Target Churchill (4 page)

“‘This is a very fine old college in my state. I will be there to introduce you.'” She looked pointedly at her father. “Now how can you turn that down, Father?”

They had discussed the invitation at length, and Churchill had asked her to find an atlas. He had always been an inveterate reader of maps, ever since his days as a subaltern in India. He had always carried a map book with him.

Sarah had found one in the library, and both father and daughter studied it carefully. “Father, Fulton is west, actually southwest, of St. Louis, almost a hundred miles or so.”

She had pointed a finger towards Fulton and directed her father's eyes to the spot.

“What do the Americans say: A hick town? A hick college in a hick town.”

“But with the President introducing you and after your speech, it will never be hick again. Besides, they still love you in America, Father.” She paused. “It is called the Green Lecture, and there is a $4,000 honorarium.”

“Unthinkable!” he said. “To be introduced by the President and accept money? Absolutely not.”

Although he dismissed the suggestion, he had promised to give it some thought, but Sarah had continued to lobby him and now in front of witnesses where he would be more vulnerable.

Churchill chuckled, amused at his daughter's spirit. She had always been the rebellious child. The two guests were silent as they watched this domestic byplay between father and daughter. He turned to his guests.

“You see? Do you think I can withstand this daughterly bombardment?”

The men shrugged, obviously not wanting to get involved in the dispute.

“Then you'll accept?” Sarah persisted.

“Have I a choice, daughter?”

“Only one, Father.”

“Well, then….” He paused for effect. “Why not? The old Hussar goes west.” He laughed. “Guns blazing.”

By then the lunch was coming to an end. The men offered their compliments to the cook, and then Churchill asked Sarah to bring him the box of Romeo y Julieta cigars that Herman Upmann had sent him recently. He offered them to his guests who declined. He clipped one, lit the end carefully, and sucked in a deep drag, his face beaming with contentment.

“A cigar, you know, is one of the few vices yet remaining for the advanced in age.”

He looked at the men, smiled, and fell into another long, brooding silence. He found himself recalling Potsdam and Yalta, assessing his own behavior. Had Stalin bested them? Should he have been more forceful, less willing to go along with Franklin at Yalta and Truman at Potsdam. He was fast coming to the opinion that Stalin had won the day at both conferences. He took some deep puffs on his cigar.

“I remember once when I was invited to have a drink with Stalin in Potsdam, I felt it was rude not to match him drink for drink of Russian vodka. After we had drained most of the bottle, and Stalin was questioning me in general terms about our intentions in Greece and our position on Poland as he touted the new ‘liberation' committee that was running that country, I saw this aide furiously writing down anything and everything that the Russian interpreter reporting my reactions said to Stalin.

“I said to him, ‘Premier Stalin, why the need of taking notes?' Next afternoon, Uncle Joe walks over to me with his English translator, pushes his pipe into my chest, and amid chuckles, announces, ‘I've destroyed the notes and the notes taker.'”

“He sacked the aide, Mr. Churchill?” asked Luddington.

“Oh, yes, literally, General.” Churchill paused for effect. “He had been executed that morning.”

“Not
executed
?” said the astonished Luddington.

“Oh, yes, a bullet to his head I'm told. I had the sense that he thought I would laugh.” Churchill shook his head and sighed. “This man is a killer. The reports of the Russian offensive last year are appalling: indiscriminate killing, rape, looting. He thought Russians in the lands occupied by the Germans had been brainwashed into the Nazi philosophy. His NKVD troops went on a killing spree targeting Russians and Germans alike. The man is a killer who enjoys killing.”

“Chilling,” Luddington said.

“Way of life, gentlemen. There is an apocryphal story I have heard about some woman from Zagreb who, when informed about my demise as prime minister, proclaimed, ‘Oh, poor Mr. Churchill. I suppose he will now be shot.'”

Churchill chortled and the two men laughed appreciatively.

“This is the way Stalin handles dissent—off with their heads!” Churchill shrugged.

“What did Stalin think of Roosevelt?” Luddington asked.

