April 24, 2013

FINEST HOUR 150, SPRING 2011

BY DON C. GRAETER

Mr. Graeter is Director of Investments for Central Bank of Louisville, Kentucky. He is a graduate of the University of Virginia Law School and served as a U.S. Navy officer during the Vietnam War. This article is adapted from his remarks to The Forum Club of Louisville.

ABSTRACT
This improbable political thriller actually happened. An unlikely group of elderly gentlemen delivered three dramatic, perfectly timed speeches that set in motion a stream of events which changed the course of history. It was, truly, a time for old men. 

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 House of Commons, London Tuesday, 7 May 1940

3:00 pm
The Alcoholic Barrister had risen from modest Welsh roots. A successful King’s Counsellor, he was as well a respected Member of Parliament, though isolated as an independent. Few were aware of his carefully concealed penchant for binge drinking. Largely forgotten today, he will play a critical role in our drama.

3:15 pm
At 71, the Prime Minister was a very old man at a time when life expectancy was 59. He had been patient, however—had waited his turn to lead the country. He did things his own way. After all, he knew best.

The Prime Minister hardly bothered to conceal his contempt for His Majesty’s Opposition: the Labour Party and a handful of disaffected Liberals. What did they matter with his huge Conservative majority? He tolerated no disloyalty in his own Tory ranks, where his opponents were few and of little consequence; and those he would crush.

He knew who they were—had had them under surveillance for some time. Impatiently, the PM glanced at his watch, anxious to adjourn for the Whitsun holiday.

3:30 pm
Heads turned as the Admiral walked down Whitehall. Rarely did Londoners encounter a naval officer on the street in the full dress uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet.

Much decorated for bravery, the Admiral, now 67, had retired a hero. Financially secure from the success of his memoirs, he had entered Parliament for North Portsmouth in 1934. The Conservative Party had been delighted, since no one could beat a naval icon in Portsmouth. After a career of danger and hardship, the Admiral had anchored in tranquil waters, splitting his time between his country estate and “the best club in London,” as the House of Commons was known. Politically unambitious, he had supported his party; yet he now found himself among a small group of Tory backbenchers increasingly discontented with the Prime Minister’s leadership.

The business before the House was procedural—a motion to adjourn for the holiday. But custom dictated that Members could speak on any topic. The Admiral had decided to seize the opportunity. He had had enough. No orator, he would condemn the Prime Minister’s leadership. He knew the risk of being run out of the party and deprived of his seat. Well, let the younger, ambitious ones worry about such things. He would do what he thought was right and, if necessary, leave public life forever.

7:09 pm
The Admiral rose to deliver his only major speech. His voice was weak and he visibly trembled. The benches fell silent, out of respect for who he was and because of his dress uniform, worn for just this purpose. Six rows of medals adorned his chest, glittering gold bands ran from his cuffs to his elbows. His voice did not match the splendor of his appearance, but the Admiral commanded rapt attention. The chamber hung on his every word.

He began by criticizing the current British war campaign as “a shocking story of ineptitude.” He praised the First Lord of the Admiralty, who, he said, had “the confidence of the Navy, and indeed of the whole country.” But “proper use” of the First Lord’s “great abilities” could not be made “under the existing system.”

8:03 pm
Internal turmoil gripped the Scholar, another discontented Tory backbencher. He too was 67. Fluent in nine languages, he had taken a first at Balliol, and had been elected a fellow of All Souls at an early age. A prominent journalist, he had won acclaim as a military and political historian.

In the 1920s, when the Scholar had served as First Lord of the Admiralty and Secretary of State for the Colonies, Time had called him the most talented member of the cabinet, though criticizing his pugnacious manner. But his party had been ousted in 1929, and in the national government that followed he had not been invited back. His career seemed well behind him.

