Führer had become so agitated that he had screamed and fallen to the floor in a fit. He is the commonest little dog, the German leader, no doubt of that, but if he is half-mad then there is also the other half, and at least he is a man of business. And he, Neville Chamberlain, has done business with him—"the first man in many years who has got any concessions out of me,” as Hitler told him—and he has brought back a piece of paper bearing his signature on which the lives of hundreds of millions of Europeans depend. Herr Hitler has given his word.
The visits to Germany have had their lighter moments, of course. When he arrived in Munich and stepped down from the plane, an SS guard of honor had been waiting ready for inspection. With skulls and crossbones on their collars. What, he had wondered, did they signify? Anyway, as they came to attention he remembered that he had left his umbrella on the plane and kept the SS waiting while he retrieved it. The great German army—held up by an umbrella! And they accuse him of having no sense of humor.
He has achieved more than merely an absence of war, he has built the foundations for peace—a peace in which Britain will be at the heart of Europe, with real influence, helpingshape its future rather than simply watching in impotence as a resurgent Germany grows increasingly dominant. “'Proaching Cambridge, sir,” the driver announces—God, miles still to go. His thoughts turn to his half-brother, Austen, and the Nobel Peace Prize he had been awarded for his efforts in bringing the nations of Europe together. And he wonders whether two brothers have ever separately won a Nobel Prize before. Not that he has been awarded the Peace Prize yet, of course, no point in jumping the guns (although he has, quite literally). But his brother had never had a poem dedicated to his honor by the Poet Laureate, John Masefield:
As Priam to Achilles for his son,
So you, into the night, divinely led,
To ask that young men's bodies, not yet dead,
Be given from the battle not begun.
“What was that, darling?” His wife, Anne, stirs, woken from her sleep.
“Sorry, my dear. Must've been talking out loud. Rest a while longer. Still a way to go.”
And what had Queen Mary told him? Over dinner she took his hand—yes, actually touched him—and said she had received a letter from the Kaiser himself in which he had said—oh, the words burned bright—that he had “not the slightest doubt that Mr. Chamberlain was inspired by heaven and guided by God.” It makes him feel unbearably humble. He is sixty-nine, rapidly wearing out, undeniably mortal, yet with the hand of a Queen on his sleeve and his God at his shoulder. Still some, even within his own party, deny him. What would they have him do, for pity's sake? Cast humanity aside and launch upon another bloody war? What in heaven's name would they have him fight with? A French air force without wings? A Russian army with no scruples? Those people, that rag-bag of politicalmongrels around Churchill—armchair terriers who have urged him to introduce conscription, not just of men but of capital, too. Suggested he should take over the banks and much of business. Control their profits. Insanity! Doing the Bolsheviks' work for them. But what could he expect of Winston, waving around his whiskey and soda, desperately trying to obliterate the memories of his own manifold failures as a military leader. They would carve Gallipoli upon Churchill's gravestone, along with the names of the forty thousand British soldiers who were slaughtered there. Herr Hitler had called Churchill and the other warmongers “moerderen"—murderers. He had a point.
The car is rolling down the A10 now, his thoughts rolling with it, past the acres of glasshouses that carpet the Lea Valley, approaching the outskirts of Cheshunt. The anger has warmed him inside but he remains exhausted almost to the point of despair. The driver slows to take a bend and through the darkness the
The visits to Germany have had their lighter moments, of course. When he arrived in Munich and stepped down from the plane, an SS guard of honor had been waiting ready for inspection. With skulls and crossbones on their collars. What, he had wondered, did they signify? Anyway, as they came to attention he remembered that he had left his umbrella on the plane and kept the SS waiting while he retrieved it. The great German army—held up by an umbrella! And they accuse him of having no sense of humor.
He has achieved more than merely an absence of war, he has built the foundations for peace—a peace in which Britain will be at the heart of Europe, with real influence, helpingshape its future rather than simply watching in impotence as a resurgent Germany grows increasingly dominant. “'Proaching Cambridge, sir,” the driver announces—God, miles still to go. His thoughts turn to his half-brother, Austen, and the Nobel Peace Prize he had been awarded for his efforts in bringing the nations of Europe together. And he wonders whether two brothers have ever separately won a Nobel Prize before. Not that he has been awarded the Peace Prize yet, of course, no point in jumping the guns (although he has, quite literally). But his brother had never had a poem dedicated to his honor by the Poet Laureate, John Masefield:
As Priam to Achilles for his son,
So you, into the night, divinely led,
To ask that young men's bodies, not yet dead,
Be given from the battle not begun.
“What was that, darling?” His wife, Anne, stirs, woken from her sleep.
“Sorry, my dear. Must've been talking out loud. Rest a while longer. Still a way to go.”
And what had Queen Mary told him? Over dinner she took his hand—yes, actually touched him—and said she had received a letter from the Kaiser himself in which he had said—oh, the words burned bright—that he had “not the slightest doubt that Mr. Chamberlain was inspired by heaven and guided by God.” It makes him feel unbearably humble. He is sixty-nine, rapidly wearing out, undeniably mortal, yet with the hand of a Queen on his sleeve and his God at his shoulder. Still some, even within his own party, deny him. What would they have him do, for pity's sake? Cast humanity aside and launch upon another bloody war? What in heaven's name would they have him fight with? A French air force without wings? A Russian army with no scruples? Those people, that rag-bag of politicalmongrels around Churchill—armchair terriers who have urged him to introduce conscription, not just of men but of capital, too. Suggested he should take over the banks and much of business. Control their profits. Insanity! Doing the Bolsheviks' work for them. But what could he expect of Winston, waving around his whiskey and soda, desperately trying to obliterate the memories of his own manifold failures as a military leader. They would carve Gallipoli upon Churchill's gravestone, along with the names of the forty thousand British soldiers who were slaughtered there. Herr Hitler had called Churchill and the other warmongers “moerderen"—murderers. He had a point.
The car is rolling down the A10 now, his thoughts rolling with it, past the acres of glasshouses that carpet the Lea Valley, approaching the outskirts of Cheshunt. The anger has warmed him inside but he remains exhausted almost to the point of despair. The driver slows to take a bend and through the darkness the
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