“He charmed poor Franklin; they really bonded. It was appalling, and yet, he had told others that he thought Roosevelt was merely a rich playboy, soft as butter and easily manipulated.”

“And you, sir?” Luddington let the question hang in the air. “I mean, how did you feel about Roosevelt?”

“You may recall it took me quite a while to get him to act on our behalf.” Churchill shook his head. “Nevertheless,” he continued, “we became good friends in the process. He was a great man, a master politician.”

He grew distant and silent for a long moment.

“God, I miss Franklin; I loved him. England is forever in his debt.”

There was another long pause, and Churchill noted that his two guests eyed him expectantly. He was, he knew, holding court and he reveled in the opportunity, not wishing it to end. He signaled by a nod that he was no longer being reflective and would welcome fresh questions.

“And what of Byrnes, the new Secretary of State? Where does he stand in all this?”

He noted that Luddington was being deliberately vague, but he took “all this” to mean the attitude towards the Soviet Union.

Ah,
Churchill thought,
British intelligence, for some reason, is probing.

He wanted to ask Luddington if this visit's pithy fruits would make their way not only to Alex but also to MI6 and perhaps, the Russians. Churchill secretly suspected that Communist moles had invaded MI6.

“Byrnes, yes, Byrnes,” Churchill remembered. “Met him at Potsdam… a southerner with a drawl like honey. Truman calls him ‘Jimmy.' I'm told he was put out a bit when Roosevelt picked Truman over him for Vice President, an office he had coveted. But then, politics being what it is, Roosevelt chose Truman. Perhaps Roosevelt thought that Truman might be more compliant. Indeed, he kept him at arm's length.”

He checked himself. Sarah admonished him with a glance. He was rambling a bit.

Back to Byrnes!
he rebuked himself.

“Byrnes is no political innocent. He was once the majority leader in the Senate until Roosevelt put him on the Supreme Court. Then Roosevelt made him the ‘Czar' of war mobilization somewhat like what I had Beaverbrook do for me. Like Max, Byrnes speaks to Truman like a peer with a capital
P
—without a pretense of subservience. I liked that in Beaverbrook—but in our cabinet the Prime Minister is ‘first among equals.' Not so in America—the cabinet members are puppets of the President.”

“I hear he's not pro-Soviet,” said Luddington. “At least, we've been reading that in the articles on Byrnes' trip to Paris where he talked to de Gaulle.”

“Perhaps. But they say that ‘while Byrnes roams, Truman fiddles.'”

Churchill chuckled at his little joke.

“Remember, he is an instrument of the President, and Truman, for some reason, is wary of standing up to the Soviets. Frankly, his attitude is baffling.”

“Surely the Soviets don't want war?” asked Luddington. “After what they've gone through?”

Churchill eyed the man with some curiosity, and then resigned himself to the present reality. Luddington was merely echoing the typical appeasement line that was in vogue on both sides of the Atlantic.

“Oh no,” he said with sarcasm. “I'm sure they want ‘peace'—a piece of Poland, a piece of Czechoslovakia, a piece of Hungary, tomorrow, the world. Remember that one. What the Soviets want is to ‘Bolshevize' the Balkans.”

He turned to Sarah, the brief dispute forgotten.

“Do you like that Sarah?”

Sarah shrugged.

“Father, do you think we've kept our visitors too long?”

“Not at all, sir,” Luddington said.

Churchill nodded.

“Sarah is hinting that it's time for me to contemplate the cosmic infinities horizontally.”

“Father means his daily nap.”

“Yes,” said Churchill. “One of the two splendid Spanish contributions to the betterment of the civilized state of man, which I embraced in my early years as a military observer in Spain. One is the siesta and the other the Havana.”

Churchill smothered the remains of his cigar in the ashtray and rose to bid farewell to his visitors. They exited with the amenities of thanks to Sarah, as Churchill ascended the marble staircase.

In his bedroom, Churchill changed into pajamas for his afternoon nap. It amused him that Sarah had cleverly persuaded him to accept the invitation to speak at the small college in the Midwest.

