Read the First Two Chapters Free

“Bill!”

He jerked awake beside Augusta. Sunlight spilled across the attic floor. Bloody hell. He’d come to see his wife for an hour after first watch, not to fall asleep in her arms until morning.

“Bill!” The voice boomed again. Jean Dumont, his father-in-law, yelled from the café downstairs. “Do you hear me? The BEF is moving out!”

The words slapped him awake. The BEF moving out meant two things. The Germans had invaded. And that he very well may get court-martialed. He threw back the blanket and swung his legs off the creaking bed.

“I’m coming, Jean!” Bill yelled.

“What’s wrong?” Augusta said, her voice velvety with sleep.

“The BEF is moving out,” Bill said, his hands fumbling with his uniform. Sunlight filtered through the attic window, casting stripes of gold across the floor.

It was too bright. He’d really overslept. Damn it all.

“Bill—” Augusta sat up alert, concern all over her face. She watched him wrestle into his shirt, her eyes darting between him and the door. “What do you mean? Why is Papa yelling?”

“BEF’s moving out,” Bill repeated, fastening the buttons with shaking fingers. “I’ve got to go, love. Right bloody now.”

“Moving out?” she asked, with panic in her blue eyes. “You mean you’re going? Right now?”

“Afraid so,” he said, tucking his shirt into his trousers and reaching for his boots. “I’ve got to get back to camp before anyone notices I’m gone. They might court-martial me for this. Gristock would love that.”

“Bill, wait—” Augusta scrambled off the bed, clutching the blanket to her shoulders. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as she grasped his arm.

“Augusta, please,” Bill said, his voice softening. He cupped her tear-streaked cheeks with both hands. “I’ll write you. Every chance I get. And I’ll come back to you. I swear it.”

“Don’t say that,” she said. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Hey,” he said, pulling her into his arms. He held her tight, pressing his lips to her hair. “I will come back. You hear me? I will.”

“Bill!” Jean’s voice roared again from below, louder this time, ricocheting through the floorboards like cannon fire. “For God’s sake, man, hurry!”

Bill released Augusta and stepped back. He grabbed his cap from the chair and jammed it on his head. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too, Bill.”

With a last smile, Bill turned to the attic door, throwing it open and descending the narrow staircase two steps at a time. Jean stood at the bottom.

“Good luck, my son,” the older man said, clapping Bill on the shoulder as he passed.

“Merci,” Bill said, heading for the back door. He didn’t stop to breathe until he was straddling his bicycle, the metal frame cold beneath his palms. His legs pumped as he sped down the dirt path, the wind whipping at his uniform.

The countryside blurred around him, the idyllic French fields burdened by the clouds of war.

Bill’s boots hit the muddy road with a thud, his breath coming in gasps as he slowed his pace to a nonchalant walk. He tucked the bicycle in his usual hiding spot in the woods next to the mess hall dump, and snuck through the kitchen and out into camp. Gristock had assigned him extra kitchen duty and the cooks had shown him their favorite smoking spot on the edge of camp.

Camp was alive with shouting men and growling engines. This organized chaos easily concealed anyone wanting to go unnoticed.

He kept his head down, his cap pulled low over his brow as he weaved through the crowds of soldiers. Several glanced at him, then continued on with their work.

Bill hunched his shoulders, blending into the bustling mass, and made his way to his barracks. His heart pounded against his ribs from the exertion of pedaling kilometers and from the risks of being caught.

The door to the barracks creaked as he pushed it open, the familiar stale smell of unwashed socks and damp canvas washing over him. Inside, the room was still.

The lads must have packed their kits and begun parading in the concentration area.

Bill walked in nonchalantly. Just another soldier returning to his bunk. His gaze landed on his bed, and he froze mid-step.

Sergeant Major Gristock sat on his narrow cot with his arms crossed over his chest. His face was carved into a thunderous scowl, and his steely eyes were locked onto Bill.

“You arrogant sod…” Gristock said. “You’re lucky we’re so short on men.” His voice was unusually quiet. Bill felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. “Otherwise, I’d have you in cuffs and headed back to prison, where you belong.”

The word “prison” hit Bill like a punch in the chest, the word dragging him back to that drunken bar fight, the damp cell, and the judge’s gavel echoing in his ears. He’d been sentenced with two years’ impressment for a brawl he barely remembered.

