The Shadow of War (28 page)

Ross then described his school.

‘I went to Sedbergh, up in the Dales. Same kind of regime, except we'd say it was tougher than Giggleswick, our big rivals. Our school motto was
Dura Virum Nutrix
, which means “Stern Nurse of Men”.'

Mick, Tommy, Vinny and Nat have no idea about the world of the men they have always been told are their ‘betters', but they are beginning to realize it is not quite as they
thought. They know that the well-to-do boys of their town go to Burnley Grammar School, the local school for those more fortunate than themselves, or for a few poor lads who are exceptionally clever.

They have also heard of those who are the sons of the aristocracy and go off to posh schools in the south, where they are waited on by servants and taught to be ‘proper gents'. Only three families in the Burnley area are in that league – the Towneleys of Towneley Hall, the Shuttleworths of Gawthorpe Hall and the Asshetons of Downham House – all ancient families who most people believe are a different breed, born to rule.

But local northern schools, with rigours like Giggleswick and Sedbergh, are news to the pals. They hang on Ross's every word as he continues to describe a whole new world.

‘As well as cricket, rugby and football, we were taught boxing, fencing and horse-riding to equip us as soldiers who would spread Christianity and the British way of life throughout the Empire. Every year, we did the Wilson Run, ten miles over the moors; that sorted the men from the boys.'

Tough then interrupts Ross.

‘I suppose you won it in your time?'

‘Yes, I did, twice. And I hold the record: one hour, fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds.'

‘Hmmm, thought you might have, not that you're one to crow about these things!'

‘Course not, old man.'

The four Burnley lads realize that, behind the education and privilege of their officers, these are men just like them and that their lives are not quite as they had imagined. Mary and Cath have told them stories about the top hats and tails at Eton and Harrow, and have tried to persuade their menfolk that it is not a matter of breeding, simply of privilege. The four friends are not sure they understand the difference. Nevertheless, they do not feel antagonistic about
the backgrounds of their officers, more intrigued, especially by schools like Sedbergh and Giggleswick, which seem to be for men not unlike themselves who come from their own communities.

The four new recruits to the Accrington Pals continue their Friday night drinking session, but they drink less than usual and avoid any provocations that may lead to an end-of-evening fist fight. Their journey to becoming professional soldiers has begun in earnest.

Winston is rushing from his Admiralty car to catch a train from Victoria to Dover. He is on his way to France to see why the Royal Marine Brigade has withdrawn to Dunkirk. He is late for the departure, but John Gough, his Special Branch protection officer, accompanied by two burly Royal Marines, has gone ahead to hold the train. Thus, it is departing ten minutes late. The passengers are restless and the driver is anxious to get moving, but the two marines on his footplate persuade him to stay where he is.

When Winston gets to the platform, he is intercepted by a marine serjeant with an urgent message from Lord Kitchener, the Minister for War. Winston is summoned to Kitchener's house in Carlton Gardens; he must go immediately. The trip to France will have to wait. Winston gathers John Gough and dashes across the station concourse, past the Friday evening commuters, leaving the Dover train driver cursing, ‘Bloody politicians!'

Waiting for Winston in Carlton Gardens with Kitchener are Sir Edward Grey, Foreign Secretary, Prince Louis of Battenberg, First Sea Lord, and Sir William Tyrrell, Eddie Grey's private secretary. Winston is given a whisky by Kitchener's
butler and listens intently as the Minister for War outlines the grave situation in Belgium.

‘Winston, we think Antwerp is about to fall, which could mean our attempt to create a bulwark for the Channel ports is in peril. Zeebrugge will be exposed, and a German advance along the coast to Calais would be difficult to stop.'

‘How much time do we have?'

‘Very little. There are reports that two of the city's defensive forts have already fallen. The Belgian Army is on its knees; the country's politicians and generals are beginning to wilt.'

Winston rises to his feet. There is a gleam in his eye.

‘Where's the PM?'

‘On a train to Cardiff for a recruiting rally.'

‘May I suggest I send the Royal Marine Brigade to the Belgians? Immediately!'

All in the room nod, and Winston dictates a telegram to be sent from the Admiralty. As the courier leaves, he passes another with a telegram from the French government in Bordeaux. It brings good news. The French are to send two territorial divisions to support the defence of Antwerp. They are also to launch a major offensive near Lille to distract the German High Command.

‘
Vive la République!
That's excellent news.'

Winston is in his element. The others in the room look at him, in awe of his unbounded spirit.

‘I'll go to Antwerp to put some starch in their collars. I know the King, and he'll feel better with a British minister in his city.'

Eddie Grey looks doubtful.

‘Winston, it's a good idea, but we know how much you relish a scrap. We mustn't lose you to a German bullet, or to one of their prisoner-of-war camps.'

Winston gets to his feet, swallows what is left in his tumbler of whisky and makes for the door.

