Munich

3

Legat was in the Garden Room of Number 10, once again standing behind Joan as she finished typing the Prime Minister’s speech. It was just after one o’clock. The PM was due to leave for the House of Commons at two.

Unlike his broadcast of the night before, this one was a monster: as long as a Budget statement – forty-two typed pages, more than eight thousand words. No wonder it had taken until the early hours of the morning to complete. Legat reckoned the old man would need the best part of an hour and a half simply to deliver it, even if there were no interruptions.

Today we are faced with a situation which has had no parallel since 1914 …

It was so long not by choice but of necessity. Parliament had been in recess for the past two months, and when the House had risen for the summer there had been no Czech crisis, no imminent war, no gas masks or slit trenches. Families had gone on holiday; England had beaten Australia in the Fifth Test at the Oval by an innings and 579 runs; it had been another world. The Prime Minister had a duty to bring the country’s elected representatives up to date on all that had happened since July. The telegrams and minutes on which the speech was based, which Legat had compiled for the PM the night before, were at that moment being printed by His Majesty’s Stationery Office as a White Paper (‘The Czechoslovakian Crisis, Notes of Informal Meetings of Ministers’); it would be released to peers and MPs at the same time as the Prime Minister was speaking. Not every document was to be made public. The Foreign Office and the Cabinet Office had weeded out the more sensitive documents. In particular, the agreement between Chamberlain and the French Prime Minister, Daladier – that even if a war was fought and won, Czechoslovakia in its present form would cease to exist – was to remain classified. As Syers observed, it would be bloody hard to convince people the sacrifice was worth making if that became known.

Joan finished typing the final page and pulled it from her machine. Four copies. One top sheet for the Prime Minister plus three flimsy carbons – for the Foreign Office, the Cabinet Office and Number 10. She clipped each of them together and handed them to Legat.

‘Thank you, Joan.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He lingered for a moment beside her desk. ‘Joan what, might I ask?’

‘Just plain Joan will be sufficient, thank you.’

He smiled and went upstairs to his office. To his surprise he found the room was occupied. Cleverly was seated at his desk. He couldn’t swear to it but it seemed to him that the older man had been going through his drawers.

‘Ah, Legat. I was looking for you. Is the PM’s speech ready?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s just been typed up.’ He showed him the copies.

‘In that case, there is something else I need you to do, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me.’

Legat followed him along the corridor into the Principal Private Secretary’s office. He wondered what was coming next. Cleverly pointed to his desk where the telephone receiver lay on the blotter beside its cradle. ‘We’re keeping the line open to the embassy in Berlin. We can’t risk losing the connection. I want you to listen out for news at the other end. All right?’

‘Of course, sir. What exactly is it I’m listening out for?’

‘Hitler has agreed to give Sir Nevile Henderson an audience. He should be back from the Chancellery at any minute, with Hitler’s response to the Prime Minister’s letter.’

Legat drew in his breath. ‘My goodness, things are getting tight.’

‘They most certainly are. I’ll be with the PM,’ added Cleverly. ‘The moment you hear anything, let us know.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cleverly’s office, like Wilson’s, had a communicating door with the Cabinet Room. He stepped through it and closed it after him.

Legat sat at the desk. He picked up the receiver and placed it cautiously to his ear. When he was a boy, his father had given him a shell and told him that if he listened hard enough he would be able to hear the sound of the sea. That was what he heard now. How much of it was the hiss of static on the line and how much the sound of his own blood pulsing through his ear it was impossible to tell. He cleared his throat. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ He repeated it a couple of times. ‘Hello …? Hello …?’

It was a task that could have been entrusted to a junior clerk. Presumably that was the point. It was designed to put him in his place.

He glanced out of the window at the deserted garden. A blackbird was hopping around the PM’s bird table, pecking at the crumbs. He wedged the heavy Bakelite receiver between his ear and his shoulder, took out his pocket watch, disconnected it from its chain, and placed it open on the desk. He started to go through the Prime Minister’s speech, checking it for errors.