“Disobeying direct orders,” Gristock barked, as he circled Bill like a wolf scenting blood.

Bill kept his eyes forward, staring at a scuffed patch on the wall. It was easier to focus there, to let the Sergeant Major’s words wash over and off him.

“Prison is where you belong,” Gristock said. He stopped pacing long enough to jab a finger into Bill’s chest to make him feel the accusation. “You disobey orders and you put the entire damn unit at risk! We are marching out to war in mere minutes!” Gristock said, pacing furiously.

His boots struck the floor hard, each step punctuating his rage.

“And here you come, stumbling back from your own little pleasure house like a spoiled twat who thinks the war will wait on him.”

Gristock stopped in front of Bill, his chest heaving. His glare locked onto Bill’s eyes. “I suspended your sleeping-out pass weeks ago. It was outrageous you received a pass at all. Marrying a French girl in town on a whim and you get special privileges? Madness. And now you disobey my direct orders. You are selfish and undisciplined. A danger to the men you serve with.”

A hot, embarrassed flush spread across Bill’s neck and ears.

Gristock leaned in close, his voice dropping to a growl. “And don’t think for one second that your brother’s reputation will save you forever.”

Bill’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails digging crescents into his palms. The name, Jameson, hung unspoken in the air like smoke from a fire that wouldn’t die. No matter where Bill went or what he did, his brother’s name dogged him.

His shame and anger intertwined until they were indistinguishable. He felt Gristock’s stare pressing on him, waiting for him to crack, to lash out, to prove him right.

Jameson wouldn’t crack, Bill thought. Perfect, disciplined Jameson Brooks, the golden boy who became an officer to follow in their late father’s footsteps. And here stood Bill, the drunk, the screw-up, the younger brother who never measured up to the Brooks family name.

Bill forced down the lump in his throat and stared straight ahead. He pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line before parting them just enough to speak.

“I apologize, sir,” Bill said, the words scraping against his dry throat like sandpaper. “It will not happen again.”

Gristock’s knuckles jabbed into the center of Bill’s chest, the force making him stumble back a half step. He caught himself before he fell.

“Since you’ve decided you’re too good for orders,” the Sergeant Major spat, his face inches from Bill’s, “you get to carry more weight. All the way to the bloody Dyle River. You’ll carry your kit and your buddy Leggett’s kit for him. Every damn ounce of it.”

Bill clenched his jaw against the retort that threatened to claw its way out of his throat. The words buzzed behind his teeth like trapped hornets, but he swallowed them whole.

“Every damn step,” Gristock repeated. Then came another jab, this time with two fingers pressing into Bill’s collarbone like a bayonet. The force wasn’t enough to bruise, but it was enough to make Bill sway backwards again.

“And you won’t be riding in the lorries like a pampered lord. You will walk.”

A vein pulsed in the older man’s temple. His face was red, and heat radiated off him like steam from a kettle boiling over. Bill didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

“Both of you troublemakers are walking every bloody step through Belgium.” Gristock turned and spat on the ground. “This is Leggett’s punishment for piss-poor choice in friends.”

At the mention of Ernie, Bill’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t meant to drag anyone into his mess, especially not Ernie Leggett, who was a good friend to him.

“And let me be clear, Private Brooks,” Gristock leaned closer. “If you step a toe further out of line, I will court-martial you. I swear it before God Almighty.”

Bill forced a nod. “Understood, sir.”

Gristock stepped back and said, “Now pack on the double. You’ve got a long journey ahead.”

Bill dropped to his knees by his bunk and began packing. He didn’t need to look up. He could feel the judgmental pinch of Gristock’s mouth, the way his eyes narrowed like he was trying to bore straight through Bill’s skull. You don’t belong here. That’s what those eyes said.

“Get a bloody move on, Brooks!” Gristock yelled from over him. “Or are you hoping your brother comes along to tie your boots for you, too?”

Bill ground his teeth, but he didn’t stop packing. He stuffed socks, a canteen, and a battered notebook into his kit.

“Pathetic,” Gristock muttered. “If it weren’t for this godforsaken war, I’d have thrown you in the brig myself! A bloody jailbird degenerate like you has no place in my unit, but it’s not my decision.”

Bill froze for half a second. He tightened his grip on the strap of his pack. The word hung in the stale air between them: jailbird. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard it.

“Damn it, Brooks, I said move!” The Sergeant Major’s boot slammed against the floorboards.