Aware of his reputation as an indifferent speaker, the Scholar had toiled mightily on the remarks he hoped to make. Still he was unsure—both of himself and of how far he should go. He shared the Admiral’s views, but he owed his seat to the Prime Minister, and the PM had been his friend. Given his seniority, the Scholar should have been recognized early—but the Speaker was a political foe and ignored him until the chamber of the House had nearly emptied for dinner.

“I came to the House of Commons today in uniform for the first time because I wish to speak for some officers and men of the fighting, sea-going Navy….The enemy have been left in undisputable possession of vulnerable ports and aerodromes for nearly a month, have been given time to pour in reinforcements by sea and air, to land tanks, heavy artillery and mechanised transport, and have been given time to develop the air offensive….It is not the fault of those for whom I speak….If they had been more courageously and offensively employed they might have done much to prevent these unhappy happenings and much to influence unfriendly neutrals.” —The Admiral

“We are fighting today for our life, for our liberty, for our all; we cannot go on being led as we are. I have quoted certain words of Oliver Cromwell. I will quote certain other words. I do it with great reluctance, because I am speaking of those who are old friends and associates of mine, but they are words which, I think, are applicable to the present situation. This is what Cromwell said to the Long Parliament when he thought it was no longer fit to conduct the affairs of the nation: ‘You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!'” —The Scholar

He had almost decided to forgo comment when from behind came the urgent tones of the Alcoholic Barrister: “Now is the time. You must speak. Play for time. I’ll get you a crowd.”

Gripped by doubt, the Scholar rose and began to address a nearly empty House. But the Alcoholic Barrister had repaired to the lobbies and smoking room and, good as his word, soon produced a crowded Chamber.

Encouraged by the increasing crowd, the Scholar described the government’s “handling of economic warfare,” indeed “the whole of our national effort,” as “too little, too late….We cannot go on as we are. There must be a change.”

The chamber roared its approval. Emboldened, the Scholar made a fateful decision—to include a quotation he had accidentally discovered, never thinking the opportunity would arise to use it:

“This is what Cromwell said to the Long Parliament when he thought it was no longer fit to conduct the affairs of the nation: ‘You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing. Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!'”

Wednesday, 8 May 1940

4:00 pm
The speeches resumed the next day, as the Elder Statesman brooded in his office. Once a noted orator, he was now 77, his days of leadership long past. He had not given a major speech in five years. Disgusted with both events and the Prime Minister, whom he held in open contempt, he planned to take no part in the debate. Though several colleagues begged him to intervene, he no longer had a significant following. What was the point?

In the Chamber the Opposition—which had noted the violent split in Conservative ranks after last night’s speeches by the Admiral and the Scholar—opened by calling for a division: a vote of confidence in the government. Stung by their effrontery, the Prime Minister angrily interrupted: “I have friends in the House…and I call on my friends to support us in the Lobby tonight.”

At this the Elder Statesman’s daughter, herself an MP, left the House to see her father. Breathlessly she told him what the Prime Minister had just said. The Elder Statesman, furious, said he could not remain silent.

As he headed to the Chamber, the Elder Statesman gathered his thoughts—eighteen years now since the Coalition he led had been thrown out in a rebellion of its Tory members. Revenge, indeed, was a dish best served cold.

5:37 pm
With a slight motion to the Speaker, the Elder Statesman was promptly recognized. Even at his age, the Speaker dared not keep him waiting. He began with a quip which drew laughter, and took his time as the Speaker called for order and the word spread to MPs outside the Commons that he was “up.” Members rushed back into the Chamber, which was soon full. The Elder Statesman began making his case. He would never give another memorable speech in the House. Did he have one last great oration in him?

He told the House he had been reluctant to speak, but felt obliged to do so because of his experience as Prime Minister during the previous war; and this was no time to mince words. The Government’s efforts, he continued, had been done “half-heartedly, ineffectively, without drive and unintelligently. Will anybody tell me that he is satisfied with what we have done about aeroplanes, tanks, guns?…Is anyone here satisfied with the steps we took to train an Army to use them? Nobody is satisfied.”

