by Mary Soames
… The patients will be so grateful, and will appreciate them tremendously.
Then I want to thank you very sincerely for your sympathy and helpfulness at Ditchley. I thought it was most sweet of you—when you are so busy [and] have so many important claims on your time—to listen so patiently to a recital of my stupidities and heart-aches! You helped me such a lot—and made me take myself less seriously—which was an excellent thing! Thank you again—I shall never forget your kindness.5
I remained in a state of vacillation for several weeks, but on 2 June I wrote to Eric, telling him that my mind was quite made up, and that I would never marry him. It was a relief to me (and certainly to my mother) that I had finally decided—but I was very conscious I had not done well: I had caused unhappiness to Eric, and also discomfiture to his family, who felt deeply for him, and were mortified that the news of our private affairs had become public knowledge. Altogether this was not a happy time for me. I slogged away at my job—with which I was becoming thoroughly dissatisfied; the war news was unrelentingly dramatic, and not in a good way. We were experiencing painful reverses in North Africa, Greece, and Crete; on 24 May a capital ship, HMS Hood, was sunk with few survivors by the German battle cruiser Bismarck—though there was grim satisfaction when, three days later, the Bismarck herself was sunk; and on 22 June Germany invaded Russia.
In the middle of June I went to Norfolk for a weekend with Judy, to whom of course I had confided the ons and offs of my engagement, and who listened with infinite patience and good sense as I hashed over the whole unfortunate affair. It was lovely to be at Breccles again, and to catch up with many of the local friends of last summer. Judy (who was a year younger than I) had stayed on at Queen’s College, and was now in her last term there, trying to decide—as was I—what to do next. During these summer weeks we were much in each other’s company: after my visit to Breccles she came to stay at Chequers, and it was there that one day we listened to a conversation between my father and General Sir Frederick Pile, the Commander-in-Chief of Anti-Aircraft Command. The talk concerned the formidable manpower requirements of the heavy anti-aircraft batteries which were the principal defence of our cities and ports—a problem which was of great concern to my father. General Pile, who had long been fully aware of this problem, was able to tell him that a project in which he had taken a close personal involvement had just recently, in May, come into operation—namely, the forming of the first heavy mixed (that is, employing both men and women) anti-aircraft batteries, where members of the ATS (Auxiliary Territorial Service) were integrated with Royal Artillery personnel on gun sites, under the command of male officers, to perform all duties and technical operations (including radar) other than actually forming the gun teams, where the physical strength required to operate the 3.7-inch guns and to handle and load the shells was quite beyond the capacity of women. Judy and I were much excited by all this, and intervened to say that we would both like to become “gunner girls”!
We subsequently discussed this idea quite seriously between ourselves, and of course with my parents and Cousin Venetia: all of them approved and understood how we felt. But although I was much taken with the idea of joining up, I did have some serious heart searchings as to where my duty lay. I knew my mother relied a great deal on me, that I was of real help with all the entertaining, and that she also found my presence at home at the weekends as a companion and confidante a real solace: for the demands of security meant she could not talk freely even to old friends. For my own part, I realized of course that I would miss my parents, and the intense interest and excitements that life with them brought me; this consideration weighed far more with me than the thought of any discomforts life in the army might entail. But I genuinely felt passionately about the war—and recently working in a hospital library had come to seem rather inadequate set alongside the challenges and sacrifices confronting so many people. I challenged myself in my diary: “if I really feel as ardently about the war as I think I do—then surely I must give more.” After many heart-to-heart talks, Judy and I finally made up our minds and acquired the necessary information and application forms—and in the last week of July I resigned from the WVS.
