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

by Mary Soames

  It was indeed lovely after the long sunshine days in the bracing mountain air (much cooler in the evenings) to return to La Cabanne with its blazing log fires and creature comforts. I noted with satisfaction in my diary on 29 August that

  Papa has broken the back of his broadcast—it really is a joy to see him having a good time. He is loving it up here & is really relaxing—he was in terrific form today—He looked a delightful figure in a blue siren suit with an exceedingly tight fitting tweed overcoat (buttoned with difficulty) & his old hat sitting bolt upright in a boat & tearing down the lake to fish far into the evening.c

  My poor mother, however, was so overtired that she was not able to really relax and profit from this short holiday. She was in a highly nervous state: I was unhappy to see her so, and at a loss as to how best to help her. Needless to say, when we were back “on duty” again she was able to do and be all that was expected of her (and all that she expected of herself—which was even more).

  I left La Cabanne ahead of the main party, as General Marshall had arranged for me to visit some establishments of the Women’s Army Corps (WAC) at Fort Oglethorpe in Georgia; so on Monday, 30 August, I returned to the Citadelle to “turn myself around.” During the short time I was there Malcolm MacDonald (the British high commissioner) turned up quite unexpectedly to say “Goodbye” to me—which I thought extremely civil: “He was more kind to me than I deserve & said I’d done very well & in fact this suddenness & his apparent sincerity quite overcame me.” I know I appreciated this kindness very much, because during these weeks I had been faced with a succession of challenges—speaking to the press; making unscheduled speeches; meeting literally hundreds of people and trying to respond adequately to their warmth and kindness. It was a constant revelation to me just how greatly my father was admired, and also how Britain’s lonely stand in 1939–40, and the courage of civilians under bombardment, had really gripped people’s imagination.

  Returned from my “flying commission,” I rejoined my parents and went with them on 1 September to Washington, D.C., where we were guests of the President at the White House for ten more days. Mrs. Roosevelt was by now away on her travels, but we were most kindly and efficiently looked after by a fellow guest, a delightful distant cousin, close friend, and neighbour (on the Hudson) of FDR’s—Miss Margaret Suckley, who had been invited especially for that purpose (we had met her already on our visit to Hyde Park); Elliott and his wife, Ruth, also came on many of the expeditions. There followed an action-packed week of engagements within and outside the household, lunching or dining with our host;d while my father conducted “business as usual,” my mother and I were diverted and entertained round the clock, visiting the sights of Washington (all new to me), and one day lunching with General Marshall at the Pentagon, from where the President himself collected us in order to take us to George Washington’s home, Mount Vernon.

  We made two memorable day trips. The first, on 6 September, was to Boston, Massachusetts, where my father was received at Harvard University and presented with an honorary doctorate, and made an important speech. The second expedition, two days later, took my mother and me on a flying visit to Williamsburg, the colonial capital of Virginia—one of the most astonishing and convincing reconstructions of a period and a whole way of life. While we were in the Raleigh Tavern, I noted in my diary, “a strange man looked into the room [and said]: ‘It’s just been announced on the radio that Italy has surrendered unconditionally.’ ”

  During these days and on our visits to Hyde Park I was to see much of FDR, and I recorded my own jejune judgements of him. “I still find the Pres [sic] magnetic & full of charm,” I wrote in my diary on 3 September; “his sweetness to me is something I shall always remember—But,” I went on,

  he is a ‘raconteur’—& it can be tedious—But at other times it is interesting & fun—I wonder if recounting anecdotes etc is an American trait? … But what a cultivated animal FDR is … and a cute, cunning old bird—if ever there was one. But I still know who gets my vote … Every evening FDR makes extremely violent cocktails before dinner in his study. Fala [the President’s black Aberdeen terrier: a national celebrity] attends—& it is all very agreeable & warm. At dinner Mummie is on his right, & several nights no other outside guests being there I’ve been on his left. I am devoted to him & admire him tremendously—He seems to have fearless courage & an art of selecting the warmest moment of the iron—Papa & he are an interesting contrast.

