The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about!. S Worrall C

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      Martin races down the stairs and sprints across the quad. In half an hour, a debate will be held in the Oxford Union on the question of conscription. An idea that had up till now been merely theoretical – that Martin and the rest of his generation may be called up for military service – has now become real.

      Two months have flashed by since he lay on that bank on Crowell Hill, during the motor trial, seeing her eyes reflected in the blue winter sky. The Easter holidays have come and gone. Like fugitives from love, they have managed to snatch a few days together, either at Whichert House or in London. But Nancy has been either chained to her desk typing insurance claims, or spending most evenings and weekends rehearsing her play in London. They had hoped to spend Easter together but at the last minute he was summoned to Wiltshire again by his mother. Not an hour goes by when he doesn’t think of her but term has started again with a bang. There are books to read, essays to write, tutorials to attend.

      In that time, clouds have darkened over Europe. In March, Hitler’s Panzers rolled into Czechoslovakia. Hitler has smashed Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement with an iron fist. Now, the world is holding its breath to see if Poland will be next. Love and war are now entwined in Martin’s and Nancy’s destinies.

      ‘Hugh!’ Martin spots his friend amidst the throng of students heading for the Union.

      ‘Think it’s going to be 1933 all over again?’ Hugh pulls out a cigarette, lights it and offers Martin one.

      The so-called King and Country debate in 1933 had shocked the nation, when the Oxford Union adopted a pledge not to fight in the event of war with Germany, a pledge Churchill called ‘vile’ and ‘squalid’. Tonight’s debate won’t have any more legal standing than that one, but it will be an important barometer of public opinion. For weeks, it has been a hot topic of debate in college dining rooms and studies.

      ‘I don’t think so.’ Martin draws on his cigarette. ‘The mood in the country is different. Hitler has revealed his true intentions.’

      Arriving at the Union, Martin and Hugh join a scrum of students pushing their way inside. Martin has never seen anything like it. Normally, these debates are languid affairs conducted in front of a half-filled hall. Tonight even the galleries are crammed to overflowing with students, leaning over the balustrades, whistling or calling to their friends on the floor. Hundreds more students stand or lean against the raspberry-coloured walls.

      Martin and Hugh manage to find a seat near the front, on a bench facing the dispatch boxes. Martin looks around, waves to some friends in the gallery, then turns to the front, where the three speakers are waiting to address the throng. The atmosphere is electric, somewhere between a bullfight and a parliamentary vote of no confidence.

      ‘How’s Nancy?’ Hugh asks.

      ‘She’s fine.’ Martin pulls a face. ‘Hardly seen her, though. We’ve both been too busy. Did I tell you, she’s got a small part in a play in London?’

      ‘I didn’t know she acted. Where?’

      ‘Players’ Club. They have a little space on King Street.’

      ‘Near Covent Garden? I know it,’ Hugh interjects.

      ‘That’s it. Michael Redgrave is involved.’

      ‘Better watch out, Martin.’ Hugh nudges him in the ribs. ‘I’ve heard he’s a terrible womanizer.’

      Martin knows his friend is only joking but the thought that Nancy might be unfaithful gives him a sharp pain, like a dagger stuck between his ribs. But his attention is quickly focused on the sight of the President of the Union rising from his high-backed chair on the dais behind the dispatch boxes. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. And welcome to the Oxford Union.’ A wave of applause echoes round the walls. The students in the gallery drum on the wooden railings. ‘As war threatens Europe once again, the question of conscription has again leapt to the top of the national debate.’

      ‘No war!’ a heckler shouts from the back of the hall.

      The President holds up his hand for silence. ‘And I am pleased to welcome three eminent speakers, who will debate the question from their own different, unique viewpoints.’ He turns and motions to the three speakers. ‘The Right Honourable Stephen King-Hall.’

      There are a few boos.

      ‘ . . . Captain Basil Liddell Hart . . . ’

      Liddell Hart waves, cheered by a group of undergraduates in the gallery.

      ‘And, last but not least, the Right Honourable Randolph Churchill.’ A cacophony of cheers and hissing erupts. Churchill waves, in an avuncular manner.

      In 1933, he spoke in favour of war and a student hurled a stink bomb at him. There are a few jeers and whistles from the pacifists in the hall. But the hubbub soon dies down.

      ‘I now invite the Right Honourable Stephen King-Hall to debate our motion,’ booms the President. ‘Should conscription be reintroduced?’

      Cries of ‘No!’ and ‘Yes!’ echo round the hall, a mixture of boos and cheers. Martin is torn in his views about the possibility of war. His Uncle Robert’s stories and poems about the horrors of the Great War have made him instinctively opposed to military conflict as a means of solving problems, and the sort of bellicose rhetoric espoused by Randolph Churchill, which is why he is a strong supporter of the League Of Nations. On the other hand, he has come to believe that Hitler presents such a threat to Europe that, if Britain does go to war, he will do his duty and join up. Even if it means being away from Nancy.

      ‘Looks like this is going to be quite a firecracker,’ he says as King-Hall gets up and goes to the dispatch box. He is smartly dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and tie. His polished head gleams under the lights.

      ‘Mr President, as many of you know, I served in the Navy during the last war.’ He looks up at the gallery. ‘My service on HMS Southampton showed me what war can do. The terrible toll in blood and gold. The sacrifice of tens of thousands of young men, in the flower of their youth.’

      He looks out at the sea of young faces in front of him. ‘But there is another way of winning a war.’ A few boos start to echo round the hall. ‘Non-violent resistance.’ He pronounces each word singly, and with emphasis.

      The hissing gets louder. Someone in the gallery shouts: ‘Communist!’

      ‘Here we go . . . ’ Martin nudges his friend.

      ‘Order! Order.’ The President gets to his feet. ‘I would like to remind the house that booing or hissing a speaker is both a grave and a pointless discourtesy, and an abuse of the forms of the House!’

      More cheering and booing. King raises his voice: ‘But what are the principles of non-violent resistance?’ He looks out into the packed hall. ‘In conventional military thinking, occupation by enemy forces represents the end of the war and victory for the enemy. However, in the case of non-violent resistance, such thinking is wrong!’

      Someone at the back of the hall shouts: ‘Rubbish!’ Others turn and hurl insults at him. There is more hissing and wolf-whistling

      King struggles on. ‘ . . . by shifting the area of conflict into the sphere of non-violence, using techniques like civil disobedience, non-violent demonstrations, sit-ins, go-slows, . . . ’

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