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

by Mary Soames

  However, Cousin Venetia combined her tolerance in matters of social life with a determination that we should not grow up empty-headed, and time was always found for long and most enjoyable reading-aloud sessions. During those summer weeks she read us Jane Austen (reminding us that these timeless works were written at the height of the Napoleonic wars): she could not resist scathingly comparing us to those “giddy girls,” Kitty and Lydia Bennett, who were forever off to Meryton to see what regiments had appeared locally! Nor could Cousin Venetia abide idle hands: she herself was highly skilled with her needle, and worked acres of tapestry carpet while listening to the news and commentary programmes; we too all had to have something—knitting or embroidery—“on the go.” We also set ourselves the task of learning a Shakespeare sonnet per day—quite a tall order, and of course we fell behind our schedule; but to this day I have by heart three or four of those matchless poems as companions.

  The challenges and demands for bomber crews were quite different from those faced by fighter pilots—the Few—whose tense waiting at the ready for the order to “scramble” and relatively brief bouts of deadly peril and thrill of mortal, often one-to-one, combat needed a different training, and a different sort of courage and endurance, from those required for the long-distance daylight bombing of targets mostly deep in Germany. The crew of a Blenheim bomber was three strong—pilot, copilot/navigator, and gunner: they formed a close team, totally dependent on one another’s training, skill, presence of mind, and courage. The crews usually had a certain amount of advance notice of when they would be needed, and were given detailed information about their target, the route to be followed, and any known hazards likely to be met on the way in elaborate briefings, usually the night before the operation planned. Once clear of the English coast, three to four hours’ flying over enemy-occupied territory required all the navigator’s skill and the utmost vigilance and readiness for attack by enemy planes or anti-aircraft guns. Then came the short, vital time approaching and over the target, usually fiercely opposed; the release of their bombs; and, if possible, an attempt to assess the success of their attack before turning for home. Even then, with “mission accomplished,” there would often be the knowledge of one or more planes lost, and damage of varying degrees or seriousness to those remaining; crew members might have been killed or injured and needing whatever care it was possible to give in cramped conditions. The planes involved in the raid, which would have left their home airfield earlier in the day in meticulous order for takeoff, often could not keep together on the homeward flight, and nearly always radio silence had to be kept as they braved the long, hazardous journey home, sometimes limping in after dark or landing at a different airfield. Their welcome home was warm but professionally brisk, and however tired they were, immediate debriefing was required.

  Station commanders were all keen on keeping those of their crews who were not on duty for operations or training suitably occupied and distracted, and contacts with the neighbourhood were much encouraged. Most of the squadrons had weekly dances, which were very jolly and noisy and pretty drunken affairs, with sometimes an undercurrent of tension (especially if planes had failed to return), sometimes of relief when, over the noise of the dance music, one heard the throb-throb of a homecomer and was conscious that the flare path had been lit. Local girls were much in demand at these dances, and it was here that we got to know our “special” friends, whom Judy invited back to Breccles to play tennis, swim, lark about, indulge in snogging sessions in the hayloft, or just sit in the garden gossiping. They were charming young men, mostly middle-class, nearly all in their twenties and mostly unmarried.

  We spent a lot of our time going to the cinema at Watton, where the films—with the rare exception of a winner like French Without Tears—were fairly uninspiring even by our undemanding standards. Other, more unusual entertainments came our way in the form of aerial “beatings up” by our friends: on August Bank Holiday I recorded that

  Watton came and gave us the most superb aerial beating up that anyone could possibly conceive. A flight of Blenheims appeared & one after another swooped down to within 25 or 30ft. of the ground [I think I must have got this wrong—even allowing for skilled piloting and the flatness of Norfolk!]. We all nearly passed out with excitement. It lasted 10 or 15 minutes. Only fly in the ointment was the escape of the horses!

