The Churchill Commando, page 14
It was twenty minutes before reinforcements came and it was possible to cut down the two men. When the hoods were removed they were immediately recognised as Fraser and Gladstone. As it turned out, neither of them was hanged, and it seemed that this had never been the intention. The plank had given them the precarious support necessary to prevent this. Fraser was in a condition of acute shock. Ashen-faced, he kept turning his head in tiny circles as though to convince himself that the noose was no longer holding him; his lips moved ceaselessly but no words came. Gladstone, the West Indian, was unconscious and appeared to be in a coma. Both men were rushed to Queen Mary’s Hospital in Sidcup.
Wells and Stephens, the two policemen from the first patrol car, were found in the changing room of the pavilion, bound and gagged but otherwise unharmed.
The police discovered a typed communique from the Churchill Commando nailed to the gallows, and it confirmed their responsibility for the deed. The communique ended with these words:
We do not believe in lynch law. That is why we did not hang these murderers. Ours was a demonstration. By an overwhelming majority the British people have demanded the restoration of the death penalty. Parliament must now give effect to that opinion.
Two hours after being admitted to the hospital, Gladstone came out of his coma. He opened his eyes, pulled himself up in the bed, and began to scream. His eyes rolled in panic as the screaming rose in intensity, his body quivered with terror. He fought wildly with the policeman and nurses who tried to restrain him and then, as suddenly as he had woken, he collapsed. Every effort was made to revive him, but without success: his heart would not respond.
The doctors couched their verdict on his death in official, medical terms, but one newspaperman put it more succinctly when he wrote that Gladstone had died of fear.
There was some speculation about why the Commando had chosen a cricket field in Chislehurst as the place for their so-called demonstration. It was ended when a reporter discovered that, in the distant past, highwaymen, footpads, and other criminals had been hanged within a few yards of the field. A stone commemorating this piece of history had been erected on the site. It bore the inscription:
hereabouts stood a gibbet
Chapter Ten
1
As it happened, Barr did not go with the men who carried through the bizarre demonstration at Chislehurst for he had been ordered by the General to hold himself available for a special assignment. Nor had he been told that Fraser and Gladstone were to be submitted only to a mock execution; when the unit returned safely, in the early hours of the morning, and he heard the full details from Piotrowski, his reaction was one of bewilderment, coupled with an odd sense of relief.
One of the huts at the back of the house had been fitted up as a mess and recreation room; a dozen men sat there eating thick, hot bacon sandwiches, swilling mugs of strong tea, and talking over the events of the night.
‘I don’t know why we didn’t hang the bastards,’ said Piotrowski.
‘I bet they wish you had,’ said Barr. He refused a sandwich but took one of the mugs of tea. ‘I know I would. If someone put a rope round my neck I’d want them to bloody well pull it.’
‘You wouldn’t like to be left hanging around, you mean?’ said one man, laughing coarsely at his own joke.
‘It’s not funny!’ Colleano said sharply. He chewed with noisy concentration for a moment as he pulled a thin strand of rind from between the slab-like slices of bread and dropped it on the table. ‘I’ll tell you the truth, I didn’t like it. It was sort of – you know – weird. You know? I seen a lot of death in my time. It’s not a joke, something you joke about. If a man deserves to die, okay. Kill him. But make it quick. Don’t prolong the bleeding agony.’
‘I’m not arguing!’ said Piotrowski. ‘Am I arguing? I said we should have finished the job, I said that. I don’t like playing these games any more than you do. All right, the Old Man has had his bit of fun. Now it’s time we did something for real.’
‘Like what?’ asked Onslow. He was a new recruit who had been sent down by Whitaker two days before, a thin, languid man, with the drawling echoes of an English public-school background in his voice, and a face which, from the pale eyes to the jutting chin, seemed to wear a look of perpetual boredom. The languid manner and the thin body were deceptive. Barr had fought with Onslow in Biafra and knew the inner strength that was enclosed in the bony frame, the speed and energy with which the man could react in a crisis. He had never liked him, never penetrated beyond the cynicism which Onslow wore like a second skin, but he had learned to respect his quality as a soldier. And for Barr, that was going a long way.
