by Mary Soames
‡ Jock Colville told me this, and I recorded it in my diary on 1 April 1944.
§ William Lyon Mackenzie King (1874–1950), Liberal Prime Minister of Canada, 1921–26, 1926–30, and 1935–48.
‖ Now it is one of the residences of the Governor-General of Canada.
a Henry Morgenthau (1891–1967) was Secretary of the Treasury from 1934 until the end of the war.
b See footnote on this page.
c WSC’s fishing attire had obviously been improvised locally.
d While not wishing even after half a century to seem ungracious, we sampled the really nasty food produced by the famous-for-it Mrs. Nesbitt (the President constantly complained about her capacity, but Mrs. Roosevelt resolutely refused to get rid of her).
e Women had been liable for conscription in Britain from 1941.
CHAPTER 15
Testing Times
DURING OCTOBER AND NOVEMBER THAT YEAR, AND AGAIN IN the spring of 1944, there were quite a lot of air raids; we had one or two near misses to our site, and 481 fired on several occasions. My father would quite often visit us unannounced, and if the raid was at dinnertime, he would bring along a guest or two as well: he was particularly pleased when he had American or other overseas guests, who were not familiar with that still-unusual military entity, the “mixed” battery. Not content with viewing the activity only in the command post, he would visit the gun teams when they were firing. One evening in early October I was off duty and dining at home when there was a raid; we could hear the “local” batteries in action, and I was much put out at being “off site.” Among our guests was Sir Alan Brooke, CIGS, and my father decided to deliver me back to the battery himself and to take “Brookie” along too to see what was going on. We arrived to find that 481 had indeed been in action, had fired about 140 rounds, and was still “standing to”: they stayed quite a long time, but (to my father’s disappointment) there was no further action for us that evening. However, he “got lucky” on several other occasions, writing to Randolph (who was with Marshal Tito in Yugoslavia) on 4 April 1944: “Sometimes I go to Maria’s battery and hear the child ordering the guns to fire”—which, touchingly, greatly delighted him. My battery colleagues took all these visits in their stride, although I was, at times, considerably embarrassed.
Among daytime visitors there were marked contrasts. Visiting military groups were sent by the War Office, as were a few gaggles of women officers. The latter were quite often a little “prickly,” as mixed batteries were deemed in some quarters to get too much attention—a view well illustrated by the account of an officer from an anti-aircraft battery at Dover telling an American what he thought of London’s defences in Irwin Shaw’s novel The Young Lions. “They’re so busy planting rhododendrons around the emplacements and shining the barrels so they’ll look pretty when Miss Churchill happens to pass by that there’s b—all gunnery.”1
The variety of individual VIPs was striking, from Field Marshal Smuts to Mr. Irving Berlin (of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” and “White Christmas” fame), who brought a group and performed extracts for the whole battery from his latest show, This Is the Army, Mr. Jones, to the Regent of Iraq—on whose visit I reported to my father: “The Regent of Iraq paid us a visit. He looked stunned & mystified. I think he thought the battery was a new way of organizing a harem, and he gave the Major some interested looks!”
As well as these fleeting visits, the battery brought me another lasting friendship that began with the arrival in September 1943 of another ATS subaltern, Susan Rhys Williams: the daughter of most distinguished parents, and a granddaughter of the exotic Elinor Glyn. She was dark and most striking-looking, immaculately neat, and already well versed in the technicalities of anti-aircraft gunnery. She came to us at a sad moment in her life, not long after her beloved elder brother had been killed in action with the Welsh Guards. Susan was greatly liked and esteemed by everyone—except the major, who persecuted her most unkindly: she was calm and resolute, at one point putting in an “official” complaint about him! She and I shared a Nissen hut in Hyde Park, and later a tent in the fields of Kent.