  … Which had to be retrieved over the following days from several miles away. On another occasion, a single Blenheim (this time from pals at Honington) swooped down and dropped a letter. I cannot tell if these aerial visitations were deemed to be part of “training”—I suspect they might not have been regarded as such by the commanding officers concerned, but I also suspect blind eyes and deaf ears were turned.

  In August I returned home for about a fortnight. During a Chequers weekend, Jock Colville was on duty, and by this time we had both somewhat revised our initial poor opinion of each other. “I like Jock,” I wrote in my diary on 10 August, “but I think he is very ‘wet.’ ”c Jock had already formed a kinder opinion of me, writing in his diary in June that he found me “very much nicer on closer acquaintance.”6 Family guests that weekend were Randolph and Pamela (who was expecting her first baby in October); among others who joined us either for luncheon, or to “dine and sleep,” were Anthony Eden, Sir Archibald Wavell, Sir John Dill, Sir Hastings (Pug) Ismay, the Prof, Air Marshal Sir Frederick Bowhill, Mr. Ernest Bevin, and Lord Beaverbrook; General de Gaulle looked in for a while on the Saturday afternoon. My diary account of that Sunday told (as did Jock’s) of a big air battle in progress: Jock had to ring up Fighter Command at frequent intervals to find out “the latest score,” and at the end of the day could report that sixty-two enemy aircraft had been shot down.

  On the Sunday afternoon Jock and I set off up Beacon Hill, about an hour’s round-trip and the standard after-luncheon weekend walk from Chequers. I recorded that we had discussed marriage—and discovered that he and I had “much the same views as regards this knotty problem—on politics however we differ violently!” Jock wrote: “We sat on the top in the sunshine and prattled gaily, looking at the magnificent view of the plain below. Even though she takes herself a little seriously—as she confesses—she is a charming girl and very pleasant to look upon.”7

  Later that month I returned to Breccles in company with my mother. I was delighted to be reunited with Judy, who bicycled to the station to meet us. The following day—the twenty-fourth—the first bombs were dropped in London. A day or two later in the evening I wrote: “Papa rang Mummie & said that in Ramsgate 700 houses had been blown up by shelling and bombardment. Down here, despite air activity & especially during this lovely day one had almost forgotten the war.”

  After an agreeable long weekend, my mother returned home; Cousin Venetia and Judy warmly and hospitably kept me with them. Warnings and air raids were becoming frequent now in London, and in our safe haven we listened anxiously to the news bulletins. Five days later I wrote my mother a long letter full of our activities, including luncheon in the Mess at the invitation of the Wing Commander—after which, having enjoyed an enjoyable afternoon of tennis and tea, we had been allowed to inspect one of the Blenheims. This was a great thrill, although I confessed that I had found it rather “gruesome & frightening.” But the main burden of my letter concerned my increasingly strong feeling that

  I feel I am indulging in escapism down here. For quite a long time on end I have forgotten the war completely. Even when we are with the airmen one forgets—because they are so gay. And then one suddenly remembers that somewhere the sirens are wailing and people are having their houses wrecked—and that millions of people all over Europe are starving and bereaved and unhappy—it is so quiet and I love the country so much—but somehow it’s all wrong. May I please come back to you and Papa as soon as possible? I really won’t let air raids rattle me—and I care so terribly about the war and everything, and I should like to feel that I was risking something …

  This letter with
its impassioned plea ended, however, on a practical note: “Do you think you would please send me £1-10/-?! Only I haven’t got my cheque book here—and so I can’t get at my allowance!”

  My mother replied at once and at length. With hindsight I see that she (and I expect she may have consulted my father) did not want me back in London just as the air raids were becoming more intense—but she was most understanding of my feelings:

  It makes me glad that you are having a happy care-free spell in the country. You must not feel guilty about it. Being sad and low does not help anyone. We must decide in a day or two when you should come back. I will telephone & talk it over with you my Darling Country Mouse …

  She described to me the arrangements at No. 10:

  We have got quite used to the Air Raid Warnings, & when you come back you will find a comfortable little bunk in the Shelter. There are 4, one for Papa, one for me, one for you & one for Pamela.d The top ones are quite difficult to climb into. Twice we have spent the whole night there as we were asleep when the ‘All Clear’ went. Down there you can hear nothing.

