by Mary Soames
During these winter months all our lives were touched by the “phoney war”—many, indeed, already transformed. Most of the young men had joined up and many were in training at Pirbright or Sandhurst, or other centres within easy reach of London, or were on embarkation leave pending departure for the Middle East. Of the girls (those who were old enough), some were training in hospitals as nurses, or were already in one or other of the women’s services; others were working “for the Foreign Office”—an ambiguous term covering activities not to be defined. For all, pleasures and parties were very much subject to hours of duty.
A major event in mid-December which gripped the whole country was what became known as the Battle of the River Plate—the first dramatic naval engagement of the war. Since October, the German pocket battleship Graf Spee had been a formidable marauding presence in the South Atlantic—making a brief appearance here or there, claiming victims (nine in all), and then disappearing into the trackless ocean. Hunting groups of our warships had been seeking her for two months, without avail—until she was “apprehended” on the morning of 13 December by three British cruisers—Exeter, Ajax, and Achilles—at the centre of the shipping routes off the mouth of the River Plate between Uruguay and Argentina (both neutral countries). A fierce action ensued with much damage and many casualties; the Graf Spee made for Montevideo, where she remained for four days, while the British ships—now joined by the Cumberland, which took the place of the crippled Exeter—waited for her to emerge when the limited time permitted for a warship to remain in neutral waters expired. On the evening of 17 December the Graf Spee weighed anchor and steamed slowly out of harbour, watched by huge crowds of spectators; not quite two hours later she blew herself up. Her commanding officer shot himself. I give an account of this famous action because my father, of course, watched it all hour by hour from the Admiralty War Room, and relayed the course of events to my mother and myself. The brilliant victory brought a flash of excitement into all our lives in a dreary time.
We spent this first Christmas of the war quietly in London with all the close family at hand, and also those two Chartwell “regulars” Brendan Bracken and the Prof, Sarah and Vic entertaining us all to Christmas Day luncheon at Westminster Gardens.
* * *
* Inevitably this soon had to be shelved, and it was not completed till after the war.
CHAPTER 8
A Year to Remember
We began with a storm. We have been in stormy times. And indeed the winds blow us to the banks of Styx. It can never be calm again in our lifetimes. Those who die have the roaring of it in their ears.
—SACHEVERELL SITWELL, quoted in
Splendours and Miseries, Sarah Bradford
AT THE END OF NOVEMBER 1939, RUSSIA HAD INVADED FINLAND. The British and French governments planned an expeditionary force to go to the rescue, and public shock and sympathy were widespread: my mother and I, along with many others, enthusiastically donated our skis—reminders of carefree snowy holidays—for the Finns defending their homeland. All efforts official and unofficial were equally unavailing, and in March 1940 Finland surrendered. But this struggle, though sobering, was too far away to affect life at home; of much more immediate impact on our daily existence was the beginning of serious food controls when bacon, butter, and sugar rationing was introduced in January.
The year made a very cold start. At the weekends at Chartwell there was skating, while my weekday life in London was very busy with Queen’s College, piano lessons, learning to drive, and my part-time war work. In succession Diana, I, and Sarah succumbed to German measles, and I caused a diversion by falling beside a moving train!
I was in a hurry on my way to a music lesson, and at South Kensington Station I ran to try to catch an underground train which had just started to move in my direction: I made a leap to get in—trains did not then have automatically closing doors—slipped, and in falling was carried along by the train; just before the tunnel the platform sloped down quite steeply, and I was deposited lying on the track, uncomfortably near to the live rail. I had the sense to wait for the train to roll over me, and then I scrambled up, dusty, dishevelled, and frightened. The station staff were relieved I was not dead, but were not best pleased with me; after questioning, which involved giving my name and address, I proceeded on my way to my piano lesson—I can’t think I made much progress, but my teacher was charming and sympathetic. On my return home about two hours later, I found consternation reigning, as someone from the station had rung the press, who in turn had telephoned Admiralty House.
