The Great Change

In the trenches amid mud, vermin, bad food and the repeated shock of shells exploding all around, the 7O-year-old body of Neville Chamberlain would probably become a physical wreck in a few hours. But at the end of last week the British Prime Minister had been through 13 days of such labor, strain and anxiety as would have wrecked the constitution of many a man under 30. And Mr. Chamberlain emerged from it rather fatigued but quite unshaken. Fortunately the old do not need much sleep.

The test of Britain's Government was not its claim to the loyalty of its people, which few doubted, but the ability of its venerable institutions to change quickly, to face a crisis, to adjust its slow-turning machinery to the swift emergencies of war. Test of Britain's men was not the sincerity of their aims, which few besides Hitler questioned, but their ability to act promptly, strike hard if necessary, change their pace as Hitler changed his.

Decision. All that Friday afternoon Commons had been sitting, pondering 16 emergency measures, including war credits of $2,500,000,000, extending conscription to men from 18 to 41, giving the Government control over trade with the enemy. Same day the Ministry of Transport took over the nation's railroads. At 6 p. m. the Prime Minister began to speak. This time he had something to say.

With sandbags around its entrances, green shades over its windows, the House of Commons was garbed for war. Still cool, dressed in a black suit and wearing a wing collar, Mr. Chamberlain began, "I do not propose to say many words tonight." He said about 2,000. He spoke in a low voice, fiddled with notes written on small sheets of white paper. He said that Britain's defenses were stronger than in 1914. His voice broke slightly when he read Britain's ultimatum. It grew angry when he said that if Poland remained undefended every country in Europe would fall by the Nazis' "sickening technique." There was a roar from the House when he pounded the table and cried: "The German Chancellor has not hesitated to plunge the world into misery to serve his senseless ambitions." There was a louder roar when he said, "We have no quarrel with the German people except that they allowed themselves to be ruled by a Nazi Government" (see "White Papers" p. 38). But Prime Minister Chamberlain did not say what the House had nerved itself to hear, that Britain had declared war. Before Mr. Chamberlain left he spoke to Winston Churchill, usually his critic, always his rival, occasionally his enemy. Said Mr. Chamberlain to Mr. Churchill: "I would be most grateful if you'll help me now."

Labor's Arthur Greenwood jumped up. He was cheered for 30 seconds. An act of aggression was committed 38 hours ago, he said. Why was Britain waiting? Liberal Sir Archibald Sinclair urged action. It was, said a correspondent, the 59th second of the 59th minute of the final hour.

It was beginning to rain outside. The ministers hurried from the House to Downing Street to another midnight session, through a drenched blackout lit by flashes of lightning.

Action. Sunday morning was bright and clear, as the church bells ceased ringing, radio listeners all over the United Kingdom heard the Prime Minister say: "I am speaking to you from the Cabinet room at No. 10 Downing Street." His voice was slow and steady. ". . . In consequence this country is at war with Germany."

He was sharp and bitter only when, remarking on Hitler's claim to have offered reasonable proposals, he exclaimed, "That is not a true statement." His voice broke as he said, "And now we are resolved to finish it"; and he was eloquent only when he ended: "Now may God bless you all and may He defend the right. For it is evil things we shall be fighting against, brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression and persecution. And against them I am certain the right will prevail."

Aims. Then the Prime Minister hurried to the House to make a five-minute speech: "It is a sad day for all of us, but for none is it sadder than for me. Everything I had worked for, hoped for, and believed in during my public life has cracked into ruins. There is only one thing left for me, and that is to devote what strength and powers I have to forwarding victory of the cause for which we have to sacrifice ourselves. I cannot tell what part I may be allowed to play. But I trust I may live to see Hitlerism destroyed and a restored and liberated Europe re-established." The House rose, and cheered.

Winston Churchill was more eloquent. "In this solemn hour," he said, "it is a consolation to dwell upon our repeated efforts for peace. All of them have been ill-starred but all of them have been faithful and sincere."

Because Britain had tried to keep the peace, he said, her moral conviction could renew her strength: "Outside the storms of war may blow and the land may be lashed with the fury of its gales, but in our own hearts this Sunday morning there is peace."

Cabinet. Off to No. 10 Downing Street hurried the tired and tireless Prime Minister, to hold another Cabinet meeting. But it was a different Cabinet. There were important new faces: Lord Hankey, 62, now Minister without Portfolio, long-time (1919-38) Secretary to the Cabinet, "The man of a thousand secrets"; Major Anthony Eden, released from his military duty of guarding a dock to attend Parliament and become Dominions Secretary. There was also round, indefatigable Winston Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty, back in the post he held when War broke in 1914.

London had changed, half-deserted and silent, with the eerie air of a city of no children, when their absence from the parks and the playgrounds, the lack of their racket in the streets, reminded people how much their unnoticed daily presence had contributed to the life of the city. The Government had changed, the men had changed, without a jar or a shock the Empire had moved from peace to War.

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