime Minister, may I say…“—he was fiddling with his pen, eyes downcast, like Brutus with his knife—”I disagree. Disagree as a colleague, as a member of your Cabinet, but most of all as someone who respects and admires you beyond measure. The events of this morning only emphasize the need to ensure that the changes in Government which are required are implemented all the more swiftly. This war may go on for years. If now is not the time, when will it be?”

Suddenly Chamberlain found all their eyes were on him; none were flinching. He had to speak, but for a moment couldn't find his voice. The words, when at last they appeared, had an edge like tearing sandpaper. “Does that reflect the view of you all?” he asked slowly.

No one spoke.
Taceo consentire
. The gamble had failed.

He had known it might. That's why he had another plan.

“Edward?”

“I'm sorry, Neville, but how could I have spoken up? They know 'm your most loyal colleague. They would have discounted anything I said, seen it as self-serving, wanton.” Chamberlain regarded his Foreign Secretary, uncertain of what he saw. A friend? A loyal lieutenant? But how far did such things stretch, what were the limits of his loyalty? They would soon discover.

But Halifax had already read his mind. “I don't want it, Neville, not in these circumstances. I don't want to step into your shoes.”

They were sipping tea and eating a sandwich lunch in the garden. It was the most glorious of spring days, the bulbs and buds bursting forth in a competition of many colors. How ironic, Chamberlain thought, that the English sun came out only to illuminate disasters.