Churchill's Hour (30 page)

The servant looked at the master, eye to eye, closer now than they had ever been.

‘You must be with me on this, Sawyers.' Churchill's voice carried the passion of a man with his foot upon the gallows.

‘No need worrying about me, zur. I've not much idea what yer been talking about, to be honest wi' yer. Anyways, I'm just a stupid valet. Only good for pressing trousers, so yer keep telling me. And, if I remember right, none too good at that.'

The men of the task force had been mustered. Now they knew.

Maps were unrolled, plaster relief models of the harbour produced, identification exercises carried out with the silhouettes of US ships. There were other targets, too—airfields, barracks, Marine bases to be located and destroyed. The military complex at Pearl Harbor was huge.

Sake was poured and the Emperor saluted with great cries. There was much rejoicing.

But alongside it all there was also great tension for, even at this late stage, if they were sighted, they were under orders to abort and return home.

It might still have been stopped.

They went on talking in Washington. But there had been a change in the atmosphere of negotiations. The Americans demanded to know why the Japanese kept moving more troops into Indo-China,
and the Japanese kept promising a detailed reply, yet none came.

But they continued to stir up optimism. Admiral Nomura, the Japanese Ambassador in Washington, told the press that ‘the Americans talked and we listened'. The Japanese wanted ‘to avoid war if possible, for war would not settle anything. It is a question of war or peace, but war would not help and there is no reason why we should not settle these issues by diplomacy.'

Tokyo was reported as still being hopeful, and kept promising a reply to the American demands within days. The Japanese even insisted that Prime Minister Tojo's remarks about ‘purging' British and American influence from Asia had been mistranslated, even though the words had come from the pen of their own official. But, in spite of all this, a gloom settled across the proceedings. ‘Japan's reply to the United States has not yet been made,'
The Times
reported, ‘and it is still a question whether it is not already taking the form of military action rather than words.' The paper speculated about possible targets. The list included Thailand, Hong Kong, Malaya, the Philippines, the Dutch East Indies, even Australia or New Zealand.

But no one mentioned Pearl Harbor.

On Friday, which was the fifth, the Japanese gave their formal reply to the State Department. There was enough wool in it to cover a flock of sheep. It
was accompanied by a suggestion that a more detailed reply might come soon, with just a little more time, but no more talks were scheduled. The waiting game so beloved of the diplomats was almost done.

In London, it seemed that not a thing was going right. On Saturday, the sixth day of December, reports from Russia told of the Germans still falling in fury upon Moscow, while in North Africa it became clear that the latest British offensive against Rommel was being ground into the sand.

And Max Beaverbrook had declared that he was going to resign. He said he was tired of fools getting in the way of his work and was exhausted by his asthma. Was it a ploy, another game, the start of a plot to replace Churchill himself? Or did he really mean it? Max would do anything for a headline.

The uncertainty took a terrible toll on Churchill. It came to a head at the meeting of the Chiefs of Staff over which Churchill himself presided, with Eden also in attendance. He was about to depart for Moscow—in the wake of Churchill and Beaverbrook—and was insistent on taking some gift with him. How about three hundred tanks? Or three hundred aircraft? Or both? The Chiefs of Staff were as desperate to bring the figure down as Eden was to push it up—after all, he argued, hadn't Beaverbrook taken much more when he'd been to see Stalin? It was like some childish spat, boy scouts arguing over
badges. And where was bloody Max? Plotting? Or truly suffering?

As the time moved towards midnight, Churchill could stand the bickering no longer.

‘We're going round in circles,' he said, banging the table in exasperation. ‘Let's conclude. Ten squadrons, Anthony. Offer him ten squadrons—but only after the Libyan offensive is done with.' He closed the file in front of him to indicate the discussion was at an end.

Yet the Chief of the Air Staff had other ideas. These were his aircraft, after all. And in the last war he had been a despatch rider during the retreat from Mons, so he knew a thing or two about being shot at by his own side.

‘Prime Minister, I've no objection in principle. Wish to help the Foreign Secretary, of course—and Comrade Stalin. But I think the numbers of craft involved and the timing are a little too definite. I must recommend we leave ourselves a bit of elbow room on this one. After all, we haven't yet been able to establish that the Russians can even fly these machines.'