‘Christ Almighty,’ said Piotrowski savagely. ‘The country is crawling with communists. They run half the bloody unions, they’re everywhere. We could shoot up a few of them for starters.’
‘My dear old chap,’ said Onslow, ‘this is England. One doesn’t go around shooting people, it just isn’t done.’
‘Maybe that’s what’s wrong!’ said Piotrowski.
‘No,’ said Onslow. ‘The General has the right approach. Spot on. The British will join a revolution only if it has the correct note of respectability, if they can wear their bowler hats and carry their umbrellas. The General has judged it perfectly. Using the Churchill label, for instance. That was a touch of genius. Personally, I think old Winnie would spin in his grave at the idea, but what does that matter? His name gives the whole business the right sort of ring. Gutsy, patriotic, respectable, with just the faintest touch of melodrama. And that first manifesto! Magnificent. Beautifully balanced. It went just far enough, made all the right noises, without going over the top. Calculated to get them cheering in every golf club and semi-detached from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Exactly what the worthy citizens have been saying for years. What they needed was a focal point, a lead. Well, now they’ve got it. Someone has been clever enough to put a few of their pet prejudices and frustrations into the pot, season with a dash of humour, and stir gently. And, by God, it’s working.’
‘A very penetrating analysis, Mr. Onslow.’ They turned and saw the General standing in the doorway. As they pushed back their chairs he smiled and waved a hand. ‘At ease, gentlemen, please. Don’t let me break up the party. In fact, I’ll join you if I may.’
He pulled up a chair and someone brought him a mug of tea. He took a tentative sip and made a wry face. Someone passed a half-bottle of rum down the table towards him.
‘Like to liven it up, sir?’
‘It needs something,’ he said. ‘I had a sergeant in the Western desert who used to brew tea like this. So thick that the spoon stood up in it. He once gave some to a captured German colonel and the poor devil was sick. Said he intended to complain under the Geneva Convention about mistreatment of prisoners of war!’
The men responded with a few muted chuckles as he stirred the mixture of tea and rum. Barr watched him in admiration. The man had an extraordinary ability to adapt to the colour and tone of his surroundings, to put people at their ease, to mingle without patronising. At this moment he was a soldier relaxing with other soldiers, no more no less.
‘Were you out there with Montgomery, with the 8th Army, sir?’ asked Colleano.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the General. ‘Indeed. That was quite a man. Wavell was a fine commander, but Monty left him standing. One of the greatest generals in all our history. And don’t let any of these so-called military experts tell you otherwise!’ His eyes glowed with enthusiasm. ‘Do you know the first thing he did when he took over as C-in-C? Made a bonfire of all the plans his predecessor had made for withdrawal. Then he ordered everyone at HQ to take a half-hour of physical training every morning! You should have seen those fat-arsed staff officers running around in their vests and pants, puffing and blowing, their bellies quivering like jelly, their faces the colour of claret! And those who couldn’t make it were fired. Kicked out. It was tremendous.’
This time the laughter was strong and uninhibited, and Barr joined in.
‘Monty was shrewd. He knew, he knew very well that the word would soon get through to the other ranks,’ continued the General, ‘and, of course, it did, with electrifying results. You have to remember that, for the most part, he was dealing with amateurs, not professionals like yourselves. He had to motivate them, build up morale, and by Jupiter, he did it!’ He shook his head. ‘I was a young captain at the time, not long out of the egg. I’d have gone to hell and brought the devil back under close arrest if Montgomery had asked me.’
He sipped his drink, looking at them over the rim of the mug, his eyes moving from one face to another until they came to rest on Onslow.
‘Well, Mr. Onslow,’ he said, ‘what do you think of things so far. To your liking, are they?’
‘No complaints, sir,’ Onslow said.
‘Well, I’ve got a complaint!’ Piotrowski said bluntly. ‘I think it’s time we stopped playing games, that’s what I think.’
