Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey

by The Countess of Carnarvon

  Henry was full of anticipation as he disembarked in Egypt. It was his first visit to a land with which his family had special ties. He had grown up hearing his father’s stories about the Curse of Tutankhamun and his grandfather’s devotion to the country’s heritage. Now he was here to see the place for himself. The circumstances were hardly conducive to tourism, it was true; but nonetheless his first sight of the Pyramids thrilled him as it does every visitor. He must have felt a frisson of pride at the thought that the discoveries made by the 5th Earl and Howard Carter had revolutionised Egyptology.

  Lord Porchester and his group of friends were stationed on the outskirts of Cairo at Abissaia. The young men were very much focused on their deployment to Italy, where the Allied Expeditionary Force had been slogging their way up the peninsula for nearly three months. The fighting was brutal, made worse by atrocious weather, the difficulty of the mountainous terrain and the fact that the Germans had dug in to defend their positions with increasingly sophisticated booby traps. At its close, in April 1945, the Italian campaign had claimed more lives on both sides than any other on the Western front.

  The young officers of the Blues had no idea when they would be deployed, but they took a step closer when they were ordered to join the main body of the regiment at Jebel Mazar on the border between Syria and Lebanon. From there they would push on to Jerusalem in British-controlled Palestine before returning to Egypt. By the winter of 1943, the region was quiet, but it had been the location of very fierce fighting two years before when the Allied armies battled those of Vichy France. The Syria-Lebanon campaign had seen huge casualties among the Australian, Free French, British and Indian troops, but on 12 July 1941 Beirut fell. Two days later an armistice was signed with Vichy, and a Free French government installed.

  The Blues and Royals were able to practise manoeuvres in peace while they waited for their orders. They were busy but not in any danger—yet. Henry wrote to his mother from the mountains of Lebanon, apologising for not having had time to write before. He was now posted to ‘C’ Squadron, he told her, and with a note of pride mentioned that he had been the first among his group of friends and fellow officers to be given charge of a troop. He signed off with ‘tons of love to Gar’ and asked Catherine to please ‘continue to write your lovely newsy letters’ before sending her ‘tons and tons of love’.

  Catherine must have suffered agonies as she waited to hear from her son. She tried to distract herself from worrying by taking pride in his accomplishments (as well as his command of Troop No. 4 he had been acting as wireless operator to his squadron leader), but towards Christmas she went once more to stay at one of her favourite retreats, to pray for Henry’s safety and a speedy end to the war, and to closet herself away safely from her demons.

  Gar did her best to support her daughter but she was anxious herself, though she put a brave face on it. On 7 December she was staying with Catherine at Windsor and wrote to thank Henry for the lovely photo. ‘God will guard you, my darling, and bring you safely back to us.’

  Perhaps it is harder to be the one left behind waiting for news than it is to be the one out facing whatever the world may bring. Compared to his family at home, Henry was on fine form that Christmas. He was granted some leave and set off for a day of shooting at Lake Ekiad. He stayed the Friday night at Shepheard’s hotel in Cairo where his grandfather always stopped en route to and from his archaeological digs in the Valley of the Kings. Throughout the war the graceful old hotel was Cairo’s main meeting place for diplomats, high-ranking soldiers and spies, but Henry didn’t stay for long enough to see anything terribly exciting. Very early the morning after his arrival he set off in convoy with the other guns: His Excellency the British Ambassador Lord Killearn, Sir Alexander Keown-Boyd, who was director of the Ministry of the Interior, Lord Cadogan, his second-in-command, Prince Galitzine of Russia and various others. In a letter to his father, who he knew would appreciate the details, Henry wrote, ‘We arrived, were dished out with 200 cartridges apiece and then we started off to our butts with a couple of mallard decoys each.’ He shot one of the best bags of duck and snipe and then they returned to Cairo for an excellent dinner. Porchey was much cheered by Henry’s letters. He, like Catherine, depended on the exchange of news to keep his worries at bay.