Also on the personal front, this winter I had a rapprochement with Randolph which made me happy—indeed, he used me as a go-between with Pamela over some matter in their now-fraught relationship. “R was terribly pleased & sweet to me. I’m so glad I made it up with him,” I wrote in my diary on 11 November. And there were some nice off-duty evenings. I described one such on the eve of my father’s departure on his travels once more: he himself was in bed with a slight temperature as a result of an inoculation, but the rest of us evidently had quite a hilarious evening: “Dinner was gay & fun: Max [Beaverbrook], Anthony & Beatrice [Eden], Sarah, Mama & self and later Uncle Jack. Max was in riotous form; Anthony spilt us lots of beans about the Moscow conference.* Max had brought a Magnum of champagne, [and] Anthony some caviar—so we were very ‘kept.’ Pug [Ismay] came in after dinner.” The next day my father left, with Sarah as his ADC, for journeys that would last over a month: they would take him to Cairo, thence to Tehran (for a “Big Three” conference) and back to Cairo again before returning home. I said goodbye to him that evening, noting in my diary: “It always is a wrench.”
During the weeks of my father’s and Sarah’s travels, my mother filled me in on news which I could not gain from the official press reports. Winston was already staving off a sore throat when he went on board Renown again for the first lap of his circuitous journey, and this had developed into a heavy cold in Cairo, which he had not thrown off before his flight and visit to Tehran, where he met President Roosevelt and Marshal Stalin between 28 November and 2 December (and incidentally celebrated his sixty-ninth birthday on the 30th). After the strains and stresses of the Conference, he returned to Cairo for further days of discussion with the President. From there he planned to visit the battlefront in Italy, and despite the advice of Lord Moran and other colleagues he set out on the tenth—but arriving en route at “The White House” (General Eisenhower’s villa overlooking the sea near ancient Carthage), he felt so ill that he went straight to bed. The next morning he had a high temperature and pneumonia was diagnosed; his condition continued to deteriorate, and the first official bulletin announcing his illness was released on 15 December. The next day, it was decided (by the Cabinet) that my mother should fly out to be with him, accompanied by Jock Colville from his private office.
I had permission to be absent from my battery to see them off; meanwhile, a thick fog having descended on a very cold southern England, we waited for hours to hear of an airfield which was operating. My mother was busy with her packing and preparations; the morning’s bulletin was not very good, and my morale was low, when suddenly Max Beaverbrook appeared—sized up the situation, saw I was de trop, whirled me off to his flat in Stornoway House, “and in an incredibly short time filled me with chicken & cheese & whisky—comforted me à la Max [“Aw! It takes more than some lousy microbes to get the better of your father!”] & returned me. Departure again postponed.”
At last we were informed that Lyneham in Wiltshire was “open,” and set forth by car at 4:15 p.m: the journey took four hours through “swirling fog.” After dinner in the officers’ mess, the travellers were zipped into padded flying suits and I drove with them out to the Liberator aircraft (it was unheated and there were no seats, only some rugs and air force blankets on the floor). After I had seen them tucked in, I was taken up to the control tower “to watch take-off—and at last as it heaved off the ground, I could not but feel happy long & hazardous though the journey was—I don’t know how—I just knew it would be all right, as I stood a little desolate & heard the plane drone away, I felt happier than I had done all that day.” Later the next day I was back at 481: “Everyone sweet. News came at last that Mummie had arrived—thank God—it was so comforting to know they were together.” The following day Leslie Rowan of the private office read me a message from my father: “Your mother is here. All is joyful. No need to worry. Tender
love. Papa.”
Needless to say, all the stay-at-homes involved were greatly relieved—and meanwhile it was Christmastime! Preparations to celebrate at the battery were hectic, with dances, concerts, elaborate decorations, masses of special “off-ration” festive food and drink galore. On Christmas Eve, despite feeling rather sleepy,
Molly [Oakey] & I made a dash for St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields & arrived (having suffocated by pressure in the U/ground)—late. Church full to the doors. We stood right at the back. It was a lovely and moving service—I found myself swaying with sleep & weariness—& was thankful for a pew at last. I’m afraid I wasn’t a very active participant—I just stood & let the simplicity of the service—its comfort & beauty wash over me … ‘Christians awake! Salute the happy morn …’ Thank God for even my wavering faith—during these last days I [have] found my religion an unspeakable comfort—I am not brave enough to manage without it. Somehow this Christmas has seemed more full of meaning than any other far happier ones: in a way it has been the happiest & certainly the most thankful. Everything else seems unimportant beside the joyful news that darling Papa is getting better, & that he & Mummie are together & Sarah & Randolph in lovely sunshine.