“Sir, yes sir,” Bill said.

Gristock leaned in closer, his breath hot against Bill’s ear.

“If it weren’t for your brother,” the words dripped like acid, “you’d be gone. God, you two couldn’t be more different.”

The mention of Jameson again and again burned worse than anything else Gristock said. Bill shoved the pack closed and slung it over his shoulder.

“Ready, sir,” Bill said.

“About time,” Gristock replied.

“Oi! Wait for me!” Bill yelled through a crowd of soldiers. Ernie Leggett, Harold Reade, and Jameson Brooks turned and looked at Bill.

Bill barreled toward them, weaving through the crowd of men on the parade ground. He swung his pack, letting it thud to the ground as he caught his breath. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand before looking up at the group. His face was flushed, a mix of exertion and embarrassment.

Jameson stared at him in silence, arms crossed, while Ernie and Harold exchanged knowing smirks.

“Sorry I’m late, boys,” Bill said, trying for nonchalance. “The missus needed to see me once more before we shoved.”

Bill bent to adjust a loose strap on his pack, avoiding his brother’s hard gaze. “Had a big surprise when Augusta’s father told me the military was moving out this morning.”

“Bet you did!” Ernie said, slapping Bill’s shoulder.

“Yeah, well…” Bill straightened, scratching the back of his neck. “And an even nastier surprise when ole Gristock was sitting on my bunk when I got back. Looked like he was going to kill me. Said he wanted to charge me for desertion. What saved me was how short on men we are.”

“You’re a lucky bugger,” Harold said.

“Doesn’t make me feel great about what we’re headed towards, though,” Bill said. He glanced down, kicking at a clump of dirt.

“Well, we’re glad you made it, Wild Man,” Ernie said with a grin. “Wouldn’t be the same without you stirring the old pot.”

“Or getting us all yelled at,” Harold said, his grin mirroring Ernie’s.

“Thanks, lads,” Bill said with a sheepish half-smile, though his eyes looked back to Jameson, who hadn’t moved from his rigid stance.

The men quieted for Jameson to say his piece. Bill, Ernie, and Harold expected First Lieutenant Jameson Brooks to chew his brother out or to knock him over.

Jameson exhaled through his nose, shook his head once, and raised his eyes to meet Bill’s. “Got everything, Private?” he asked.

There was no anger or shouting, just disappointment hanging in the space between the words. It hit Bill harder than any lecture could have.

“Look, Jamie… I mean, sir,” Bill’s voice cracked, his throat dry despite the cool morning air. He cleared it and tried again. “I’m sorry. I… I had to see her one more time. I had to.”

“Private,” Jameson said, as he took a single step forward, close enough that Bill flinched. “I am speaking to you as your commanding officer. Are you prepared to go to war?”

“I packed everything double-time. I need to get rations. Let me recheck my kit. I’ve got everything important, at least,” Bill said with an impish smile, raising his rifle. “On a darker note, Ernie, hand me your kit. Gristock says as punishment I’ve got to carry your pack and mine all the way to the Dyle.”

“What?” Ernie’s voice rose an octave. “That’s crazy! You’ll be too worn out to do any fighting! Is he trying to get you killed?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Bill said, looking at the two bulging kits. He stiffened his posture and forced a grin.

“Well, that’s not all of it, Ernie,” Bill said. “Gristock said that because you have such poor taste in friends, you and I are gonna walk the whole way.”

“What a proper git he is,” Ernie said. “Well, we’ll have a proper stroll, you and I. We won’t let any blisters ruin our war.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bill said.

“Form a queue and make sure your kits are in order. We’ll be distributing rations,” the quartermaster yelled.

Bill bent over, grabbing the straps of both kits and slinging them over his back. His knees buckled under the combined weight.

“Next,” said the quartermaster, thrusting a bundle into Bill’s hands. Bill stepped aside, inspecting his prize: a dented tin of bully beef and a packet of hardtack biscuits.

“Lovely,” Bill grimaced, “Drier than the bloody Sahara.”

The parade ground was a hive of activity for the Royal Norfolk Regiment, which was composed of six hundred fifty men and led by Major Ryder and Captain Barkley. Beneath the regiment level, there were three battalions. Under each battalion, there were eight companies. And in each company, there were usually twenty-five men. Jameson, a first lieutenant, was the leader of B Company, and Sergeant Major Gristock was his right-hand man.

