Churchill’s Hour

Churchill’s Hour
Michael Dobbs

The combination of Michael Dobbs’ excellent writing skills and historical passion, and the legendary character of Winston Churchill, have provided two triumphantly successful books in WINSTON’S WAR and NEVER SURRENDER.In 1941, the war appears to be going badly on many fronts. Churchill is the confirmed leader and so his domestic political struggles are slightly lessened, but battered, bloody and almost bankrupt, Britain limps on. Churchill knows his country cannot win the war alone.An alliance with America is paramount, and Churchill is determined to develop and use a friendship with Averall Harriman, American Ambassador to Britain, and personal friend of President Franklin Roosevelt. But his son's wife exploits this first. Pamela Churchill's passionate affair, conducted under her father-in-law's roof, presents Churchill with the appalling dilemma between saving his country, and allowing his son Randolph to be cuckolded.With no British battlefield successes, and with a jubilant Germany controlling Europe, 1941 was a bleak year. America continued resolute against fighting, but by the year’s close Pearl Harbour had forced America into the war. Why had the Japanese been persuaded to attack American targets? And how were the rumours of the attack prevented from reaching American ears?Decisions of love and war are often matters of perception. And so it was in this case.This is an extraordinary novel of a man at bay, a nation facing disaster, and the political skills, human dilemmas and brilliant leadership that saved the day.

CHURCHILL’S HOUR

MICHAEL DOBBS

‘One of the most misleading factors in history is the practice of historians to build a story exclusively out of the records which have come down to them.’

WINSTON CHURCHILL

TO WILL.

TO MIKEY.

TO ALEX.

TO HARRY.

MY FOUR MUSKETEERS.

‘We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender.

‘And even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the new world, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.’

WINSTON CHURCHILL, June 1940

‘I have said this before, but I shall say it again and again and again. Your boys are not going to be sent into any foreign wars.’

FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT, October 1940

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#u1828c2b3-6fd9-5b7b-b5ee-8850526fb162)

Title Page (#u77e33d93-3042-5cab-9603-e9cf58bb6f22)

Dedication (#u5004b957-dee4-57ba-82e4-15a579b559b4)

Epigraph (#u1ac85061-8819-517b-a8ab-12e18301077e)

ONE (#u562463cb-a238-54a2-ac5d-f1e89ba20ef0)

TWO (#u73018edc-4b42-5e3a-9abe-0cd629683916)

THREE (#u3f029cc1-e804-580f-81d6-e013464301d9)

FOUR (#u6a6539eb-e97b-5a55-b599-e43d9783ec2e)

FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

ONE (#ulink_a98241c3-b7f9-520a-9a60-b395ca3a347c)

Christmas Day, 1940.

Winston Churchill sat propped up against the pillows of his bed. The room was cold, a sullen December sky rattling at the mullioned window, but the old man didn’t complain. The foul weather had kept the bombers at bay last night. Peace on earth, at least until tomorrow.

A servant entered the room carrying a pair of freshly ironed trousers on one arm and a silver tray on the other. Frank Sawyers was short, hairless, with piercing blue eyes and two missing teeth. He was no more than forty years in age yet his attitude was timeless.

‘Did you knock?’ Churchill’s brow was split by a crease of irritation.

‘As always, zur,’ Sawyers said, a trifle wearily and with a pronounced lisp and Cumbrian burr.

‘And what’s that disgusting green stuff?’ The Prime Minister took off his reading glasses and used them to indicate the jar on the silver tray. ‘No medicine, do you hear me? I’ll have none of your quackery. I’m not ill.’

‘Chutney. Home-made. By way of me Christmas present to yer, like. With season’s greetings.’