To the surprise of some who knew their mixed history as former colleagues, the Elder Statesman tried to exculpate one member of the government: “I do not think the First Lord was responsible for all the things that happened.” The First Lord of the Admiralty immediately interrupted: “I take full responsibility for everything that has been done by the Admiralty, and I take my full share of the burden.” The Elder Statesman replied that the First Lord must not allow himself “to be converted into an air-raid shelter to keep the splinters from hitting his colleagues.”

Then, like the Scholar, the Elder Statesman reached his carefully-timed peroration. Turning to the Prime Minister, he spoke directly and devastatingly: “He has appealed for sacrifice. The nation is prepared for every sacrifice so long as it has leadership. I say solemnly that the Prime Minister should give an example of sacrifice, because there is nothing which can contribute more to victory in this war than that he should sacrifice the seals of office.”

Monday, 13 May 1940

4:00 pm
As the Commons reconvened, the Pariah rose to address a now bewildered assembly. Aged 65, he had arrived here forty years before. After a remarkable career of ups and downs, including twice changing parties, his career had foundered. He had spent the last decade on the back benches, lonely and frustrated. Even though he had rejoined the government as First Lord of the Admiralty the previous autumn, Conservatives who shared his views still avoided him, afraid of being tainted by association.

The Pariah’s detractors were not limited to Tories. The Labour Party detested him for sins, and imagined sins, stretching back decades. A reporter had labeled him “a man without a party.” While his brilliance and industry were respected, he was also thought to be out of touch and lacking in judgment. “Rogue elephant,” “aging adventurer” and—the worst cut of all—”half-breed American” were among their derogatory descriptions. Just a year before, he had barely survived “deselection” as the Tory candidate for his long-held constituency. Some MPs resented even having to listen to him. They sat on their hands in silence.

A friend later described the Pariah’s speech as “a very short statement.” A longtime enemy, the editor of The Times, described it patronizingly as “quite a good little warlike speech.” But in the House itself, the Pariah soon had his colleagues on their feet, waving their Order Papers. He concluded amidst roaring tumult, as William Manchester wrote, with words now known to millions who were unborn at the time, who have never seen England, and do not even speak English:

“I would say to the House, as I have said to those who have joined this Government: ‘I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.’ You ask, what is our policy? I will say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength God can give us. That is our policy.

“You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: It is victory; victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.”

Dramatis Personae

The Alcoholic Barrister
Clement Edward Davies KC (1884-1962) was called to the Bar of England and Wales and appointed King’s Counsellor in 1923. He became a Liberal MP in 1929, and was Leader of the Liberal Party, 1945-56. Nothing better became his service to his nation than his urging the Scholar to intervene in the Norway Debate on 7 May 1940.

The Prime Minister
Arthur Neville Chamberlain (1869-1940), became a Conservative MP in 1918 and Prime Minister in 1937. In the crisis of May 1940, with the Germans victorious, he seemed to be thinking in terms of self rather than the broad interests of the nation, offending many, including Megan Lloyd George MP, the first female Welsh MP, who convinced her father to speak. Chamberlain died in November 1940, after loyally supporting his successor, who said generously that he had “acted with perfect sincerity according to his lights and strove to the utmost of his capacity and authority, which were powerful, to save the world from the awful devastating struggle….”

The Admiral
Sir Roger John Brownlow Keyes Bt GCB KCVO CMG DSO RN (1872-1945), Admiral of the Fleet, 1930; Conservative MP, 1934; First Baron Keyes, 1943. His career stretched from African anti-slavery patrols to touring the Allied landings in Leyte during World War II. He was Churchill’s liaison to King Leopold of the Belgians and director of Combined Operations in 1940-41. His trembling speech had enormous impact due to his personal stature, military expertise, and the fact that he was speaking against his own party’s Prime Minister. Harold Nicolson termed it the most dramatic speech he had ever heard.