“Listen up!” Captain Barkley yelled. The men’s heads snapped toward their commander.

“Eyes front!” Gristock shouted at B Company.

“We are now at war.” Barkley paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the group. Even though everyone had felt it in their bones since the whistles blew that morning, hearing it said aloud sobered them.

“As you’ve heard, the enemy has breached Belgium. We are moving up to meet him. Expect frequent German bombing runs, so I want your eyes up while on the march.”

“We should have RAF fighter cover,” Captain Barkley continued. “Now, more than ever, will your training stand you in good stead. Keep your heads down and spirits high, and from now on, when you aim your rifle to shoot, you shoot to kill. All right lads, no time to waste! Pack your gear, check it twice. Fuel the lorries and get ready. We move out within the half hour.”

“Yes, sir!” The shout ripped through the camp.

“Gear up, lads! You heard the Captain!” Gristock’s voice carried. “Jerry isn’t gonna wait for you to enjoy your tea and biscuits! Double-time it!”

The staging area buzzed like a kicked beehive.

“Right, let’s do this,” Ernie said, sitting on an overturned crate re-lacing his boots. “Plan D, yeah? Straight to the Dyle. Dig in. Show those Huns who’s boss.”

“Something like that,” Bill said. Their battle strategy was all about reaching the river before the Germans and holding the line despite what the Germans might throw at them.

“Cheer up, mate,” Ernie said. “We’ll make Jerry regret getting you out of Augusta’s bed this morning, yeah?”

Bill forced a tight-lipped smile. Orchies was behind him now, not far enough from the front for comfort. But the army was moving, and he had to move with it.

Bill looked past Ernie to Sergeant Major Gristock, and he stiffened as their eyes met. Gristock’s glare was an unspoken reminder of his earlier transgression. Bill squared his shoulders. If Gristock wanted him to cower, he would not get it.

Bill broke eye contact with Gristock as the company stirred. He adjusted the second pack slung awkwardly over his back, the straps biting into his collarbones.

Olive-green lorries lined up along the field’s edge, their hulking forms shrouded in curling black smoke. Their engines grumbled impatiently. Men clambered into the vehicles, boots scraping against metal, while others fell into formation alongside them. Bill glanced at the three nearest trucks. Snow White was scrawled in blocky white letters on one, Doc and Sneezy painted on the others. He snorted. Fairy tale names for a war. What a bloody stupid joke.

“Move out!” Jameson yelled to the company. The lorries shifted into drive, and the unit began its journey into Belgium.

As Bill marched away, he looked back once toward the road to Orchies. He pictured Augusta behind the café counter, her sleeves rolled up, chatting cheerfully with her father. He hoped the Germans would be stopped in Belgium. For her sake, he prayed they would.

Winston Churchill descended the stone steps of Buckingham Palace. A soft wind stirred his bowler hat, but he braced it in place with one hand. He adjusted the brim before pulling his overcoat tighter. The last rays of sun had slipped behind the rooftops of London, leaving smudges of orange and pink streaked across the western sky. In the dimming light, Winston’s blue and white polka-dot bow tie stood out against his black suit.

At the base of the steps, a black motorcar’s engine purred in the growing nightfall. Winston’s bodyguard and driver, Walter Thompson, stepped forward to open the door. Winston waved him aside with a curt gesture, gripping the handle himself.

The King, despite his reservations about Winston, had just invited him to form a national government.

It was not a sweeping endorsement.

Winston knew he was not anyone’s number one choice. His mission now was to lead as a compromise candidate. A challenge indeed. Somehow, he must galvanize the nation to fight Germany.

Winston lowered himself into the backseat, letting out a great harrumph as the soft leather enveloped his stout frame. He rested one hand on the head of his walking stick, absently tapping its polished wood against the floor as though marking time.

Outside, London unfurled before him, its streets bathed in the amber glow of gas lamps. The lamps cast long shadows across Winston’s face as he peered at the world through bulletproof glass.

A young couple huddled together outside of Buckingham Gate, stealing a quick kiss. Further down Victoria Street, children darted after a wiry dog, their shouts echoing in the narrow alleyways where shadows pooled like ink. An elderly man tipped his hat to a passing soldier, who nodded in return before ducking into a pub on Parliament Corner.

Each scene etched itself into Winston’s mind, fragments of the lives untouched, for now, by the devastation threatening to consume them all.

