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

by Mary Soames

  Thursday and Friday were

  Days of loneliness & gloom. Strange faces—strange customs strange places—& I summoned all the courage I could to face it—& suddenly by Saturday it began to get better—we began to know the people in our room—so nice & gay—tough & fun. We began to catch on to the new rules & regulations. Our plans straightened themselves out … Judy & I feel happy & begin to settle in contentedly.

  We were to be at Park Hall Camp for over two months—and long, physically hard, and action-packed they would prove to be. We all lived in “spiders”—complexes of barrack rooms (mostly double-bunked, sleeping from twenty to over thirty girls) which gave off the central ablutions block; the ATS had their own restrooms and dining halls, but shared with the men the huge NAAFI and the other amenities of this bewildering hutted garrison township, with its church hut, cinema, theatre, and hospital. All our operational AA training was conducted by male instructors, and apart from lectures many cold hours would be spent by us novice “gunners” on the vast windswept barrack square either drilling or learning our roles on the various instruments: Judy and I were predictor operators. In view of the wintry cold, the issuing to us of battle dress (like the men’s) was most opportune, as very necessary layers of warmth could be put on under our “battle blouses.”

  Days started at 6:30 a.m. and, with suitable breaks, lasted until 6:00 p.m.; in between these hours one expended a great deal of energy simply getting from place to place. After we were “stood down” in the evening, we might cram in a visit to the somewhat limited delights of Oswestry, getting back in time to go to regimental dances which took place several times a week. After the first of these, which Judy and I went to with some trepidation, I wrote: “Greatest fun. I danced with several charming people—and a particularly fascinating Sergeant Berry escorted me most considerately ‘to my lines’ … I retired to bed in the pitch dark at 12.15.”

  Families in the neighbourhood who were friends of our parents were quick to get in touch with us—the Scott-Ellises at Chirk Castle, the Ormsby-Gores at Brogyntun, and Lord Dudley at Himley Hall—offering very welcome breaks from camp life. On several occasions my mother and Cousin Venetia came up to stay at Chirk or Himley, and we were able to get local passes and spend some time with them. Sometimes friends turned up doing occupational courses—Michael and Jakie Astor and Hugh Fraser managed to track us down, and took us out to dinner. But it must have been very tough going for the great majority of the girls who had no local contacts; the almost “family” loyalty which developed once one was posted to a specific battery was totally absent here, and so it was unsurprising that at the end of November I told my mother that eleven ATS (not from our group) had run away in one week, and that I had spent a long time trying to persuade one of ours not to do the same “by cajoling, comforting, scolding & general ‘boosting’ up—and I hope to God she hasn’t hopped it this evening.” (I have forgotten what the outcome of my efforts was!)

  I was not without low moments myself—and this went for Judy too. Nevertheless, I wrote in my diary in the train on our way home for our first leave: “Mummie & Nana are wonderful & send a constant flow of letters & parcels. Time flies—[but] there never seems to be a moment to write or read.… But it is a wonderful life & I only pray for courage to stick out the black moments.” I firmly averred that “as long as I live I shall never—never regret joining the ATS”—and I never did.

  In the middle of October Judy and I, with others deemed suitable, were elevated to the inspiring rank of local/unpaid/lance bombardier; we proudly sewed one stripe on our uniforms and started on an NCOs (Non-Commissioned Officers) course. This was a step up, making life more interesting—and even harder work, for in addition to the customary lectures and drills, we were all detailed for various duties such as “defaulters” and sick parade; most demanding of all was to be on “fire picquet” for a whole week, which Judy and I duly were: “I really could have wept,” I wrote to Nana on 28 October, “—because it means CB [confined to barracks] for a week (which excludes even garrison cinema, post office & theatre) and perpetual turning out at night if there are sirens … when we have to galvanise ourselves (& still more difficult 10 peculiarly nitwitted disorderly ATS) into efficiency & tear about with crowbars & hoses & axes (very dangerous)” for training purposes.