For His Majesty’s Government there were three alternative courses that we might have adopted. Either we could have threatened to go to war with Germany if she attacked Czechoslovakia, or we could have stood aside and allowed matters to take their course, or, finally, we could attempt to find a peaceful settlement by way of mediation …

After a while, Legat laid aside the speech and brought the watch up close to his face. The little hand was an elongated diamond shape, the big hand much finer. If one looked closely at it, one could just about see its infinitesimal movement as it worked its way towards the vertical. He imagined the German soldiers in these last few minutes waiting in their barracks for the signal to move out, the troop trains heading towards the Czech border, the Panzers trundling down the narrow country roads of Saxony and Bavaria …

At 1.42 p.m., a male voice said, ‘Hello, London.’

Legat’s heart jumped. ‘Hello, this is London.’

‘This is the embassy in Berlin. Just checking the line is still open.’

‘Yes, it seems to be fine our end. What’s happening over there?’

‘We’re still waiting for the Ambassador to return from the Chancellery. Stand by, please.’

The hiss resumed.

The blackbird had disappeared. The garden was deserted. It was starting to spot with rain.

Legat went back to the speech.

In those circumstances I decided that the time had come to put into operation a plan which I had had in my mind for a considerable period as a last resort …

As Big Ben struck two o’clock the door opened and the top half of Cleverly’s body appeared. ‘Anything?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The line still working?’

‘I believe so.’

‘We’ll give it another five minutes and then the PM will have to go.’

The door closed.

At seven minutes past two Legat heard the sound of the telephone being picked up in Berlin. A nasal voice said, ‘This is Sir Nevile Henderson.’

‘Yes, sir. This is the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary.’ Legat reached for his pen.

‘Please tell the Prime Minister that Herr Hitler has received a message from Signor Mussolini, delivered by the Italian Ambassador, assuring him that in the event of conflict Italy will stand by Germany, but asking him to postpone mobilisation for twenty-four hours so that the situation can be re-examined. Please tell the Prime Minister that Herr Hitler has agreed. Have you got all that?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell him now.’

Legat hung up. He finished writing and opened the door to the Cabinet Room. The Prime Minister was sitting next to Wilson. Cleverly was opposite him. As his head swung to face Legat the tendons on his thin neck stood out. He looked like a man about to be hanged, standing on the trapdoor but still hopeful of a reprieve. ‘Well?’

‘Mussolini has sent a message to Hitler: Italy will fulfil its obligations to Germany if it comes to war, but he has asked Hitler to postpone mobilisation for twenty-four hours, and Hitler has agreed.’

‘Twenty-four hours?’ Chamberlain’s head drooped in disappointment. ‘Is that all?’

Wilson said, ‘It’s better than nothing, Prime Minister. It shows he’s having to listen to outside opinion at least. This is good news.’

‘Is it? I feel as though I’m slithering towards a cliff edge and trying to catch hold of every root and branch to stop myself sliding into the abyss. Twenty-four hours!’

Cleverly said, ‘At least it gives you an ending for your speech.’

The Prime Minister tapped his forefingers on the table. Eventually he said to Legat, ‘You’d better come with me. We can amend the speech in the car.’

‘I can come if you prefer,’ said Cleverly.

‘No, you’d better wait here in case there are further developments in Berlin.’

Wilson said, ‘It’s nearly quarter-past. You need to go. The debate starts in fifteen minutes.’

Chamberlain pushed himself up from the table. As Legat followed him, he was conscious of a look of pure loathing from Cleverly.

In the entrance hall, Chamberlain stood under the brass lantern while Wilson helped him on with his overcoat. A dozen members of the Number 10 staff had gathered to see him off. He looked around him. ‘Is Annie—?’

