of peace.
Fitz began by speaking of Britain’s proud traditions. For hundreds of years, he said, Britain had maintained the balance of power in Europe, generally by siding with weaker nations to make sure no one country dominated. “The German chancellor has not said anything about the terms of a peace settlement, but any discussion would have to start from the status quo,” he said. “Peace now means that France is humiliated and robbed of territory and Belgium becomes a satellite. Germany would dominate the continent by sheer military force. We cannot allow that to happen. We must fight for victory.”
When the discussion opened, Bernie said: “Earl Fitzherbert is here in a purely personal capacity, not as an army officer, and he has given me his word of honor that serving soldiers in the audience will not be disciplined for anything they say. Indeed, we would not have invited the earl to attend the meeting on any other basis.”
Bernie himself asked the first question. As usual, it was a good one. “If France is humiliated and loses territory, then that will destabilize Europe, according to your analysis, Lord Fitzherbert.”
Fitz nodded.
“Whereas if Germany is humiliated and loses the territories of Alsace and Lorraine-as she undoubtedly would- then that will stabilize Europe.”
Fitz was momentarily stumped, Ethel could see. He had not expected to have to deal with such sharp opposition here in the East End. Intellectually he was no match for Bernie. She felt a bit sorry for him.
“Why the difference?” Bernie finished, and there was a murmur of approval from the peace faction in the audience.
Fitz recovered rapidly. “The difference,” he said, “is that Germany is the aggressor, brutal, militaristic, and cruel, and if we make peace now we will be rewarding that behavior-and encouraging it in the future!”
That brought a cheer from the other section of the audience, and Fitz’s face was saved, but it was a poor argument, Ethel thought, and Maud stood up to say so. “The outbreak of war was not the fault of any single nation!” she said. “It has become the conventional wisdom to blame Germany, and our militaristic newspapers encourage this fairy tale. We remember Germany’s invasion of Belgium and talk as if it was completely unprovoked. We have forgotten the mobilization of six million Russian soldiers on Germany’s border. We have forgotten the French refusal to declare neutrality.” A few men booed her. You never get cheered for telling people the situation is not as simple as they think, Ethel reflected wryly. “I don’t say Germany is innocent!” Maud protested. “I say no country is innocent. I say we are not fighting for the stability of Europe, or for justice for the Belgians, or to punish German militarism. We are fighting because we are too proud to admit we made a mistake!”
A soldier in uniform stood up to speak, and Ethel saw with pride that it was Billy. “I fought at the Somme,” he began, and the audience went quiet. “I want to tell you why we lost so many men there.” Ethel heard their father’s strong voice and quiet conviction, and she realized Billy would have made a great preacher. “We were told by our officers”-here he stretched out his arm and pointed an accusing finger at Fitz-“that the assault would be a walk in the park.”
Ethel saw Fitz shift uncomfortably in his chair on the platform.
Billy went on: “We were told that our artillery had destroyed the enemy positions, wrecked their trenches and demolished their dugouts, and when we got to the other side we would see nothing but dead Germans.”
He was not addressing the people on the platform, Ethel observed, but looking all around him, sweeping the audience with an intense gaze, making sure all eyes were on him.
“Why did they tell us those things?” Billy said, and now he looked straight at Fitz and spoke with deliberate emphasis. “Things that were not true.” There was a mutter of agreement from the audience.
Ethel saw Fitz’s face darken. She knew that for men of Fitz’s class an accusation of lying was the worst of all insults. Billy knew it, too.
Billy said: “The German positions had not been destroyed, as we discovered when we ran into machine-gun fire.”
The audience reaction became less muted. Someone called out: “Shame!”
Fitz stood up to speak, but Bernie said: “One moment, please, Lord Fitzherbert, let the present speaker finish.” Fitz sat down, shaking his head vigorously from side to side.
Billy raised his voice. “Did our officers check, by aerial reconnaissance and by sending out patrols, how much damage the artillery had in fact done to the German lines? If not, why not?”
Fitz stood up again, furious. Some of the audience cheered, others booed. He began to speak. “You don’t understand!” he said.
But Billy’s voice prevailed. “If they knew the truth,” he cried, “why did they tell us otherwise?”
Fitz began to shout, and half the audience were calling out, but Billy’s voice could be heard over everything else. “I ask one simple question!” he roared. “Are our officers fools-or liars?”
Ethel received a letter in Fitz’s large, confident handwriting on his expensive crested notepaper. He did not mention the meeting in Aldgate, but invited her to the Palace of Westminster on the following day, Tuesday, December 19, to sit in the gallery of the House of Commons and hear Lloyd George’s first speech as prime minister. She was excited. She had never thought she would see the inside of Westminster Palace, let alone hear her hero speak.
“Why do you suppose he’s invited you?” said Bernie that evening, asking the key question as usual.
Ethel did not have a plausible answer. Sheer unadulterated kindness had never been part of Fitz’s character. He could be generous when it suited him. Bernie was shrewdly wondering if he wanted something in return.
Bernie was cerebral rather than intuitive, but he had sensed some connection between Fitz and Ethel, and he had responded by becoming a bit amorous. It was nothing dramatic, for Bernie was not a dramatic man, but he held her hand an instant longer than he should have, stood an inch closer to her than was comfortable, patted her shoulder when speaking to her, and held her elbow as she went down a step. Suddenly insecure, Bernie was instinctively making gestures that said she belonged to him. Unfortunately, she found it hard not to flinch when he did so. Fitz had reminded her cruelly of what she did not feel about Bernie.
Maud came into the office at half past ten on Tuesday, and they worked side by side all morning. Maud could not write the front page of the next edition until Lloyd George had spoken, but there was a lot else in the paper: jobs, advertisements for child minders, advice on women’s and children’s health written by Dr. Greenward, recipes, and letters.
“Fitz is beside himself with rage after that meeting,” Maud said.
“I told you they would give him a hard time.”
“He doesn’t mind that,” she said. “But Billy called him a liar.”
“You’re sure it’s not just that Billy got the better of the argument?”
Maud smiled ruefully. “Perhaps.”
“I just hope he doesn’t make Billy suffer for it.”
“He won’t do that,” Maud said firmly. “It would be breaking his word.”
“Good.”
They had lunch in a cafe in the Mile End Road-“A Good Pull-In for Car Men,” according to its signboard, and it was indeed full of lorry drivers. Maud was greeted cheerfully by the counter staff. They had beef and oyster pie, the cheap oysters added to eke out the scarce beef.
Afterward they took a bus across London to the West End. Ethel looked up at the giant dial of Big Ben and saw that it was half past three. Lloyd George was due to speak at four. He had it in his power to end the war and save millions of lives. Would he do it?
Lloyd George had always fought for the workingman. Before the war he had done battle with the House of Lords and the king to bring in old-age pensions. Ethel knew how much that meant to penniless old people. On the first day the pension was paid out she had seen retired miners-once-strong men now bent and trembling-come out of the Aberowen post office openly weeping for joy that they were no longer destitute. That was when Lloyd George had become a working-class hero. The Lords had wanted to spend the money on the Royal Navy.
I could write his speech today, she thought. I would say: “There are moments in the life of a man, and of a nation, when it is right to say: I have done my utmost, and I can do no more, therefore I will cease my striving, and seek another road. Within the last hour I have ordered a cease-fire along the entire length of the British line in
