The Old Man was content. A few close friends, their wives glittering in all their pre-war finery, made an attentive audience. The ten diners had just finished demolishing a haunch of venison shot a few days previously on the Scottish estate of the host, Sir William Muirhead, and ferried down to London for the occasion. Runner beans from the hot-houses of Cornwall had also been served, bought off-ration but at lavish price, and washed down with a splendid claret. The war had played merry hell with current French vintages, but the best stock had been well preserved, stored deep in cellars, far out of reach of the Luftwaffe. All part of God’s great plan, mused Churchill as he finished another glass.
‘Seems that the flood of American soldiers through London is playing havoc with prices in the West End,’ chirped Sir William’s wife. That afternoon she had come back from an expedition to Fortnum’s, bemoaning the fact that not only had their prices for afternoon tea gone up but, far worse, she’d had to queue for more than ten minutes behind a group of GIs before getting a table. They had even left their tip, not discreetly under the plate but on top, right out for everyone to see. So vulgar.
‘Makes a change from the Free French, I suppose,’ Churchill pouted through a lopsided, indulgent grin.
Lady Muirhead failed to notice the glint in his eye. ‘I’m sorry, Winston?’
‘Prices in the West End. The Free French. Apparently every street-walker in London claims to belong to the Free French. Although scarcely any of them are French. And none of them, so I’m told, are free!’
There was general laughter as the PM relaxed amongst old friends, only the long-suffering Clemmie showing little appreciation. She’d heard it all before.
Another of the wives joined in. ‘Do you know, I heard the other day that a bus full of schoolchildren had been brought into the West End to see the lights turned on, now the blackout has been lifted. Seems they were all terrified. Never seen anything like it before. Burst into tears and demanded to be taken back home.’
The laughter was less genuine, and Churchill chose not to join in. The comment had been silly and insensitive. What was there to laugh about with a generation of children brought up in a world of darkness and fear, where even the half-lights allowed by the new regulations caused confusion and misery? It was going to take a very long time to get back to normal after this war; indeed, it would take an effort as great as the war itself to rebuild what had been shattered. Did the country – did he – still have the fight for it? He thought of the forthcoming election once more, and that feeling of nervousness returned.
His host noticed the faraway look beginning to creep into Churchill’s eye and decided to intervene. ‘Winston, I think it’s time for a toast,’ he said, refilling the Old Man’s glass. ‘I sometimes wondered whether we would ever reach this point, but at last it seems as if the war is almost over. We’ve won – no, you’ve won the war, Winston. I know those Yankee interlopers have come in for the finish, just like they did last time, and will no doubt claim much of the credit …’
‘Just like they did last time!’ someone added.
‘But it wouldn’t have happened, couldn’t have happened without you and what you’ve done. I know there will be many more toasts in the weeks and months ahead, but as an old friend it would do me great honour if this could be the first.’ He raised his glass. ‘To you, Winston. With our thanks for winning the war.’
It was a genuine accolade, made all the more poignant because as an old friend there was no need for Muirhead to have made the gesture. There was a mutter of appreciation from around the table as the others joined in, and already Churchill’s eyes were brimming with tears. He wiped the trickle away with the flat of his hand.
‘Not quite over yet, you know. Still all to play for,’ was the only response he seemed able to mount as Clemmie reached over to pat her own tribute.
‘Still all to play for’, Churchill heard the echo in his mind. Was it so? Eisenhower’s response to his telegram, received that afternoon, had been blunt. ‘Keeping all options open,’ it had said. ‘Review the situation on an ongoing basis … No rush to judgement.’ All the cliches at which an American military mind could clutch. But in the event, Eisenhower’s unwillingness to impair his authority over military matters had been clear and uncompromising. The hard facts were inescapable.
‘I have not won this war, Bill,’ Churchill continued, in a tone that dampened the reverie around the table. He waved down the polite protest of his host. ‘Perhaps historians will be kind and maybe it will be said that I prevented us from losing the war, after Dunkirk. But look around us. Look not just at the West End of London, but across the battlefields of Europe. This war is now an American war, fought with American guns, American money and American lives. Today they have more troops engaged in combat than the whole of the British Empire. It is the Americans who will win this war, eventually. And, to my everlasting regret, it is they who will be largely responsible for the peace.’
As his host picked up the conversation, Churchill could not but remember the words of Eisenhower’s response. Far from pouring through the bridgehead at Remagen, the Supreme Allied Commander was being cautious, blaming the fragile state of the bridge, stating that it would take several days before it was clear whether the bridgehead would hold. So British troops in the north who were ready to advance on Berlin would have to continue sitting on their backsides while Eisenhower’s penpushers dithered about whether US troops had enough prophylactics and nylons for the battle ahead. Damn the man! The war wasn’t over yet and he wasn’t ready to watch American generosity give away everything he had fought for. As he poured himself a brandy, Churchill resolved once more: He wasn’t going to let go, there was too much at stake. While Eisenhower prevaricated, the peace was being lost. The Americans would have to be persuaded or pushed into changing their plans, to set aside their fears of an Alpine Redoubt. Not for the first time he cursed the shortsightedness of others; once again, as at Dunkirk, he was fighting alone. But fighting he was. By one means or another, they would get to Berlin first!
Dinner that night at Camp 174B had been a quiet affair. Not that a mixture of sausage, canned herring and white bread eaten out of an empty corned beef tin and washed down with a mug of tea ever excited great enthusiasm, but the guards were grateful it had been finished rapidly. It left more time for a game of cards and a quiet cigarette.
It was shortly before dusk when one of the Canadian captors’ attention had been attracted by a soldier beckoning in his direction from the shadows of a tent. As he approached he saw the prisoner held a watch in his hand; it was to be a trade. Another Kraut who wanted extra rations or a dry pair of boots.
They moved behind the tent to put themselves away from the general body of prisoners. Illicit trading like this went on all the time, but it paid to be cautious. You didn’t want the whole world to know that you were getting a genuine Swiss watch with twelve diamonds in the movement for the price of a couple of packs of cigarettes. Yet this deal was proving tricky. It was an excellent watch, one of the best the guard had seen in the camp, but the prisoner was demanding a ridiculous price.
It was as they were bent over in heated discussion, the guard wondering whether he should just confiscate the thing anyway, that he felt the cold touch of steel on the back of his neck.
‘Don’t try to be a hero. Just do as you’re told, friend,’ a voice said in heavily accented English. ‘Put down your rifle slowly.’