  Also in October we had our first spell of forty-eight hours’ leave—not a moment of which was wasted. Arriving in London on the Friday evening, we went straight to a party my mother had organized for some of our London friends; she had also gathered up Cousin Venetia and Nana, and the next day we all went down to Chequers to make the most of the precious hours remaining before we rumbled back north through Sunday night. “The journey back wasn’t too uncomfortable, & we arrived just in time,” I wrote to my mother. “We went to bed mighty early on Monday night, and slept like two large logs all through a raid warning & the distant Merseyside blitz.”

  But I had been much upset to see how “very tired out and exhausted you were, Darling Mummie.” And I continued my letter:

  Do spare yourself all you can. I love you so dearly, and I cannot bear to think of you being so tired and pressed by work. How I wish I could be with you to take the entertaining off your hands. I sometimes think I should not have joined up when there is so much I can do at home—and yet I feel that really I am doing the right thing.

  Despite her increasingly busy and burdensome life, my mother made time to write to me, usually every few days. About this time she had taken on the chairmanship of the Red Cross Aid to Russia Fund (which came to bear her name), and on 26 October she wrote to me from Chartwell:

  My own Darling Mouse,

  I was so very happy when I got your letter & so much ashamed that I have let a whole week go by with[out] writing at all. ‘The aid to Russia Fund’ has almost overwhelmed me, but I am still treading water frenziedly. Cousin Venetia & I are certainly coming to see you next weekend & we will write or telegraph plans. I hope you had an amusing evening with the Astor boys. I wonder which was most fun, the Astor boys or Sergeant Davis? I am having a cosy restful weekend with Nana, Yellow Cat, (Paddy [my Lakeland terrier] with remains of lumbago) & Sukie [my miniature poodle] very French & frisky! Papa is having a masculine party at Chequers. I’m afraid you are having air-raids. How far off was the crash you heard? Next Tuesday the King & Queen are lunching with us at Downing Street.b I will write & tell you what ‘Their Majesties’ said & if they enjoyed Mrs Landemare’sc cooking! I’m doing 2 ‘Aid for Russia’ broadcasts this coming week …

  True to her word, my mother wrote to me from Chequers an account of the King and Queen lunching alone with her and my father:

  Mrs Landemare was in a flutter & produced a really delicious luncheon, & it was really all most enjoyable becos’ the Queen is so gay & witty & very pretty close up, tho’ Alas the silhouette is not quite as it should be … It was the first of a series of really bitterly cold days & she was dressed in a pale grey voile gown & I think a straw hat! Papa tried to interfere with the Menu, but I was firm & had it my own way, & luckily it was good.

  The Queen asked about you & admired a photograph of you scrubbing … The King did not say much. He looked rather thin & tired … Princess Elizabeth & her sister are being educated ‘at Eton’! That is, the Vice-Provost of Eton & one or two of the most agreeable & brilliant Masters go to Windsor Castle two or three times a week & instruct them & they enjoy it very much. I think they have the most amusing lives with lots of dogs (altho’ they are only those horrid ‘Corgies’ [sic]) & poneys [sic] & a delightful Mother …

  Towards the end of October Sarah joined the WAAF (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) as Aircraftswoman 2nd Class Oliver, and went to do her initial training at Morecambe (on the seafront, where it was bitterly cold and she suffered agonies from chilblains!). Her very sudden decision to join up was prompted by her decision to end her marriage to Vic, which had been unravelling for some little while. American citizens had been ordered to return to the United Stat
es, and Sarah knew she could not consider leaving England: this prompted her to ask her father the only favour she ever asked of him—namely, that he would facilitate her speedy entry into the WAAF (which she said she chose because of the uniform!). Vic, hoping that she would change her mind, stayed on in England.