It was an entirely valid point, but set against the imminence of the end of the world, a dispute about ten squadrons seemed somehow desperately trivial. Suddenly Churchill could take it no longer. He hurled his papers across the table and accused them of deliberately obstructing his intentions. He said
they were supposed to be men of ideas and initiatives but all they brought with them were their objections. And he swore most profoundly.

‘You can't make up your bloody minds, so I'm going to make them up for you!'

He proceeded to gather the papers that he had hurled around the table, stuffing them back into his file and pretending to study them. All the while his chest heaved, his fists remained clenched, and for some considerable time his eyes were closed. He said not a word. He was pursuing private dragons, and wherever his mind was, it was not in this room.

Abruptly he slammed the covers of his file together and stalked out of the room.

For a few moments, these most powerful of men remained silent, stunned at what they had witnessed.

‘That was very sad,' one of them said quietly.

‘Pathetic, really.'

‘Entirely unnecessary.'

‘Such a pity.'

‘God knows where we'd be without him'

‘But God knows where we shall go with him…'

He didn't know where he should go, or what he should do. He had as yet done nothing, but doing nothing was the most momentous decision of all.

He invited the Americans for the weekend at
Chequers—whatever happened he knew it must involve them—but Winant had official duties elsewhere and couldn't make it until Sunday. He was summoned, nonetheless. Harriman came, bringing along his daughter, Kathleen, who had come to spend time with her father. It was her birthday, so Churchill instructed Sawyers to arrange a cake with candles for dinner on Saturday evening, yet when the lights were dimmed and it was brought in it caused surprise. It quickly became clear that Churchill, distracted, had grown confused. Her birthday wasn't until the following day. Anyway, no one seemed to be much in the mood for celebration. The tension was affecting them all.

When Sawyers put him to bed that evening, it was, at first, in complete silence. They had a routine, long established, which meant there was little need for words. It was only after Churchill had climbed into bed that he spoke.

‘I must decide tomorrow. It is the last chance.'

‘What will yer do?'

‘I'm going to sleep on it.'

‘No yer won't. You've not slept fer days.'

He sighed. ‘What do you think I should do?'

‘Not fer me to say.'

‘No one else can say, Sawyers. No one else knows.'

The valet bent to pick up the socks from the floor, trying to ignore the question.

‘I feel very lonely, Sawyers. I don't think I can do this alone. I think I shall have to speak out.'

Sawyers straightened. ‘Speak out? So who'd believe you?' he said belligerently. ‘They'd only say yer gorrit all wrong again.'

‘What?'

‘Well, like yer did when you tried to save old King from abdicating.'

‘You're right there, I suppose. He wasn't worth it.'

Churchill's career had been crowded with many moments when his judgement had proved disastrous, but Sawyers decided this was scarcely the time to recall them all.

‘And what'd yer tell ‘em anyhow?' the valet continued. ‘That yer worked it all out on yer fingers?' He shook his head. ‘That's how yer do the household accounts.'

‘And I'm not so very good at that, am I?'

‘Below stairs, we have a rule, like. No one gets into trouble fer what they see and don't say. Eyes open, mouth shut, that's the way it works best. Particularly in a household like this ‘un.'

‘Above stairs it's different. Usually quite the reverse.'

‘I'm not in the business o' giving a Prime Minister advice. Not me job. Fold yer clothes, serve yer food, sweep up after yer, like, but you're the one what gets paid for running this war. Not me. I'm a servant. Nowt wrong wi' that. Proud to be so. Not got much
to me name, but I do know that if Hitler were to get here I'd end up wi' nowt. Wouldn't be a servant, wouldn't even be a slave. They'd put me up against a wall wi' you in front of a firing squad, more than likely. And what wi' the size o' you and me after Mrs Landemare's cooking, not much chance of ‘em missing, I suppose.' He folded Churchill's trousers immaculately and placed them on a hanger. ‘Whatever you decide is best, Mr Churchill. That'll be right wi' me. Have no doubts.'

‘Thank you, Sawyers.'