One Chequers party in that summer stands out vividly—the weekend of 27 July. Of family and old friends there were Uncle Jack, Horatia Seymour (from Chartwell), the Prof (newly elevated to the peerage as Lord Cherwell), and Sir Maurice and Lady Violet Bonham-Carter; at various times we were joined by Pug Ismay, Gil and Connie Winant, Harry Hopkins, and Averell Harriman and his daughter Kathy. To this already dazzling galère were added for Sunday night two visiting “stars” from the American media firmament, Quentin Reynolds and Miss Dorothy Thompson, both of whom were doughty advocates of Britain’s cause in broadcasts and articles. On Sunday night,
Mummie came down for dinner looking exquisite as always & in terrific form despite fatigue … Dinner (15!) was tremendous success—Papa in best spirits & delightful to everyone. After dinner we all strolled on N[orth] lawn in beautiful gloaming—everyone in good & amusing mood. Papa said ‘And why are we in such good spirits tonight?—Because they’re not at our throats’. How true—one feels one can breathe for a bit. But even the break is a bit breathless—one knows so well it is only a pause …
The first weekend in August, I stayed with friends—the Williams family, to whom we had grown close in their days at St. Andrew’s, Limpsfield Chart; Melville Williams was now the priest in a Nottinghamshire parish. Before leaving to go north, I wrote to my father: “My Darling Papa, As I am going away I shall not see you before you leave. This note is just to say Goodbye and Godspeed. You will be constantly in the thoughts and prayers of your proud and most loving daughter.” My father was on the eve of embarking for a momentous voyage, travelling in the Prince of Wales to meet President Roosevelt in Placentia Bay off the coast of Newfoundland. Until the news of their meeting was announced two weeks later, of course I hugged my secret information to myself. I felt deeply anxious, and could not share my worry, as my mother took the opportunity of my father’s absence to spend a week at a health farm for a much-needed rest. Of course we telephoned each other, but nothing in our conversations could have given the slightest clue as to what was uppermost in our minds.
Meanwhile, Judy and I reported to the ATS recruiting office in Grosvenor Gardens near Victoria Station to go through the procedures involved in joining up. We had an interview, and a medical examination—which both of us passed, as I noted proudly in my diary: “Grade 1! ‘Fit for anything’ ”—and after which we were told to go home and await further instructions. I went back to Chequers to work out my time at the library, while rumour and speculation about my father’s whereabouts were rife in the press—most of it wide of the mark. Suspecting that I must be in the know, several people tried to “pump” me—but I remained resolutely inscrutable. At last, on 14 August, a radio announcement by Mr. Attlee (the Deputy Prime Minister) “told an already speculating world about Papa’s meeting with F.D.R. and their 8 point Declaration,”§ which, I reflected in my diary, “seems to me like a glimpse of the Brave New World.” I sent my father a note:
18TH AUGUST 1941
My Darling Papa,
This is just to greet you on your home-coming.
Thank God you are safely home; we were so anxious for you.
For everyone I think your meeting with the President and your joint declaration was a glimpse of the ‘Brave New World’ which we will all struggle and die to bring nearer. I am so longing to see you.
With tender love from your Mary.
There was much general excitement about this first wartime meeting of Churchill and Roosevelt—to be followed by many more journeys, by sea, land, and air, that my father would make in the next few years, in circumstances often of discomfort, and always of danger. After the announcement, silence and secrecy once more descended, until—to the great relief not only of his family but of the entire country—the Prince of Wales made safe landfall at Scapa Flow on 1
8 August.
By that time Judy and I had received our instructions to report to No. 15 ATS Training Centre at Aldermaston in Berkshire on Friday, 5 September, and set about enjoying our last few weeks of civilian life, doing the rounds of our friends and going to many “farewell” parties. I see from my diary that during this time I had considerable misgivings, and that I was full of trepidation at the step I was about to take. I had never even been to boarding school, and the imminent prospect of leaving home for such a totally unknown new world was suddenly very alarming: I wondered how I would cope with its challenges. But I don’t remember telling anyone about these ignoble qualms. In any event, both Judy and I were genuinely excited, and buoyed up by our friends’ enthusiasm—even admiration—for the step we were about to take. Almost without exception our girlfriends were doing war work—nursing, as air-raid wardens, or driving with the Motor Transport Corps. Some, if questioned, said vaguely “Foreign Office” and discouraged further questioning; we did not learn until over thirty years later that in most cases this meant they were working at Bletchley on the immensely secret Enigma project. Relatively few, however, at this stage of the war were in the women’s services, and of these the ATS was the Cinderella, largely on account of the truly unattractive khaki uniform.