  In the summer of 1940, Sarah had already confided to me her anxiety as to what she should do if Vic decided to return to America, so I had known for some time that things were not well with her—but when the actual break came I was deeply upset. In fact, all the family were dismayed and sorry, as they too had become attached to Vic. My mother must have told me the real reason for Sarah’s precipitate action after discussing it with her, for Sarah wrote to her from Morecambe:

  I have had a sweet letter from Mary—she told me you had decided to tell her after all—I think perhaps it was best—she is very grown up—it is sad though because she was genuinely fond of Vic—she seemed somehow to know him much as I knew him … it hurts less if people think kindly about him not harshly about him. Whatever has happened he has meant much to me in my life.

  I must have nurtured fond if unrealistic hopes for their relationship, for in the New Year of 1942 I wrote to Vic (who was playing at the London Hippodrome) and received a warm and affectionate reply:

  17/1/42

  My darling Mary,

  Words fail me to express my deepfelt thanks for your very sweet letter. You are the only one of your family who has written to me, and, I hope has not changed, in spite of the grave, please God, only temporary change in my marital status. Alas, I cannot describe to you the agony through which I have gone since your dear sister decided to leave my house … Sarah was and is everything to me. The sun rises and sets with her—I only live because there is a faint ray of hope that she might forget and give me another chance … But whatever happens, Mary—your letter has given me courage to wait an eternity.

  Bless you and thank you so much. Vic.

  For all her decisive action, Sarah too was tormented with doubts and unhappiness about the breakup of the relationship, as is clear from a letter I wrote her later that year, after we had managed to combine some leave time together, and she had unburdened herself to me: “then—and most important I want to tell you how terribly I feel for you. I know just how unhappy you are—& what agony you are going through. Perhaps I understand because I am so deeply fond of Vic, & I know what a sweet & vulnerable person he is.”

  But all was to no avail: although throughout the war their separation remained unknown except to closest family and friends, Vic and Sarah were eventually divorced with the minimum of attention in 1945. They remained on friendly terms always.

  My mother was the chief retailer of news between her daughters, while our father wrote political and home news to Randolph, then serving as a staff officer in Cairo. Every now and then I would write him a short letter, such as the one I penned just before his sixty-seventh birthday when I had had a spell of leave:

  My Darling Papa,

  I am just writing this little note to tell you how happy I have been during the last seven days—and also how unhappy I am to be away for your birthday.

  I shall be thinking of you on Sunday so much—many, many happy returns—darling.

  This buttonhole is a very small present—but it brings you more loving thoughts than I can ever write.

  God bless you—darling Papa.

  With Love from your

  Mary

  On his birthday—30 November—he sent me a telegram: “Am wearing your lovely flower. Fondest love. Papa.”

  That our father was well aware of his children’s doings is illustrated in the letter he wrote to Randolph on 30 October:

  Your sisters have chosen the roughest roads they could find. Mary is acting Temporary Unpaid Lance Bombardier and will in five or six weeks probably be promoted Sergeant. I hope she will presently be posted to a mixed battery in one of the parks near London so that we shall be able to see something of her on her leave. These two months of Amazonian Sparta have made a man of Judy and also contrariwise improved her looks. Sarah, casting aside about £4,000 of contracts, is undergoing austerities with the WAAF. We think they are very heroic. They are certainly braver than the lady in The black Mousquetaire who ‘did not mind death, but couldn’t stand pinching’.

  Towards the end of our time at Park Hall Camp an emergency arose which I recounted to my mother on 1 December:

  My own Darling Mummie,

  It really is TOO dreary—Here are Judy & I & 30 odd girls isolated for ten days owing to there having been two cases in the camp of Cerebral Spinal Meningitis; & one case was in our barrack room. Yesterday was unbelievable. The girl was carted off to hospital in the morning, & in the evening, her diagnosis having been ratified, we had to move lock, stock & barrel into this new spider. We are in separate beds—& OH HEAVEN Judy & I have a tiny room to ourselves! It is too maddening that we are missing the end of our course—but naturally it can’t be helped. The girls are going on (in a select group) with their work, and as there is no sergeant attached to us Judy & I are in charge of the whole lot & have more responsibility than before … We have to take them for drill, respirator practice and we’re going to give them full length lectures.

