by Diana Cooper
Curiously enough, she herself remembered little of the winter of 1942–3. Of course she would come down to see me every month or so. Eton is only twenty-odd miles from London; nowadays you can get there in well under an hour. But in wartime it was a very different story. Since my father never had the day off, she would come regularly, all that winter, alone, standing up in a crowded, unheated train. The cold was appalling. In my scrubby little room4 I was allowed a tiny coal fire after 6 p.m. every other day, so there was no comfort of any kind. Still, lunch at a surprisingly good restaurant in Windsor was a bright spot, and the long afternoon we would spend mostly at the Art School because it had a minimum of heating. Her journey home again, once more standing up in an icy corridor, was blacked out (so no reading) and could take well over an hour. There was maternal devotion for you.
The summer visits, thank heaven, were not quite so taxing, and by this time my father was occasionally able to accompany her. For both of them, 1942 (after their return from the East) and 1943 were quiet years – she was once again engrossed in farming, while he actually had time enough to write his biography of King David at weekends. Meanwhile, my time at Eton passed pleasantly enough.
It was in September 1943 that Winston Churchill first suggested that my father should go to Algiers. With Algeria French but Paris still under German occupation, the city had been selected by General de Gaulle as the French capital-in-exile, headquarters of his newly formed French Committee of National Liberation. The Committee included all the various French resistance groups opposed to the Nazis and the Vichy regime, with General de Gaulle as its President; my father’s brief was to build it up as an effective body with which the Allies could deal, while doing his best – despite Churchill’s deep mistrust of de Gaulle – to gain the General’s confidence. The task would not be easy, and Algiers might be far from comfortable; but a great reward was promised: as soon as Paris was liberated – by now only a question of a few months – my father would go there as first post-war British Ambassador.
On 1 January 1944 I saw them off at Lyneham airfield.
Algiers
January 4th, 1944
I did so hate leaving you. I hope you had a nice time at the aerodrome and got back safe. The flight was uneventful if you can call 1) a noise that hurt and made sleep impossible for all, 2) boiling water but no towel and 3) a blaze of light on the ceiling to confuse and blind the top-bunkers and total darkness for the elite lower-bunkers (no reading one’s fears away) uneventful. No masks or caps were used and we never flew high. I kept peeping out. The night was perfect – a silver earth and a sky brilliant with stars and a blazing dawn, then the Mediterranean, Africa and the Atlas. Algiers on time, deputations of French and English wading through a sea of mud, but the scene was sunlit and the dreadful flight behind me.
Now we are installed in our house, if you can call it installed when there is no cooking apparatus, heating arrangements for a bath, telephones, fires, heating of any kind, sofa, decent chairs, towels or anything else. Outside we have limitless acres of jade-green jungle but inside – Lor! If you were only here you would tell me not to be got down by such material things – I who have prided myself on accustoming the body to hardship. The streets are fantastic, but shops all shuttered because there is nothing to buy whatever. I spent some hours trying to buy lamps, as our house has only an occasional bald globe in the ceiling, and at last got a midget one (10 watts) painted all over with Scottie dogs. I miss you dreadfully. Nothing shall stop me from getting back to you for Easter.
Algiers
January 9th, 1944
My spirits are improving now that the hope of one day getting hot water or heating is past, and now that I discover that so many fine ladies are in the same boat. The only people who live like real ladies, in painted rooms and white satin featherbeds with heat pervading every niche and indirect lighting, are the higher ranks of the Allied Forces. They should be in their tents and their hammocks and their hangars and leave the soft delights to middle-aged soft diplomats.
Today we take to the sky again on a visit to the boss.5 I shall peer down on the snowladen shoulders of the old man Atlas and pray not to add my burden to his. You wouldn’t like it here, that I’m sure of, it’s not like abroad. It’s a dense mass of soldiers and sailors of all countries milling around without anything to do and nothing to buy and no transport – no buses or taxis or fiacres, only official cars and trams for the natives.
Bloggs is here and Randolph, not Bill Paley though I hear he’s coming back from Italy next week.