Christmas Day was rowdy, fun, and very hard work, as according to hallowed army tradition the officers waited on the other ranks for early morning tea, breakfast, and luncheon! Somewhere church parade was fitted in. We officers had our feast at 4:30—“very filling & delicious,” I greedily noted—but there was no letup, as the NAAFI had to be decorated for the battery dance, which went on late into the night. Of course, we were fully manned at all times (and mostly sober!), the only concession in the command post being a strategically placed sprig of mistletoe.
On Boxing Day I took Molly Oakey with me to join Gil Winant at the American Embassy: he wafted us down to Chequers, where the Christmas party was in full swing, despite the absence of the “principals,” with Diana acting as hostess: Duncan and their three children were there, along with Uncle Jack, Aunt Nellie Romilly, Pamela and “Baby” Winston, and Clarissa and Peregrine; neighbours were asked in, as were the officers from the Coldstream company on guard. “Monty” Lamont had decorated the great house as beautifully as ever, and the Christmas tree in the Great Hall was a present from the White House.
We soon began to receive daily detailed accounts of my father’s progress, and of the comings and goings at the Carthage “White House,” from my mother via the official pouch to the private office. Despite his still being very ill, and his (now several) doctors’ orders, my father soon began seeing papers and resuming his hold on affairs. Official bulletins were issued almost daily from No. 10, while my mother attached to her splendid circular letters for the family at home her own “Health Bulletin by CSC (not the doctors).” The one for Sunday, 19 December, read: “Papa much better today. Has consented not to smoke, and to drink only weak whisky and soda. In fairly good spirits. New cook arrived. Food much better and Papa enjoyed good luncheon and dinner, though appetite is not very good.” The following day: “Papa very refractory and naughty this morning and wants to leave this place at once. All doing our best to persuade him that complete recovery depends on rest and compliance with regulations. Progress continues.”
The position of the villa was hardly ideal from a security point of view, and my mother described how
a little gun boat patrols up and down in front of the house in case a German submarine should pop up its nose and shoot up the Villa. Of course if the enemy knew we were here they could wipe out the place with dive bombers from the airfields near Rome. It is only less than one hour from Palermo in Sicily.
Fortunately secrecy prevailed.
To our intense relief my father began to improve, but the pneumonia had been accompanied by episodes of “auricular fibrillation,” so progress was a little uneven, and Christmas Day was the first time he lunched out of his room. On Boxing Day my mother wrote to us: “Yesterday we all of us thought of the party gathered at Chequers, and of Mary in her battery. We had the most extraordinary Christmas ourselves. All the, what Americans call ‘high ranking Generals and other notabilities’ converged here, and Christmas day was spent by them and Papa in a series of Conferences.” The five commanders-in-chief and their staffs were my father’s guests at luncheon, which he attended “(having just had a two-hour military conference in his bedroom) clothed in a padded silk Chinese dressing-gown decorated with blue and gold dragons).”2 On Boxing Day too came the excellent news that the Scharnhorst, Germany’s last battle cruiser, had been sunk, and on 27 December my father was well enough for them all to go to Marrakech for his convalescence, where they stayed at the Villa Taylor, the residence of the U.S. vice-consul.
As a Christmas present I had given my father a complete set of Gilbert and Sullivan operas, which I knew he enjoyed—he would often, when in a jovial mood, sing ditties from his favourites. Quite fortuitously it proved to be a wonderfully apt present, for some of them had been sent out to him to divert him during his convalescence. I was so touched and overjoyed to receive this letter written in his “own paw” on 2 January:
Darling Mary,
Last night we played through 2 of yr records ‘Pirates of Penzance’ & ‘Patience’. I read, and brooded on the flowing music. On the whole one of the happiest hours I have had in these hard days! How sweet of you to have had the impulse! How clever to have turned it into action & Fact. Your ever loving Father. W.
