Bomber Command had been formed in 1936 when it was regarded as a virtually impregnable force and essentially a deterrent. But in comparison to Fighter Command it had received insufficient investment, either in planes or in training. In May 1940, when the Germans violated agreements not to attack civilian targets by flattening Rotterdam, it became clear that a major air battle was approaching. The unit needed more and better planes, more pilots and more practice.
The bombing alley at Highclere ran south to north in a valley leading up to the chalk downlands. Two brick towers were constructed as lookout posts and became favourite hideouts for local boys, who used to go out to collect detritus after the practice runs. Planes swept up and over Siddown Hill, aiming their bombs at the dummy target, an Avro Anson positioned halfway along, before practising their only defensive manoeuvre: a tight corkscrew dive that the German Messerschmitts could not follow. The de Havilland Mosquito was one of the fastest aircraft in the world but early on in the war it was also prone to wing failures. One afternoon a Canadian Air Force Mosquito came very fast down through the valley and went to pull up but failed to clear the top of the hill. The wings sheared off and the cockpit slammed into the trees not twenty yards from the Home Guard’s hut. Both the pilot and navigator were killed.
Life expectancy in Bomber Command, both in combat and also in training, was so short that Churchill censored the information. A staggering 44 per cent of Bomber Crew members were killed, and the odds of surviving a whole tour of thirty missions were just one in six. It wasn’t until American funding and supplies arrived, from the summer of 1941 onwards, that the unit received the investment it needed. The Lancaster and Halifax bombers, introduced in 1942, were the workhorses of the latter half of the war. With their higher speeds and bigger bomb loads they made Bomber Command’s task somewhat less suicidally risky. But by then the unit had already secured its reputation for outstanding valour. Despite the appalling odds, its pilots kept flying. Of the 182 Victoria Cross medals—the British military’s highest decoration—awarded during World War Two, RAF Bomber Command earned nineteen, one of the highest tallies of any single unit.
In the November of 1940, Porchey’s job-hunting efforts paid off. He was approached to head up the local division of the military’s Claims Commission. Britain had become a vast training camp with troops scrambling through hedges, tanks trundling across farmers’ fields and dummy bombs unleashed on private land. There were constant disputes about rights and damage. Lord Carnarvon was in many ways the perfect man for the job. He had demonstrated himself to be an able administrator during the process of disbanding the Hussars, and had first-hand experience of the sorts of negotiations that he would be required to adjudicate. He was disappointed, though; he had hoped for something more exciting. In a letter to Arthur Wendell he wrote, ‘I am not looking forward to it very much’, before asking him to ‘kiss Penelope for me’ and assuring him that he was grateful for everything Arthur was doing for his daughter.
Porchey had been recommended for the post by his old friend General Alexander, who had been his superior in both Gibraltar and Constantinople, back in the days before he married Catherine. Alexander had supervised the retreat from Dunkirk and had just been appointed General Officer Commanding-in-Chief of the Southern Command, with overall responsibility for defending southwest England. General Alexander took the time to meet Porchey and to offer encouragement, describing the work of the commission as ‘vital to retain the goodwill of the people, especially the farmers who are growing the food we desperately need.’
Porchey knew he was right but couldn’t quite dispel his yearning for something a little more romantic than form filling and dispute resolution. He made one last-ditch attempt when he wrote to his friend Brendan Bracken at Downing Street. Bracken was a confidant of Churchill’s and a member of the Privy Council, and in 1941 would be appointed Minister of Information. Porchey admitted it was ‘an audacious request but [he] wondered whether there was a role for [him] as a personal ADC to the Prime Minister.’ It was not to be, and at the end of the year Porchey knuckled down to his duties at the Claims Commission.
Christmas 1940 was subdued. Porchey was missing Tilly. Everyone was missing Pen. Henry and his cousin Patricia were at Highclere and handed around treats at the traditional children’s party. That year the numbers had swollen to 140. In the afternoon they read stories to the evacuees in the Library.