  The gathering at Highclere for Christmas was somewhat sparse, with Henry serving abroad and Pen stuck in London. The Foreign Office granted her just one day off so she spent the 25th lunching at Claridge’s with some Wendell family connections. One of them, Gerrit van der Woude, made himself particularly charming. He, like Pen, was the child of an American who had moved to Britain. Gerrit was serving in the Grenadier Guards and cut quite a dash in his uniform. When they parted, he asked whether he might take her to the theatre the following week. Pen didn’t hesitate to say yes.

  Eve and Bro arrived at Highclere with Almina, who was on powerful form, wanting to talk of nothing but how her beloved grandson was getting on out in Egypt. Bro’s health was worsening. He had developed a serious heart condition brought on by overwork and lack of sleep. The strain was making Eve rather tetchy; she too had been working very hard, helping with liaison between British prisoners of war abroad and their families at home. Patricia was too busy with stories of her new job to pay her mother that much attention. Patricia had joined the Wrens, the Women’s Royal Naval Service, and was working as a junior administrator at Bletchley Park, the soon-to-be legendary centre of the Allies’ work to break the German Enigma code. She came down in her smart new uniform. On Christmas Eve, Dr Johnnie and Jeanne arrived. Jeanne was mightily relieved that her ENSA tour had been postponed until early February. The Entertainments National Service Association, formed in 1939, sent many outstanding actors and singers all over the world to perform to troops in the field. Gracie Fields, Vera Lynn, Joyce Grenfell, Laurence Olivier and Ralph Richardson all did their bit to boost morale. Jeanne was keen to go but much preferred to spend Christmas at Highclere getting some rest first. She was supposed to be heading for Cairo and everyone was excited at the thought that she might be able to see Henry.

  Despite their collective anxiety for him, the Carnarvons (and indeed the country as a whole) were starting to dare to hope that the war would be won. The Axis powers were everywhere on the retreat. Japan had sustained huge losses in its naval battles with the US Navy and the new command in India under Lord Mountbatten was gaining the upper hand in the battle for Burma. Italy was defeated. The Germans were still strong, it was true, but they were falling back from Italy and Russia. The mood at the start of 1944 was so much more hopeful than it had been a year previously.

  Porchey was very unwell with flu in the first week of January and spent several days in bed writing letters. To Henry he wrote that Jack Gibbins, his former chauffeur, had been poached by the royal household and would now be ‘driving their majesties whenever they go out in the Daimler.’ He kept his son up to date with news of how the horses were shaping up for the flat season ahead and how well his horse, Stonehenge, was looking.

  Henry was rather more concerned by the news he received from his mother that she had been knocked over by a lorry coming out of a shop in Highgate, near the retreat, on Christmas Eve. Catherine assured her son that she was quite well now and had only been a little shaken. She hadn’t been paying attention, had been turning over so many things in her mind. Pen’s letter a fortnight later reassured him that their mother was absolutely fine; she had suffered just minor bruises. The reason for the preoccupation was also revealed. Catherine had formally converted to Catholicism on 25 January, just after Henry’s birthday. Having made her decision she now seemed peaceful and content, Pen reported. Penelope’s letter was full of her own news. Gerrit van der Woude had indeed taken her to the theatre and to several dinners and was now definitely her favourite beau. There was a rather nice American lieutenant she had liked for a while, but Patricia had pronounced him not very handsome, even if he was amusing. He had evidently been eclipsed.

  There
were a great many young ladies in the area around Highclere who were far more enthusiastic about the presence of American personnel. As Henry had been leaving for Alexandria at the end of October the previous year, the United States Ninth Air Force had been sending an advance party to prepare the newly constructed Greenham Common airfield for its troops. The base was just a few miles from Highclere and, before long, romances were being struck up between the Americans and local girls. The exotic incomers arrived trailing associations with Hollywood, a free and easy new-world charm, and lots of money in their pockets to spend on their dates. Britons had been living with rationing for three and a half years by then and had got used to going without. These young men had seemingly endless chocolate, cigarettes and—totem of glamour—nylon stockings to give away. All over the country there were highly appreciative British girls having more fun than they’d ever had before. The description of the GIs as ‘overpaid, oversexed and over here’ captures the sense of frustration among British prospective suitors.

