Churchill's Hour (20 page)

The message caused consternation on board, and the captain ordered an immediate change of course, just in case. Yet Churchill remained remarkably unaffected. He lay upon his bed in the Admiral's quarters above the propellers and chewed at an unlit cigar.

‘It would seem that some rascal has opened up a direct line of communication with the enemy,' he suggested to Sawyers.

Then, curiously, he smiled. For a moment, and for the first time in weeks, he seemed almost content.

It was while they were on the voyage that Churchill at last got to see his film. Every evening after dinner the projection equipment would be set up in the wardroom and they would watch a film of his choice. Inevitably, one night was spent with Emma and her Nelson.

Once more he watched as the sailor's life unfolded in flickering scenes that he knew so well: defying the threats of his superiors to banish him to the wilderness; rising through the jeers of a hostile Parliament to warn against those who would appease Bonaparte; shining a light that would lead England through its darkest times. Nelson had been the embodiment of everything that England needed but he had been ignored, reviled, and rediscovered only in the nick of time.

Just as Churchill had been.

Yet, as the
Prince of Wales
forced its way through heavy seas towards her destination, Churchill began to see the story through different eyes. There was more to it than Nelson and his half-blind love of England. There was also Emma.

She was adulterous and despised, and they mocked her: ‘the oldest story in the world, the most sordid and the most contemptible. Find a public hero and there you'll find as sure as fate a woman parasite.' Yet as much as they abhorred her she was devoted to him, and her passion that had ignited in the heat of battle grew to last a lifetime.

Without Emma, the story of the admiral couldn't have been told, his victories never won.

And how much she looked like Pamela.

If Pamela made a mockery of her marriage, she mocked no more cheaply than had Emma, or, indeed, Churchill's own mother.

Suddenly he was no longer involved in a story of duty and honour but of sorrows and ruination. He was watching a once-beautiful woman lying old and neglected on the cobbles of a French gutter, having knowingly sold her life's happiness for a few moments with the man she loved in order to give him both the courage and the cause to do what needed to be done.

Wars weren't won simply through fighting and dying, but by holding fast to something that made sense of it all. Nelson and Emma had found that, in England, and in each other.

‘They told us of your victories, but not the price you had paid,' Emma whispered to her beloved sailor. Emma had won her own victory, but the price she had paid, in living long and alone, seemed so much greater than the price paid by Nelson in dying.

As he sat in the semi-light of the wardroom, tears flowed freely down his face and he did nothing either to stem or to hide them. He knew now that he had wronged her. In his confusion, he had been too harsh, but he would stand by Pamela. He would not cast stones. Sometimes it took more courage to seduce and to deceive than to spend all one's nights sleeping in the tents of the righteous. He would remember that, and he hoped others would, too, when the time came for them to judge him.

Dawn, six days after they had left London. The
Prince of Wales
had slackened her speed. Her passengers woke to find low, churning clouds off the starboard bow, through which they could see the outlines of peaks and dense forests. The beam of a lighthouse reached out to greet them, and overhead they could hear the sound of circling aircraft.

Placentia Bay, Newfoundland. The point where the North American land mass stretched east as far as it could reach until it toppled into the grey ocean. A place of mists and old mariners' tales—and of muddle, for it was discovered that the Americans were operating on a different time zone to the British, and the
Prince of Wales
had arrived too soon. She was forced to turn around and sail away to eat up an unexpected hour. But when, finally, she dropped anchor, she did so amidst the vastest fleet the bay had ever seen: the American cruisers
Augusta
and
Tuscaloosa
, the old battleship
Arkansas
, the destroyer
McDougal
, the Canadian warships
Restigouche
and
Assiniboine
, the
Hood
's own escort, HMS
Ripley
, and many others. Every ship seemed to overflow with cheering seamen and the air rippled with the music of marine bands. As the sun burned away the mists, a small figure could be seen waving from the deck of the
Augusta.
It was the President.

Churchill stepped into the admiral's barge and, accompanied by his military chiefs, crossed to the
Augusta.
He was dressed in his uniform as the Warden of the Cinque Ports, all blue serge and brass buttons with a plain peaked cap. Strangely for the extrovert Churchill, it seemed remarkably restrained amidst the gold braid and naval gloss that surrounded him. In his pocket he carried a letter of introduction from the King.

Roosevelt waited in his light and loose-fitting civilian suit. It hid the braces and leg irons that encased his crippled body, while a broad smile hid the pain that came with standing so long to greet his guest. They met on deck, political leaders of great nations that shared a common language, a religious faith and an extraordinary history. Only time would tell to what extent they might also share the future.

Churchill bounded eagerly up the walkway like an impatient suitor. For days he had fretted, asking repeatedly: ‘Do you think he will like me?' Now the moment had come when the veils and mysteries would be lifted and they could face each other as men.

‘Mr President, I am so very glad to have this opportunity to meet with you at last.'

