"We're on Our Way, Brothers!"

It was a scene that could happen only in the House of Commons. There on the front row sprawled the Prime Minister, his feet propped on the table beside the dispatch box, where his Chancellor of the Exchequer droned on sonorously about Britain's finances. From the jammed benches on both sides of the chamber came a cacophony of hoots and jeers. It got louder and louder as James Callaghan spelled out the political package that he and Harold Wilson had designed to please the public. First, he promised that there would be no major tax increases for the average wage earner. On the Tory benches the jeering grew louder. Next, Callaghan announced a tax on upper-class forms of gambling (horses, casinos), which, he explained brightly, would be used to reduce the cost of mortgages for low-income home owners.

Something Different. Then came the biggest surprise. Britain, said Callaghan, would switch from the traditional pounds, shillings and pence to decimal currency in 1971. By now the Tories were in full cry. "An uproarious farce," shouted Conservative Leader Ted Heath. "The government is bereft of ideas and fuddy-duddy." Wilson buried his head in mock despair and nearly fell off the bench laughing. Above the roar, Economics Minister George Brown could be heard shouting, "We're on our way, brothers!"We're on our way!"

Indeed they were. Only the day before, the Prime Minister had done what his party had hoped he would. Capitalizing on the average Briton's unparalleled prosperity and Labor's soaring popularity, he called a general election for March 31. The Gallup poll forecast that Wilson would win a 165-seat majority in the 630-seat House. London bookies made Labor a 6-to-1 favorite.

Of course, a landslide victory had also been forecast for Harold Wilson's Laborites 17 months ago. Instead, they barely broke 13 years of Tory rule, taking office with only a five-seat majority--a margin that now stands at a mere three. In that election, Wilson's fortunes had not been helped by his reputation as the voice of Labor's left and as a scheming opportunist. Labor's current confidence is largely the result of Wilson's emergence as something far different.

Defending the Pound. In office, Wilson has proved to be a man of the middle--and that is where the votes are in today's affluent Britain. To be sure, Wilson's government has raised pensions, liberalized the national health-insurance scheme, and instituted long-range national economic planning. But the steel industry has not been nationalized. He has kicked the unions far harder than any Conservative would have dared, castigating Britain's raise-happy workers for "sheer damn laziness." And he has dared to defend the pound with the simple old-fashioned remedy of deflating demand at home. Defying his own antiwar left wing, Wilson has consistently --often brilliantly--defended the U.S. position in Viet Nam. Refusing to be frightened into precipitate action on Rhodesia, he hopes that economic sanctions ultimately will resolve the rebellion without bloodshed.

As never before, Britons are expected to vote more for the national party leader and less for the local M.P. If they do this, Labor may indeed be a shoo-in. Since last July's bitter fight for leadership, Heath has failed either to unite the Tories or capture the imagination of the British electorate. On some social issues he has moved to the right, not exactly a vote-getting position. Wilson, by contrast, has become the very model of a middle-ground politician--homely accent, rumpled, and witty. Still, he refuses to be overly optimistic about the election. How big a majority did he seek, asked a television interviewer. "Just more than three," replied Wilson earnestly.

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