On the afternoon of Sunday 11 May 1941, London was still fighting the fires resulting from the worst night of the Blitz. Over seven hundred densely-populated acres had been destroyed, causing more deaths and damage in one night than the Great Fire of 1666 had inflicted in several weeks. The House of Commons itself had been gutted by incendiary bombs. It was not a propitious time to call the Foreign Office and ask to speak to a member of the government.
One of Anthony Eden’s staff had been persuaded to take the call. As he listened, he became increasingly dubious. The caller claimed to be the Duke of Hamilton. He asked for Sir Alexander Cadogan, the head of the Foreign Office. He said he had something of the highest importance to impart, but he was not prepared to discuss it over the telephone. He wanted Sir Alexander to drive to Northolt Airport and meet him there.
This was utterly impossible, the civil servant doggedly explained. If the matter were really important, he might be able to arrange an appointment at some time in the next two weeks. It was unrealistic to expect the head of the Foreign Office to motor out to Northolt to meet the Duke of Hamilton, or anyone else.
This last remark was overheard. John ‘Jock’ Colville, the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary, had walked into the office.
‘Who is it?’
The civil servant cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I think he’s a lunatic. He says he is the Duke of Hamilton, that something extraordinary has happened. He won’t say what it’s all about.’
Colville reached for the phone. Strangely, he had dreamed the previous night that Göring had flown from Germany with the bombers and parachuted into Britain. It was one of those dreams that linger in the mind.
‘Colville speaking. Who is there?’
‘Thank God! Listen, this is Hamilton. I’m trying to reach Alex Cadogan. Something has happened, something unbelievable.’
‘What, exactly?’
‘I can’t say over a public line. It’s just extraordinary … like … like something out of an E. Phillips Oppenheim novel.’
Colville hesitated. The dream surfaced again. ‘Has somebody arrived?’
There was a pause.
The Duke answered, ‘Yes.’
‘Hold the line. I’m going to get instructions.’
Winston Churchill was at Ditchley Park in Oxfordshire, his secret headquarters for weekends when a full moon made Chequers vulnerable to bombing raids. It was a country house in a four-thousand-acre estate owned by his friend Ronald Tree. That weekend was the first anniversary of Churchill’s appointment as Prime Minister, and thirty house guests had been invited. News kept coming in of the devastation in London, but Churchill was accustomed to adversity. He was jubilant that the RAF had shot down thirty-three Luftwaffe bombers. At his request, a film comedy, The Marx Brothers Go West, was to be screened after dinner.
Churchill was puzzled by the message from Colville. He knew the Duke of Hamilton as a friend and former colleague in the House, but he could think of nothing of ‘urgent Cabinet importance’ that the Duke would need to discuss with him. He sent Brendan Bracken, the Minister of Information, to the phone. Bracken came back with a more sensational version: the Duke had an ‘amazing piece of information’ to report, so sensitive that it could not be divulged over the phone.
Churchill decided to summon him to Ditchley. His own car was sent to meet the Duke at Kidlington airport.
Dinner was almost over when the Duke was admitted. Churchill stood to shake his hand. ‘My dear Douglas, what a pleasure this is! Have you eaten?’
‘Not yet, sir, but—’
‘Then you must certainly join us.’ Churchill beckoned a servant. ‘A chair for his Grace, if you please.’ Then, turning back to the Duke, ‘You have whetted our appetites, too. Something certain to amaze us, we were told. What is this all about?’
‘Sir, it is of a highly confidential nature.’
‘Classifiable?’
‘Indeed.’
Churchill took a deep breath. ‘I see.’
Tactfully, the other guests started putting their napkins on the table.
Churchill said, ‘I should like the Secretary of State for Air to remain.’
‘Of course.’
In a moment, the Duke was alone with Churchill and Sir Archibald Sinclair. They waited for the doors of the dining room to be closed.
‘Well, Douglas?’
‘Sir, last night a German airman crashed his plane and baled out over Scotland. He was picked up and taken to Glasgow. He was wearing the uniform of a hauptmann in the Luftwaffe and he gave his name as Horn. He repeatedly asked to be allowed to speak to me. I was asked to interview him at Maryhill Barracks this morning, and I did. As soon as we were alone, he identified himself as Rudolf Hess.’
Nothing was said for several seconds. Churchill stared at the Duke of Hamilton in open disbelief, as if deciding whether this visibly exhausted man were suffering from hallucinations brought on by too much flying.
‘Do you mean to tell me that the Deputy Führer of Germany is in our hands?’
‘That is my conclusion, sir. The man I saw this morning bears a striking resemblance to Hess. He was carrying these photographs of himself and, I presume, his wife and child.’
Churchill put on his glasses and examined the photographs. He passed them to Sinclair. After another long pause, he pushed back his chair and said, ‘Well, Hess or no Hess, I am going to see the Marx Brothers.’