It is no use saying, 'We are doing our best.' You have got to

Host: The factory lights burned dimly against the cold November night. A storm rumbled somewhere beyond the hills, its distant thunder echoing through the metal walls. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of oil, dust, and coffee gone bitter from neglect. Machines lay silent, their steel bodies gleaming like sleeping beasts beneath the flicker of a dying fluorescent bulb.

Jack stood by the window, his hands buried in the pockets of a grease-stained coat, staring at the rain as it traced silver lines down the glass. Jeeny sat on a wooden crate, her shoulders drawn tight beneath her wool shawl, eyes fixed on the blueprints spread across the table between them.

It was late. Too late for hope, but too early to give in.

Jeeny: “You ever think, Jack, about what Churchill meant when he said, ‘It is no use saying, we are doing our best. You have got to succeed in doing what is necessary.’?”

Jack: smirks faintly “He meant that excuses don’t win wars. That effort doesn’t count — only results. The world doesn’t care how hard you try; it only measures what you’ve done.”

Jeeny: “But trying — that’s still human, isn’t it? Effort is part of dignity. If we lose that, we lose everything that makes success even matter.”

Jack: “Tell that to the man whose bridge collapses because the engineer ‘tried his best’. Or to the surgeon who loses a patient on the table and tells the family, ‘I did my best.’ The truth is cruel — doing your best means nothing if it’s not enough. The only thing that matters is doing what’s necessary.”

Host: The rain beat harder, its rhythm like the drumming of anxious hearts. A neon sign flickered outside, spilling a ghostly glow through the window, bathing Jack’s face in blue light. Jeeny’s eyes softened, yet a quiet fire burned behind them.

Jeeny: “Necessary. That’s a word people hide behind to justify anything. Wars, layoffs, cruelty — all in the name of what’s necessary. But sometimes what’s necessary for one man destroys another.”

Jack: “You think Churchill worried about fairness when London burned? He wasn’t talking about cruelty — he was talking about survival. When bombs fall, ‘doing your best’ doesn’t rebuild cities. Doing what’s necessary does.”

Jeeny: “And what if what’s necessary costs your soul?”

Jack: shrugs, voice low “Then maybe the soul is a luxury we can’t afford when the world’s on fire.”

Host: A long silence settled between them. The clock on the wall ticked with merciless rhythm. Outside, a truck roared past, scattering puddles across the road.

Jeeny looked up, her voice trembling not from fear but conviction.

Jeeny: “You talk like the world is just fire and ruin. But even in war, people found grace. Do you remember the story of the Christmas truce in 1914? British and German soldiers stopped fighting, shared songs, played football — for one night, they remembered they were human. That wasn’t necessary. That was beautiful. That was right.”

Jack: “And what did it achieve, Jeeny? The war continued the next morning. Millions still died. You can’t build peace on sentiment. History doesn’t remember the songs — it remembers who won.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. It remembers both. It remembers the victories — yes — but it also remembers the humanity that kept people from becoming monsters. The truce didn’t change the war, but it changed hearts. And sometimes, that’s what’s necessary too.”

Host: Jack turned away, his jaw tightening. He lit a cigarette, the flame trembling for a second before it caught. The smoke curled upward, blurring his expression, softening the sharp lines of his face.

Jack: “You’re too romantic, Jeeny. The world isn’t a poem; it’s a machine. It runs on function, not feeling. You think compassion builds bridges, wins wars, keeps factories alive? It doesn’t. Discipline does. Efficiency does. Doing what’s necessary does.”

Jeeny: leans forward “And who decides what’s necessary, Jack? The one with power? The one who can shout the loudest? You call it realism — I call it surrender.”

Jack: “It’s survival.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s fear — dressed as reason.”

Host: Her voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and trembling. Jack’s eyes flickered, something between anger and regret rising beneath the calm of his grey stare.

Jack: “You think I don’t know fear? I’ve worked in this factory for ten years. I’ve watched men lose fingers, lungs, families — all because the company said it was necessary to keep the line running. I’ve done what’s necessary every damn day. You think that makes me heartless? It makes me tired.”

Jeeny: softly “Then maybe it’s time we remember why we started, Jack. Not to keep the line running, but to keep people living. If necessary means sacrificing everything human, then maybe we’ve misunderstood the word.”

Host: The thunder cracked, shaking the windows. Jack’s hands trembled, his cigarette ash falling unnoticed onto the floor. The storm outside echoed the storm within, two forces too heavy to separate.

Jack: “You think Churchill had the luxury to choose kindness over necessity? The man led Britain when the world was collapsing. He didn’t win by wishing for peace — he won by demanding it through action. Sometimes mercy has to wait until the fire’s out.”

Jeeny: “And yet he spoke those words because he understood the weight of them. Doing what’s necessary isn’t about abandoning the heart. It’s about doing what must be done without losing what must be kept. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “You talk like there’s a balance. But there isn’t. There’s only the cliff — and whether you jump or not.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even at the edge, you can choose how you fall.”

Host: The rain slowed, its taps softening against the metal roof. The room dimmed, then warmed as a single light bulb hummed to life again. Jeeny stood, crossed the room, and placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

Jeeny: “You’ve spent your life doing what’s necessary, Jack. Maybe that’s why you’ve forgotten what it’s for.”

Jack: whispers “And what’s it for, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “So that one day, someone else won’t have to.”

Host: The silence that followed was not empty — it was full, thick with understanding and ache. The storm outside had faded to a gentle drizzle, the kind that cools the earth after it’s burned.

Jack looked down at the blueprints, at the lines and measurements that had consumed his nights. He saw not numbers, but faces — men, women, children. Lives.

Jack: “You think we can build something better? Even now?”

Jeeny: “I think we must. Because saying ‘we did our best’ won’t be enough for them. We have to do what’s necessary — but with love, not just logic.”

Host: Jack nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing like a knot undone. He stubbed out the cigarette, and the last trail of smoke rose like a ghost disappearing into dawn.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Churchill really meant. Not to abandon effort, but to rise beyond it — to do what’s necessary not just to survive, but to stay human.”

Jack: half-smiles “You make necessity sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Only because it’s sacred, Jack. The necessary thing isn’t just what we do. It’s why we do it.”

Host: The rain stopped. A faint light broke through the clouds, glimmering against the wet steel of the machines. The factory, once heavy with exhaustion, now breathed quietly — like a beast at rest, dreaming of purpose instead of profit.

Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, looking out into the pale dawn.

For the first time that night, they weren’t arguing. They were simply watching, both knowing that doing what is necessary meant more than duty — it meant doing what was right, even when the world forgot the difference.

And the morning light, soft and unwavering, fell across their faces like an unspoken truce.