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

by Mary Soames

  The news of the whereabouts of a “mixed” battery soon got round, and our girls were invited to many dances with neighbouring British and American units, who sent transport for them; I and my fellow ATS officers found ourselves in the role of “chaperones,” one of us always escorting (and carefully counting) our contingent at the end of the evening. At one party where I was duenna-on-duty, a charming American officer, Ed Chandler, asked me if I would like to go wild-boar hunting, an invitation I accepted with enthusiasm: the result was a long and wonderful expedition to the Ardennes near Namur.

  We left at about six o’clock in the morning, and our long drive, during which we collected the local chef de police, took us through country where the Battle of the Bulge had been turned in early January. I noted in my diary: “Rusting carcases of tanks lay upturned here and there—the fields bore the marks of giant tracks—but otherwise a pale sun gleamed on a peaceful Sunday countryside.” We passed through a devastated Rochefort and eventually reached our rendezvous with our shooting party gathered by the roadside.

  Mons Hye, le propriétaire (in an elegant shooting ensemble of bottle green), a Burgomaster, a lawyer, some farmers, and a crowd of beaters and a motley pack of dogs—also Mons. l’Inspecteur des Eaux et des Forets, in a shooting garb reminiscent of a Drury Lane production of Babes in the Wood. I was given a carbine[!] by Ed, who lent an air of originality to the scene by appearing garbed as if for an airborne invasion, and bursting with lethal weapons.

  The shoot went on all day, in a beautiful forest, involving much standing round, but it was a lovely day “and the air was like iced white wine … 3 boars were shot—I saw a beautiful fox—I’m glad to say Ed missed it—and I watched a huge boar break cover and gallop across a clearing.” One of the beaters captured a marcassin (a baby wild boar) which had become separated from its mother, which he presented to me, and which I most unwisely accepted: it looked perfectly sweet, and complete with miniature tusks! At five we adjourned to M. Hye’s hunting lodge for refreshments, and then set off for home—where a sense of reality returned: the major was thunderstruck by the infant boar’s appearance, “and a long lovely day ended in tears of fatigue and despair as to what to do with a baby wild boar who showed every sign of intractability & violent disposition.” I spent a slightly disturbed night with it rampaging in a box in my room. In the morning the major’s batman appeared and removed the boarlet to the gamekeeper’s cottage, “where,” I wrote ruefully to Nana, “I fear only too soon sucking [sic] pig will be on the menu. The Major has begged me not to go hunting again!”

  Early in March I had a lovely surprise when my parents came to Brussels—my father on his way to visit the armies now approaching the Rhine, and my mother to inspect YWCA hostels, in the running of which she was closely involved. I had been given forty-eight hours’ leave and was whisked off to meet them at the airfield. My father soon left for the front, but my mother and I stayed at the British Embassy with the ambassador and his wife, Sir Hughe and Lady Knatchbull-Hugessen.

  The next day, Sunday, we were all bidden to the Palais de Laeken, on the outskirts of Brussels, to lunch with Queen Elisabeth (the mother of King Leopold III, who was still in exile, and of his younger brother Prince Charles, presently the Prince Regent, who was “holding the fort” pending decision about the return of the King). There was just time before she flew off home for my mother to make a brief visit to the battery.

  That evening the Knatchbull-Hugessens took me to dine with M. and Mme. Paul-Henri Spaak (he was successively the Belgian Minister of Foreign Affairs and Prime Minister); there I met their children, Marie and Fernand. Over twenty years later I would meet Marie again in the French capital; by then I was married to Christopher Soames, at that time British ambassador in Paris, and Marie to the brilliant diplomat Michael Palliser; we would all become great friends.