‘Eddie,
I can't guarantee the trajectories of bullets, but I can assure you that I will not be taken prisoner. I was once a POW of the Boers. I managed to escape and I promised myself never to let it happen again.'

Winston's march to the door effectively pre-empts Kitchener's decision about the First Lord's visit to Antwerp. His irrepressible vitality has made up Kitchener's mind for him. He and Grey both shake Winston's hand and wish him well.

While Winston travels to the coast by car, Eddie Grey sends a telegram to Sir Francis Villiers, the British minister in Belgium.

First Lord of the Admiralty will be at Antwerp between 9 and 10 tomorrow. It is hoped that he may have the honour of an audience with the King before a final decision as to the departure of the Government is taken.

Delayed by German artillery threats between Ostend and Antwerp, Winston does not arrive in the city until after lunch on Saturday. He immediately hastens to reassure Charles, Comte de Broqueville, the Belgian Prime Minister, of the sincerity of British and French intent.

Later that day, the Royal Marines begin to arrive.

The following morning, Winston goes on a tour of the city's defences and conducts an inspection of the beleaguered Belgian troops. He is with Admiral Horace Hood, his naval secretary.

‘They look broken, Horace.'

‘They do, sir.'

‘I need to take charge of our marines and get them into positions that will show the Belgians we mean business.'

Winston calls over a stenographer and dictates a telegram back to the Admiralty in London. He orders a vast array of materiel for the defence of the city. The scale of the order
causes consternation among Admiralty staff, including Prince Louis; they are worried that their First Lord is ‘playing soldiers' again.

Winston is exhilarated by being at the forefront of the defence of the ancient city and, at last, able to direct military strategy on the ground. However, realizing that his duty should take him back to London, he sends an outrageous telegram to his Prime Minister.

If it is thought by HM Government that I can be of service here, I am willing to resign my office at the Admiralty and undertake command of defensive forces assigned to Antwerp, provided that I am given necessary military rank and authority and full powers of a commander in the field.

When Asquith receives Winston's offer, he is dismayed. He regards the suggestion as ridiculous; it is typical of his extraordinary First Lord but, all the same, preposterous. That morning, he does Winston no favours by revealing the contents of his telegram to several cabinet colleagues. In doing so, he uses the damning phrase, ‘After all, he would be a Lieutenant of Hussars commanding two major generals!' These are words that begin to circulate around Westminster.

When Winston hears of the rebuke, he is, not surprisingly, livid.

Asquith declines Winston's offer, insisting that he is needed at home. However, Winston decides to stay in Antwerp, at least until more reinforcements arrive, thus fulfilling his promise to the Belgians.

The situation deteriorates: French reinforcements in the form of a Marine Fusilier Brigade are delayed, as are British reinforcements under the command of General Sir Henry Rawlinson, which are detained in Bruges.

That evening, Winston attends a meeting of the Belgian Council of War, presided over by King Albert. After it ends,
he sends a message to Kitchener: ‘All well. I have met King Albert and his Ministers in Council, who resolved to fight it out here whatever happens.'

With still no sign of Rawlinson and his British reinforcements, nor of the French, Winston takes personal charge of Antwerp's defences. The Royal Marines continue to hold out in their hastily dug trenches around the city.

The following day, General Rawlinson arrives, but without his army of 40,000 men, who are still on their way.

With Rawlinson now able to take charge, Winston feels he is able to withdraw to London, where several political enemies are already discrediting his efforts, pouring their words into the ear of the King and on to the pages of Fleet Street's newspapers. Undaunted, Winston continues to badger Asquith for direct military command in France and goes to Downing Street, where he berates the Old Block for over twenty minutes.

That evening, Asquith writes to his mistress, Venetia Stanley. His letter contains a vivid description of Winston in his pomp.

Having ‘tasted blood', he is ravenous for more and begs for command. His mouth waters at the thought of K's new armies, these ‘glittering commands'. I much regret that no shorthand writer was there to get down some of the phrases, which were priceless. He is a wonderful creature, with a curious dash of schoolboy simplicity and what someone once said of genius: ‘a zigzag of lightning in the brain'.

The Cabinet is split about Winston. Half, including Kitchener, Lloyd George, Grey and Lord Haldane, the Lord Chancellor, think he is a political and military prodigy. Most of the others, largely lesser men, jealous of his talents, see him as a dangerous maverick.

On
8 October, the French decide to halt their reinforcement of Antwerp. General Rawlinson asks for permission not to commit his British reinforcements and to withdraw the marines from their trenches around Antwerp. Winston is furious, but he is powerless to prevent the inevitable outcome.

Without the French, and with Rawlinson unwilling to commit his men, Antwerp falls to the German Army on 10 October. Fifty-seven marines are killed in defence of the city, with hundreds more taken prisoner. The British press round on Winston, with headlines that scream: ‘The Antwerp Blunder!'

