A Daughter's Tale: The Memoir of Winston Churchill's Youngest Child

by Mary Soames

k I find it interesting to be reminded of how formally and tidily we dressed, despite clothes rationing (hats, incidentally, were not rationed).

  l American journalist and broadcaster.

  m Edward Turnour, sixth Earl Winterton (1883–1962): as an Irish peer, he sat in the House of Commons, where by 1951 he had sat continuously for longer than any other sitting Member. He had famously clashed with WSC in the House in 1911, accusing the latter of disorderly interruptions.

  n The Battle of Alamein. The First Battle of Alamein, in July 1942, had halted Rommel’s advance in the Western Desert: the Second, fought in October and November, would turn the tide of the North African campaign in favour of the Allies. It was on this visit to the Middle East that the command structure of the armies was reorganized, with General Montgomery taking command of the Eighth Army.

  CHAPTER 13

  An Officer and a Gentlewoman

  DURING JULY, AFTER A FURTHER INTERVIEW, JUDY AND I WERE accepted as suitable “officer material.” Our training course was scheduled for early October; meanwhile our battery life continued much the same. One excitement was an impromptu visit to the site by my father and Harry Hopkins: Papa rang me up and announced their imminent arrival. Fortunately Major Paul Hodder-Williams was “unchippy,” and did not take amiss this somewhat incorrect procedure.

  The site was wrapt in sunny Sunday afternoonishness [sic] & Papa and Harry & Tommy [Thompson, naval ADC] all rolled up about 5.30. Papa was in his sunniest mood & wearing a pale grey suit. Harry charming & debonair as always. It was a lovely visit & much more fun than when all the brass hats came trapesing [sic] round behind. The alarms were rung & we did a short show, which went very well. Then a quick tour of the camp which ended up in drinks in the Sgts’ [Sergeants’] Mess. I felt so proud & happy that Papa should have thought to visit me.

  I was to see Harry again that week:

  Went on 24 hours [leave]. Oh heaven. Transatlantic lunch! Very hush hush! Papa/Harry Hop:/Admiral King,* General Marshall† & Mummie. All most charming & kind. Mummie & I then went off together & saw “Uncensored”.‡ Very exciting & moving. Walked home … Judy arrived for Dinner at No. 10. Averell [Harriman] & Harry at Dinner & also Max [Beaverbrook]. Gay & interesting dinner.

  Next morning “I slept till nearly 9. Delicious breakfast in Mummie’s bed. Fried bacon & egg, brown bread/butter white currant jelly, coffee—Peach!” It is a measure of how drab wartime food could be that even breakfast menus featured in one’s diary.

  This last lap of our time at 469 flew by. On the face of it, they were happy weeks, excitingly enhanced on several occasions by our battery being in action—but my diary reminds me also of my anxieties for my father; of my being ill for a week in the camp hospital with some “bug”; and of inner storms—including a crisis in my religious faith—all of which I poured into my diary. I must also have moaned to my mother about the frustrations of camp life, because I find a letter from her dated 27 August which shows her wise and calming attitude:

  My Darling Mary,

  I am sure you will find everything much easier when you are an Officer—and you have earned it. I hope you will go soon, but don’t fret my dear One if you do have to wait—becos’ remember if you live to be a hundred you can never again have the experience of the past year. And I want you to leave with ‘Flying Colours’ & be remembered by all with love & respect.

  My enforced rest in the camp hospital was a most salutary experience: as well as suffering from a microbe, I think I was dead tired from dashing to and fro from London, and too many late nights (whether in nightclubs or on duty at the command post). Anyway, after about a week I emerged considerably calmer in spirit and with my faith restored, as I asserted in my diary: “Now I shall cling to my religion humbly and earnestly acknowledging that I cannot stand without it.” Nearly seventy years later, I know this is true for me still.

  On 15 September I was Orderly Sergeant, and I celebrated my twentieth birthday. I had telegrams from all my family, and a letter bearing a proposal of marriage from a charming young officer I had known slightly in Chartwell days. (This was romantic but not traumatic—I said “No” politely by return of post—and was good for morale!) My mother sent a delicious cake for us all to enjoy.

  In the last week of September I had seven days’ leave—the prospect of which had shone like a beacon through the somewhat fraught weeks I have described. Arrived home at the Annexe,

  I tore off my uniform & hid away every vestige of Khaki. Changed into my civilian self. Mummie, Papa, Anthony Eden for lunch. Afterwards Mummie & I went shopping. Took sky blue jersey material to ‘Rita’ who is going to make it up in most glamorous & slimming (!) style.§ Then to MOLYNEUX‖ & Mummie has given me a day dress. wow! My first dress from MOLYNEUX.

