(4 of 6)
He speeded up plants by stopping all design changes once a plane was in the production line, military fussiness having caused incredible delays in both British and U. S. factories. He concentrated, like Hermann Göring, on a few proved types. With recalcitrant manufacturers he used what an assistant called "spur and whip, and sometimes a bag of oats." Every manufacturer found himself accountable to one of Lord Beaverbrook's committeemen, at first weekly, then once a day.
As in the days when he ran the Express and the Standard, the Beaver meets his committee heads in conference every afternoon. He presides lolling in a big chair. Every night at 11 o'clock (the hour when British dailies go to bed with their first editions) his secretary collects from each committee a full report of work done that day. Next morning Lord Beaverbrook reads these reports, then takes action. Example: one report told of a small Midlands manufacturer who was down in his output because of a shortage of certain classes of material and labor. A neighbor ing manufacturer had a surplus of both the material and the men, but Manufacturer No. 1 was not on speaking terms with Manufacturer No. 2. So Lord Beaver brook telephoned first one and then the other, coaxed them into cooperating. Next thing he heard, they were buddies.
By nagging, harrying, wheedling, the Beaver got underlings to assume responsibility. One subordinate whom he bawled out (as he once bawled out Fleet Street editors) wrote a stiff request for transfer. The Beaver read the note, muttered cozily: "My frightful temper," and ordered a dozen bottles of champagne, a dozen bottles of brandy, a dozen bottles of whiskey and (in case he didn't drink) a dozen bottles of ginger beer sent to the offended secretary. With them went a note: "From a bad Minister to a fine Under Secretary." Since he became so busy, Lord Beaverbrook has stopped giving big dinners, now has a few aircraft men to dinner once or twice a week. When he tells them they have done "first rate" they glow. Dinner at Stornoway House (13 Cleveland Row, London) is served by four footmen at 9 or 10 o'clock. Sometimes the host is late, sometimes he doesn't appear. Some times he rushes in for the soup course, dashes out, returns with an Air Marshal. After dinner he sinks into a big blue chair, turns a spotlight on himself, leaving his guests in the dark, and goes over his papers, firing questions at the guests. In the midst of their answers he interrupts them by picking up a telephone and bark ing: "I want 20 lorries," or "Get me Montreal. . . . I want 50 pilots. I want them at Montreal tomorrow morning." If he happens to notice that his guests look thirsty, he will say: "You must have some champagne. I have the finest champagne collection in London." Every night he telephones his son Max at his fighter squadron, to find out if he is still alive.