Towards the end of February a moving and remarkable event took place when the King inspected a parade of the officers and men of the Ajax and Exeter who had taken part in the Battle of the River Plate. The ships’ companies were drawn up on Horse Guards Parade under the Admiralty windows, and quite a number of relations and friends had been invited by Winston and Clementine, as had the wives of the senior officers who had commanded in the action, to watch the parade. While we were gathering well ahead of time, we noticed a small group of women and children being shepherded to a special enclosure on the parade ground—they were the widows and orphans of the men killed in the battle. They looked pretty forlorn, and it was a cold morning: my mother sent me posthaste to the Lyons Corner House in Trafalgar Square, where, after a little persuasion, the management arranged a procession of “nippies,”* guided by me, bearing hot drinks, buns, and biscuits as refreshments for this sad little crowd. The Queen spent a good deal of time talking to them individually; the King inspected the parade, and then decorated some of those who had particularly distinguished themselves. Afterwards the officers and men marched to the Guildhall, through streets lined with cheering crowds, to a luncheon in their honour.
In ordinary times, at this point in our lives I and my seventeen- to eighteen-year-old contemporaries would have been making our “debut,” the highlight of which was being presented at Court. Of course, in wartime circumstances presentation parties at Buckingham Palace had been cancelled: however, the young are always ready to have a good time, and their parents ready to help them to do so, so many dinners and some small dances were organized. And despite the rigours, dangers, and shortages of wartime life, one great annual social event—Queen Charlotte’s Annual Birthday Dinner Dance for debutantes (popularly known as Queen Charlotte’s Ball) at the Grosvenor House Hotel—continued to take place during the war in aid of the famous maternity hospital’s wartime services.† In a time-honoured ceremony, after the dinner the “debs” of the year—the Maids of Honour—all in white ballgowns descend the great staircase into the ballroom, and advance towards the huge birthday cake with its appropriate number of candles, which is then cut by the Dance President and Chairman, supported by her Vice Presidents: the serried ranks of debs then make a deep curtsey. After all this the dance gets under way and lasts into the small hours.
In 1940, with the cancellation of the royal presentation parties, Queen Charlotte’s Ball was the big social event of the season, and it evoked much excited anticipation and preparation. My mother (who this year was one of the Vice Presidents) allowed herself to be distracted from her very busy life and war work to preside over my dress for the occasion, and to organize a large dinner party at Grosvenor House on the night. I (according to my “dear diary”)
began dressing at about 5.30 … Well, I must say it was lovely to wear such a really beautiful white taffeta hooped dress (slightly off the shoulders!) I wore tiny camellias in my hair—my pearl necklace—my aquamarine & pearl drop ear-rings, long white gloves—& a sweet little diamond naval crown which Vic [Sarah’s husband] sent me as a present—the angel! Mummie looked stunningly beautiful in a lovely pale pink gown with sequins embroidered on it.
Our party was about sixteen people, divided fifty-fifty old and young: the “oldies” consisted of family (though not my father, who was working), Brendan Bracken, and some nice and rather grand naval officers, who had been kind to me on various Admiralty occasions, and whom I
suppose my mother had conscripted. I was in a state of euphoria—and my cup of happiness overflowed when towards the end of dinner my father unexpectedly arrived to join us for a little while, applauded enthusiastically by the assembled company as he crossed the dance floor to our table. Summing it all up in my diary, I wrote, “I can only say the evening was a dream of glamour & happiness.”
In normal times a pleasurable feature of social life would have been country house parties and balls; this year they were few and far between. I do remember a dance in early April given at Petworth House in Sussex by Lord and Lady Leconfield for their adopted daughter, Elizabeth Wyndham; the dance was fun, but the most vivid vignette of that weekend remains my first meeting with my hostess. On my arrival in the late afternoon of Friday, I was shown into a chilly drawing room by the butler, who told me: “Her Ladyship is in the Park on air raid warden duty.” So I waited, feeling shy and uncertain of myself, until suddenly the door burst open, and in came my hostess in her warden’s getup: trousers encircled with bicycle clips, uniform jacket—and, swinging underneath the steel helmet surmounting her grizzled locks, the grandest and most beautiful pair of diamond pendant ear-rings I had ever seen in my life!
