His reply was characteristically ambiguous. Oh Minister. Gosh! But he smiled and went a little pink.
Pleased, I turned to Humphrey, whose face had turned to stone. I asked him if that would be all right.
The Prime Ministers word is law, he replied bleakly.
Perhaps hes right. On second thoughts, I was hasty. Im not actually sure that Bernard is up to it, he is so nave. But Im sure hell manage somehow and he is very loyal and he never plots against me. [Hackers calling Bernard nave in this context shows a remarkable lack of awareness of Bernards true loyalties, divided as they were -- equally -- between Hacker, his political master, and Sir Humphrey Appleby, his Civil Servant master Ed.]
I think I could have done better than Bernard [Hacker was correct Ed.] Still, Ive done it now.
At that moment, with Bernard all dewy-eyed with gratitude, the phone rang. I grabbed it. Nobody there. Humphrey coolly picked up the other one. Yes? he said. Yes yes yes hes here Ill tell him.
He rang off. I looked at him. I couldnt speak. But written all over my face was the question: was it me? Was I unopposed? Had I reached the top of the greasy pole at last?
Yes -- Prime Minister, said Humphrey. And I fancy that he looked at me with new respect.
THE GRAND DESIGN
January 23rd
The last few days have been overwhelmingly exciting. I went to the Palace and kissed hands. The next morning I moved into Number Ten. Id read in the memoirs of past Prime Ministers that the staff line up in the front lobby, and in the long corridor inside it that leads down to the grand central staircase, and applaud the incoming Prime Minister. I wonder why they didnt applaud me. [This accolade is only granted, traditionally, to a Prime Minister who had just won a general election Ed.] I hope this does not bode ill.
It took a day or two to move in. The PM lives in the flat above the shop, and the whole building is extremely confusing. From the outside it looks like an average size Georgian terrace house -- but inside it is absolutely huge, a small stately home, a mini palace.
This is because it is, in reality, two houses. Not two houses side by side (the Chancellor of the Exchequer lives in Number Eleven), but two houses that almost back on to each other, joined by corridors, stairwells and courtyards. Each house has five or six floors, and the house at the back has large, elegant staterooms for entertaining my subjects. [Hacker was plainly suffering from delusions of grandeur, and was confusing himself with the monarch Ed.]
The main problem in finding ones way around Number Ten is that, because it is two different houses, because of subsidence during the war [World War II Ed.], and because the ground slopes away towards the back, its almost impossible to know what floor youre on once youre upstairs.
But my confusion on moving in was like nothing compared to my state of mind today, my fifth day in office, on being taken into the top-secret operations room below the MOD [Ministry of Defence Ed.].
It looked just like youd expect: maps of the five continents, girls at video terminals, officers at desks. I was shown around by the Chief of the General Staff, General Sir Geoffrey Howard, a tall dapper chap with sandy hair, bushy eyebrows and a brisk commanding voice. Sir Humphrey and Bernard were hovering about, as always.
Naturally, my first question was about the Hot Line. The General looked puzzled.
Which one?
To Russia.
Ah. Thats in Downing Street, the General told me. I glanced at Bernard. Why hadnt I been shown it? He looked surprised -- perhaps he hasnt been shown it, either.
I continued: So if theres an emergency, can I get straight through to the Soviet President?
Theoretically, yes, General Howard replied cautiously.
Does that mean no?
Well, its what we tell journalists. In fact, we did once get through to the Kremlin, but only to a switchboard operator.
Couldnt the operator put you through?
We couldnt find out, she didnt seem to speak much English.
How often is it tested?
The General looked blank. Testing had clearly not occurred to him.
They try not to test it too often, Humphrey intervened smoothly. It tends to create unnecessary panic at the other end. And panic is always a good thing to avoid where nuclear weapons are concerned, dont you think? I certainly do.
The General walked me over to a telex machine.
Now this -- he said meaningfully, is it!
Is it? I asked.
Yes, he said.
Good, I replied, encouragingly. Then I realised that I was going to get no further clue as to what he was talking about. Er what is it, exactly? I enquired casually, with what I hoped was a knowledgeable air.
Its the trigger, Prime Minster, Sir Humphrey murmured.
I felt a sudden chill. The trigger?
Yes. The nuclear trigger the button.
This? I couldnt believe it. I stared at the innocent-looking telex machine.
Indirectly, yes. The General could see my concern. Its simply a telex link to HMS Northwood. You would send a coded signal, you see. Then the telex operator at Northwood sends out an authentication signal.
So he knows its from you, you see, added Sir Humphrey softly.
And when the instruction has been authenticated, and a target indication has been made, Northwood would send the command to one of our Polaris submarines, and theyd actually press the button. The General seemed quite satisfied with all this.
It all seemed so simple, so cut and dried. I give the order, they carry it out. My mouth felt all dry, but I had to find out more.
Theyd do it just like that?
Just like that. General Howard was visibly proud.
When I say so?
When you say so.
But wouldnt anyone argue with me?
General Howard was shocked. Of course not. Serving officers obey orders without question, Prime Minister.
I swallowed. But supposing I get drunk? I asked, jokingly. Humphrey replied, rather too seriously: On the whole, it would be safer if you didnt get drunk.
Yes, but seriously, I asked, what happens if I go off my rocker?
I think the Cabinet might notice. Sir Humphrey was trying to sound reassuring.
I wasnt reassured. I dont think one can count on the Cabinet noticing that kind of thing. For a start, half of them, if not exactly off their rockers themselves, are not exactly what youd call well-balanced.
I had to know more. Suppose I gave the order to press the button, and then changed my mind?
Thats all right, said the General with a chuckle, no one would ever know, would they? Everyone else chuckled appreciatively.
I tried to chuckle too, but somehow I just couldnt. Instead, I asked how many actual bombs we have.
Four Polaris submarines, said the General. Sixteen missiles on each. Three warheads per missile.
Mental arithmetic has never been my strong point and I didnt like to fish out my pocket calculator. Bernard saw my problem and spoke up. One hundred and ninety-two actual bombs, Prime Minister. Obviously hed been told before.
One hundred and ninety-two nuclear bombs! It doesnt bear thinking about! And Humphrey piled on the pressure, pointing out that each has at least five times the power of the Hiroshima bomb.
They all waited for me to speak. But I felt quite overwhelmed by the horror and the insanity of my new responsibilities.
The General looked at me with sympathy and understanding. I know what youre thinking, he said. Not very many.
That wasnt at all what I was thinking! I told him sharply that one hundred and ninety-two bombs seemed plenty to me. He didnt agree. Not with twelve hundred Soviet missiles trained on Britain, waiting to retaliate instantly.
Twelve hundred? I felt I should assume a stiff upper lip. Ah well, I remarked. Britains always fought against the odds, havent we? The Armada, the Battle of Britain