Asquith does little to defend his First Lord. For the first time since the beginning of the war, Black Dog pays Winston an unwelcome visit and he descends into a deep depression.

That evening, F. E. Smith arrives at the Admiralty with a car and with an antidote to Black Dog. He has already spoken to Kitchener, who has cleared the plan with Asquith. Lord Louis of Battenberg will take charge at the Admiralty for a few days, while Winston takes a break and spends a long weekend with his family at Blenheim Palace.

It is where he was born, the home of his first cousin, Charles ‘Sunny' Spencer-Churchill, the 9th Duke of Marlborough, and the place where, as a little boy, he first vowed to emulate the glorious deeds of his ancestor at the Battle of Blenheim.

On 7 October, Clemmie gave birth to Sarah Millicent Hermione Churchill, the third kitten in the Churchill litter. She was born in the First Lord's flat at the Admiralty but, because of the Antwerp crisis, Winston has hardly seen his new daughter.

It has been a grim time for all of them. Clemmie had to endure the last days of her pregnancy while Winston was embroiled in Belgium and had to suppress her own grave
concerns for his personal safety. Now, he is being pilloried in the press for a debacle that, at worst, he managed to prevent happening for over a week entirely through the strength of his personality.

As FE's driver takes them through a wet and squally night to Blenheim, Winston's friend tries to cheer him by reading aloud a note recently sent to Clemmie by Eddie Grey.

‘Listen to this, old chap: “I am sitting next to Winston in Cabinet, having welcomed him back from Antwerp. I feel a glow imparted by the thought that I am sitting next to a hero. I can't tell you how much I admire his courage, gallant spirit and genius for war. It inspires us all.” '

Winston smiles at FE, but only thinly, and grasps Clemmie's hand.

‘Eddie is very kind;
you
are kind, FE, to do this for Clemmie and me. I am in my cups, I'm afraid. Give me a little time, old friend.'

Both Clemmie and FE know that now is not the time to challenge Winston's assessment of his own well-being. It is better to give him time to wrestle with Black Dog in his own way. The rest of the journey to Oxfordshire takes place in silence, as Winston broods, staring fixedly through the car window at the wind and rain of the passing night.

Great Harwood's new town hall, only completed ten years ago, is packed. It is a special meeting of the British Socialist Party, called to air opinions about the war. The room is full for two reasons. First, leading socialist Henry Hyndman is the main speaker, and he always pulls a large crowd. And second, the debate about the war has reached fever pitch in recent weeks as more and more join up for Kitchener's Army and ever more bodies return from France.

After much cajoling from Mary, Cath has agreed to speak at the meeting. She is petrified. After several local speakers have addressed the meeting, Henry Hyndman, as usual, gives a typically rousing speech in support of socialist principles but, to the consternation of many in the audience – a few of whom boo the speaker – he also articulates a powerful defence of Britain's war effort. His closing words bring the majority of the audience to their feet.

‘Comrades, our boys at the front are fighting a just war against an enemy bent on a new imperialism. The bloodlust of the Kaiser must be defeated. I know that our own leaders are hardly radicals, as we use the phrase, but the unity that we now see in Britain will bring inevitable change. Our servicemen are fighting for freedom in France and Belgium, a freedom that cannot be denied them when they return home. Until that time, we must do all we can to support them.'

The time has come for Cath to speak. She is the first woman to be invited to speak at any of the local Lancashire branches, an honour accorded her following the
recommendation of several Burnley members. She is introduced by the Chairman of the meeting.

‘Comrade Catherine Kenny, a weaver from Burnley. Welcome, Cath.'

Cath's heart is pumping so fast, she can hardly breathe. The fact that she is almost seven months pregnant is not helping; neither is the fact that, in the last couple of weeks, the baby's little flutters of movement have been replaced by easily discernible kicks.

Mick is in the front row with Mary and Tommy. Nat and Vinny are at the back of the room with other friends who have travelled from Burnley to listen to her speak in public for the first time. Lieutenant Heys is there to hear her with several members of the Burnley Clarion Club who, of course, have cycled the six miles to Great Harwood.

Mary and Cath have abandoned the dowdy Lancashire shawls worn by the local working-class women, an attire that makes them look like impoverished nuns, and are wearing smart pleated skirts and blouses, like well-to-do ladies. Mick and Tommy are very proud; their lasses look very fetching indeed. The men are looking exceptionally neat and tidy: they sport short-back-and-sides military haircuts, clean-shaven faces, well-brushed Sunday best clothes and highly burnished boots. They look quite the part.

Henry Hyndman, seeing how nervous Cath seemed, took her on one side before the meeting began and gave her some simple advice: ‘Be yourself, be true to what you believe; you'll be fine. They will love your honesty.'