Almina arrived in the morning to spend the day with her family. She was much loved by all her grandchildren. Patricia still remembers the delicious lunches and the crème de menthe she was given on visits to see her at Alfred House, before the war. By 1940 Almina had closed her beloved London nursing home. When war was declared she had hoped to turn it into a military hospital, but the rules governing such things were far stricter than they had been twenty years before and it simply wasn’t possible. She was not about to give up on nursing, though, and established two more small homes: the first in Hove; the second in Barnet at a house called The Glebe where she lived herself.
Almina, in common with many people, enjoyed an easier relationship with her grandchildren than she did with her son. She had a gift, much appreciated by all of them, for saying exactly what was on everyone’s mind. Before returning to The Glebe that evening she told Porchey, not unkindly but quite firmly, to buck up. He was lucky to have a useful job that didn’t expose him to danger. ‘And darling, I suspect you’re right that Tilly isn’t coming back. But just think how much worse it could be. Poor Catherine is still waiting to know whether Geoffrey is alive or dead.’
As always, Porchey found it intensely irritating to be bossed and patronised by his mother, especially when he knew she was right. He did indeed buck up. By the summer of 1941 he had been promoted to Major in recognition of his effectiveness in carrying out an unpopular job with charm and persistence. And of course, when Catherine’s world fell apart in February that year, he was on hand with sincere sympathy and offers of practical help. He had loved her; he respected her and was fond of her still.
In the midst of all the endings, one love story was entering a new, happy phase. Robert, who the previous year had been serving as Lord Carnarvon’s personal servant and flitting off from basic training down in Shorncliffe, had asked his longstanding sweetheart, Joan, to marry him. The couple wanted to get married as soon as possible but Robert was too busy with the next, rather more serious, stage of his military career.
After his not altogether glorious association with the cavalry regiment ended with the disbanding of the 7th Hussars, Robert joined the Royal Armoured Corps, one of the British Army’s tank divisions. He excelled on the wireless course, so much so that he was singled out to be an instructor. He had hoped to be sent into the field, but accepted that training was essential work. And there were compensations for remaining at home, such as the possibility of leave and the fact that he would be posted to Bovington in Dorset, relatively close to Joan, in Highclere. (It seems reasonable to assume that Joan saw no disadvantages whatsoever to her beloved being an instructor rather than a combat soldier.) Perhaps the couple could finally plan their wedding.
As soon as he arrived at Bovington, Robert applied for a pass for two weekends hence, to marry Joan. He was told the pass would depend on his progress and performance over the next two weeks. Wartime weddings were arranged in a jiffy to take advantage of even the smallest amount of leisure time. This was the best opportunity Robert and Joan were likely to get for a while. Mr Kent, the parson at Highclere Church, agreed that in the circumstances a single week’s worth of banns would suffice and the wedding was fixed for Saturday 12 April.
Only on the evening of the Friday was Robert granted his pass. There was no way of contacting Joan, so he simply set off, hitching a series of lifts to reach Winchester. He arrived late that night and asked a policeman at the station to help him find a lodging for a couple of hours’ sleep. At 6.00 a.m. he caught a milk train from Winchester to Highclere. Walking through the park to the castle, where
Lord Carnarvon had promised him he was welcome to wash and change his clothes, Robert stared around at unfamiliar faces and noise, army tents in the fields, rickety fences criss-crossing the land, military trucks parked on broken verges. The castle soared in front of him and he was pleased to see that, from a little distance at least, it looked exactly the same as ever: pale gold stone and ranks of windows, Gothic turrets and the tower atop the square body of the main house. When he walked through the courtyard to the staff entrance, though, he saw that no one had time to sweep it any more.
Pushing open the back door and setting off down the corridor, he looked in on the kitchens, where a cook he didn’t recognise was directing a new maid to hurry up with boiled eggs and toast for fifty-five evacuees. Robert Taylor nodded his greetings and headed to Mrs Saunderson’s sitting room to ask her to show him to a room in which he could dress. Judging from the warmth of his reception, the entire household was pleased by the news, and happy to help.
Before he made his way up the back stairs to a room in the men’s quarters, Robert wondered whether he might take a quick look at the Saloon, to see how the place was keeping.