‘Ah,’ said the General. ‘You disapprove of our tactics so far, do you?’
‘I’m not saying that, sir,’ answered Piotrowski, ‘that’s not for me to say. O.K. Maybe Onslow was right. You’ve just been stirring the pot, getting people going. But going where? And for what? That’s the bit I don’t understand.’
‘Perhaps Mr. Onslow can answer that. He seems to understand these things,’ said the General softly. He leaned forward, his head slightly to one side and fixed Onslow with his clear, bright eyes. He was smiling, but the smile had no depth, and there was an odd feeling of menace in his manner which puzzled Barr. It was as if the General were stalking the other man, offering him some obscure kind of challenge, as though the area around the table had suddenly become an arena in which two adversaries faced each other. The men seemed to sense this change in the atmosphere also, for they sat back like spectators, looking from one man to the other, but taking no part.
Onslow spread his hands, palms upwards, in an uneasy, deprecatory gesture. Had he been a stranger Barr would have said that he was afraid, but he knew the man and he had never seen him reveal a hint of fear or, indeed, of any other emotion.
‘Sorry. Can’t help,’ he drawled. ‘I’m the new boy around here. I’d rather listen and learn.’
‘You disappoint me,’ said the General coldly. He stared at Onslow for a moment longer as though he were measuring him, weighing him up, and then he turned brusquely back to the others.
‘You’ll get your action, Mr. Piotrowski,’ he said. ‘All you want and more. The games, as you call them, are over. Phase I has been completed, and completed successfully, thanks to you, gentlemen. We shall continue to stir the pot, as Mr. Onslow so picturesquely put it, but Phase II will be a little more serious, I promise you.’
He paused, sipped at the mug of tea, and then lowered it slowly to the table. There was a wet ring-mark on the bare surface, and he rubbed half of it away with his finger, leaving behind a rough outline of the letter C. He seemed amused by this, his face eased into a little smile. The others watched in silence, waiting for him to continue.
‘How do you save a country?’ The General spoke so softly that he seemed to be talking to himself. Barr leaned forward, straining to catch the words. ‘Above all, how do you save a country from itself? How do you give it back the will to live, to work, how do you restore its pride, its self-respect, its courage, its sense of purpose? Once, gentlemen, less than a half-century ago, it was possible to find many, if not all, of those qualities in these islands.’ He shook his head. ‘No more, no more. We have lost our place in the world, and with it our faith in ourselves, in our standards, our traditions. We are in decline, as the Romans were, and unless we look to ourselves we shall die as surely as Rome died, not because we have lost an empire, but because we have lost our heads. We shall be taken over by the barbarians – barbarians of our own making! The Romans are remembered for their roads, and perhaps, with luck, we shall be remembered for the English language. That will be all. Nothing more. Nothing.’
His voice, which had grown stronger as he went on, again sank to a whisper, but in the silence that followed his eyes held them fast. Clear and fierce as the eyes of a tiger, they glittered with a power which was almost hypnotic. Even Barr found it impossible to look away or remain unaffected; his skin quickened as though it had been pricked by needles. He was reminded of an American who, after meeting Orde Wingate, the British general who fought a guerilla campaign behind the Japanese lines in World War II, had remarked: ‘Christ, the way that guy looks at you, it’s like a sunglass burning a hole in your guts!’
The General leaned back and smiled again, his eyes softening, as if the power behind them had been turned down. ‘However, we shall not follow that scenario, gentlemen. We will not fail. Let me tell you a story. When I was a young man – a boy really, no more than sixteen or seventeen – I went to Germany on a holiday. It was just before the war. One evening I went into a beer cellar with some friends, and as the evening progressed, there was singing. I suppose there were a couple of hundred people there, a few visitors, but mainly German and most of them young. And then, at one point, a young Nazi began to sing the German national anthem, Deutschland, Deutschland Uber A lies. In a light-hearted way, we began to counter this with Land of Hope and Glory. The effect was electric. Within moments they were all on their feet, roaring out their song, drowning our voices. I tell you, I have never seen such fervour, never felt such intensity. It was as if those young people were possessed. I saw the same thing a few days later at a Nazi rally in Munich. Thousands of people animated by one will, flaming with pride. I was overwhelmed and terrified. It seemed to me that I was surrounded by a storm, a hurricane which could never be diverted from its course.’