  The US Air Force set up wing headquarters in requisitioned Bowdown House, on the edge of the airfield. The elegant house, designed by Edward Lutyens, had belonged to the family of Sir Cecil Dormer, former British ambassador to Norway, who had fled the country with King Haakon back in 1940; it had in fact become the refuge for the Norwegian royal family after they had escaped to Britain. Mrs Dormer was given twenty-four hours to find alternative accommodation for everyone. Ever enterprising, she moved the entire household to Foliejon Park, near Windsor.

  She had to enlist the help of the Norwegian attachés to help dismantle everything she possibly could, to get it out of harm’s way before it was overrun by the US Air Force. The Dormers had spent evenings playing bridge at Highclere; they were cousins of the Carnarvon family and many of the precious paintings now being hastily stored were of shared ancestors. When she returned a month later for a few things she had forgotten, there were trestle tables covered in maps and cigarettes, model planes suspended from ceilings and tanks parked across what were once lawns.

  American airmen were soon the latest in a long list of military personnel to exasperate Miss Stubbings, Lord Carnarvon’s agent, as they practised all over the estate. But on one dreadful day an accident occurred infinitely more serious than any carelessness with gateposts up at the stud. Two planes were practising airborne gunfights, swooping above the Highclere village school. Mrs Stacey, the tenant whose boys had narrowly escaped the bomb in Newbury, had three daughters at the school. Later, her oldest, Sylvia, told her that her friend Hazel had been playing cat’s cradle outside the schoolroom during their break when Sylvia heard a plane whoosh overhead and saw Hazel fall to the ground, as if she were having a fit. The school’s two teachers rushed out when they heard the children’s screams but there was nothing anyone could do. A bullet had passed through her arm and entered her heart. Sylvia was numb with shock. Just ten minutes earlier Hazel had lent her her bike. Now she was dead. At the little girl’s funeral, the Stacey children sang her favourite hymn, ‘There is a green hill far away’ with the rest of the congregation. Their mother found them in bed that night, all sobbing inconsolably. Sylvia remembered that her redoubtable mother got them straight up and put them to baking a cake with their precious rations because Hazel had always loved cake so much and they thought she would have appreciated it.

  Having recovered from flu, Porchey contacted his solicitors about the recalcitrant Tilly. She had cabled at Christmas saying that she hoped to obtain a passage back to England shortly, and sending all love both to him and her stepchildren. It was not enough to mollify Porchey, who had spent a great deal of the previous six months putting it to his wife that with the threat of U-boat attacks in the Atlantic now receding, it might be a good moment for her to at least visit. She had promised so many times that she was going to buy a ticket that very week, and by late 1943 he had quite given up all hope.

  He heard rumours that she was having an affair with a Hollywood producer, a Mr Foy, who ran the B-movies unit at Warner Brothers. This was too much for Porchey. He had been so humiliated when Tanis jilted him for Howard Dietz six years earlier and he was damned if he was going to let it happen again without a fight. He decided to engage the services of a private eye. He wanted to know the worst, and then to instigate divorce proceedings.

  At the end of January 1944, William J. Burns International Detective Agency were hired to tail Lady Carnarvon for two weeks. The agents spent hours sitting behind a newspaper in the lobby of Tilly’s hotel and followed her to Radio City Music Hall, on a shopping trip to Saks, and to lunch with a girlfriend. There was no sign of any male acquaintance whatsoever until the afternoon when an agent was thrilled to observe Lady Carnarvon enter the lobby with a tall handsome Latino type and head for the elevator. The detective resumed his watch and was slightly disappointed when the handsome Latino reappeared an hour later looking distinctly unruffled and headed off. The subject then went to a restaurant, alone, and read a magazine over dinner before returning to her hotel. The gentleman was nowhere in evidence. This potential breakthrough turned out to have a rather workaday explanation. The agency informed Lord Carnarvon that the suspected target was in fact Lady Carnarvon’s press agent, engaged to help her promote her forthcoming exhibition of paintings. William J. Burns’ international detectives argued strongly in favour of another period of surveillance (they seem to have been rather struck by the loveliness of Tilly), but Porchey decided he’d learned enough to satisfy his peace of mind. Mr Foy was, as it turned out, in Los Angeles. Meanwhile Porchey was being billed to follow his wife as she racked up yet more bills, many of which were still getting sent to him. It wasn’t the most rewarding way to spend either time or money. For now, he decided, there really wasn’t much to be done.