‘Of course, be my guest,’ said Mrs Saunderson. ‘It’s all changed, you know. We have any number of people running about all over the place: schoolteachers from London and army types and everything.’ She gave him a smile that suggested she was rather pleased at the bustle.
Robert took the few stairs from the housekeeper’s sitting room, round a corner and up to the small passage that links the study and Lady Carnarvon’s sitting room to the Red Staircase and then the Saloon. A small child dashed past him into the Library. The great leaded windows over the Oak Staircase were boarded up. ‘What happened there?’ he asked Mrs Saunderson, who had followed him. ‘Machine-gun damage. Two planes were practising and they got a bit close, blew out some of the lead, broken glass everywhere.’ Mrs Saunderson shook her head. ‘We were lucky. Only one of the children was slightly scratched.’
On his way to the back stairs, Robert saw Lord Carnarvon emerging from his study. ‘Ah, Robert, glad to have bumped into you. Congratulations!’
‘Thank you, my lord. It’s very good of you to let me come here to change.’
‘Nonsense, least we can do. The castle’s full but there’s always room for an old hand. Now, you’ll need to get on your way.’
Joan must have woken that morning and wondered whether or not this would be her wedding day. Robert had told her that he would find out only at the last minute whether he had been granted a pass, too late to send a note or go to the Post Office to place a call. She dressed in the silver and white brocade gown given to her by a friend’s mother, which she herself had altered to fit. Then she set off on her father’s arm, followed by her family and the villagers, to walk the short distance to the church. Halfway there one of the village boys, who had run ahead, returned at full pelt. ‘He’s come! He’s waiting for you.’ Joan fairly skipped down the aisle to meet her bridegroom.
Lance Corporal Robert Taylor and Miss Johanna Streeter were married in Highclere Church on Easter Saturday, 12 April 1941. Mr Keen played the organ and the first hymn was ‘Lead us heavenly father, lead us’. Afterwards there was a reception for about fifty guests at the Pheasant, their friend Ruby Benson’s father’s pub. The bride and groom had just that one day and one night together before Robert had to return to camp, but for them as for thousands of wartime couples, it was time made sweeter for having been so long anticipated, and it would be long treasured in the memory. When they parted on Sunday Robert promised to write often and to come to see her as soon as possible. Now that they were married, he could apply for married couple’s accommodation at camp. Joan was too happy even to suffer. They would be together soon.
During the Easter Holiday Henry returned to Highclere to train with the Home Guard. Like his father before him, he was an enthusiastic and patriotic lad and, though he tried to be sensitive to his mother’s anxieties, especially in the wake of her loss of Geoffrey, he had all the self-assurance typical of youth. He couldn’t wait to join up. In the meantime, he wanted to do his bit with the Home Guard. Charles Maber, the head gamekeeper, and Frank Soper, the head forester, were the two company officers, men he had known all his life.
The duties of the Home Guard were various but could be boiled down to two essential functions: protecting vital infrastructure such as post offices, factories and fire stations, especially where they were vulnerable to bombing, and keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. Even as the threat of invasion faded, there was a real fear of fifth columnists. The Guard checked people’s ID cards and removed signposts so that any German spies wouldn’t be able to identify their surroundings. They scanned the night skies for enemy activity of all kinds.
The Highclere Home Guard had built an observation hut on top of Siddown Hill to the south of the castle, which commanded an excellent view across the downlands towards the port of Southampton. It was carefully concealed within the beech trees, and on the nights when Bomber Command wasn’t practising, it was a peaceful spot. A rota was worked out to ensure at least two guards manned it each night and Henry enthusiastically took his turn.
One night in the early summer, by which time Henry was back at school, an accident occurred. The kerosene heater was knocked over, the wooden hut caught fire and the two guardsmen were unable to put it out. Enemy planes to the south saw the fire and swooped down to attack the hut. The Guard had to run for cover. The following morning there were two very sheepish individuals as reports were made to superior officers.