However, any doubts or anxieties we may have had disappeared the minute we actually took the plunge—and, looking back, I have always known it was one of the best decisions I ever took in my life.
* * *
* Daughter of first and last Earl Jowitt (cr. 1951), then Labour MP and Solicitor General and later Lord Chancellor. Popey and I are still in touch.
† It was extremely unusual then (other than when “on duty”) for grand middle-aged ladies to wear trousers—let alone while also bejewelled! Hence my amazed comment.
‡ Ninth Earl of Bessborough, GCMG, PC (d. 1956), a former Governor-General of Canada, and his French wife, Roberte de Neuflize.
§ The Atlantic Charter, which set out Britain’s and the United States’ postwar aims for world peace: it was to become the basis of the United Nations Charter.
CHAPTER 11
“A Soldier’s Life Is Terrible Hard …”*
ON FRIDAY, 5 SEPTEMBER 1941, I WROTE IN MY DIARY:
Caught 11.20 from Paddington. Terrific farewell scene. Rosemary S[cott] E[llis], Fiona [Forbes], Ronnie [Buckland, a Cold-streamer friend], Nana, Mummie, Cousin Venetia & Cousin Sylvia to see us off. Judy & I bore up—& went away saying firmly ‘No regrets’ … Army vans to meet us at Aldermaston.
So started our great adventure. That night about twenty of us girls—mostly between eighteen and twenty-five and from every walk of life—found ourselves in our wooden barrack room:
Above each bed are 2 pegs & a shelf & under the bed a large hinged playbox … the huts are really very nice—& spotlessly clean; we have sheets & plenty of blankets. The corporal has a little private cubicle at the end. There are 2 stoves I note with eager interest thinking of colder weather. The washing arrangements are really very comfortable. Plenty of ‘loos’ with plenty of Bromo! [Each sheet was marked Government Property—which much amused us!] Then a great many basins where one can also wash one’s stockings etc … & there are drying lines outside. In a separate hut are about 20 baths in little cubicles. Very nice. And the water is piping hot!
So first impressions were good.
My first letter home, written that first evening just before “lights out” at ten p.m., was laboriously headed:
PRIVATE M. CHURCHILL
A COMPANY. 3 PLATOON
CLIVE HUT
15 ATS TRAINING CENTRE & RECEPTION DEPOT.
There were about five hundred of us in the camp, in two successive intakes, and we would be there for nearly a month, being transformed from mere civilians into something like soldiers in both appearance and mind-set—the latter being more difficult than the first. I wrote nearly every day to my mother, recounting our daily programme of drills and lectures, the acquiring of our uniform, the endless cleaning and scrubbing—of our quarters, of the NAAFI† canteen, of the pantries and dining halls—and the mountains of washing up. I described to her our daily menu—which was copious and rather good. As our days could start as early as 5:30 a.m., by bedtime we were all exhausted, and there were some homesick tears. We were confined to the camp for the first week, after which we could go to nearby Reading for one afternoon a week: visitors were allowed into the grounds at weekends.
The same day I arrived, I was sent for by the Camp Commandant, whom I described in a letter home as “very charming middle aged & distinguished looking. She saw me alone & said that if I agreed she thought I should remain entirely incognito. I am pleased about this—& would you please if you do write me send plain envelopes without the Downing Street address? … And would you please address me Private M. Churchill!! Ahem!” Despite this intention and precautions, my identity became known within just a few days, and in my diary for 9 September I wrote: “I’m afraid the cat’s out of the bag—blast it—about me—Still—C’est la vie.” Luckily for both Judy and me, in those first days we had established our credentials as genuine “floor scrubbers” and nonshirkers. The girls were all very jolly and friendly—and this new life, after all, was equally strange to all of us.