  It was understanding, as well as generous, of my mother to give me some lovely clothes: genuinely proud though I was of my military uniform, khaki was not an enhancing colour.

  Both Judy and I had mixed feelings about taking a commission—but it was time to move on. Our last day with 469 Battery was on 5 October, which started normally but was then interrupted when we received a

  sudden summons—‘Will Sgt Churchill & Cpl Montagu pack their kit & go to BHQ [Battery Headquarters] at once.’ Fled to Command Post & said goodbye to best part of section. Had so much I wanted to say & couldn’t. Wrung their hands chokily—everyone very sweet. Greeny charming & me tearful—clutched his hand said goodbye Sir—& just ran as tears ran down my cheeks. Because despite the fact that I want to go now—I hate leaving 469 and the girls & the instruments & a life that has taught me so much & given me so many opportunities … Finally departed on lorry & Pip Section waved us goodbye—and I felt determined but sad as I lost sight of their gay smiling faces. No—I’m glad to go & sad to go … But as the lorry drove us over to BHQ I knew this is an end chapter of my life.

  JUDY AND I REPORTED the following afternoon to No. 2 ATS OCTU at the Imperial Service College at Windsor. We were in the same company but in different platoons and rooms:

  Dreary girl (vicar’s daughter) & charming fany [FANY]a in my room … Before I went to bed—but last thing—I took down my sergeant’s stripes & golden guns. I minded that terribly. I am so proud of them & they mean such a lot to me—They were mine of my own getting—& winning & keeping. So I went to sleep not Sergeant Churchill—but Cadet Churchill.

  The officers’ training course lasted two months and involved an intensive programme of lectures and presentations, interspersed with parades and guest nights; there was a lot of gym and PT (which I always hated). We spent a lot of time making and keeping ourselves immaculately smart (we found a laundry in the back streets of Windsor where we took our collars to be starched), and the white bands on our caps needed frequent changing. One was always conscious of being watched and assessed: I found it quite trying, and did not shine particularly.

  Wartime Windsor had several amenities from our point of view. Fuller’s Tea Shop with its famous walnut cake was much patronized by the cadets; the Theatre Royal (then as now) produced excellent plays; and over the bridge in Eton High Street the Cockpit—where one was in crowded competition with Eton boys and their parents—served copious teas. With those friends who had cars (and petrol) one went further afield to the Hind’s Head at Bray for luncheon, and we trained up to London from Windsor or Slough. Chequers too was only about an hour away—I would meet the duty car at Slough and soon be home sweet home.

  Mrs. Roosevelt paid a visit to England that October, and spent a weekend at Chequers. I dashed home after church parade on the Sunday, and found a large party gathered—the Edens, the Portals, Gil Winant, Robert Hopkins (Harry’s son), and Elliott Roosevelt (second of the President’s surviving sons). I recorded the event enthusiastically in my diary: “M[ummie] & P[apa] & I were at the door to welcome Mrs R—She is so natural & Kindly & exudes energy & life. Lunch went off very well. Scrumptious food—had double helpings.”

  During this last week of October, in North Africa t
he Battle of Alamein was raging, and on 4 November the Eighth Army inflicted a severe defeat on the German and Italian forces under Field Marshal von Rommel: it was to prove the turning point of the war. Two days after these tremendous tidings my parents gave one of their few “social” luncheon parties at No. 10. The guests were Harold Nicolson;b two old friends, Eddie Marsh and Horatia Seymour; and two “fringe friends,” Lady Kitty Lambton and Lady Furness, both of whom had just escaped from the South of France. It so happened that I arrived from Windsor towards the end of the luncheon, which I described as “exceedingly sticky.” I further labelled Lady Kitty as “crazy as a coot” and Lady Furness as “very beautiful & sane.” Brendan Bracken (then Minister of Information) had appeared, and my father had told him to arrange for the church bells throughout the country to be rung the following Sunday (this was Friday) to celebrate our great victory. Some hesitation about this idea had been expressed by the company in general—but my father was determined.c After the party broke up, however, I noted in my diary that “Mummie [was] being violent (quite rightly I thought) with Papa” about this: my mother was more cautious, and fearful lest something might occur which would make nonsense of a premature display of triumph. On this occasion, her forceful arguments prevailed. But it was not long before the bells did ring out—on Sunday, 15 November—by which point the British army had once again entered Tobruk, and the enemy forces in North Africa had lain down their arms.