  At Sunday luncheon on 5 September the several other guests included Mrs. Ogden Reid (a vice president of the New York Herald Tribune). “She calls the Pres ‘Franklin’ & then allows her paper to write filthy articles about him. Papa had a good ‘go’ at her,” I wrote indignantly. However, Mrs. Reid and the President shared critical views of British policy in India, whose peoples she considered were brutally oppressed by the British. The subject was raised after luncheon as we sat on the verandah: my father asked her whether she was referring to “the brown Indians in India, who have multiplied alarmingly under the benevolent British rule? Or are we speaking of the red Indians in America, who I understand, are almost extinct?” Mrs. Ogden Reid was totally disconcerted by this, and the topic was dropped: but FDR was delighted and laughed uproariously.2

  Later I tried to analyze

  all I feel & think about FDR—not that it matters—but I am so intrigued. To me he seems at once idealistic—cynical—warm hearted & generous—worldly-wise—naïve—courageous—tough—thoughtful—charming—tedious—vain—sophisticated—civilised—All these and more for ‘by their works ye shall know them’—And what a stout hearted champion he has been for the unfortunate & the battling—and what a monument he will always have in the minds of men. And yet while I admire him intensely, and could not but be devoted to him after his great personal kindness to me—yet I must confess [he] makes me laugh & he rather bores me.

  Presently Mr. Roosevelt left us installed in the White House and went to Hyde Park, where we were to join him later to take our leave before heading for home. During our remaining days in Washington a considerable whirl of gaiety and entertainment had been arranged for me; I was also taken to see some factories and war plants, such as the torpedo yards at Alexandria which I thought “rather a grim factory but very interesting.” Another day, at Bendix Radio Towson plant, I was greeted by the assembled workers “and to my horror had to say ‘a few words’ to 2000 men & women—I don’t know how I did it. I only pray it was all right. I felt quite sick with nerves.” After I had been round the workshops I faced a press conference, where I had to field “sticky questions about women’s conscription.”e In the afternoon I visited the other half of the same works in Baltimore: “Here there were fewer [workers] & the work is heavier. Nor was there quite the same atmosphere of friendliness. I felt nervous & unhappy … I spoke & fear it was not as good as the last—tho’ I said more & meant it just as sincerely.” I was truly gratified and grateful when some months later I saw a letter that Miss Frances Perkins, the U.S. Secretary of Labor, had written to our Mr. Ernest Bevin (her opposite number) on 11 November, in which she said:

  How useful young Mary Churchill was to us during her visit here. She went to several plants at my invitation … Her effect on all the workers, and particularly women workers, was excellent. She was intelligent, modest, dignified and showed herself familiar with machinery and its problems. She treated the girls like any other girl and made a great hit. We all felt her work was useful.

  As my father would say in such circumstances: “A little bit of sugar for the bird!”

  On 11–12 September my parents and I travelled overnight to join the President, arriving at Hyde Park early in the morning: it was a sunny but chilly day, and we spent the morning driving round the estate with FDR at the wheel, his dog Fala beside him; then “we lunched (in arctic chill) at his own cottage (higher up the hillside than Mrs R’s Val-Kill).” After luncheon,

  Papa presented a charming sight … flat on his back in a patch of sun
(shade is v cold—sun deliciously warm here)—Warming his tummy after the chilling atmosphere of the verandah. I lay near him and we gazed up at the very blue sky & the green leaves dancing against it—flecked with sun. He described to me the colours he would use were he painting—& commented on the wisdom of God in having made the sky blue & the trees green. ‘It wouldn’t have been nearly so good the other way round’ … To me these moments with Papa are the golden peaks of my life.

  At dinner, the President (duly primed)

  proposed M & P’s health for it is the 35th anniversary of their wedding. Mummie told me Papa had told her he loved her more & more every year—How well I believe it—What those two mean to each other is something even I can only guess at. [After dinner] FDR drove us down to the train & off we went with the lights twinkling on the Poughkeepsie bridge & the moon shining down on the broad Hudson.