That visit to Petworth happened to coincide with the German invasion of Denmark and Norway that marked the abrupt end of the phoney, or twilight, war. Denmark was immediately overwhelmed, but the Norwegians fought heroically in their mountain passes. Britain and France sent troops as speedily as possible, and the Royal Navy’s role was of paramount importance: consequently Winston was deeply involved in both the strategy and tactics of the operations. The Norwegian campaign, which lasted eight weeks in all, was marked by a series of mistakes, failures, and disappointments largely attributable to lack of air support for land and sea operations. In late April British troops were evacuated from central Norway, and by the first week in May there was a demand for a full parliamentary debate. This took place on 7 and 8 May, and I went with my mother to the House of Commons to listen to my father winding up the debate—which had become a vote of censure. I wrote in my diary: “It was the first time in 11 years that he had wound up for the govt. The House was in a most uncertain, unpleasant & sensitive restless mood. There were frequent interruptions—also quite a lot of cheering. Papa’s handling of the actual matter and of the House was nothing short of SUPERB. I listened breathless with pride [and] apprehension.”
The vote was 281 for the government and 200 against—the government’s majority of just 81 revealing that many Conservatives had voted against their own party or abstained. There was turmoil as the Prime Minister left the Chamber, some Members’ singing of “Rule, Britannia!” being drowned by cries of “Go! Go! Go! Go!” It was quite clear that there must be a change of government, and there was a growing demand in the House and press for a National government to be formed. Of course I was gripped and excited by all these events.
On Thursday, the day after the debate, I went in the evening to a dinner party given by Cousin Sylvia (Henley) for her niece, my great friend Judy Montagu. One of my neighbours at dinner—debonair, good-looking, and intelligent—was Mark Howard,‡ whom I knew slightly already and rather fancied—gratifyingly, I was able to record in my diary that “he made himself v. agreeable to me.” On my other side was Jock Colville, one of the Prime Minister’s assistant private secretaries: he was later to become a great and lifelong friend, but on this first occasion we were both wary of each other. I suspected him—rightly, on both counts!—of being a “Chamberlainite” and a “Municheer.” He wrote in his diary: “I thought the Churchill girl rather supercilious: she has Sarah’s emphatic way of talking, and is better looking, but she seemed to me to have a much less sympathetic personality.”1 After dinner we all went on to dance at the Savoy—and later still, “despite a few conscience pricks [my mother’s ban on nightclubs being still in force] which I firmly banished, we went on to the 400. Danced, almost exclusively with Mark. V. nice! Home and bed 4 a.m.”
On Friday, 10 May, I continued my diary:
While Mark & I were dancing gaily & so unheedingly this morning—in the cold grey dawn Germany swooped on 2 more innocent countries—Holland & Belgium. The bestiality of the attack is inconceivable. Went to college. A cloud of uncertainty & doubt hung over us all all day. What would happen to the govt.? What is the news from abroad? French towns—open towns—were raided. The rumours of Chamberlain’s resignation increased.
The chief factor forcing the Prime Minister’s resignation was the categorical refusal of the Labour party to serve in a National government under his leadership. The choice of successor lay between Lord Halifax (the Foreign Secretary) and Winston Churchill. Considerable elements in the Conservative party, and the King, preferred Halifax—who, however, demurred, chiefly on the grounds of the impossibility of leading a government in this situation from the House of Lords. Mr Chamberlain therefore recommended Churchill to the King, who immediately sent for him and asked him to form a government.
That afternoon I had gone down to Chartwell. It was a beautiful summer’s evening, and in the gloaming I sat on the steps by the former chauffeur’s cottage (where Nana Whyte was installed) and listened through the open window to the radio. As I recorded in my diary, “Just before the 9 o’clock news Mr. Chamberlain spoke to us all, & told us that he had resigned & that Papa was forming a new govt. It was the speech of a patriot.”
