Churchill's Hour by Michael Dobbs Page B

‘When the war started he asked me what he should do. I told him to get on a warship and go to sing where the guns are blazing. Cheer ’em up!’
    He waved his cigar in the manner of a conductor’s baton, causing a fresh avalanche of ash to fall down his front and onto Nelson.
    â€˜Coward told me that the composition came to him during a two-thousand-mile car journey from the city of Hanoi to the borders of Thailand,’ Churchill continued. ‘Funny thing was, he said he didn’t see a single Englishman on the trip. Nothing but Frenchies!’ The admission of this patent fraudseemed to upset Nelson, who dug his claws deep into Churchill’s sleeve and leapt for his freedom. ‘Ungrateful beast. Brought him here to keep him away from the Blitz. Think I’ll ship him off to Randolph in the bloody desert.’
    In the wings, Sawyers rubbed his latest scar and growled his approval.
    It was as though Churchill hadn’t a care in the world. He serenaded, he smiled, he kept them all entertained. But Sawyers, circulating with the whisky and soda, watched him carefully. He knew the signs. The old man never truly relaxed. He was always on the foredeck, cutlass in hand, scanning the horizon for bad weather or enemy sails. He wasn’t simply ready for action but insistent on it, straining at every seam and with the echoes of every past battle from Borodino to Blenheim ringing in his ears.
    â€˜Something of an actor, your Prime Minister,’ Harriman said, accepting another tumbler of whisky.
    â€˜No, zur, not really,’ Sawyers responded. ‘Not much of an actor by any stretch. Particular when he’s pretending to be happy.’ The servant passed on.
    Just as Sawyers had expected, the mood changed. By the time the music had finished, Churchill had corralled his senior military men against the piano.
    â€˜A splendid way to celebrate Easter, Prime Minister,’ a general began, seeking to open the campaign onfavourable terms. His hopes were immediately dashed.
    â€˜Celebrate? What the hell are we supposed to be celebrating? Just the latest defeat, or is there some new disaster I haven’t heard about?’
    The level of conversation dropped in every corner of the room.
    â€˜What the hell’s going on in the desert, General?’ Churchill continued. ‘You sweep aside the Italians and advance all the way into Libya, then at the first sign of real resistance turn around and run.’
    â€˜As I think you know, Prime Minister, that is something of an oversimplification—’
    â€˜I prefer simplification to obfuscation. All I’ve been getting is excuses as to why we seem unable to stand and fight. One bloody German arrives, General Rommel, and the whole applecart goes tumbling.’
    â€˜Not just one German, Prime Minister. Rommel did bring thirty thousand other Germans with him.’
    â€˜We have more! Yet we practise only the manoeuvres of retreat! Can’t you understand what a devastating message such failure sends around the world? The British Army can whip a few damned icecreamers, but as soon as they set against any Huns they turn and run!’
    â€˜I must protest—’
    â€˜I’m the one who’s doing the bloody protesting, General! We are on our knees imploring the Greeks and Yugoslavs to stand up to the Germans, we askthe Turks to come in, too, yet we can’t even do the simplest job ourselves. We ran from them in Norway, we ran from them in France, now we can’t even manage a little rough and tumble in the desert.’
    The general was beginning to wilt before the repeated broadsides, but found no means of retreat. The grand piano was digging into his back. ‘The fact of the matter is, Prime Minister, that the Germans have better-equipped divisions. Better aircraft, better tanks, better guns—’
    â€˜And better generals, perhaps. Ever thought of that? If this were any other army we’d be