Sunday, 14 September, was a red-letter day, as there was church parade, and we all wore our service dress uniforms for the first time. That afternoon my mother came down to see us, bearing a picnic tea, with a delicious cake in honour of my nineteenth birthday, which was the next day. The following Sunday, both my mother and Cousin Venetia visited us, and I wrote to Nana:
It is Sunday evening, and I am sitting on my bed in the corner of our hut after a lovely supper of Morecambe shrimps & cream cheese on biscuits—plum jam & butter on biscuits—and a peach! All of which delicacies Mummie & Cousin Venetia brought with them. It was simply lovely to see them both and we had a very pleasant afternoon strolling around the grounds, and then tucking in to a colossal tea of various delicacies in the Chief’s office—which she had lent us for the afternoon.
Such pleasant interludes aside, the pace of events was brisk. All of us soon had very sore arms from a cocktail of inoculations, and those of us who were volunteering for anti-aircraft duties had to do two lots of tests—to our great relief, Judy and I were passed as suitable. Each intake had to put on a concert on the last evening, so there was much planning and rehearsing for that; and drillings and preparations were afoot for a visitation from the Princess Royal and the glamorous Director of the ATS, Mrs. Jean Knox. Meanwhile a milestone was our first pay parade. I confided to my diary: “I feel so grand drawing and ‘earning’ 11/6d‡ in cash—O thank you Ma’am!”
The royal visit passed off very well. I was one of those detailed to wait at luncheon in the Officers’ Mess, “thank goodness successfully. HRH did not get gravy down her august neck. They had the same menu as us—Pie [unspecified] & Summer pudding.” Before she departed, the Princess Royal sent for me: “I thought she was very kind and charming. She asked about Mummie & Papa & whether I was happy & whether the food was good—the beds comfy & the uniform nice to wear.” Judy and I were much diverted to see that among the press photographers “dear Cecil Beaton had appeared on the scene—looking very elegant & completely out of place in this galaxy of determined Khaki-clad women.”
Later, while we were mulling over the day’s events, I was sent for to be told that the War Office had announced that I had joined the ATS, and that the press were coming down the next day to interview me. I was genuinely upset, as I confided to my diary: “Oh how I had hoped it might not happen. That I really could be a person & not a name—that I might be a perfectly ordinary Private. I just said ‘Very well Ma’am’ and went miserably to my hut where I shed some bitter tears.” The next day I did not enjoy at all:
Sat. 27th September. This was quite one of the BLOODIEST days of my life. From dawn till dusk I was pounced at [sic] by photographers.
Pte. Churchill—
/> Parading [with my platoon]
Drinking Tea
Eating Bread
Sitting on bed
Making?
Writing letters
Polishing boots & buttons
Scrubbing floors & doorsteps
Emptying dustbins
Saluting
—Oh God taking a bath was about the only portion of my day omitted. I couldn’t have felt more mortified embarrassed or miserable … the other girls were absolutely charming & understanding about it.
Two days later I would be set upon once again by the press—this time it was the newsreel companies: “Drill competition made doubly hysterical by presence of camera men shooting from all angles. However Platoon 3 won—whoopee!” It was impressed on me by various officers who tried to reconcile me to what I regarded as persecution that the resulting publicity, which was considerable, would be good for recruiting.§
On our last Sunday at Aldermaston my mother, Cousin Venetia, Nana (accompanied by my miniature poodle, Sukie), and Sarah all descended upon us:
Had delicious picnic with grouse & cider—jam tart & figs in grounds. Never have I enjoyed a picnic more—Somehow one appreciates it so terribly … Showed Nana & Sarah the camp … Tea in Chief’s office. She talked to Mummie & Cousin V—Apparently we’ve done well. Waved all the darlings goodbye—feeling a little blue—Oswestry‖ is so far away. However—no tears. Rehearsal of concert. Tremendous fun. Bed—Tired & happy-ish.
Two days later our course ended; and on Wednesday, 1 October,
we marched to the station. It was a very calm morning—with a thin mist over a clear blue sky. The country looked so peaceful & beautiful—so ‘green & pleasant’ and I felt full of hope and courage & pride. The journey was tedious, long & hot, and by the time we had reached Park Hall Campa & in the dimming evening light saw the vast waste of barrack square & the row upon row of corrugated roofed huts—and the many strange faces—our pride—confidence and courage had ebbed & the self-confident Privates found themselves rather frightened—very tired new gunners. I felt very very miserable.