  This “starry” weekend also saw the beginning of a delightful friendship with André de Staercke,‡ the Prince Regent’s secretary who was also at the Spaaks’ dinner: over the years he was to become a much-valued friend of my parents, and of Christopher and myself. On this particular evening, after dinner de Staercke took us to the Palace, where we were received by Prince Charles; I noted in my diary that “after some halting formal conversation we all started to play ping pong till midnight, which was the greatest fun.” To my mother I wrote: “I thought the Palace lovely—and it is easy to see that the Regent is much better ‘entouré’ than the Queen. All his ADCs look vital, distinguished and are in uniform. The whole atmosphere is very Royal.… The Regent himself is a very well preserved 40? Rather good looking and very shy.” After several bouts of Ping-Pong “I was breathless! Scrumptious sandwiches and champagne appeared at intervals. I sustained the impression he must work very hard—he said to me ‘I have a great deal of reading to do—you see I am new at this job—I’ve only just taken it on.’ ” I continued my letter enthusiastically: “During the ping pong he became far less shy and quite gay. He plays very well, and sweetly altered the score on several occasions so that his opponents were not left too far behind! I have been invited to go and play again—and I should love to do so, because he and his entourage are so kind and agreeable.” The following morning I came down abruptly to earth again, and returned to my battery!

  During these weeks of early spring both the weather and our really spartan living conditions improved daily. On 6 February I wrote to my mother:

  Gradually the sites are taking shape. From bare, bleak necessities we are progressing to elementary comforts—electric lighting is being installed in the sleeping quarters—extra food stores are being built and a canteen is slowly but surely taking shape. Paths and roads are being made, and generally chaos and mud are being reduced to at least organised chaos and controlled (more or less) mud. Never have I seen such luscious, glutinous and liquid mud—and in such abundance!… The girls are working very hard, and doing quite heavy work too. They are cheerful and I think enjoy the feeling of real usefulness.

  About myself I was in no doubt: “I am bird-happy, and more than ever glad I volunteered to come—I should have hated missing all this.” Some weeks later I was able to report in a further letter: “On sites life is proceeding with less discomfort—we’ve managed to organise bigger and better supplies of hot water. A bath a week is now assured.”

  Meanwhile the Allied armies were advancing with speed. U.S. forces crossed the great barrier of the Rhine on 7 March, and in my diary on Saturday, 24 March, I wrote: “We knew by Friday evening that today was D-Day—we watched the weather anxiously all day: on Saturday—thank God—it was perfect. Our C.O. read out Monty’s ‘Order of the Day.’ About 20 minutes later the airborne armada swept across the sky. We all rushed out and waved them on their way. It was an unforgettable sight.”

  Our Belgian friends continued to entertain us hospitably: the Burgomaster and his family were real music lovers, and several times took me with them to lovely concerts in Brussels. One quite frequently bumped into friends from regiments who all had “club” houses there, and so it was that I met up again with my friends from the 11th Armoured Division (last seen in Aldershot), who were now forging ahead at the front. I used to call in and catch up with their exact position from the map maintained there, and felt thrilled to see the little flags advancing so fast. All the regiments gave wonderful dances on their brief “pass throughs,” where high spirits and champagne flowed in equal proportions: it was truly an exciting time, and one felt the tide of victory flowing.

  At the end of March my mother departed for a six-week goodwill tour of Russia on behalf of the Red Cross Aid to Russia Fund, of which she was the very hands-on chairman. During this time my father was the link between her and all our family, and he kept her abreast of our news. One great personal event for me was when I was awarded the MBE (Military) in April, and my mother cabled her congratulations from Stalingrad: I felt quite bouleversée and embarrassed, and was truly touched by how nice all my colleagues were about it.

 
Our three-month stay on the Huldenberg hilltop ended when 481 Battery removed “lock, stock, and barrel” to an airfield just outside Antwerp (which currently required protection from air attack more than Brussels)—necessitating many farewells to our kind local friends. Our new site had its hazards, as sundry aircraft from time to time tried to “drop in”—not realizing the airfield’s purpose had been changed—and we would rush out brandishing our arms to discourage them from their intention. Many deficiencies in basic needs and comforts were remedied, I noted gratefully in my diary, by my fellow officer Joan Scully’s success “with a mobile [battery’s] Major who produces working parties and grease-traps instead of orchids!”