The Scholar
Leopold Charles Maurice Stennett Amery CH (1873-
1955), known as Leo, met Churchill when the latter pushed him into “Ducker,” the swimming pool at Harrow School, in 1889. He became a Conservative MP, 1911; First Lord of the Admiralty, 1922-24; Colonial Secretary, 1923-29; and Secretary of State for India and Burma, 1940-45. Seeking a certain quotation by Oliver Cromwell for his speech, Amery discovered another. He had thought it too incendiary, but kept it at the ready. It made for the speech of his life.

The Elder Statesman
David Lloyd George OM PC (1863-1945) Earl Lloyd George of Dwyfor (1945) was a Liberal MP from1890; he was President of the Board of Trade, 1905-08; Chancellor of the Exchequer, 1908-15; and Prime Minister, 1916-22. He was ousted as prime minister when the Chamberlain wing of the Tory party broke from the coalition. The old man had not forgotten. Though his reputation was later clouded by suspicion that he was a defeatest, and that he favored an armistice during World War II, his intervention in the May 8th debate was crucial and devastating.

The Pariah
Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill KG OM CH TD PC FRS etc. (1874-1965), needs no further description in these pages.

“The Prime Minister must remember that he has met this formidable foe of ours in peace and in war. He has always been worsted. He is not in a position to appeal on the ground of friendship. He has appealed for sacrifice. The nation is prepared for every sacrifice so long as it has leadership, so long as the Government show clearly what they are aiming at and so long as the nation is confident that those who are leading it are doing their best. I say solemnly that the Prime Minister should give an example of sacrifice, because there is nothing which can contribute more to victory in this war than that he should sacrifice the seals of office.” —The Elder Statesman

The March of Events

World War II began in September 1939, but the “phony war,” through spring 1940, saw little military action, despite grave concerns over the government’s management. These crystallized around the failure to organize the economy for war, inadequate production of armaments and training of troops, and a lack of energy and direction.

In World War I, Lloyd George’s small war cabinet of members without departmental responsibilities was thought critical to his success. There was growing sentiment that in order to put the economy on a war footing, the Labour Party must be brought into a coalition of the type Lloyd George had headed. Chamberlain resisted at every point.

By Tuesday, 7 May 1940, a British attempt to seize Norwegian ports recently occupied by the Germans had gone badly awry. In the House of Commons, the ordinarily routine motion to adjourn for the Whitsun holiday thus became known as “the Norway Debate.”

An unlikely combination of backbenchers ignited a conflagration which ultimately consumed Prime Minister Chamberlain and elevated Churchill in his place on the evening of May 10th. On the 13th, Churchill gave his first address as Prime Minister, which is now graven in history.

Admiral Keyes’s challenge first emboldened Chamberlain’s critics, Leo Amery’s stirring demand for the PM’s resignation unleashed a torrent of emotion. The reaction of the Tory back benches encouraged Labour to call for a vote of confidence. Chamberlain’s disastrous response so angered Lloyd George that he decided to speak—a moment of high drama which built emotions to fever pitch. The chaotic division saw Chamberlain’s 200+ majority shrink to 81 because of defections by his supporters. Although a technical victory, this embarrassment forced Chamberlain either to form a coalition with Labour or resign.

During two days of back room intrigue on May 9th and 10th, as Hitler began his long-planned blitzkrieg in the west, Labour refused to serve under Chamberlain; then Lord Halifax, the Tory favorite to succeed him, declined the job. Pressured by the urgency of the situation, Chamberlain resigned and the King, reluctantly, sent for the only choice available—the Pariah, Winston Churchill.

Churchill became Prime Minister at a time when he could not have carried a vote, even among his own party. The complex chain of events played out over four days, involving many individuals. True, there were “troublesome young men” on the Tory back benches—Boothby, Macmillan, Eden and the like. True, the Labour Party was a decisive influence. True, Chamberlain, Halifax, Hitler and others played their roles. But without the Old Men, it wouldn’t have happened as it did.

How much we owe these brave old men: two poor speakers and one great one, but past his prime. They struck the sparks that lit the tinder—and changed history.