‘She’s gone on ahead,’ said Wilson. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be in the gallery.’ He brushed a few specks from Chamberlain’s collar and gave him his hat. ‘I’ll be there, too.’ He fished the PM’s umbrella from the stand and pressed it into his hand. ‘Remember: you are prevailing, inch by inch.’

The Prime Minister nodded. The porter opened the door. The familiar brilliant white glare briefly silhouetted him and Legat thought how slight a figure he looked, even in his overcoat – rather like a blackbird himself. He doffed his hat, first right, then left, and stepped on to the pavement. There were a few cheers, a little applause. A woman shouted, ‘God bless you, Mr Chamberlain!’ It sounded as though there was hardly anyone present. But when Legat followed him out into the blinding light and his eyes adjusted he saw that Downing Street was actually filled from end to end with a silent, shuffling multitude so huge that a policeman mounted on a horse had been brought in to escort the car. The Prime Minister climbed into the Austin through the nearside door; his plainclothes detective got in beside the driver. Legat had to squeeze his way round through the crowd to the other side. It was hard to open the door. He slid into the seat beside the Prime Minister. The crush of bodies closed the door after him. Through the windscreen he could see the rear end of the police horse. It moved off slowly, clearing a path for them.

The Prime Minister murmured, ‘I have never seen anything like this in my life.’

Flashbulbs lit the interior. It took them almost a minute to reach the top of Downing Street and turn right into Whitehall. A huge crowd stretched ahead, eight or ten deep on the pavements and gathered around the Cenotaph, which rose from a field of freshly laid flowers. A pair of Chelsea Pensioners in their medals and scarlet uniforms, carrying a wreath of poppies between them, turned to stare at the Prime Minister’s car as it drove past.

Legat pulled out his fountain pen and flicked through to the last page of the speech. It was hard to write in the moving car. Signor Mussolini has informed Herr Hitler that while Italy will fulfil its obligations to Germany, it nevertheless requests that mobilisation be postponed for twenty-four hours. Herr Hitler has agreed.

He showed it to the Prime Minister who shook his head. ‘No, that doesn’t go far enough. I must pay some kind of tribute to Musso. We need to keep him on our side.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Write this down: “Whatever views Honourable Members may have had about Signor Mussolini in the past, I believe that everyone will welcome his gesture of being willing to work with us for peace in Europe.”’

As they entered Parliament Square the car was once again forced to slow to walking pace, then brought to a halt. Mounted police surrounded them. The grey sky, the sombre quiet of the crowd, the red wreaths, the clatter of the horses’ hooves – it was like a state funeral, thought Legat, or the two-minute silence on Armistice Day. Finally, the car broke free and they accelerated through the iron gates into New Palace Yard. He glimpsed a policeman saluting. Their tyres thumped over the cobbles. They passed under an arch into Speaker’s Court and pulled up beside a Gothic wooden door. The detective jumped out. A few seconds later Chamberlain was across the cobbles and climbing the stone staircase, Legat behind him.

They emerged on to a green-carpeted, wood-panelled corridor directly adjacent to the Commons Chamber. Six hundred MPs were already assembled, waiting for the session to begin. Through the closed doors came a continuous low rumble of conversation. In the outer office of the Prime Minister’s suite, the female secretaries stood to attention as the PM entered. Chamberlain marched past them into the conference room, handing his hat and umbrella to Miss Watson. He shrugged off his overcoat. Two men were waiting by the long table: his Parliamentary Private Secretary, Alec Dunglass – the heir to an earldom whose misfortune, or perhaps it was the key to his success, was to look as if he had just stepped out of a novel by P. G. Wodehouse – and the Chief Whip, Captain Margesson.

The Prime Minister said, ‘I’m so sorry to keep you all waiting. The crowds are quite unbelievable.’

Margesson said briskly, ‘If you’re ready, Prime Minister, it’s nearly a quarter to three. We should go in right away.’

‘Very well.’

They walked back out of the office and across the corridor towards the doors of the Chamber. The noise grew louder.