  But our time there was not to be long, for after a mere six weeks our role as an active anti-aircraft battery came to an end. During that time events had crowded on each other with bewildering speed; on 2 May I noted that “Hitler ‘on dit’ is dead” and that the “German and Italian armies in Italy have surrendered—Thank God. Really the crescendo of news is breath-taking.” Hitler had in fact killed himself on 30 April, and the total surrender of the German and Italian armies on all fronts would come on 8 May. That morning, I had arrived in Brussels on forty-eight hours’ leave to find the city in transports of relief and joy. I had no plans, but kind Belgian friends swept me up and I spent the day with them. On my return to my hotel about half past midnight I found my commanding officer Colonel Galloway waiting for me with a message to say I was to fly home—my father had sent for me.

  Accordingly, next morning I was whisked home. Arriving at the Annexe, I was greeted by “Papa in his dressing gown with open arms. He had waited lunch for me: he had his on a tray in bed—I at his feet.” Looking back, it seems a little sad that at this hour of triumph my father was virtually alone—but my mother cabled him early from the British Embassy in Moscow: “All my thoughts are with you on this supreme day my darling. It could not have happened without you.” Duncan and Diana spent the day in his constituency but came to dinner that evening, and Sarah joined us later.

  Victory in Europe was celebrated by two days of national holiday, VE+1 and VE+2 (9 and 10 May), when joyful crowds thronged the streets day and night. I continued my account in my diary for Wednesday the ninth: “I just had time to titivate before Papa set out with me in tow to pay diplomatic calls at the Embassies [French, American, and Russian]. How can I ever describe the crowds or their welcome to Papa as he made his way through London,” driving in an open car and “escorted by only 4 mounted police to clear a pathway through the streets and a few despatch riders.” At luncheon he had talked to me about the Germans: “Retribution & justice must be done, but in the words of Edmund Burke§ ‘I cannot frame an indictment against a whole people.’ Thus he talked to me about it at lunch, and at the American Embassy used it in his short speech to the staff.”

  After dinner we were told that there was a large crowd in Whitehall:

  So Duncan & Diana and I bolted ahead & got a good place in the crowd, & we & everyone else bellowed happily when dear Papa appeared. After Sarah arrived we dashed to the Palace & were not too late—the King & Queen—she resplendent in white & a diamond tiara appeared & we all yelled with happiness and pride. The flood lighting is too lovely—the city is transfigured.

  The blackout had ended in the last week of April, but we were still revelling in a once-again lighted city.

  Of my father’s reaction I wrote: “Papa in the midst of national victories and personal triumphs suddenly looks old & deflated with emotion, fatigue & a heart breaking realisation of the struggles yet to come.”

  The weather during these victory days was lovely, and on 11 May,

  it being a warm still, clear evening, we had dinner together in the garden at No. 10. The dusk deepened around us. We listened to the news & then to some romantic waltzes. The floodlighting came on at about half past ten. Papa was wearing his mauve and black quilted dressing gown over his siren suit and a soft black hat. We walked a little on the [Horse Guards] Parade to look at the lights.‖ Nelson gazed down on Papa. Smoky the cat slid silently across the lawn to be remotely & coldly polite to Papa.

  Among colleagues and friends who “dropped in” there was already talk of an early general election, and indeed on 23 May my father resigned, bringing to an end the great Coalition government which had fought and won the war in Europe: he now became Prime Minister heading a “caretaker” (mainly Conservative) administration to tide us over until final victory in the Far East, and while preparations went ahead for the first general election for ten years.

  Meanwhile on 12 May the family got together to welcome my mother back from her long Russian travels. I commented in my diary: “She is decorated and looks a WOW in uniform.” The next day I went with my parents to a great service of thanksgiving in St. Paul’s led by the King and Queen. Such was the mood that we were allowed to sing the second verse of the national anthem (usually a real no-no), bidding God arise to scatter the King’s enemies (“Confound their politics / Frustrate their knavish tricks …”).

  ON MY RETURN to 481 I found the battery in commotion and change: we were being re-formed into an all-ATS unit. So we said goodbye to “our” boys, and were flown off in troop-carrying Dakotas to a great encampment on a former airfield, Wenzendorf, about twenty-five miles from Hamburg, where we arrived on 1 June. Here German regiments were handing in their guns and other heavy equipment, and our regiment’s new role was to assist in its reception, parking and “mothballing” against deterioration.