A little knot of unease began to tighten in Barr’s stomach, and something of his feelings must have showed on his face, for the General looked at him and shook his head, as if disappointed.
‘No, Major, no. I can see what you are thinking. I am not a fascist or a Nazi. I saw the fruits of that philosophy towards the end of the war, at Belsen and other concentration camps, and the memory still disturbs my dreams. It wasn’t until then that I understood the word evil. And that, in a sense, has become the dilemma of decent men. Hitler perpetrated such vile crimes in the name of patriotism, discipline, order, that these concepts have become suspect. Today, if we dare to say we love our country we are called chauvinists. If we suggest that there must be more discipline in the factories, the schools, the family, we are told that we are a threat to the liberty of the individual; if we speak of the need for order, the need to enforce and strengthen the law, we are branded as neo-fascists; if we say people should work harder we are told that we are anti-working-class; if we talk of virtue, decency, courtesy, civilised values, we are mocked as squares, or worse. And so decent men are intimidated. They stand aside, watching in despair, as the mobs, the muggers, the louts, the extremists, the merchants of porn and perversion, the money-grabbers, run riot. They look towards Westminster, only to see one tribe of mediocrities succeed another, neither of them with the courage or know-how to check the slide to decadence and disaster.’
The General stood up abruptly, scraping his chair on the hard surface of the floor.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. You have had a long, hard night and this is hardly the moment for speeches or lectures. I apologise. Let me make one more point. The last tonight, I promise you.’ He looked directly towards Barr. ‘You seemed uneasy when I mentioned the Nazis, Major. I did so only to illustrate my argument. A nation can only be saved if it has the will to survive, to rise again. But why is it that only the extremes, either of the Right or Left, seem able to create that will, to build the sense of purpose, the dedication, the enthusiasm, the pride which I felt in that beer cellar that night? Why is it that we British can only generate a national will when we are fighting a war?’
He brought his fist down on to the table, rattling the crockery, and his eyes gleamed with their former intensity.
‘What is crippling this country, strangling it? It is not the balance of payments, the falling value of the pound, our economic or industrial troubles. They’re the symptoms. The cause lies elsewhere. It is apathy! Indifference! Cure that, and all the other problems will sort themselves out. Apathy! That is the enemy we have to destroy. We have to take Britain by the scruff of the neck and shake it until it comes to its senses! We must bring the ordinary, decent man out of the shadows and show him that he is not helpless, give him the will to act.’
He stopped suddenly, drew in a deep breath, and continued in a more controlled even amiable tone. ‘That’s what it is all about, Mr. Piotrowski. We are going to create a revolution, a revolution neither of the Left or the Right, a revolution unique in history, a revolution not to destroy the democratic system but to purge it, to revitalise it.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you have read Lenin, have you?’
Piotrowski shook his head, his face creased in a puzzled smile.
‘You should,’ said the General. ‘Lenin was the expert. He said that a revolution was necessary not simply to change the system, but to change people. Change people. That is the key. Do that, change our people’s outlook, forge a national will and we shall be on the way to solving all our problems.’
The others turned to Onslow in surprise as his voice broke the brief silence which followed.
‘May I ask a question, sir?’ he said.
‘Why not? We’ve been hoping to hear from you,’ said the General. Once again, Barr noted the faint mockery in the tone, and was surprised by it.
Onslow was either unaware of this, or chose to ignore it. ‘A revolution can only succeed if it takes power. There’s no point otherwise. So those who lead the revolution must somehow acquire the means, the machinery of government. You’ve said that you’re not out to destroy the democratic system. O.K. But at the moment we have an elected government, and there is no General Election in sight. How do you propose to handle that situation?’