  My mother also reassured me that she had spoken to Lady Reading about my proposed work (I imagine they were in collusion)—and that she had sent me the cheque.

  For all of this I thanked her when I wrote again to her on 8 September; but nevertheless I returned to the charge:

  I think of you all so often—and I hate to be separated from you and Papa in these dark days. Please—oh—please, Mummie darling, let me come back … I would so like to be with you and take my share, and also I do want to begin my work. WOW! Not make Kitten into ‘evacuee Kit’!

  My mother had also referred to my father’s speech in the House of Commons on 5 September, when he had announced the exchange with the United States of fifty old American destroyers for naval bases for the U.S. Navy in the Caribbean—a deal of huge importance to us at the time. “I read Papa’s speech of course,” I wrote back, “and it was so cheering and invigorating.… I think it is the best thing I’ve heard for a long time. What a ‘poke-in-the-snoot’ for Hitler!”

  The succeeding days saw terrible raids on London. The Blitz was starting in earnest, with the capital suffering nightly bombing until 2 November. The “ordering” of my life must have been settled over the telephone: I was to go to live at Chequers for the winter, and work full-time for the WVS in nearby Aylesbury. This would enable me to see my parents and join in their life at weekends—thus considerations of both safety and honour were satisfied. On 11 September, the eve of my departure from Breccles, Cousin Venetia and Judy organized a farewell-cum-birthday party for me, inviting all my new local friends and our gallant boys in blue. It was a lovely party, ending in the early hours with nostalgic and affectionate farewells in the moonlight.

  * * *

  * For those too young to remember: the Lyons’s waitresses in their smart black dresses and white caps and aprons were known thus.

  † The event dates back to 1780, when it was founded by King George III’s queen to celebrate her birthday, and continued until 1958 as the first event of the London season.

  ‡ Heir to Castle Howard in Yorkshire. Killed in action in 1944, as was his younger brother Christopher.

  § After the 1945 election a convenient and labour-saving flat was created on this floor.

  ‖ While at Chequers, Churchill was immediately contactable, and never other than “hands on” the war. There was a “skeleton” private office, including typists, switchboard operators, a duty chauffeur, and dispatch rider, all accommodated in the house.

  a “Alex” (1890–1969): at this point Major General Harold Alexander, about to be promoted to lieutenant general and appointed General Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Southern Command; later Field Marshal and first Earl Alexander of Tunis.

  b The Gurkha was named to acknowledge the generosity of the Gurkha regiments who contributed from their pay to replace a vessel of the same name that had been sunk. Sadly, “my” Gurkha eventually suffered the same fate.

  c Nothing could have been less true. In 1941, at his own insistence, Jock joined the RAF, and after completing his training returned (at WSC’s urgent request) to No. 10, until just before D-Day, when he rejoined his squadron to take part in over forty operations before returning once more to the private office, where WSC found him indispensable.

  d Randolph was in the country with his regiment, which would shortly go to the Middle East, and Pamela was staying with her parents-in-law.

  CHAPTER 9

  At Chequers

  I ARRIVED AT CHEQUERS IN TIME TO INSTAL MYSELF FOR MY eighteenth birthday on Sunday, 15 September. There was quite a family gathering—Nana came over for the weekend from Chartwell; Randolph and Pamela were there, and Sarah too; and despite dislocation from air raids, my mother contrived to bring down a delicious cake. There were also gripping distractions: during these days air battles of varying intensity were taking place, and on this Sunday my father (who always liked to see things for himself) drove from Chequers with my mother to the headquarters of No. 11 Fighter Group at Uxbridge, where over a period of a few hours they witnessed the directing of “one of the decisive battles of the war.”1 After their return home later that evening, we learned the tally for the battle: the Germans had lost fifty-six planes; we had lost twenty-five, with fourteen pilots killed.* The Luftwaffe did not repeat these attacks, and—though of course we did not know this at the time—two days later Hitler decided to postpone operation Sea Lion (the invasion of Britain) indefinitely.