Roosevelt flinched. ‘Why, Mr Prime Minister, we have met before. Don't you remember?'

They came from different worlds, and from different directions. They dined, they drank, they discussed, they prayed together and grew to know each other better. Yet Churchill came panting for war, while at their first meeting Roosevelt started to talk about peace. He wanted a document drawn up, a joint declaration of principles about the sort of world in which they hoped to live. A Foreign Office official concocted a draft over a breakfast of bacon and eggs.

It contained eight clauses of high principles about the right of all people to choose the Government under which they live, about equal access to trade and raw materials, about collaboration and cooperation, about freedom from fear and want, about free access to the high seas and the abandonment of the use of force.

It was to prove the most concrete result of the leaders' historic meeting and became known as the Atlantic Charter. It made headlines all around the world.

The symbolic importance of the Charter was immense, but from Churchill's point of view it was still inadequate. It talked vaguely about the final
destruction of the Nazi tyranny; it talked about Japan not at all. Churchill was later to mutter that the civil servant who drafted the document should have ordered another egg; it might have given him the chance to finish it.

After three days and nights, they parted. In the afternoon sun, Churchill stood on deck and waved his cap at every American ship as they passed, and continued to wave until they were almost out of sight. He continued to look west until the sun had finally fallen on his day. No lover ever wept more unashamedly than did he.

On the journey home they came upon an Allied convoy, seventy-two ships, sailing in twelve columns, the grubby, plodding workhorses of the Atlantic, laden with their Lend-Lease dowry and heading home. The
Prince of Wales
made two runs through the convoy, raising flags to signal ‘Good Voyage', and signing it simply: ‘Churchill'. The crews of the freighters cheered wildly. They could see a small figure returning their wave from the bridge of the battleship, and they sensed rather than saw the two fingers raised aloft in the special salute that was beginning to become his signature: ‘Victory'.

The
Prince of Wales
stopped briefly at the Icelandic capital of Reykjavik. Churchill saw the country's leaders, the crew saw naked bathers relaxing in the
sun. Then the weather changed. That evening as they set sail once more, they ran into the jaws of a piercing storm, but nothing could dampen his spirits.

‘A little champagne to celebrate, sir?' the steward enquired that evening in the wardroom.

‘I never drink a little champagne,' Churchill said. ‘It is not a drink to trifle with. You should never suggest taking short measures of champagne, any more than you suggest a man should take short puffs of oxygen. Why, I've drunk half a bottle every night of my life since I was twenty-five. Forty-two years.' He stared at those around him, his blue eyes flashing mischievously. ‘I reckon I could fill this entire wardroom with all the champagne I've drunk in my life.'

His claim prompted a heated debate. Measurements were taken, volumes calculated, figures scribbled, voices raised, until an admiral who had taken responsibility for the good name of the ship declared that the Prime Minister was wrong, that the champagne he had consumed would fill only half the room. Churchill looked astonished. He gazed around the wardroom in wonder, as though it were a temple.

‘Bugger,' he said. ‘Hell of a lot to do before I'm seventy!'

It was in similar mood that he eventually arrived back in London, more than two weeks after he had departed. Huge crowds had gathered at King's Cross to greet his train, with policemen hard-pushed to
restrain their enthusiasm. Young boys shinned up lamp-posts for a better view, women porters climbed on top of their trunks, newsreel photographers stood on the roofs of their cars. A large official welcoming party had collected on the platform, including Clemmie and Churchill's brother, Jack, but as the train pulled in with triumphal whistles and much venting of steam, the driver couldn't see what was happening and in the confusion he stopped the train well short. Politicians, officials and photographers began to stampede up the platform in a race to be the first to greet him, but after a few moments of shouting and good-natured shoving their British reserve took control and they fell back to allow Clemmie through. The old man leant from the carriage window, still in his nautical uniform and cap, cigar in his hand, a wide beam on his face, waving until he was certain that the photographers had all they wanted. Then a bright hop from the carriage, a kiss on Clemmie's cheek, a Victory-salute, a round of handshaking and a progress through the cheering crowd that was as enthusiastic as any he could remember since…

Since Munich. Since they had gathered at the airfield in Heston to embrace Neville Chamberlain after he came back from his meeting with Hitler, clutching his little piece of paper and promising peace in our time. Less than three years ago.

For a moment he felt as though a ghost were
whispering warnings in his ear, but he ushered it quickly away. He wasn't coming home with empty words of appeasement, he was pledging war! Together, side by side, in the air, on the battlegrounds, beneath the waters, upon the oceans and in every corner of the globe. Roosevelt had as good as guaranteed it. Churchill placed his cap on top of his cane and held it aloft like the laurels of victory. He'd gone with doubts, of course, like any nervous suitor, but he had wooed, and had won, hadn't he? Now, surely, it was only a matter of time.

