Amery was debating whether to give a shorter, softer version of his speech when Clement Davies came up behind him and “murmured in [his] ear that [he] must at all costs state the whole case against the government.” Then Davies went off to the House smoking room and the House library to fetch an audience for Amery. Meanwhile, the guests in the Strangers’ Gallery (where visitors sit) began to fix their attention on the short, squat man standing in the Tory backbenches, reviewing his notes. He appeared to be in his midsixties and bore a slight resemblance to Churchill, but he was shorter and squatter than the first lord; he looked more like a beetle than a bulldog.

Amery began, as previous speakers had, with a critique of the Norwegian campaign, but then he took the debate in a new direction. Norway, he told the House, was only a symptom. The problem was Chamberlain.

The Right hon. Gentleman, the Prime Minister [says we have] . . . been catching up on Germany’s preparations. Believe me, that is far from the truth. While we may catch up on her presently . . . there is no doubt that during these eight months, due to Germany’s flying start and our slowness off the mark, the gap between German force and ours had widened enormously as far as troops . . . equipment, tanks, and all the paraphernalia of land war are concerned. It has widened in the air even, if we reckon in things which may accrue to us. . . .

We cannot go on as we are. There must be change.

Clement Davies had made good on his promise. The backbenches were filling up. Reassured by the growing “murmurs of approval and open applause,” Amery moved to the most provocative part of his speech.

Just as our peacetime system is unsuitable for war conditions, so too does it breed peacetime statesmen who are not too well fitted for the conduct of war. . . . Somehow we must get into government men who can match our enemies in fighting spirit, in daring, in resolution and in thirst for victory. Some 300 years ago, when this House found that its troops were being beaten again and again by the dash and daring of the Cavaliers . . . Oliver Cromwell spoke to John Hampden. . . . [He told Hampden] Your troops are most of them old and decayed serving men and tapsters and such fellows. . . . You must get men of a spirit that are as likely to go as far as they will go, or you will be beat still.

Amery paused. This morning he had recalled another Cromwell quote. It compressed everything he wanted to say about the prime minister into a single biting epithet, but, if used, the epithet—cruel beyond measure—would become Chamberlain’s scarlet letter. It would be the first thing people thought of when they thought of Chamberlain. The epithet would follow him to the grave and beyond the grave into the pages of every biography written about him and into the mind of every schoolchild who came across his name. Did Amery want to do that to Joe Chamberlain’s son? The cheers were still rising, and Amery could feel his emotions rising with them. He looked across the House; Lloyd George was smiling at him. Swept up in the intoxicating “crescendo of applause,” Amery made his decision.

I have quoted certain words of Oliver Cromwell. I will quote certain other words. I do it with great reluctance because I am speaking of those who are old friends and associates of mine, but they are words which, I think, are applicable to the present situation. This is what Cromwell said to the Long Parliament when he thought it was no longer fit to conduct the affairs of the nation.

You have sat too long here for any good you have been doing.