No real harm had been done, but the incident could have been designed to feed the criticisms—some good-natured, some less so—made by the Home Guard’s detractors. The vast majority of recruits were men too old to serve in the military. In 1941, this meant anyone over the age of forty-one, and there were plenty of highly capable men of middle age serving. By 1942, when the age limit for conscription had been raised to fifty-one for men, the average age of Guards shot up. The soubriquet Dad’s Army was applied and a reputation for bumbling attached itself. In fact, accidents such as the one at Highclere notwithstanding, the disorganisation that certainly was typical of the Guard in its early days derived more from the fact that the service had been raised at speed and at a moment when there was a serious shortage of arms and equipment, than the age or capabilities of its recruits. With more and more proper training and better equipment being made available throughout the war, the Guard proved its worth many times over.
Retaining younger men at Highclere was a particular concern for Miss Stubbings in 1941. She had taken over as Lord Carnarvon’s agent from Marcus Wickham Boynton at the end of 1940, when he was called up. Now she spent a lot of her time applying on behalf of the estate to hang on to a few younger men to help with the heavier work in the gardens and on the farm. Many of the workers keeping Highclere going were over sixty years old. Haines, the plumber, was sixty-three; Frank Sheerman, the carpenter, was seventy-one. Miss Stubbings drew attention to the fact that there was a school as well as various army units billeted on the estate and put in a special plea for Jack Day, the electrician, on whom the nursery personnel were particularly reliant for all their small jobs. She seems to have been at least partially successful, as Jack remained at Highclere throughout the war.
Miss Stubbings’ expanded role was typical of the way that women were required to take on tasks traditionally handled by men. Over the next four years nearly 10 million women entered the workforce, many in direct support of the war effort. Women worked in munitions factories, delivered Spitfires for the Air Transport Auxiliary and were recruited by Special Operations as spies. Though it dealt out a great deal of heartbreak, the war also provided women with opportunities to participate in public life and serve their country on an unprecedented scale.
On 22 June 1941, Hitler reneged on the non-aggression pact that Nazi Germany had signed with Soviet Russia in 1939. Four million troops from the Axis powers, the largest military force ever a
ssembled, began the march to Moscow.
For Britain, Hitler’s decision to wage war on Soviet Russia meant the creation of a major ally. For the first time since the fall of France in June 1940, Britain was not fighting alone. Churchill was famously anti-Communist, but he quipped that ‘if Hitler invaded Hell, I would at least make a favourable reference to the Devil in the House of Commons.’ Churchill was still actively pursuing good relations with the United States in the hopes that they too could be persuaded to come in formally with the Allies. But even without the Americans, in the summer of 1941 there was a sliver of breathing space, more than there had been for a year.
In America Penelope and Doll spent most of the summer with Wendell relations. They also dropped by to see Tilly when they were in New York. Tilly seems to have been genuinely fond of her stepdaughter; Pen in turn enjoyed Tilly’s aura of exuberant glamour and appreciated the fact that she was still using her position as Lady Carnarvon to raise funds and support for the British war effort. Porchey found some small comfort in this, too, though even the $10,000 his wife raised at a gala in Cleveland wasn’t enough to stop him from preferring her presence at Highclere.
Pen had hoped to return to England to visit her family, but the situation in the Atlantic remained far too dangerous to allow it. Convoys were being attacked every day by ‘wolf packs’ of German submarines, and her parents absolutely forbade her to come. It was torture for Pen who, though she enjoyed school and being in the States, missed Patricia, her father and her brother, and worried terribly about her mother. Arthur Wendell wrote to Catherine to reassure her that they were all ‘treating Pen as if she were our very own. She has won the affections of everybody.’
If Penelope was desperate to come back to England, Tilly remained evasive on the subject of her own return. Several times she had apparently been on the brink of booking a passage but it never quite happened, and for the last year she had been ready with excuses every time she spoke to her husband. It was not that Porchey actually wanted her to put her life in danger by crossing now, at the height of the crisis in the Atlantic, but he would have been pleased to see any sign at all that she was really sorry about the situation or serious about coming as soon as she could.
Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey Page 23