But then she did have a point. Truman and he had last met at Potsdam. His sense of history clicked in. Perhaps this could be the pulpit he had wished for.

He picked up the phone. He needed to talk to Clemmie. Luckily, he found her at Chartwell, where she had just arrived from London. Hearing her voice always filled him with joy.

“Oink, oink,” Churchill imitated a porcine grunt.

“Meow, meow,” answered the voice of his wife.

In his intimate moments with his wife, Churchill would often assume the role of a pig to his wife's cat.

“Hello, pussycat—do you miss my stroking?”

Then he recited a children's rhyme:

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

He continued, “What do you think, Clemmie, of a cat and a pig going across the sea to America? Don't worry, it will be all paid for. I've just been invited by President Truman to speak in some college in Missouri. And, of course, the usual honorary degree.”

“Missouri?”

“A backwater, I agree. But it does offer an opportunity.”

In his mind, he was already composing what he would say.

“We could go early and spend some time with that Canadian friend. You know, that Colonel Clarke of Montreal, who has a winter home in Miami. They've always wanted us to visit them in Florida.”

“Splendid! Do us both wonders. But I will have to forgo Missouri. Chartwell does need work, darling. After all, Chequers will be Mr. Attlee's now.” She paused. “As for Number 10, we are now officially vacated.”

“Did you leave all the silver intact?” Churchill teased.

“Absolutely. But I did take the dozen cases of Pol Roger.”

“Ours or theirs?”

“Theirs. I paid hard pounds for it, darling.”

“Farewell to the trappings of office.”

They giggled like teenagers, after which came a long pause. He could hear his wife's breathing. The silence always meant a worrisome cogitation on her part.

“What is it, darling?”

“This Missouri visit.”

“What of it?”

“I'm concerned, Winston. You no longer have the round-the-clock security afforded by the government. I have a favor to ask.”

“Of course, darling.”

“Take Thompson.”

W. H. Thompson was Churchill's personal bodyguard during his days as First Lord of the Admiralty and throughout the war. Churchill had brought him out of retirement from Scotland Yard's Special Branch in 1939. He had served him with extraordinary efficiency, valor, and skill through many a touchy situation during the war and then retired yet again after the war. Despite the normal protection afforded a prime minister, Thompson, with his sixth sense and eagle eye and uncanny prescience, had saved his life more than once during those trying days, a fact that had been assiduously kept from the British public but not from his wife.

“Really, darling. I'm no longer Prime Minister. Who would bother to want to harm this little piggy?”

“Grant me the favor, darling. Allow me the peace of mind.”

“Clemmie, really. The West is no longer populated with armed cowboys. Besides, the President has a Secret Service detail. They will be protective of us both.”

“I know all that, darling. Still….”

“You're worrying unnecessarily,” Churchill interrupted. “There is no shooting war going on.”

“Please, darling. It's a small favor. Besides, he knows you well, all your little eccentricities.”

“Now really, Clemmie. I am a perfectly proper English gentleman—traditional and quite normal to the core.”

“Of course, darling,” she giggled. “Let's leave it at that. But do take Thompson. Please.”

“What of the expense?” he asked shrewdly.

Thompson would have to be paid for by the Churchills. Money was a mania with Clementine. Her grandfather, the Earl of Airlie, had left his wife for a younger woman. The resultant strained economic circumstances had forced Clementine to work as a governess to make ends meet.

“Hang the expense, darling. Call it an investment in our future.”

Hearing that, Churchill knew he had lost the argument. Besides, Clementine, like him, was never one to retreat. Faced with her resolve, he knew exactly when surrender was necessary.

“Your wish is my command, little pussycat. Just give me a little meow. I miss your purr.”

They chatted briefly for a few more moments, and then parted with kisses.

Churchill lay back in the bed. A conversation with Clemmie always lifted his spirits. He pictured her at Chartwell, the chatelaine of the establishment, forever puttering, decorating, and beautifying their lair. He loved the place.

It was his former house in Kent, which had been reluctantly sold when he had become Prime Minister. As PM, he had the use of Chequers, the official suburban retreat in Buckinghamshire.