  We had the distinction of being the first ATS east of the Rhine, but our situation near a devastated Hamburg had its problems, well expressed in the very nice letter Monty wrote me on 13 June.

  My dear Mary

  I hope all goes well in your battery; I send one of my personal Liaison Officers to ascertain your needs.

  I am anxious that the A.T.S. we have in Germany should not feel lonely; I am sure you all realise that we are living in the midst of a hostile people, and things cannot be quite the same as in Belgium, France, Holland, etc. I have given orders that a Y.W.C.A. shall be set up in Hamburg for you [servicewomen].

  Can I do anything else for the A.T.S. at your unit?

  Yrs. sincerely,

  B. L. Montgomery

  Field-Marshal

  My letters home told of this dramatic change in my geographical whereabouts, our regiment’s new role, and our life as part of an occupying force. On 2 June I wrote to my mother:

  We are under canvas again. Fortunately the ground is much better than Antwerp, where whenever there was any rain (which was practically all the time!) all the tents were flooded. This camp is in the depths of densely wooded country on part of Blohm and Voss’ airfield. No girl is allowed out unless accompanied by an armed escort who has to sign for her … It is uncanny after being in Belgium where every army truck is greeted by waving children and smiling grownups. Here the children look—a few, very few wave, the grownups just walk on—if they looked—it was a short glance, and no expression of either hate or fear showed—or of any emotion at all. But of course the arrival of the A.T.S. created quite an interest. And wherever we passed our own troops there were shouts of welcome and they all waved.

  Last night we were all dead tired, having got up at 3 in the morning but to-day we’ve revived and are busy settling in. Conditions are even more primitive here than in Antwerp, but Engineers have started on cookhouse, latrines and ablutions, and in the meantime we manage with tents and flimsy structures.

  Our job, the receiving of vast quantities of disused equipment does not start for about a week. I only wish it did—this place has few charms once divorced from a really full-time absorbing job.

  Nearly a week later I drove through Hamburg and wrote again:

  Words are inadequate to describe the devastation. The streets are full—full of crowds of people who presumably have no where else to go and little else to do. Long, apparently aimless queues—lots of families trundling their possessions in prams and barr
ows. I suppose at night they crawl into the cellars beneath the ruins of their city. On the outskirts of Hamburg there are many pre-fabricated houses—very small and fragile—built to receive some of the refugees. People trek to and from the city daily to pick over the piles of rubble—trying to salvage something from the wreckage. Houses—apparently completely unfit for human habitation, are lived in by several families … I did notice a great difference between the people in Hamburg and those out in the country. On so many of their faces is a sort of blank, aimless look.

  The sight of the terrible revenge has shocked me. Not into any feeling of weak pity, or a conviction that it was wrong or too horrible. But my mind had not grasped the exact extent of the devastation—and with every day that passes I wonder more and more at the toughness of the fibre of human life. Did you feel the same when you saw the destroyed cities of Russia?

  Another week on, I was able to write, with some relief:

  Our real job here has just started, and I am pleased that it has. Nearly all my girls now have new jobs, and mostly out-door work which is what they really like. The round of gaiety continues undiminished, and although it is rather exhausting, it is great fun, and the men are so truly pleased to see us, and so thoughtful and kind and attentive. What it is to be in a minority! In addition to dances, we are invited to other kinds of entertainments—afternoon parties when the girls are taken for cruises up the Elbe, or regimental sports meetings, or ‘Trotting Races’ and all these activities followed by scrumptious refreshments and evening frivolities!

  At one regimental sports day I met a splendid hero figure—Brigadier Glyn Hughes (three DSOs and an MC!), who commanded the medical arrangements for the Second Army: as I explained to my mother, “He organised the relief of Belsen and was there from the moment of its liberation until the relief system was working smoothly.” Thereafter I met him on several occasions and he arranged for some of our officers and NCOs to pay a visit to the site of Belsen, the photographs of which, published in the newspapers after the camp was liberated on 15 April 1945, revealed to a horrified public the full extent of the terror of Nazi rule in the countries they had overrun.a