‘Goodness. Feel like I've been mekking a speech. That's your job.' He hesitated. “Cept sometimes…'

‘Go on. Please.'

‘Well, all I know is that yer mekk some right fine speeches, so yer do, but seems to me that some of yer best moments were when yer were kepping yer mouth shut. Like over Lord Halifax.'

‘Ah.'

It seemed so long ago when Neville Chamberlain, on the point of resignation, had summoned Churchill to the Cabinet Room and asked him to endorse Halifax as his successor. Churchill had gazed out of the window and said nothing. The moment—and Lord Halifax—had passed.

‘You make a powerful argument for saying nothing.'

‘Not giving advice. Just saying, like.'

‘And I thank you for it.'

‘I'm not the one to be telling what yer should do,'
the other man continued to grumble. ‘Particularly about something that's already clean slipped me mind.'

For the first time in days, Churchill smiled.

Sawyers had begun vigorously brushing the lapels of Churchill's jacket. ‘You don't half make a mess wi' yer dinner at times.'

‘Does it matter? That is not what history will remember me for, Sawyers. It may well mark me down as its greatest scoundrel.'

‘That'll depend.'

‘On what?'

‘Who writes it. Yer always talking about going back to Chartwell after it's all over to write history o' the war.'

‘But if I am to write it, I must win it first. Is that what you're saying?'

‘I'm not saying nowt. But if that's what yer want, that'll be fine by me, too.'

Sunday. The seventh day of the month. Winant was late for lunch, delayed by the demands of diplomacy. It seemed not to matter; food was little more than distraction to the earnest ambassador, particularly at times such as these. He had phoned ahead and apologized, insisting that the others begin their lunch without him, yet when his car drew up on the gravel before the front door of Chequers, he was surprised to see Churchill striding up and down, pulling
impatiently at his cigar. A cold December wind was blowing, but he wore no overcoat.

‘Winston, my profound apologies…'

‘War,' the Prime Minister barked, pacing relentlessly and neglecting the usual pleasantries of welcome. ‘D'you think there will be war?'

Winant was still only half out of the car. He straightened slowly, his clothes more than usually crumpled after his journey. ‘Yes,' he replied simply, brushing his forelock from his eyes.

Churchill suddenly stopped his pacing and turned on him with startling vehemence.

‘If they declare war on you, Gil, we shall declare war on them within the hour. Within the minute!' He was agitated, stabbing at the ambassador with his cigar.

‘Yes, Prime Minister, I understand. You've made that very clear and in public.'

‘So what I very much need to know is this. If they declare war on us, will you declare war on them? Will you join the dance?'

It seemed a strange performance to Winant. Churchill already had the answer, he knew what the ambassador must say.

‘Has something happened, Winston?' the American asked, perturbed.

‘No. I just need to know. Need to hear it. We will back you. Will you back us?'

Winant's tone grew formal. ‘You know I can't
answer that, Prime Minister. Under our Constitution, only the Congress has the right to declare war.'

Churchill had been standing before him with his fists clenched as though ready to fight, but as he listened to Winant's words his shoulders fell and the energy seemed to drain from his body. ‘I was hoping—just hoping—you might have had fresh instructions,' he said softly.

‘My hands are tied. As are the President's.'

Churchill's jaw was set. ‘I had allowed myself to hope, Gil. It would have made things so much easier.'

‘There is nothing I can say.'

‘Nothing you can say, eh?' Churchill said, slowly echoing the other man's words and shaking his head in sorrow.

Winant was perplexed. The old man appeared crestfallen, yet their exchange couldn't possibly have come as a surprise. He felt there was some part of the conversation he was missing.

Churchill took one last pull at his cigar before hurling it into the bleak flowerbed. He had smoked less than an inch. His eyes were rimmed with tears, his voice so choking with emotion that the words emerged only with difficulty.

‘You are my friend, Gil. And we are late, you know. Come in and get washed so the two of us can go into lunch. We can at least do that together, can't we?'

They dined together, too, with Harriman, Kathleen and Pamela, yet Churchill found no pleasure in it. He sat morose, his face grim, making no attempt to join in the conversation. He had withdrawn deep within himself.