January 10th, 1944
Here I am on top of the deep romantic chasm, where Alph the sacred river runs. It’s wonderfully hot: the sky is without blemish of cloud. We’ve just had a terrific lunch al fresco – stuffing, ham and chickabiddy smothered in mayonnaise, fruit and gâteaux, washed down with shandygaff. It’s been a most wonderful entr’acte in the grim, cold misery of Algiers. We flew here in the Colonel’s6 fine plane. Four hours it took, and I weathered them. An ample champagne collation was served, and three charming young gentlemen were thrown in for good measure.
The party is a circus. It’s lodged in a millionaire’s pleasure dome, all marble and orange trees, fountains and tiles, in the richest Mahommedan style. We live in the hotel (two bed, two bath, one sitting room). We are guests of the United States Army, so a tray with gin, whisky, two sherries, Coca-Colas and a carafe of fruit juice, plus all the American Lifes and Times, are laid out for our delectation. At the villa there is a big set-up of decoders, W.A.A.F.s,7 map-room, secretaries at two a penny, and your old Doctor of the Yeomanry, Lord Moran.8 The Colonel’s wife and W.A.A.F. daughter Sarah were on the airfield to meet us and buzzed us by U.S. car, complete with immense white star on its camouflaged side, to the pleasure dome. There was our old baby in his rompers,9 ten-gallon cowboy hat and very ragged oriental dressing gown, health, vigour and excellent spirits. Never have I seen him spin more fantastic stuff, the woof of English and the warp of slang. Max the Calvinist10 is here, dressed in black and utterly uncontributive to the general pool of chatter . . .
In the evening we walk to the souk and buy what we can. I’ve bought the stuff for a dress, a pair of candlesticks, two pairs of shoes, a large straw hat of native design (of course), eleven metres of white linen, etc. Bumf unprocurable, sunglasses unprocurable, but the whole place offers a thousand times more than Algiers does . . .
January 13th. The last exciting day.11 It began at nine with the review, beautifully staged in a little grandstand, the Caliph, El Glaoui,12 the King of the Atlas, officials, wives, Duff and me. I cried from start to finish because of the yells and shouts of ‘Vive!’, the French’s joy and pride in the token army that passed, their avions buzzing just over our heads, their own few guns, their own flags and courage. The sun blazed on this inspiring scene.
Wormwood13 said a few words, exactly right, emphasising the honour and privilege of having so great a man beside him. Doesn’t it all sound lovely? Thank God the Vives! were pretty evenly divided between them . . .
Later, after the review, which seemed gruelling enough on Winston in one day, we had our eighth and last picnic. The picnic consists of eight cars with white stars and U.S. drivers (the whole town is run by the U.S. exclusively) with two or three guests in each, some ’tecs14 distributed around, and a van laden with viands, drinks, cushions, tables, chairs and pouffes. The advance party leads off an hour before the main body, reconnoitres and selects a valley miles away, windless, comparatively fertile and green, with water if possible.
We, pioneers that day, chose Demnat. We drove some eighty miles through the country of the Dissidents, very beautiful, olive-green and fertile, with towns walled and fortressed by their kasbahs. We came climbing to a famous gorge, or rather to the lip of it, and there we decided to pitch our pleasure. There we laid out our delicatessen, the cocktail was shaken up, rugs and cushions distributed, tables and buffets appeared as by a genie’s order, and as we finished our preparations the main part
y arrived.
The Colonel is immediately sat on a comfortable chair, rugs are swathed round his legs and a pillow put on his lap to act as table, book-rest, etc. A rather alarming succession of whiskies and brandies go down, with every time a facetious preliminary joke with Edward, an American ex-barman, or with Lord Moran in the shape of professional adviser. I have not heard the lord doctor answer; perhaps he knows it would make no difference.
I had just time to run down the dangerous steep mule-track to the cyclopean boulders, sprayed by gushing cascades that divided them. The pull up was a feat, and the sun turned the cold weather into a June day. All spirits rose to the beauty and the occasion – all, that is, except old Max Calvin, whose creased livid face is buried between a stuffy black hat and a book. A lot of whisky and brandy, good meat and salad, and ‘little white-faced tarts’ (to use Winston’s expression) are consumed and then, of course, as I feared, nothing will quiet the Colonel (no assurances of the difficulties and the steepness) but he must himself venture down the gorge.