On Tuesday, 18 January 1944, I
woke early with that special feeling—Left W5 [the gun site] at 0815 … found the Annexe in expectant confusion. Diana & Duncan & Uncle Jack all rolled up about a quarter past nine. We were first at Paddington—w/cabinet & etc soon arrived—and AT LAST the train rolled in [they had come by sea and docked at Plymouth]. Dashed inside & was seized with mistiness & choking—a whirl—Mummie, Sarah, Jock & then Papa—who for one cold despairingly calm moment I’d thought never to see again—Papa home!—I was so much more glad than I could ever write … Back to Annexe—talk—talk—talk …
I dashed back to the battery for a lecture and returned in time for “a dinner party at Annexe with Christmas food & crackers & candlelight & champagne. M & P, Diana & Duncan, Sarah, Beatrice & Anthony & Nicholas [the Edens’ elder son], Uncle Jack, Nana, self & Brendan. Great fun—& Oh! they’re home!”
THE FIRST THREE MONTHS of 1944 and the end of April saw a resumption of spasmodic night raids on London. They became known as “scalded cat” raids, and although they were not on the scale of the “Big Blitz”—in terms of either the numbers of aircraft involved or the loss of life and damage resulting from them—nevertheless they were disruptive, and apart from the casualties gave Londoners and their fire brigades and other air-raid services (already tired by four years of war) many disturbed nights; they also kept all of us in the anti-aircraft defences on our toes round the clock.
I described one night when I had been out in a small party given for me by Admiral Sir Bruce Fraser, who had been Third Sea Lord when my father was at the Admiralty, and with whom I had made friends. We had been to a show, and as we arrived at the Savoy for dinner
the sirens wailed … Heavy barrage. We were all removed to the downstairs ballroom … we out sat the band & finally all dashed back & visited the battery. [This of course was only permissible owing to my host’s elevated rank.] … A second stand-to was just finishing—the gun barrels were still warm from action. Drinks & so on in the mess. Molly & I retired to bed at 0230 with visions of 5 hours heavy, heavenly sleep. Not so. W5 [our site] in action with the rest of London in a big way at about 5. The noise was highly impressive & fireworks will seem tame to me after the slowly descending beauty of some of the flares [dropped by the raiding aircraft to illumine the scene—which they did—only too brilliantly]. It was by far the noisiest night I have ever experienced. At six we all went to bed.
Another night, when my section was on duty, I noted: “Action. Quite heavy raid … was plotting—felt excited & overcome w
ith worry. Dance also [going on in battery] at same time. Quelle Brou-ha-ha!”
The “worry” to which I referred, and which is a recurring feature in my diary during these noisy weeks of frequent raids, was that I might panic at some moment when I was plotting officer or orderly officer in the camp, and fail in my duty—and, above all, not be what was expected of my father’s daughter. But if fear is contagious, so are pluck and calm, and the steadiness of the girls, some of whom operated instruments situated in exposed positions on the command post, communicated itself. Also, having a technical task as plotting officer (marking the course of the target to be engaged) called for concentration. I actually found patrolling the camp (when not on duty at the command post) much more testing. Once, as I was carrying a heavy bucket of cocoa from the cookhouse up the narrow and unlit path to the command post, our own guns and the rocket battery cheek-by-jowl with us (manned by the Home Guard) went off in unison at a low angle: I jumped out of my skin and dropped the bucket! Luckily my shame was not witnessed, and I made some feeble excuse when eventually I delivered the refreshments after considerable delay: but I had to get the cooks out of bed again for fresh supplies—so they knew!
Amid all these alarms and excursions on and off duty there were agreeable occasions: such a one was Judy’s twenty-first birthday party on 7 February 1944. We were overjoyed to see each other again, and before the festivities began we had a long gossip and catch-up. The party given for her by Victor Rothschild† in a private room at the Savoy Hotel was very special, and a wonderful mixture of generations: Cousin Venetia, my parents, “Crinks” Johnson, Angy Laycock, Brendan Bracken, Jock Colville, and myself. I noted anxiously that “when Papa came in very late he looked so worn & weary it set my heart beating …”; but with such jolly company, and food and wine, he cheered up—and was (like us all) simply gripped by a wonderful conjuror who appeared after dinner. After this lovely party Judy and I went back with Victor to his flat (high up in St. James’s Street, near Wilton’s,‡ the famous oyster bar—all to be blitzed to bits very shortly after this)—where we “drank gin & orange—gossiped & fried eggs & bacon—& so back to bed about 3.30.”