  I was just now much in love with a very good-looking, very nice, and excruciatingly dull American officer I had met when I was with 469, and most of my London evenings were spent with him, Judy, and a fellow-officer friend of his. Much encouraged by me, he duly proposed, saying however that he did not want to “rush me.” I spent hours pouring my feelings out to long-suffering Judy, and practicing writing “Mary Conklin.” My mother invited Ed to Chequers for the weekend of 7 November, when I had some leave, and my diary entries for those days show how my dilemma came to its eventual inevitable conclusion. Ed brought me what was in those days a collection of very welcome presents: “a tin of peanuts, pr. of silk stockings, packets of hairpins, lipstick—too lovely,”d I commented: but even driving down from London I became aware of my rising irritation at his “sweet, minute & leisurely way of recounting the most trifling details of his life … ‘when I was a youngster …’ ” Both my parents were exceedingly nice to him: my father listened to his long-winded stories with what I regarded as angelic patience—but he had scolded my mother for inviting Ed, “because then I’d marry him & go to America & he’d be miserable & I’d be miserable too.… When I went to see Papa he was so sweet & did his duty as a father! ‘Now don’t you go marrying that young man—He’s very nice but you wouldn’t like American life … etc.’ ”

  Sarah also came for part of the weekend, looking really exhausted and ill. Before dinner on the Saturday, my father told us that American and British forces would attack the North African coast at dawn the next day. “We all felt a little breathless all evening I think. Sarah it now appears has been doing the intelligence work [interpretation of aerial photographs] for it under lock & key for the last 2 months! Sensation!!” Later that evening I had a long heart-to-heart talk to Sarah and spilled out to her my mortification at realizing that my rapidly cooling feelings for Ed were “just a CRUSH dying & I had so believed it was the real thing! Sarah was sweet. Long fascinating gossip—I made up my mind irrevocably then—the answer is NO.”

  The next day Sarah had to leave early.

  Ed & I breakfasted in sunlit dining room in an empty silence that fidgeted me … Papa left to entertain General de Gaulle at No. 10. G de G wasn’t told of attack because of security! This was to be a soothing down luncheon. The news broke too wonderfully—Mummie & I listened to the radio messages & instructions to the people of North Africa. Dear God—what wonderful news—When I think of the sad & disappointing news we have all waited on at Chequers—& now … Victory—we are all so happy & excited. Mummie & Ed & I all went for a long, lovely Sunday morningish [sic] walk. At lunch I nearly went mad at Ed’s narrative[s]—& hustled him off to catch a train. I was rather glad when he was gone.

  Oh dear: poor Ed! A few days later I “wrote & said ‘no’ as simply & unwoundingly as possible.”

  The lectures and training at the Windsor OCTU usually ended at midday on Saturday, so I often got home for part of the weekends. Sunday, 15 November, was rather special because there was a church parade: “As we paraded the chimes from Windsor began—Victory Bellse—our own College bell clanged discordantly but still the thought was there!!” After the service I dashed back to Chequers, where, because my mother was away, I had to officiate as hostess at a large party assembled for a conference with my father. As I confided to my diary, I

  felt inefficient & overwhelmed by lunch party of 17 with which I had to grapple. But WHAT a party. I sat between ‘Glamour-Pants’ [aka Lord Louis Mountbatten] and Sir Charles Portal—great fun and very hilarious—the rest of the party was:

  General Smuts (so gay & v kind to me & full of life & vigour);

  CIGs [General Sir Alan Brooke];

  Pug [General Ismay];

  Tommy [Thompson];

  Mr Peck [John, Private Secretary on duty];

  Brig. Hollis [Sir Leslie, chief assistant to General Ismay];

  Gen. Smith (Gen Eisenhower’s ‘shadow’ here) [General Bedell Smith, Chief of Staff to General Eisenhower];

  General Gale [General Sir Humphrey Gale, (British) Chief Administrative Officer to General Eisenhower];

  Sir Dudley Pound [1st Sea Lord];

  Papa;

  Lady Portal.

  It was an enjoyable exciting lunch. Afterwards talked to Lady Portal till second session of conference ended around 4.30. ‘16th Front Now’ having been planned. Everyone left. Felt depleted.