  Our train journey north to Halifax took the whole of the succeeding day and night, broken occasionally by chances to stretch our legs. (Pug Ismay and I and a few others nearly got caught out at one station, and had to make a dash to jump back on the moving train.) We were not out of touch from world events, and on 13 September I noted in my diary: “News from Italy continues to be most serious—Salerno must be grim.” Having arrived in Halifax we went aboard HMS Renown about midmorning on 14 September; but in fact,

  until the very last moment Papa was uncertain whether he would not have to fly owing to the battle news from Italy being so disquieting. However, in the end, I am relieved to say, the original plans were carried out … At 3 o’clock we sailed. The band played ‘You fair Spanish ladies’, ‘O Canada’—& as we took up position in midstream heading for the open sea the band struck up ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot’. It was a lovely afternoon. Clear skies—bright sunshine—a soft breeze—Shipyard workers (men & women) cheering. Papa went out onto the Bridge & I went too. What a wonderful land we were leaving. The shores looked so lovely as they receded very gradually. And then the ship began working up speed. I was changing for dinner & Papa sent for me to walk with him on the Quarter deck. I dashed up & we walked up & down & watched the sunset together. For me that was one of the moments of my life I cherish.

  During the voyage, which would take nearly six days, our party—which consisted of my parents and myself, John Martin and Leslie Rowan, Pug Ismay, Lord Moran, Brendan Bracken, and Tommy Thompson—always met for dinner in the “cabin” dining room. On the night of the 14th

  and every night Papa proposed ‘The King’—sitting down—according to true Naval tradition. And then we started [instructed by my father] on the Duke of Wellington’s Peninsular [War] toasts—‘Our Men; Our Swords; Our Religion; Ourselves; Our Women; Absent Friends’—and drank a different one every night. After dinner Pug, Papa, John & I (in a duffle coat) paced the Quarter Deck doing Cavalry drill! Papa was in the highest spirits & when we returned to the Admiral’s Cabin he showed us the basic principles of cavalry drill in matches—& afterwards the layout of the Battle of Omdurman. Tomorrow I am 21. Papa told me he was under fire for the first time on his 21st birthday. Hooray I beat him by just over a year!

  The next day I celebrated my twenty-first birthday:

  Quite a remarkable 21st birthday all things considered … Sweet letters from M & P—£100 from Papa towards a hunter—and M tells me that exquisite aquamarine set is mine. [I had seen it on approval at home before we left.] A golden key from the Wardroom Officers, and a small, damp & v. sweet kitten (christened Quadrant [code for the conference]) from the Ship’s company & lovely cards from all the messes. I certainly never expected such kindness & everyone was absolutely charming to me.

  In the afternoon there was a tea party, attended by the WRNS officers on board (who were on cipher duties); a birthday cake had been rustled up, and I cut it with a midshipman’s dirk. In the evening I went for drinks in the Wardroom and “they’d all sung ‘Happy Birthday to you!’ & ‘21 Today’!”

  One morning we all assembled to watch (and hear!) target practice with the great fifteen-inch guns. I also had a thrilling and interesting time being shown all over the ship: one such exploration, however, nearly had a bad ending. About five o’clock one afternoon I was standing with one of the officers (“Schoolie,” the instructor lieutenant commander) on the quarterdeck—where neither of us should have been, it having been placed out of bounds while the ship executed a zigzag, the usual tactic against submarine attack.

  The sea was grey & heaving and a brilliant light gleamed on the waves—& the wake of the ship was white & aquamarine. It was fresh and lovely. We talked of this & that & threw cents overboard for luck. And then with no premonition, but with mild interest I said: ‘Oh look’ & we watched for a split second the huge green white lipped wave … We’ll get wet I thought & suddenly both of us gripped the top wire [of the guard rail]—& then all thought was interrupted & the world was just an irresistible weight of warm wetness—my hands were torn from the rail—it might have been a bit of cotton I was holding—& I was swept along—completely conscious & certain I was going over[board] & suddenly I felt a wire and held on—the force subsided—and suddenly I could get up—soaked & feeling hilarious & light-headed. We walked in. And the risk & gravity only impressed itself on me as I saw the faces of the Cmdr. & a Wren officer—white & terrified the latter—grim & rather frightening the former.

