Everyone’s getting excited about Churchill, as we approach the 50th anniversary of his funeral in 1965, when Britain stopped for the day. And he is a genuinely interesting historical figure, full of contradictions. (I’ve written about him before here). In my upbringing, in a house infused by the mining culture of the north-east of England, his triumph over fascism as a wartime leader was always inflected by his history as Home Secretary, when he sent Metropolitan Police and troops into south Wales to “keep the peace” after rioting during a lockout at Tonypandy. (Churchill’s archive insists the notion that he sent troops to deal with the miners is a “myth”, but you can make what you will of his “personal message” to strikers: “We are holding back the soldiers for the present and sending only police.”)
And as Secretary of State for War in 1919, he sent 10,000 troops onto the streets of Glasgow in response to radical protests. It was “the largest deployment of British troops on native soil,” at least outside of northern Ireland.
It’s also true that had he died when hit by a car in New York in 1931 (curiously Hitler was also hit by a car in the same year), his career would be little more than a flamboyant curiosity: youthful promise, erratic politics, and some catastrophic failures. The Dardanelles disaster in World War 1 is still used as a case study in poor decision making.
Last year I found myself reading some of the history of Churchill’s “lost decade” in the ‘30s, in which he was right about appeasement and rearmament, foolish about India, and hopelessly misguided about the Abdication.
From that, some themes emerge. They’re below the fold.