As the car turned onto Whitehall, Admiralty House loomed before him, cloaked in the dimmed light of dusk. The building, a tribute to British naval power and the Royal Navy’s headquarters, was Winston’s lair.

As First Lord of the Admiralty, he had plotted strategies, barked orders, and led Britain’s fleet from within its walls. And how he loved its vaunted halls and history. Even though just now promoted to Prime Minister, Winston wrestled with the thought of leaving Admiralty House for No. 10.

The car rolled to a halt, its engine ticking in the stillness. The headlamps illuminated the solemn stone facade of Admiralty House, throwing exaggerated shadows up its weathered walls.

Winston rose and turned towards his bodyguard and friend.

“Thompson,” Winston said, “do you know why I have been to Buckingham Palace?”

“Yes, sir,” Thompson said reverently. “I only wish that the position had come your way in better times, for you have an enormous task.”

Winston’s lips pressed into a thin line, and the glint of tears pooled in the corners of his eyes.

“God alone knows how great it is,” Winston said. “I hope it is not too late. But I am very much afraid that it is.”

With a deep breath, Winston straightened his shoulders and walked toward the entrance. The soles of his shoes connected with the ground he was sworn to defend. As he walked, he heard the rustling trees in nearby St. James’s Park whisper with the noble spirits of the Saxon past. The ancient blood. It stirred within him, like the embers of a fire begging to be fanned to life.

The heavy oak door of Admiralty House closed behind Winston and Thompson with a resonant thud.

Winston’s stride carried him through corridors that smelled of polished wood and naval history, from Trafalgar to Jutland to Corunna. These names were etched into Britain’s collective memory, whispered now by ghosts of centuries past that seemed to rise from the shadows cast by the wall sconces.

As Winston pressed deeper into the heart of Admiralty House, the hallways wrapped around him like the ribs of a great ship. The thick carpet beneath their feet muffled their footsteps, lending an eerie quiet to the moment. The very walls of Admiralty House seemed to listen at battle stations, awaiting combat orders from their new prime minister, which would seal the fate of the Realm.

Winston paused before the large oak doors that led into the War Room, taking a few deep breaths and looking at Thompson.

“Many call this my hour of ill fortune,” he said. “But I say this: Fortune is a fickle mistress to court. I have not the time for her games. We must carve our fate with blood, toil, tears, and sweat.”

Winston paused.

“Blood, toil, tears, and sweat,” he repeated, turning the phrase over like a coin in his pocket. “I do like the ring of that. You must not let me forget that one, Thompson.”

“Yes, sir. Godspeed, sir,” Thompson said, placing a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder before stepping aside.

With a nod of acknowledgment, Winston pushed through the double oak doors.

As Winston entered, the assembled cabinet members rose to their feet, their faces a mixture of stress and stoicism.

Winston lovingly called this room the “Fish Room.” The chamber’s ornate details struck a jarring contrast to the purpose at hand. Carved wooden dolphins leapt playfully across the ceiling beams, their frozen merriment mocking the somber mood. The map-covered walls, stained with ink and scarred with pins, told the truth of its name: The War Room.

Winston took his place at the head of the table.

“Good evening, Mr. Prime Minister,” a voice called out, tinged with a newfound reverence for the title bestowed upon Winston.

“Good evening, ministers, please sit,” Winston said. His eyes roved over each face, lingering just long enough to meet their gaze. None dared look away. He knew that many of them had doubted him in the past, had seen him as a warmonger and a troublemaker, but that was the past.

Winston reached into his jacket pocket for his favorite cigar, the Romeo y Julieta. The cigar had been his go-to for forty-five years now, ever since he was a young war correspondent in Cuba.

God, what year was that? My word, 1895. I have become an old man!

Pinching the seven-inch cigar between his fingers, he brought it to his lips, lighting it. He puffed, savoring the taste. Smoke swirled around his head like a lazy cirrus cloud, softening the deep lines in his face.

“Gentlemen,” he said gruffly, “we face the greatest peril our nation has encountered for many centuries. The ruthless Nazi thug war machine strikes. For years, I have warned of the gathering storm, of the dark clouds of Nazism threatening to engulf Europe. But my words fell on deaf ears, drowned out by those who refused to see the danger.”

Lord Halifax shifted in his seat, and Sir Neville Chamberlain stared at his folded hands.