NATURALLY THE NEXT FEW WEEKS—quite apart from the pace and increasingly dramatic sequence of international events—were full of excitement on my part, and domestic planning for my mother, as we prepared to move into No. 10 Downing Street. All the arrangements were made in a civilized manner—“No-one moves for a month!” my father declared; meanwhile his prime ministerial office was up and running immediately. It included members of his First Lord’s team, as well as some of Mr. Chamberlain’s private secretaries (including—most wary at first!—Jock Colville). And my father, while continuing to live at Admiralty House, conducted all his business from No. 10. His first and most pressing concern was the formation of a truly National government composed of members of all three main political parties.
Meanwhile events across the Channel were moving fast. On 14 May German forces pierced the French defences at Sedan and thrust forward; on 15 May the Dutch army surrendered and the Luftwaffe laid Rotterdam to waste; in the third week of May Amiens and Arras were captured and the Germans reached Abbeville on the Channel coast; and on 28 May came a major blow with the capitulation of Belgium, leaving the French and British armies fatally exposed. Then followed the epic evacuation of the BEF from the beaches of Dunkirk, when over six days more than 338,000 British and Allied (mostly French) troops were conveyed back to England.
Throughout these weeks Churchill and his colleagues were becoming increasingly aware that bitter divisions within the French government were deepening, and that there was a growing possibility that France might seek to be released from its undertaking not to make a separate peace with Germany. Between the middle of May and 13 June, when he made a last visit to the Reynaud government, by then in Tours, Churchill and his closest political and military team made five flights (several in extremely dangerous conditions) in his desperate attempts to persuade the French to continue to fight—if not in France, then at least in North Africa and their colonial empire—and, above all, to send their fleet out of reach of the Germans. All his efforts were to no avail.
It was against this background of cataclysmic events that our everyday lives proceeded. The pressures on Clementine were considerable, over and above her anxiety for Winston’s safety on his flights to France, and the demands of organizing the move to No. 10. Winston told her everything, so she was well aware of not only present but also future threats and dangers. Clementine always reacted swiftly to situations: on Sunday, 19 May, she went to church at St. Martin-in-the-Fields and returned boiling with indignation, and recounted to Winston that she had been so enraged by the pacifist nature of the sermon that she had walked out
. Winston told her: “You ought to have cried ‘Shame, desecrating the house of God with lies.’ ”2
Normally mistress of herself, my mother was nevertheless given to occasional emotional outbursts: one such caused me (and certainly my father too) acute embarrassment. Shortly after we had moved to No. 10, my father unexpectedly brought David Margesson to luncheon. Margesson had been Chief Whip for the previous nine years, and was now serving Winston (who had a high regard for him, despite their past parliamentary differences) in the same role with integrity and loyalty. However, he had also been one of the principal “appeasers,” and on this occasion all Clementine’s hostility to the policy of appeasement and to those connected with it—deemed responsible by its opponents for bringing the country to its present dire straits—boiled over, and she flayed him verbally before sweeping out, with myself in deep confusion tagging along behind. As I wrote in my diary, “I was most ashamed and horrified. Mummie & I had to go & have lunch at the Carlton [Grill]. Good food wrecked by gloom.” This outburst from the normally immaculately well-mannered Clementine is indicative of the tensions in her life at that time.
Although the press was subject to censorship concerning reports from theatres of war and information relating to service exercises and movements of forces, comment and criticism were unfettered, and the public was kept informed of events at home and abroad: listening to the BBC news programmes was (except for determined ostriches) a mandatory part of everyday life. In his speeches in the House of Commons or over the radio, Churchill gripped the nation, setting before them the gravity of the situation as it developed, and never disguising that harder days lay ahead: people in all walks of life hung on his words, and extracts from these speeches have passed into our literary heritage.