  We are having what is known as ‘rather a time’ with them—as they are cross and fed up—and as we have to have all the windows & doors open—it is VERY cold, and naturally it is dreary for them to be able to go neither to the NAAFI nor the cinema; & so they grumble a great deal, fight continually & occasionally burst into tears—all three of which functions seem to have to be chaperoned by the bombardiers! Life is hectic.

  Darling—I do beseech you not to worry—they have never known a case to occur again in the same room—& our isolation is purely precautional [sic]. We are well looked after. We gargle 3 times a day & the M.O. visits us every morning. We live in a veritable GALE of fresh air—& we are on the whole cheerful & not at all alarmed … No more news at present—I must go to sleep.

  Masses of love & kisses from your happy kitten.

  Mary.

  P.S. We are called the ‘untouchables’ & our Sergeant Smith (male instructor) walks round with a bottle of diluted potash with which he wipes the predictors after we’ve been on them!!!

  As I did not want to worry my mother unduly, I did not tell her in detail about what had been a fairly horrendous night. The girl who was taken so ill was in fact in the bunk above mine, and I had climbed up to see if I could help her; as one could not put on the lights as blackout screens were all taken down for ventilation I tried to comfort her by holding her in my arms. Judy and several other girls tried to help too, but it took us all some time to realize (by torchlight) that the case was really serious: then we could not find a senior NCO, nor did we know where the ATS officers slept, so that it was nearly daylight by the time we got help and the MO was summoned.

  I think the War Office must have contacted my mother, who reacted predictably: Judy and I were embarrassed and enchanted in equal measure to observe her, escorted by the commanding officer, the ATS senior officer, and the sergeant major, walking across the barrack square to our barrack room within twenty-four hours of receiving the news! She did not stay long—and I have to say that although the authorities were annoyed by her turning up in such an irregular fashion, they never took it out on us—and nor did our companions.

  During our “imprisonment” we were all cheered by visits from our friends in the camp: these were conducted at “long distance” after parade hours when our chums would stand outside the barrack-room windows (not nearer than fifteen feet or so) and engage us in cheery shouted conversation. I told Nana that “Sergeant Taylor [my pal of the moment] was too sweet & brought masses of chocolates & books!”

  Finally our incarceration, and our time at Park Hall Camp, came to an end. We all received news of our postings: Judy and I were to join 469 Heavy (Mixed) Anti-Aircraft Battery at Enfield, on the northern outskirts of London. Before reporting to our unit
s, we were granted a spell of leave; but when I arrived home at the Annexe it was to find luggage stacked in the corridor and much to-ing and fro-ing. My father was off that very evening, 12 December, to the north by train to board the ship that would take him to visit President Roosevelt. I was much cast down to realize I would hardly glimpse him—and my disappointment must have shown in my face, for he said: “Come with me on the train—at least we can dine together!” So I did just that.

  As we rumbled north that evening I would have caught up with the series of events on all fronts which had taken place since my father and the President had met in Placentia Bay in August—by far the most important being the attack by the Japanese on the American fleet in Pearl Harbor on 7 December which had brought the United States into the war. We had suffered some grievous losses at sea: in the Mediterranean the aircraft carrier Ark Royal had been sunk; later the battleship Barham was lost; and on 10 December our most powerful battleship, the Prince of Wales, and the battle cruiser Repulse had been sunk off Malaya with heavy loss of life.

  Early next morning we arrived at Gourock, on the Clyde, and my father and his party were taken by tender to board the Duke of York (sister ship of the Prince of Wales—a melancholy touch). I took leave of my father on deck before returning home with anxious thoughts for the travellers setting forth on their dangerous—and, as it would turn out, extremely rough—voyage.

  * * *

  * A. A. Milne, from “Buckingham Palace,” in When We Were Very Young (1924).