Winston slammed his fists on the table, making the ministers jump.

“In ‘’36, ‘’37, ‘’38, we gave in to That Man’s every demand, hoping to appease the beast. But we only emboldened him. The entire continent is consumed with war again. What a tragedy. And only a generation later. Having studied the Germans and That Man, I have come to several conclusions.”

“One, there can be no parlay. Any agreement reached will be violated in short order. The new German Reich preaches a gospel of strength. Stealing, lying, cheating, and force are virtues. And the only unforgivable sin in Germany is to be weak. There will be no peace talks. Let me repeat myself. There will be no peace talks. Each country up to now has hoped That Man will stop before he takes them. We have seen how that has gone.”

“Two, for the democracies to survive the totalitarians, we must fight like totalitarians. All of Germany strives for the war effort and the Fatherland. Every factory, farm, and ounce of human energy is bent toward one purpose: domination. We must pursue the same policy.” Winston paused.

Lord Halifax leaned forward. “Winston, you speak as if we have not been waging war until now. Are we not all agreed on our war aims?” There was a slyness in Halifax’s tone, an artful thrust masked as a query.

Winston rose from his chair, his stout frame half-turned toward the Viscount. His brow furrowed, and the cigar froze in his hand, hovering near his lips. Then he jabbed its smoldering tip in Halifax’s direction, leaving no doubt where he aimed his rebuttal.

“Indeed not!” The words shot from him like cannon fire, reverberating off the paneled walls. “This government has been weak. We have been weak. And I will allow it no longer.”

The room fell silent, save for the soft hum of the lamps. Winston stepped back, puffing his cigar.

“Winston,” Lord Halifax said. His fingers rested on the table, yet there was a tension in his posture.

“You speak like an absolutist. As if you alone have certainty on the path forward. You have a war cabinet for a reason. Our strength is in our debate and dialogue.”

Winston set his cigar in the ashtray. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode to the window.

Halifax’s fingers drummed lightly on the table, a rare sign of unease from the usually composed Viscount.

Reaching the glass, Winston clasped his hands behind his back and stared out into the night. The skyline of London stretched before him, cloaked in layers of low clouds. The rhythmic toll of Big Ben echoed through the distance like a heartbeat.

“Debate,” Winston said loud enough for all to hear before turning his head. “Gentlemen, I look out this window and I foresee London in flames.”

He pivoted, facing them. “I see our beloved capital, our home, a ruin. I hear the wailing of sirens and the cries of mothers.”

He stepped towards the ministers. “Can you feel it?” he asked. “Put your hands on your chests. Do you feel it there? Can you feel the rumble of enemy bombers in your chest?”

No one moved.

“I feel it,” Winston said quietly. “I feel it every waking and sleeping hour. For they are coming.”

Winston began pacing.

“Time and experience have taught me how to lead. I must be able to give an integral direction to every aspect of this conflict. And I must have a war cabinet that fights for me, not against me. To defeat That Man, we must fight like him! The hour is dark, gentlemen. I fear we may be too late. Only time will tell.”

Winston looked out the window again.

“Do you think this role came to me by chance?” he asked, spinning to face Halifax again. Winston’s gaze lingered on Halifax, knowing the Viscount’s loyalty would be tested in the days to come.

“I have faced death, gentlemen, more times than I care to count. In Afghanistan, where the mountains swallowed men. In South Africa, where every shadow held a Boer rifle. And when I escaped captivity, do you think I feared the hundreds of miles ahead? Of course. But I traveled them anyway.”

He paused, letting his ideas hang in the air.

“Those moments taught me something. Perseverance. Adaptability. The will to fight even when all seems lost.”

He picked up the smoldering stub of his cigar, looking at it as if also assessing its resolve. He took a drag and the ember flared to life.

“Despite knowing how dark the hour has grown, the people of England have not lost heart. How wonderful! They look to us now for leadership, for a vision to see them through. Let us speak plainly, gentlemen,” he said. “The time for hand-wringing, unending debate, and second-guessing is past. We must battle just to tip the scales. We are at a great disadvantage.”

Winston, like a hurricane, gathered strength as he spoke, his energies growing as his cigar shortened.

“The barbarian is AT the gate!”

He stared at Halifax for a long moment, daring dissent.

Halifax stared into his hands.

Satisfied, Winston paced again.

“May God grant us victory,” he said. “For the alternative is too terrible to contemplate.”