Free Churchill's Hour by Michael Dobbs Page A

court martial,’ he began again. ‘I force myself to stand trial, accuse myself of neglect. Have I done my duty? Have I done enough? Did all those men who died that day at my order give up their lives for sufficient reason, or did they die for nothing more than vanity?’
    â€˜You know no man could do more.’
    Churchill tapped the buff-coloured box. ‘Goebbels made a speech the other week. About me. I’ve just been reading it. Ever since Gallipoli, he said, Winston Churchill has spent a life wading through streams of English blood, defending a lifestyle that has outlived its time.’
    â€˜He’s a liar. The blood has been spilled by Germans, not by you.’
    â€˜But perhaps he has a point, you see.’ He held out his hand, summoning her close. She knelt at his feet.
    â€˜The world in which I grew up and through which I have travelled all my life has outlived its time. My world is a world of Empire and Union Jacks, where the scarlet coat of the British soldier has stood proud and firm in every corner of the globe. Yet now…No matter what the outcome of this war, Pamela, that world is lost. The days of an atlas splashed in red, of emperors and adventure, of natives and majestic nabobs, they are all gone. Of another time.’
    â€˜I don’t understand, Papa.’
    â€˜After this war is over, whoever holds the reins of authority, it will not be Britain. We are too small, too content, perhaps even too kind. You need an edge of ruthlessness to rule. So whose creed shall we find in the ascendant? Hitler and his fascism? Commissar Stalin and his Bolshevist crusade? Or America, perhaps, which worships before the altar of Mammon? Which would you choose, Pamela?’
    â€˜Why, America,’ she said uncertainly.
    â€˜Better America, a thousand times better. Even though at times they totter around like blind men, especially when they set foot in other parts of the world. They don’t understand that all men are not as they are. And even when they stumble over thetruth, they pick themselves up and carry on as if nothing has happened.’
    â€˜But you have praised their generosity…’
    â€˜Sometimes they are like gangsters.’
    â€˜They have given us destroyers, Lend-Lease…’
    â€˜In return for which they have taken all our gold and dollar reserves, demanded we give them military bases in every corner of the globe, and now their negotiators have started talking about handing over our art treasures and ancient manuscripts.’ His chin fell to his chest. ‘The bonfire of glories that once was the British Empire belongs to an age that has passed. That wretched man Goebbels was right. And so, in his way, was Randolph.’
    â€˜Randolph?’
    â€˜When Mr Roosevelt announced Lend-Lease, he likened it to lending a neighbour a hose pipe when his house catches on fire. You don’t quibble about its cost, so long as it’s returned. But Randolph says it’s more like offering a piece of used chewing gum, never expecting it to be returned.’
    â€˜You act so warmly towards all the Americans…’
    â€˜They are the New World, the young world. And I trust them as much as I would any seven-year-old. So we will douse them in flattery and humbuggery, and never give up hope that our American friends will find within themselves the will to fight the right war. But we can no longer rely on that.’
    â€˜So what will you do?’
    â€˜Do?’ For a moment he seemed to be searching for an answer in the flames. ‘I shall do whatever it takes. I gave Randolph my word. So tonight, and every night, as I stand before my court martial, I shall have to show that I have done something to ensure that Mr Roosevelt has pitched his tent a little nearer the sound of gunfire.’
    She stroked his balding head, trying to bring him comfort, as though he were a young child. ‘What can I do, Papa?’
    His eyes found her.