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The newspapers and the Ministry of Information caught on. The Times "dropped into poetry":

...saw the Sword of Stalingrad, Then bow'd down my head from the Light of it. Spirit to my spirit, the Might of it Silently whispered--O Mortal, Behold... I am the Life of Stalingrad, You and its people shall unite in me, Men yet unborn, in the great Light in me Triumphs shall sing when my Story is told.

The gossip-writer of the Daily Express suggested it should be sent round the kingdom. Cardiff, Birmingham, Sheffield, Manchester, Glasgow and Edinburgh paid it secular honours in their Art Galleries and Guild Halls. Now, back from its tour, it reached its apotheosis, exposed for adoration hard by the shrine of the St. Edward the Confessor and the sacring place of the kings of England.

Guy Crouchback drove past the line of devotees on his way to luncheon. Unmoved by the popular enthusiasm for the triumphs of "Joe" Stalin, who now qualified for the name of "Uncle," as Guy had done and Apthorpe, he was not tempted to join them in their piety. October 29th, 1943, had another and more sombre significance for him. It was his fortieth birthday and to celebrate the occasion he had asked Jumbo Trotter to luncheon.