The silence is deafening as her trembling fingers try to flatten her speech on to the lectern in front of her. She looks up and peers through the town hall's window just as the clock on Mercer's Tower nearby is about to strike eight o'clock. Cath sees the minute hand move, prompting her to begin, her voicing cracking with apprehension.

‘Good evening … Comrades …'

Then,
as if on cue, the clock strikes with a loud clang. It stops Cath in her tracks and makes the audience laugh. Mercer's Clock Tower was built by his daughter in memory of John Mercer, one of the giants of the cotton industry and the inventor of ‘mercerized' cotton. An impoverished child, who never attended school, he taught himself to read and write and to understand the basics of chemistry. He would eventually be admitted to the Royal Society and become a juror at the Great Exhibition of 1862. Cath knows the story of John Mercer well. He is one of her heroes. As she continues to fumble with her speech, she remembers Henry Hyndman's words of encouragement.

As the clock booms its seventh strike, she decides to heed Hyndman's advice and, despite the hours of writing and rehearsing, abandons her scripted words and lays them to one side. She looks at Mick, who is as nervous as she is. But, as Mercer's clock strikes its last chime, she smiles and thinks to herself:
If little John Mercer can do what he did and transform the cotton industry, I can make a little speech
. The weight of fear lifts from her shoulders. She rests her hands on the side of the lectern and begins.

‘It's 'ard to foller a lad like Mr Hyndman. 'E's cleverer than me and 'as 'ad a proper education. But I'm goin' to try because 'e's been an inspiration to me an' lots o' t'people in this room. Like John Mercer, whose loud clock is reet outside that
yonder
window, he's an example to all on us.'

Cath begins to flow. For over fifteen minutes, she describes her childhood in the squalor of a cellar dwelling in Brierfield, a suburb of Burnley, the daughter of Irish immigrants, and how she struggled to learn to read and write. She speaks with an easy fluency, full of humorous detail about the delights of long-drop lavatories and carbolic soap, of visits from the schools' nurse, ‘Nitty-Nora, the Bug-Explorer', and tidemarks around children's necks who are only able to swill their faces before going to school.

She
describes the early socialist meetings she attended and her gradual conversion to the cause of equality for all. Her ancient East Lancs dialect is understood perfectly by the locals and even those who are not familiar with its nuances understand the greater part of it and enjoy its peculiar charm. Mick smiles broadly, proud of his wife. Henry Hyndman nods appreciatively as she gets to the nub of her proposition, one that is not in direct opposition to his, but more a cry from her heart.

‘I got t'sack fer picketin' at Howard an' Bullough's strike, so did me 'usband, Mick, and me friends Mary an' Tommy. We ended up wi' no job and blacklisted in t'mills an' t'pits. We 'ad nowt, an' no prospects of owt. So Mick an' Tommy an' their mates Nat an' Vinny joined up. Not because we 'ad a choice, but because we 'adn't!'

A round of applause echoes around the room from those who think she is going to support the anti-war position. But they are to be disappointed.

‘Now we're committed to Britain's war effort, there's no goin' back. There's lads' lives at stake – one in, all in! Colliers, weavers, posh lads, poor lads, they all bleed!'

A much louder roar of approval reverberates around Great Harwood Town Hall. If Mercer's Tower Clock were to strike again, it would not be heard.

‘So I 'ave no argument wi' Mr Hyndman's opinion o' t'war. Like 'im, I support this war because it'll bring change, an' it'll mean that when our lads come 'ome, it will be to a land fit for heroes!'

Cath's closing remarks bring the entire audience to its feet. Mick jumps onstage to give his wife a warm embrace. Then Henry Hyndman does the same.

‘Comrade Kenny, that was an excellent speech. You are a natural; you should have no fears about speaking in public. I loved your closing line, “to a land fit for heroes”. Do you mind if I steal it?'

‘Do
what tha wants wi' it, Henry; I'm just glad it's over!'

Lieutenant Heys appears at Mick's shoulder.

‘Good evening, Mick!'

‘Even', sir.'

‘Call me Fred; no formalities here, not at a meeting of socialists. Please introduce me to your formidable wife.'

‘Cath, this is Lieutenant Heys. 'E's in charge o' t'platoon.'

‘Rousing words, if I may say so, Mrs Kenny.'

‘Thanks, Lieutenant.'

‘I think you and Mr Hyndman are right, this war will herald a new order in Britain.'

Cath frowns.

‘Aye, mebbe … Just bring 'em 'ome in one piece.'

Later, back at Keighley Green Club, Tommy and Mick are enjoying a drink.

‘So, your Cath did alreet t'neet.'

‘She did that; I'm reet proud on 'er.'

‘Yer know what, Mick?'

‘What's that, Tommy?'

‘We gonna 'ave to start listenin' to our Cath an' Mary; they're cleverer than we are.'

‘I reckon tha's reet, Tom lad.'