  At the beginning of March, Henry wrote to his mother to tell her that he and his troop were now on official standby for deployment. Their training continued: lots of shooting practice with mortars, machine guns and small arms, and occasional surprise fifteen-mile route marches, which everyone hated. Henry was playing football to stay fit and to relieve the boredom. He was evidently still playing a lot of bridge as well because, having thanked Catherine and Doll for the books they had sent him, he asked his mother to please also send him some cards and pencils. ‘They are an important factor for my income.’

  At the end of the month, the orders finally arrived. On 3 April the regiment travelled by train to Port Said and, having spent the night in a transit camp, sailed early the following morning on P&O liner SS Strathnaver, one of a convoy of twelve transport ships. Henry never forgot sailing through the Straits of Messina, the snow on Mount Etna’s peak clearly visible. On 16 April they arrived at Naples harbour, the port looming suddenly out of a deep mist. Everyone fell silent. It was impossible to tell how much of the devastation had been caused by Allied bombing, how much by the retreating German Army, but the result was the same. Naples was reduced to living on her wits and on booty begged or stolen from the occupying Allied forces.

  The Blues and Royals barely had time to catch their breath or realise that they had finally made it to Italy before they marched out of the city and, having taken delivery of a fleet of armoured vehicles, headed to a camp at Salerno where they were to spend the rest of the month.

  Henry’s experiences are a reminder that, for much of the time, war consists of waiting around for things to happen, for orders or supplies to arrive. He and his friends had just swapped one training ground for another. For the next two weeks they played more football, shot more targets, swam in the sea. It was starting to get warm and Henry’s troop had to go on patrol in their winter-in-the-desert army issue sheepskin coats. They were waiting for summer-in-Italy uniforms to arrive.

  As Henry and the Blues and Royals were landing at Naples, preparations were well under way for the long-anticipated invasion of France. It would be the key Allied attack of the war, an enormously complex joint operation between American, British and Commonwealth, Free French, Polish, D
utch, Free Belgian, Free Greek and Norwegian air, land and naval forces. It had been well over a year in the planning, but by April 1944 the plans were all coming together.

  The US 368th Fighter Group arrived at Greenham Common in March and started to fly their first combat missions over France, attacking key infrastructure such as bridges and highways, anything that might slow down German troop movements. The 438th Troop Carrier Group replaced them a few weeks later and prepared to fly their resupply and reinforcement missions, and to evacuate casualties. Assault gliders were arriving flat packed from the States and being assembled at the rate of twenty a day before being delivered by the Auxiliary Services to other airfields. Bomber Command stepped up the number of raids on German cities, including daylight raids on Berlin that made many British people, who remembered the Blitz only too well, rather uncomfortable. Every day the skies above Highclere were busy with hundreds of aircraft flying in the direction of France and Germany.

  Surprise was judged to be a crucial element of the planned invasion. A key part of the build-up to the invasion was therefore a campaign of misinformation and false trails code-named Operation Fortitude. Dummy landing quays, fake camps complete with fake camp fires, mock-ups of tanks—all along the southern coast there were decoys, intended to keep the Germans guessing about the location of the landings that they knew were coming.

  Elvira de la Fuente was back at Highclere in April but she didn’t stay long. She was too busy. As Agent Bronx she was feeding a carefully plotted stream of false information to her German handlers, who were avid for every scrap she had to give them. She was laying a decoy for a landing at Bordeaux and thereby keeping the feared German 17th Panzer Division well away from the Normandy beaches. Elvira’s efforts and those of countless other agents were far more successful than even MI6 had dared to dream. Operation Fortitude therefore paid off. Though the casualties of the June invasion would indeed prove to be very heavy, they could have been far worse. The Germans maintained elite forces at Pas de Calais, for example, miles away from the Normandy beaches, until well after the D-Day landings had finished. Their false intelligence told them that there were more Allied forces to come and the Germans stubbornly sat there waiting for them, rather than joining the fight.