Old Moran once mumbled a bit about it being unwise. It carried as much weight as if it had been said by an Arab child in vulgar, rustic tongue. So down he goes and, once down, he next must get on top of the biggest boulder. There were a lot of tough ’tecs along, including the faithful Inspector Thompson, but even with people to drag you and heave you up it is a terrific strain and effort in a boiling sun when you have just had a heart attack. Clemmie said nothing, but watched him with me like a lenient mother who does not wish to spoil her child’s fun nor yet his daring – watched him levered up on to the biggest boulder, watched him spatchcocked out on top of it.
Shots were snapped, a little Arab boy was bribed to jump into the pool, and then this steep, heart-straining ascent began. I tore up for the second time, puffing like a grampus. It seemed to me that if a rope or strap could be found to pass behind his back, while two men walked in front pulling the ends, it would be better than dragging him by his arms. I could find nothing but a long tablecloth, but I wound that into a coil and stumbled down with it. Big success! He had no thought of being ridiculous (one of his qualities) so he leaned back upon the linen rope and the boys hauled our saviour up, while old man Moran tried his pulse at intervals. This was only permitted so as to prove that his heart was unaffected by the climb.
Algiers
February 25th, 1944
I’ll try and be home for a day or two before the holidays. It’s getting quite near – time to queue up for a place in the plane. I may have to return a few days before the end. Papa will be dreadfully lost here without me. He has no resources – no clubs, no sport, no cards, no books, no chums – poor, poor Papa.
It rains and rains and hails and lightens and freezes you in damp, but we mustn’t grumble as January was a dream of sun and spring. Tomorrow we are to go chasing the wild boar, or sanglier. Papa has only got his dainty wedding boots and London trousers, a borrowed gun and limited cartridges. Snow will be on the mountainside where the drive takes place, and there is to be a lamb roasted whole by the local Sheikh or Kaid. Better perhaps to tell you about the boar hunt after and not before it takes place.
The Red Army celebrations were on a big scale on February 23rd. Splendid review – the Russians in four or five mammoth silver and glass cars. They had all been fitted out with dazzling gold-embroidered diplomatic uniforms. Madame Bogomolov15 was in velvet and diamonds and sable, with an airy Parisian trifle on her humourless little head. We were all in a stand, or tribune, watching them salute the three Allied flags. First the central Russian banner to the new U.S.S.R. anthem (very reminiscent of the Czar’s hymn) then Bogo moved automatically to the right and saluted the Stars and Stripes to the tune of God Save the King. He couldn’t move over to the Union Jack for the Star-Spangled Banner, so the Yanks got two salutes to our blob. Then we had a reception at the Russian Embassy with all Algiers invited from Charlie Wormwood downwards, and there were enough cakes to feed Leningrad – literally thousands of them laid on tables in hundreds without plates, and laid on dadoes, and on the bases of statues in the passages – and vodka and caviar. A great joke.
I’m furious that the pig’s wedding was delayed – now there’s no hope of my seeing the thirteen results.
Rabat
April 1944
All went well and all goes well. When I left you16 with such pain in my heart and such a matter-of-fact exterior, I took off to Paddington with Conrad. We were met at Swindon by a swagger R.A.F. car and officer and private, which deposited us nine miles away at Daisy Fellowes’s Compton Beauchamp, a beautiful house. I wish you’d been with me to give me your opinion. It’s for sale, but being an ‘archigem’ [old portmanteau word invented by Pa and Ma for architectural gem] would doubtless cost a fortune. Of course it wasn’t 8.30 that we were due to start but nearer midnight, so we had too long with Daisy but we were off at last, driving twenty miles in the loveliest spring evening – sickle moon and smells of new life and tender greens. As we neared Lyneham the clear sky filled with new constellations of aircraft.
