Read Online Winston’s War by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Dobbs
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to our duties.”
Before he knew what he was doing Bracken, too, was on his feet, muttering apologies to Anna and bidding a hurried farewell to the Ambassador, fuming that once again Churchill had taken him for granted. Dammit, he didn't want to leave, not right now. Churchill always treated those around him as barely better than altar boys, waiting to serve him. They said that about Winston, that he was like Moses, except being more modest he made do with only one commandment: “Thou shall have no other god but me.”
“Pity you have to run off so soon, Winston,” Kennedy called after the retreating figures, twisting their pain. “Say hi to Neville for me. And come again. Come for Thanksgiving. That's when we normally stuff turkeys.”
“And don't forget the air-raid shelters,” Anna cried out, innocently unaware.
“Hah! Or your steel helmets. If you can find any…”
Burgess knew it was going to be one of those days when he got drunk, very early, and did something completely appalling. Sometimes he couldn't help it, he found himself driven, in much the same way that his heart was forced to beat and his lungs to inflate. A friend had once called it a form of madness but it was simply that he viewed the world with different eyes—eyes that were more open and saw more than mere convention and correctness required—which at this moment wasn't difficult, since convention required the world to be more unseeing and unknowing than ever.
The point had been made most forcefully to him by the Controller of the BBC Radio Talks Department earlier that morning. Burgess had suspected there would be trouble, had even taken the precaution of arriving at Broadcasting House on time and so removing that bone of contention, but punctuality was never going to drain the ocean of irritation that was waiting for him, and neither was argument.
The issue had been Churchill. Burgess had argued quietly, then with growing force, that the inclusion of the elder statesman would add depth and popular appeal to the program he was preparing on the security problems of the Mediterranean. Admittedly, it wasn't the most grabbing of topics, but all the more reason to include Churchill. The Controller had simply said no, and returned to his copy of The Times , leaving Burgess standing in front of his desk like an errant schoolboy. He'd bitten his fingernail and stood his ground.
“Why? Why—no?”
“Executive decision, old chap,” the Controller had responded, affecting boredom.
“But help me. If my suggestion that Churchill be included is an embarrassment, tell me why, so I can understand and make sure I don't make the same mistake again.” The Controller had rustled his newspaper in irritation, but offered no response.
“Is it because he's an expert in foreign affairs?”
No reply.
“Or perhaps that he's one of the best-known historians of our age?”
The rustling grew more impatient.
“I know. It's because he has a lousy speaking voice.”
Nothing.
“Or are you too pig-ignorant or simply too prejudiced to be able to put an explanation into words?”
“Damn you, Burgess!”
“Oh, I probably shall be, but I'll not be the only one. Because you know what I'm thinking? That the reason you can't tell me why Churchill has been banned is because you don't know—or don't want to know. Those that told you didn't have the courtesy to trust you with an explanation. You've just been told to vaseline your arse and keep him off the air and that's that. Just obeying orders, are we?”
“Rot in hell! What do you know about such things?”
“Enough to know that even you aren't normally this much of a shit.”
“Look, Guy—these are difficult times. Damned difficult. Sometimes we have to do things we don't care for.”
“So not your decision?”
“Not exactly…”
“How far up does this one go?”
“Guy, this one comes from so high up you'd need an oxygen mask to survive.”
“Know what I think?”
“Face it, Guy,
Before he knew what he was doing Bracken, too, was on his feet, muttering apologies to Anna and bidding a hurried farewell to the Ambassador, fuming that once again Churchill had taken him for granted. Dammit, he didn't want to leave, not right now. Churchill always treated those around him as barely better than altar boys, waiting to serve him. They said that about Winston, that he was like Moses, except being more modest he made do with only one commandment: “Thou shall have no other god but me.”
“Pity you have to run off so soon, Winston,” Kennedy called after the retreating figures, twisting their pain. “Say hi to Neville for me. And come again. Come for Thanksgiving. That's when we normally stuff turkeys.”
“And don't forget the air-raid shelters,” Anna cried out, innocently unaware.
“Hah! Or your steel helmets. If you can find any…”
Burgess knew it was going to be one of those days when he got drunk, very early, and did something completely appalling. Sometimes he couldn't help it, he found himself driven, in much the same way that his heart was forced to beat and his lungs to inflate. A friend had once called it a form of madness but it was simply that he viewed the world with different eyes—eyes that were more open and saw more than mere convention and correctness required—which at this moment wasn't difficult, since convention required the world to be more unseeing and unknowing than ever.
The point had been made most forcefully to him by the Controller of the BBC Radio Talks Department earlier that morning. Burgess had suspected there would be trouble, had even taken the precaution of arriving at Broadcasting House on time and so removing that bone of contention, but punctuality was never going to drain the ocean of irritation that was waiting for him, and neither was argument.
The issue had been Churchill. Burgess had argued quietly, then with growing force, that the inclusion of the elder statesman would add depth and popular appeal to the program he was preparing on the security problems of the Mediterranean. Admittedly, it wasn't the most grabbing of topics, but all the more reason to include Churchill. The Controller had simply said no, and returned to his copy of The Times , leaving Burgess standing in front of his desk like an errant schoolboy. He'd bitten his fingernail and stood his ground.
“Why? Why—no?”
“Executive decision, old chap,” the Controller had responded, affecting boredom.
“But help me. If my suggestion that Churchill be included is an embarrassment, tell me why, so I can understand and make sure I don't make the same mistake again.” The Controller had rustled his newspaper in irritation, but offered no response.
“Is it because he's an expert in foreign affairs?”
No reply.
“Or perhaps that he's one of the best-known historians of our age?”
The rustling grew more impatient.
“I know. It's because he has a lousy speaking voice.”
Nothing.
“Or are you too pig-ignorant or simply too prejudiced to be able to put an explanation into words?”
“Damn you, Burgess!”
“Oh, I probably shall be, but I'll not be the only one. Because you know what I'm thinking? That the reason you can't tell me why Churchill has been banned is because you don't know—or don't want to know. Those that told you didn't have the courtesy to trust you with an explanation. You've just been told to vaseline your arse and keep him off the air and that's that. Just obeying orders, are we?”
“Rot in hell! What do you know about such things?”
“Enough to know that even you aren't normally this much of a shit.”
“Look, Guy—these are difficult times. Damned difficult. Sometimes we have to do things we don't care for.”
“So not your decision?”
“Not exactly…”
“How far up does this one go?”
“Guy, this one comes from so high up you'd need an oxygen mask to survive.”
“Know what I think?”
“Face it, Guy,
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