The Prime Minister adjusted his cuffs. ‘What is the mood of the House?’

‘Strong support for your action right across the Party – even Winston is subdued. You’ll see some contraption beside the Dispatch Box: you can ignore it. The BBC wanted to broadcast your statement but the Labour whips have refused. They say it gives the government an unfair advantage.’

Dunglass said, ‘I’ve put a little brandy in your water, Prime Minister. It’s good for the voice.’

‘Thank you, Alec.’ Chamberlain stopped and held out his hand. Legat gave him his copy of the speech. He weighed it in his hand and managed a smile. ‘I certainly have a lot to get through.’

Dunglass pulled the door open. Margesson went in first. He used his shoulders to clear a path through the MPs who were crowded around the Speaker’s chair. As the Prime Minister came into the full view of the Chamber the rumble of noise swelled to a deep masculine roar. Legat felt it as something almost visceral – the heat, the colour, the noise – like emerging into a football stadium. He turned right and made his way with Miss Watson to the bench reserved for government officials.

Behind him the Speaker’s voice cut through the din. ‘Order! Order! The House will come to order!’

The Prime Minister was heard in absolute silence. No Member rose to interrupt him as he recounted day by day, sometimes hour by hour, the narrative of the crisis. The only movement came from the House Messengers in their black frock coats and ceremonial chains, endlessly bringing in telegrams and pink telephone-slips recording the messages that were pouring into Westminster.

‘So I resolved to go to Germany myself to interview Herr Hitler and find out in personal conversation whether there was yet any hope of saving the peace …’

From his vantage point Legat could see Winston Churchill leaning forward on the Conservative front bench below the gangway, listening intently, accumulating telegram after telegram which he held bundled together with a red elastic band. In the gallery, the former Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, rested his arms on the wooden railing and gazed down at proceedings like a farmer at market wearing his Sunday best. Further along, the pale powdered imperial effigy of Queen Mary, the mother of the King, regarded Chamberlain without expression. Nearby sat Lord Halifax.

‘I knew very well that in taking such an unprecedented course I was laying myself open to criticism on the ground that I was detracting from the dignity of a British Prime Minister, and to disappointment, and perhaps even resentment, if I failed to bring back a satisfactory agreement. But I felt that in such a crisis, where the issues at stake were so vital for millions of human beings, such considerations could not be allowed to count …’

Legat checked the Prime Minister’s delivery against his copy of the speech, marking the few occasions when Chamberlain departed from the text. The PM’s manner was unhurried, forensic, quietly theatrical – now with his thumbs tucked behind the lapels of his jacket, now putting on a pair of pince-nez to read from a document, now removing them to gaze briefly up at the skylight as if seeking inspiration. He described his two visits to Hitler as if he were a Victorian explorer at the Royal Geographical Society reporting on his expeditions to meet some savage warlord. ‘On 15th September I made my first flight to Munich. Thence I travelled by train to Herr Hitler’s mountain home at Berchtesgaden … On the 22nd I went back to Germany to Godesberg on the Rhine, where the Chancellor had appointed a meeting place as being more convenient for me than the remote Berchtesgaden. Once again I had a very warm welcome in the streets and villages through which I passed …’

The Prime Minister had been on his feet for more than an hour, and was just embarking on a description of the events of the last two days – ‘as a last effort to preserve peace I sent Sir Horace Wilson to Berlin’ – when Legat became aware of a disturbance in the Peers’ Gallery. Cadogan was standing at the entrance, accompanied by a messenger. He was waving his hand, trying to attract the attention of Lord Halifax. Eventually it was Baldwin who noticed him and who reached round behind the back of Queen Mary and tapped the Foreign Secretary on the shoulder. He pointed to Cadogan who beckoned urgently to Halifax to come and join him. Halifax rose stiffly, his useless arm dangling at his side, and with much bowing and apology to Her Majesty, made his way to the back of the gallery and disappeared.