  I started my work with the WVS at once, driving over to Aylesbury every day (my mother having left her car for me, as she now had the use of an official car). People were pouring out of London as a result of the heavy bombing, and Aylesbury was deemed a safe area: during my first weeks, therefore, I was assigned to the team of billeting officers, whose job it was to accommodate the refugees locally. It was a difficult and ungrateful task, especially trying to keep families together, and relying on persuasion rather than invoking the powers that existed to compel people to take in these unfortunate folk, all of whom had terrible tales to tell of the bombing of their neighbourhoods. At night, even from forty miles away, we could see the flashing from the anti-aircraft guns and hear the distant rumble. All this, I see from my diary, made a deep impression on me:

  Look at the crowds of homeless, destitute, weary people in Aylesbury alone. I have seen more suffering & poverty this week than ever before. I cannot find words to describe my feelings about it. I only know I am moved to a greater & wider realisation of the suffering war brings. I only know that I have learnt more about human suffering & anxiety than ever before.

  Any lurking feelings I may have had about being made an “evacuee” from the danger zone of London by my overprotective parents were dramatically banished when a land mine descended upon Aylesbury on the night of 25–26 September hard by the WVS offices, rendering them unfit for occupation! Luckily there was no loss of life; but for a few days there was considerable dislocation in our work, until new premises were found.

  Meanwhile my life as a full-time resident at Chequers was settling into its pattern. When my parents, the secretariat, and the guests had all departed and my working week began, kind Miss Lamont took me under her wing, and I breakfasted and had supper with her in her apartment on the ground floor. I often sat with her in the evenings too, listening to the radio or playing cards—she was a charming companion. Just now my sister-in-law, Pamela, was also living at Chequers during the last weeks of her pregnancy, it having been decided that she should have her baby there.

  My own bedroom was the “Prison Room,” up on the second floor at the northeast corner of the house; it can be reached from a “secret” spiral staircase leading from the Hawtrey Room on the ground floor, though access is more usually from an upper corridor. The “Prison Room” was so named from having been the room in which Lady Mary Grey was confined for two years from 1565 to 1567, in the care of the owner of Chequers, Sir William Hawtrey. Lady Mary,
a great-granddaughter of Henry VII, was a younger sister of Lady Jane Grey, who had been executed in 1554 aged only sixteen for high treason.† Some ten years after her sister’s demise, Lady Mary rashly married without the consent of the reigning monarch (now Queen Elizabeth), taking as her husband a man both beneath her socially and considerably older than she—Thomas Keyes, a sergeant porter of the Royal Watergates at Westminster. The Queen was greatly offended: Keyes was flung into the Fleet prison, and Lady Mary was placed in the custody of Sir William Hawtrey at Chequers, where she was locked up in the chamber thereafter called the “Prison Room.” After two years during which she was allowed to go out of doors only for the good of her health, the Queen relented (although Mary was not allowed to see her husband again: he died in 1571), and Mary was confided to the custody of her maternal step-grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Suffolk.2

  Such was the pathetic story connected with the bedroom which would be mine for the foreseeable future. I was somewhat isolated up there, as although the servants’ rooms were on the same floor, they were on the other side of the house, and the other bedrooms near me were only occupied at weekends; so I was very solitary in my “Prison Room,” and it was quite cold (despite an open fire)—but I loved it, and if I gave thought to the earlier Mary who had inhabited it, I felt she was a friendly shade—and perhaps liked some company! But the wind “wuthered” round my corner of the house, and I sometimes covered my head with the bedclothes when aircraft (friend or foe?) droned overhead: Chequers lay on the broad flight path to the Midlands, where Coventry and Birmingham were suffering badly.