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Authors: Michael Dobbs
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.”
Churchill was into his stride now. He had pushed his plate away from him, making room on the tablecloth as though preparing to draw out a plan of battle. “Soon we shall no longer be ruled from our Parliament but from abroad. Our rights will be restricted. Our economy will be controlled by others. We shall be told what we may produce, and what we may not. Then, a short step thereafter, we shall be told what we may say, and what we may not say. Already there are some who say that we cannot allow the system of government in Berlin to be criticized by ordinary, common English politicians. They claim we are Little Englanders, xenophobic, backward-looking. Already we are censored, sometimes directly by refusing to allow us access to the BBC, at other times indirectly through the influence of the Government's friends in the press. Every organ of public opinion is being systematically doped or chloroformed into acquiescence and—step by step—we shall be conductedfurther along our journey until we find, like silent, mournful, abandoned, broken Czechoslovakia, that it is too late! And we can no longer turn back.”
“Hell, that's democracy for you. The people want to do a deal with Europe, so that's what they get,” Kennedy goaded. “You said it yourself, Winston, it's the people who get to decide. And you saw how they greeted the Prime Minister. The man of the moment. Cheered him all night outside Downing Street.”
“There was a crowd to cheer him in Munich, too.”
“Doesn't that make you think for one moment you may be wrong? There'll also be a crowd in the House of Commons tomorrow, voting on his policy. You can't deny he's gonna win, and win big.”
“He may win tomorrow. But I shall warn them! And perhaps the day will come when they will remember. Soon we shall discover that we have sustained a total and unmitigated defeat, without firing a single shot in our defense.” He swept crumbs from the table in front of him like imaginary tank divisions.
“Winston, you got whipped 'cause you got nothing to fight with. Face up to it, you're gonna get whipped in any war. That's why you had to run away.”
Two clenched fists banged down on the table, causing every piece of silver to jump. Churchill's wine spilled over the rim of his glass. It spread on the cloth like a dark stain crossing the map of Middle Europe. “Hitler demanded to feast upon poor Czechoslovakia, and instead of resisting his demands we have been content to serve it to him course by course! At the pistol's point he demanded one pound. When that was given, the pistol was produced again and he demanded two pounds. Finally, Mr. Chamberlain waved his umbrella and consented to offer one pound seventeen shillings and sixpence and to make up the rest in promises of goodwill for the future. My country is shriveled with shame.” There were tears in the old man's eyes. He rose in his seat. “I apologize. I am too passionate. But the Ambassadorshould not have spoken as he did. We have passed an awful milestone in our history, Europe is held at the pistol's point, and the Western democracies have been found wanting. But this is not the end. This is only the beginning of the reckoning. The first sip, the foretaste of a bitter cup which will be proffered to us year by year unless we, by a supreme recovery of will and vigor, dash it from the dictator's hand!”
Silence gripped the entire gathering. It was theater, of course; and Winston always overplayed his role. A candle guttered, dripping wax onto the tablecloth where it piled up like a thousand sorrows. Churchill took several moments to recompose himself.
“There is much to be done. And so little time.” His eyes searched around the guests, defiant. “At Munich the Government had to choose between war and shame. They chose shame. I tell you, they shall get war, too.” He nodded curtly in the direction of Kennedy, a gesture trembling on the brink of scorn. “Come, Mr. Bracken. We must set ourselves
Churchill was into his stride now. He had pushed his plate away from him, making room on the tablecloth as though preparing to draw out a plan of battle. “Soon we shall no longer be ruled from our Parliament but from abroad. Our rights will be restricted. Our economy will be controlled by others. We shall be told what we may produce, and what we may not. Then, a short step thereafter, we shall be told what we may say, and what we may not say. Already there are some who say that we cannot allow the system of government in Berlin to be criticized by ordinary, common English politicians. They claim we are Little Englanders, xenophobic, backward-looking. Already we are censored, sometimes directly by refusing to allow us access to the BBC, at other times indirectly through the influence of the Government's friends in the press. Every organ of public opinion is being systematically doped or chloroformed into acquiescence and—step by step—we shall be conductedfurther along our journey until we find, like silent, mournful, abandoned, broken Czechoslovakia, that it is too late! And we can no longer turn back.”
“Hell, that's democracy for you. The people want to do a deal with Europe, so that's what they get,” Kennedy goaded. “You said it yourself, Winston, it's the people who get to decide. And you saw how they greeted the Prime Minister. The man of the moment. Cheered him all night outside Downing Street.”
“There was a crowd to cheer him in Munich, too.”
“Doesn't that make you think for one moment you may be wrong? There'll also be a crowd in the House of Commons tomorrow, voting on his policy. You can't deny he's gonna win, and win big.”
“He may win tomorrow. But I shall warn them! And perhaps the day will come when they will remember. Soon we shall discover that we have sustained a total and unmitigated defeat, without firing a single shot in our defense.” He swept crumbs from the table in front of him like imaginary tank divisions.
“Winston, you got whipped 'cause you got nothing to fight with. Face up to it, you're gonna get whipped in any war. That's why you had to run away.”
Two clenched fists banged down on the table, causing every piece of silver to jump. Churchill's wine spilled over the rim of his glass. It spread on the cloth like a dark stain crossing the map of Middle Europe. “Hitler demanded to feast upon poor Czechoslovakia, and instead of resisting his demands we have been content to serve it to him course by course! At the pistol's point he demanded one pound. When that was given, the pistol was produced again and he demanded two pounds. Finally, Mr. Chamberlain waved his umbrella and consented to offer one pound seventeen shillings and sixpence and to make up the rest in promises of goodwill for the future. My country is shriveled with shame.” There were tears in the old man's eyes. He rose in his seat. “I apologize. I am too passionate. But the Ambassadorshould not have spoken as he did. We have passed an awful milestone in our history, Europe is held at the pistol's point, and the Western democracies have been found wanting. But this is not the end. This is only the beginning of the reckoning. The first sip, the foretaste of a bitter cup which will be proffered to us year by year unless we, by a supreme recovery of will and vigor, dash it from the dictator's hand!”
Silence gripped the entire gathering. It was theater, of course; and Winston always overplayed his role. A candle guttered, dripping wax onto the tablecloth where it piled up like a thousand sorrows. Churchill took several moments to recompose himself.
“There is much to be done. And so little time.” His eyes searched around the guests, defiant. “At Munich the Government had to choose between war and shame. They chose shame. I tell you, they shall get war, too.” He nodded curtly in the direction of Kennedy, a gesture trembling on the brink of scorn. “Come, Mr. Bracken. We must set ourselves
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