We were three passengers, me, the A.V.M.17 and Mrs. B. his personal assistant, who took his boots off and dressed him in his flying kit and soothed him and gave him his Lilliput magazine and treated him generally as Nanny used to treat you. I put on my boots and my padded combinations and laid me down, on a mattress this time, an improvement on a lilo. I went to sleep soon after we were up, my prayers said, and slept reasonably well till six. The other two were still logged so I got up stealthily and stood in an uncomfortable stance looking out of the mean little window. Dawn was there and sea beneath, not much else. The A.V.M. woke next and started his shaving operations with Barbasol, while I fixed my face. Mrs. B. slept on.
The A.V.M. must start yelling above the revs. ‘If you want to make yourself comfortable, just go to the end of the aircraft.’ It’s no good shaking one’s head, and yelling one can hold one’s horses so I obeyed after a decent pause. It was light by now, and I moved gingerly down the fuselage (hold your breath now). Towards the end of the narrow body is a bit of glass flooring, out of which I imagine the bombs fall, and out of which the earth directly beneath you can be observed. I have often looked through it but seen little as the glass is too dirty and thick to give a clear view. Each side of the glass floor the aircraft starts to curve into sides, so it is natural, or at least I thought it was, to walk on the glass. I put my booted step upon it and my leg went slap through up to the fork. I was fortunately walking so delicately that my balance was instantaneously withdrawn to my safe foot and I dragged the culprit back to safety and got on with my business, and a strange business to be sure – a sanitary bin like a miniature pillarbox with a bit of sailcloth pinned up, all rags and tatters, which by holding with both hands one might achieve a bit of privacy. I felt I must admit to the breakage and told the A.V.M. who yelled ‘We needn’t tell anyone.’18 I didn’t know what that meant. Mrs. B. was awake by now and we drank some tepid coffee out of a Thermos and ate some chocolate and raisins.
Gibraltar whizzed past and at ten we were at Algiers itself, with Papa to greet me bursting with questions about you. The day was hot and sunny. A nice tame gazelle with Victory horns awaited my arrival in the courtyard and two boring chikors, a sort of duller partridge, were netted into a loggia. Freddie Fane19 has invested in a lot of chickens and the cow, Fatima, is twice the girl and giving four gallons a day.
My orders were to be ready to leave next morning at eight by road for a three days’ drive west – very long days. The first we covered 375 miles and got to a place called Tlemsin with a filthy hotel. Although there is no sign of war nothing is maintained – no hot water ever, no washing of sheets, no electric light bulbs and filthy food. Wonderful wild flowers in Algeria and sensational gold locusts, thick as lightly falling snow. They burst themselves on the windscreen and cover the road with their corpses, but they are beautiful. I thought at first they were butterflies.
Another long day’s drive brought us to famous Fez, ancie
nt capital of Morocco, a marvellous city untouched by modern hand, gushing with water and surrounded by green green hills studded with olive trees. We spent the following morning there, lunched with the French Consul M. Blanche, and came on a shorter drive to Rabat, the modern capital. We are two carloads – me and Papa and a chauffeur like Gary Cooper, in a new smart car full of my loose straw hats, loose coats and sordid basket of picnic food wrapped in eggy newspaper.
It’s April 29th now and I’m in bed in the Consul’s house at Rabat. It’s 8 a.m. and I’m off soon to get this letter put on an airplane. Papa has already been recalled to Algiers so our plan of going on to Tangier doesn’t look like materialising. He will have to take an airplane back and I shall thumb one somehow as I couldn’t face that three days’ dreary drive back again alone.
Algiers
May 15th, 1944
I have been listless and lazy yet busy this last week, hence a paucity of letters. You are all I love in England and for all that I haven’t written for a long time. I sleep very badly – there’s the rub. I wake at four, listening to an insane cock that starts his shrill clarion overnight and a rare nightingale and at last a deafening cacophony of early birds and late risers. I don’t feel sleepy again till Mr Sweeny20 in boiling hot battledress brings me some tepid coffee. I stagger into some hideous blue pyjamas (General Issue, ‘G.I.’, to the American Women’s Forces) and meet an older but fatter lady on the loggia, and we are both made to breathe and count and bend and puff and sweat and groan by a younger, much fitter culture physique girl. The atmosphere is grey and oppressive. On such days as these Crippen killed Belle Elmore and Queen Elizabeth ordered lovers to be beheaded and armies surrender and children are fractious. The air is full of the golden snow of locusts.