  A great excitement for me this winter was my inclusion in the invitation to my parents from the King and Queen to a Thanksgiving Day party for American officers at Buckingham Palace. In the event, my mother was ill in bed, and so I went alone with my father. It was the first time I had ever been presented to the King and Queen, and, as I confided to my diary, “I couldn’t have been more thrilled if I’d been in white satin & feathers (tho’ of course that would have been rather gay). And I felt so proud at going with Papa.” The princesses were there too (up from Windsor Castle, where they lived during the war:f it must have been one of their first official appearances). I enjoyed myself immensely, not only with the American guests, who were charming and easy to chat up, but with the British ones, quite a number of whom I knew. I was thrilled, of course, to meet the latest hero—Squadron Leader Nettleton VCg (“so good looking AND married—tant pis,” I remarked in my diary!). My father had to leave after a short while, but he left me “under the friendly wing of Mr. Winant, who was looking more like Abe Lincoln than ever.” I had been unaffectedly thrilled by the whole plush and gold setting, and by my first close-at-hand glimpse of the Royal Family.

  This 30 November was my father’s sixty-eighth birthday, and, as she had done every year since 1940, my mother organized a lovely dinner at the Annexe for close family and one or two old friends. Since 1940, also, my father’s birthday had almost become a national institution, and greetings poured in from far and wide—not only from relations, friends, and colleagues, but also from countless members of the general public, often accompanied by presents. Despite rationing and austerity, people sent him delicacies of every kind—not only grand and sophisticated presents of oysters or rare vintages, but more homely and just as much appreciated gifts of butter, cream, and eggs. Mrs. Landemare had a field day, and we all had a scrumptious dinner. Apart from the “principals,” the party was Diana, Sarah, Pamela, Uncle Jack, Venetia Montagu, Brendan Bracken, and myself. The charmless rooms of the Annexe flat looked really pretty and glowing by candlelight, bedecked with masses of flowers. When we all drank my father’s health we thought of “absent friends,” and of all those who were with us in spirit—and thi
s year a gleam of victory caught our glasses.

  A few days later Judy and I graduated at our passing-out parade as officers and emerged as that lowest form of army life—newly fledged second subalterns (one pip). I was certainly not sad to leave OCTU: I had not enjoyed the course, and knew I had not done particularly well. Both Judy and I were impatient for the next step—which was to get back into Ack-Ack, which involved a further period of technical training. So after a week’s leave we were posted to an anti-aircraft training regiment—205H(M)AA—at Arborfield, near Reading.

  WE WOULD BE TEN WEEKS at Arborfield, and for me it was not on the whole a successful or happy interlude. There were about forty in the Officers’ Mess, of which about a third were permanent staff (instructors and so on); the rest were an ever-changing population of male and female officers attending the various courses and awaiting postings to their respective batteries. I missed the conviviality of the Sergeants’ Mess at Enfield, and I was bored by and not good at the technical course subjects; Judy, on the other hand, shone to such an extent that Captain (later Major) Tony Hogg, who befriended both of us, contrived to have her posted at the end of the course on to the permanent staff, with the prospect of her becoming an instructor. Moreover, Judy’s affections were fixated on a charming RAF pilot, whom she had originally met in Norfolk (Bruce Grimston from Gorhambury near St. Albans, which was reasonably accessible), while I was footloose and fancy-free, and very much on the lookout for “romance.”

  Apart from Tony Hogg (very much married, and in any case our “guru” figure) and one or two others, there were not many kindred spirits in the Mess, although there were plenty of unattached (genuinely or merely perceptibly) officers from various regiments stationed round. I was, I’m sorry to say, in a “bolshy” mood, and elected to have a highly visible “walk-out” with a very good-looking (and similarly “bolshy-minded”) battery sergeant major on the permanent staff, whom I had taken up with at one of the sergeants’ dances at the camp. It didn’t amount to much: we used to meet in the evenings and, he having acquired a bicycle for me, ride out together to some quiet country pub; and at camp dances we would dance a great deal together, which gratuitously drew attention to the situation. There was nothing in military regulations specifically to forbid officers and other ranks associating—but it was certainly discouraged, particularly within the same unit. Judy from the first disapproved of this “carry-on”—and so did the ATS Senior Commander, who sent for me and left me in no doubt that in her view it was an unsuitable friendship: in a martyred mood I therefore gave up seeing him off duty. (I fancied I was “in love” with him and that my affection was genuinely returned; I learned later, to my humiliation, that he had done it “for a bet.”)