  I was rapidly taken below and made to have a hot bath, after which in the wardroom I was plied with first a strong Scotch and then a brandy. It was decided not to tell my parents at this point about my narrow escape, but appearing at dinner with my hair still wet and in a dress, I was scolded by my father for wearing civilian clothes without his permission. That night I reflected that I had “bought my luck pretty cheap.… The Cmdr had said ‘Now you know a little what “preserve us from the perils of the sea” means.’ My prayers this night were not long or complicated—but I meant them.”

  An amusing diversion for us on the voyage was an exchange of signals between Renown and one of her escorting destroyers, HMS Orwell, which was carrying as passengers Petty Officer A. P. Herbert (Member of Parliament and a well-known author) and a fellow MP, Major Sir Derrick Gunston, returning home after a parliamentary mission in Newfoundland. A signal in their names (carefully concealing by means of Greek mythology the identity of its addressee) was received:

  Respectful salutes and greetings.

  Return, Ulysses, soon to show

  The secrets of your splendid bow.

  Return and make all riddles plain

  To anxious Ithaca again.

  And you, Penelope the true,

  Who has begun to wander too,

  We’re glad to meet you on the foam

  And hope to see you safely home.

  My parents were delighted of course by this signal, and my father set us all to devising a suitable reply. My contribution was chosen to be sent. It was as follows:

  Ulysses, and Pempy too,

  Return their compliments to you.

  They, too, are glad to wend their way

  Homewards to Ithaca after a stay

  With friends from where the land is bright

  And spangled stars gleam all the night.

  And when he’s mastered basic Greek

  Ulysses to the world can speak

  About the plots and plans and bases

  Conferred upon in foreign places.

  We thank you from our hearts to-day

  For guarding us upon our way.

  To chide these simple rhymes may be chary

  They are the first attempts of Mary.

  (The last two lines were supplied by my father.)

  I was the next person to receive a signal, A. P. Herbert recalling that Ulysses and Penelope had a son, Telemachos:

  Telemacha, the sailors send

  Their greetings to a fighting friend.

  The Major adds a smart salute

  To any Lady who can shoot!

  And I, poor scribbler, must give place />
  To one who writes with such a grace.

  Why not (when Mr Masefield’s passed)

  A Lady Laureate at last?

  Reading my diaries again nearly seventy years on, I sometimes feel a jarring note in all this jollity and jokiness set against the gravity of events and the daily toll of loss in terms of human lives—but then I recall what my father said to Sarah when she accompanied him to Cairo in November 1943:

  War is a game played with a smiling face, but do you think there is laughter in my heart? We travel in style and round us is great luxury and seeming security, but I never forget the man at the front, the bitter struggles, and the fact that men are dying in the air, on the land, and at sea.3

  On the morning of Sunday, 19 September, we sailed safely up the Clyde and anchored off Greenock. All our party attended morning service onboard: we sang “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” and gave thanks for our safe homecoming. Afterwards my father addressed the ship’s company—then “Hats off!” and three cheers for him—before we disembarked and went ashore and joined the special train for the last lap home. There was a big party at 9:30 that evening at Euston of family—Diana and Sarah—and government colleagues to welcome us all.

  On the Tuesday my father went to the House of Commons to give an account of his travels. I sat with him “while he dressed & then said ‘Goodbye’ & signed off as ADC. He was so sweet & said I’d done all right. If I’ve pleased him—then that’s OK by me. Returned to 481. Everyone v. sweet. Have got a cold.”

  * * *

  * The Queen Mary was used as a troopship during the war, ferrying large numbers of Allied troops between North America, the UK, Australia, and North Africa.

  † Wing Commander Guy Gibson VC, who commanded the audacious and costly bombing on 17 May 1943 of the Ruhr dams: WSC wanted him to have a break from operations, and he was en route for the United States and Canada on a “goodwill” trip. Tragically, he was killed in September 1944 when his aircraft ran out of fuel and crashed in the Netherlands.