Rarely had they seen their Prime Minister so bullish. He beamed, he bubbled, he ordered that photographs of the summit should be distributed as widely as possible: ‘Let the whole world see the President and the Prime Minister joined as one, Christian soldiers marching as to war!' He had gone with the objective of bringing the Americans into the war, and he reported to the Cabinet that he had all but succeeded. The President would become more and more provocative; he sought only the proper excuse to ask Congress for a formal declaration of war. ‘Everything will be done to force an incident,' Churchill told his Cabinet.

Yet distance and the passage of days dimmed the dream. Like a wayward lover returning to his legitimate spouse, Roosevelt fell back into line once
he was tucked up in Washington. At his first press conference, he was asked if the United States was any closer to war. He flatly denied it. War? What war?

Many Americans drifted into greater isolation. ‘Because they have not fired a shot or dropped a bomb, the vast majority of them cling to the delusion that they are at peace,'
The Times
reported. ‘Many persons in all parts of the country are tempted to believe that, as Hitler had turned east, the war was withdrawing from the west and from the Atlantic and that their own security was assured.'

The same issue of the newspaper carried a map of Russia. It showed the German Army advancing on Leningrad, Kiev, Kharkov, Moscow, beyond Minsk, surrounding Odessa…Stalin had his balls on a butcher's block, so Americans rejoiced—and relaxed. The Bill to extend military service stumbled through the US Senate by a single vote.

In Paris, ten thousand Jews were arrested and sent to concentration camps. Elsewhere in France, the leaders of a peaceful anti-German march were executed.

In London, as though to sum up the futility of it all, the Food Education Society announced that ‘half a dozen young nasturtium leaves placed between two slices of bread and margarine make a tasty sandwich, especially for those who find margarine unpalatable.'

All this took place within four days of Churchill's triumphal return.

Pamela had come in response to a strange message from Sawyers.

‘He needs yer, Miss Pamela.'

‘I doubt that, Sawyers.'

‘He's not himself. Could do wi' a friendly face around.'

‘I'm not sure I fall into that category. Has he asked for me?'

‘Not exactly, but…very out o' sorts, he is. I think you should come.'

So, not knowing what to expect, she had set out for Chequers on a late-night train. It immediately seemed to be a bad idea. The train was packed, nothing but standing room, and the air stiff with cigarette smoke and the stench of stale bodies. The other passengers were mostly soldiers starting their weekend leave; as they squeezed past, several deliberately barged her with their gas masks, taking the opportunity while apologizing to examine her all too closely. One of them, an officer, waited for the train to sway then fell provocatively against her, his breath soaked in Craven A and beer, his hand resting on her breast. From beneath an overtrimmed moustache, he suggested bluntly that they might have sex in the lavatory.

‘I don't think so, thank you,' she replied, removing his hand. ‘Looking at you, I think there are already enough bastards in this world.'

‘Not to worry, little girl. I can wait till you grow up. Plenty of others,' he sneered, shuffling on.

The train's progress was frustratingly slow, with much blowing of steam and the frequent application of brakes. Timetables meant nothing in war. Outside Chalfont St Peter it came to a complete stop for almost two hours. The atmosphere had grown desperately heavy, lit by nothing more than darkblue blackout lamps and the glow of a hundred cigarettes. She began to think she might faint. The officer was shambling back towards her, more drunk than ever; she took her hatpin and held it prominently in front of her breasts. He wasn't going to fondle her again without a fight. He turned away.

But he didn't disappear for long. As soon as their train rattled into the darkness of Wendover station, he was there at the door, a leer on his face, forcing her to squeeze past his body.

‘Excuse me, please.'

He didn't move.

She stepped forward. With a flick of her wrist the top corner of her suitcase caught him directly in the groin. It folded him like a concertina.

‘You just can't rely on women nowadays,' she whispered, stepping past.

The station platform was in complete darkness,
the night air filled with steam and coal smoke that tasted of sulphur. A beam of torchlight was weaving its way towards her, and behind the beam she made out the bald head of Sawyers.

‘Am I glad to see you,' she said, handing him the suitcase.

‘Entirely mutual, miss,' he responded. He led her towards an army staff car with a Guardsman at the wheel.

‘Courtesy o' Coldstreams, miss. No taxis after midnight. We thought you'd best be having a lift.'

‘It's gone two in the morning. You must be exhausted,' she said, looking into his bleary eyes as he opened the rear door. ‘But won't you be missed?'

‘I put him to bed early. He didn't sleep at all last night. Not like him.'

‘What's wrong?'

‘I don't know and he won't tell. That's why I was thinking yer might be able to help. You two seem to have an uncommon relationship, like.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘He don't shout at you.'

‘Sawyers, I'm very much afraid he's not even talking to me.'

‘He don't hold grudges, miss, you know that. ‘Cept on Hitler.'

Soon they were driving up the long tree-lined avenue that led to the house. The War Office had wanted to have all the trees felled, fearing that on
a clear night they gave the Luftwaffe a straight run at Chequers, but Churchill had refused. ‘I plan to knock a few trees down in Berlin first,' he told them.