‘Yesterday morning Sir Horace Wilson resumed his conversations with Herr Hitler, and finding his views apparently still unchanged, repeated to him in precise terms, on my instructions, that should the forces of France become actively involved in hostilities against Germany, the British Government would feel obliged to support them …’

Legat whispered to Miss Watson, ‘Would you mind just checking what the PM says against the text?’ Without waiting for a reply he handed her the speech.

The tension in the Chamber was tightening sentence by sentence as the Prime Minister’s narrative drew closer to the present. The MPs standing between the officials’ box were too rapt to take any notice of Legat as he twisted and squeezed his way between them. ‘Excuse me … Sorry …’

He reached the space at the back of the Speaker’s chair just as Cadogan and Halifax came through the door. Cadogan saw him and waved at him to come over. He said quietly, ‘We’ve just received a direct response from Hitler. We need to inform the PM before he finishes speaking.’ He pressed a note into Legat’s hand. ‘Give this to Alec Dunglass.’

It was a single sheet of paper, folded once, with Prime Minister – urgent written on the outside.

Legat went back into the Chamber. He could see Dunglass sitting on the second row of benches, immediately behind the Prime Minister’s place. There was no way he could reach him directly. He gave the note to the MP at the end of the bench. He was aware of hundreds of MPs opposite and behind watching him, fascinated by what was going on. He whispered to the MP, ‘Would you mind passing this along to Lord Dunglass?’

He followed its progress as it travelled from hand to hand like a lit fuse until it reached Dunglass, who opened it with his usual slightly goofy expression and read it. Immediately he leaned forward to murmur in the ear of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who put his hand over his shoulder and took the note.

The Prime Minister had just finished reading out his latest telegrams to Hitler and Mussolini.

‘In reply, I am told Signor Mussolini has asked Herr Hitler for extra time to re-examine the situation and endeavour to find a peaceful settlement. Herr Hitler has agreed to postpone mobilisation for twenty-four hours.’

For the first time since he started speaking there was a murmur of approval.

‘Whatever views Honourable Members may have had about Signor Mussolini in the past, I believe that everyone will welcome his gesture of being willing to work with us for peace in Europe.’

More noises of agreement. The Prime Minister paused and suddenly looked to the bench beside him where Sir John Simon was tugging at the bottom of his jacket. He frowned and bent down, took the note and read it. The two men held a whispered conversation. The Chamber was silent, watching. Finally, the Prime Minister straightened and placed the note on the Dispatch Box.

‘That is not all. I have something further to say to the House yet. I have now been informed by Herr Hitler that he invites me to meet him at Munich tomorrow morning. He has also invited Signor Mussolini and Monsieur Daladier. Signor Mussolini has accepted and I have no doubt Monsieur Daladier will also accept. I need not say what my answer will be.’

The silence lasted a split second longer. Then came a deafening eruption of relief. All around the Chamber, MPs – Labour and Liberals too – rose to their feet applauding and waving their order papers. Some Conservatives actually stood on their benches to cheer. Even Churchill eventually lumbered to his feet although he looked as sulky as a toddler. On and on it went, minute after minute, as the Prime Minister glanced around, nodding, smiling. He tried to speak but they would not let him. Eventually he managed to wave them back into their places.

‘We are all patriots, and there can be no Honourable Member of this House who did not feel his heart leap that the crisis has been once more postponed to give us an opportunity to try what reason and good will and discussion will do to settle a problem which is already within sight of settlement. Mr Speaker, I cannot say any more. I am sure that the House will be ready to release me now to go and see what I can make of this last effort. Perhaps they may think it will be well, in view of this new development, that this Debate shall stand adjourned for a few days, when perhaps we may meet in happier circumstances.’

There was further prolonged acclamation and it was only then, to his embarrassment, that Legat realised he had forgotten his professional neutrality and had been cheering with all the rest.