by Mary Soames
My mother had written:
My darling beloved Mary,
I had a great shock on Tuesday. I went to Northolt to meet Papa. The ‘York’ made a lovely landing & taxied right up to where everyone was waiting for him. Lord Moran emerged and ran across the tarmac to the car where I was sitting and said: ‘He has a temperature of 103—We must get him back quickly & get him to bed’.
Then Papa emerged looking crimpled & feverish—I got him straight into the car & we rushed away leaving everyone stunned & astonished including the special correspondents. But all is well I hope. The two beautiful Nurses from St. Mary’s Hospital appeared as tho’ by magic—Doctor Geoffrey Marshall the lung specialist took blood tests and X rays and gave M&B. It is a slight attack [of pneumonia]—there is a small shadow on one lung, but in himself he is well & this morning, now 7 a.m. the temperature is normal.
I was sick with fright Tuesday night & yesterday. We hope it will not be necessary to publish bulletins [it wasn’t] & strange to say Lord Moran says that in about 5 days he can go to Canada by sea. I shall go with him now Sarah too. I do wish you could but your job is essential.
Darling—he says he must see you before he goes so try to come up, ringing me first …
In fact I went up that evening:
I arrived home [the Annexe] at 9. Sawyers [my father’s valet] told me they were having dinner together in Papa’s room. I went in—just for a moment I wasn’t noticed—Papa looking well, sitting up in bed in his glorious many hued bed jacket—M. sitting by his bed in a housecoat. And then they saw me & were so so sweet & loving & welcoming—And I was fed & cosseted and felt once again that all the people I love are secure.
Next day,
Max [Beaverbrook] came to lunch & brought the most delicious Rhine wine. M & P and Max said they thought I ought to go into parliament. I got enthused, & visualised myself in distinguished black (with a soupcon of white) making a speech about drains. I took it all very seriously—& am still wondering—But somehow—I don’t know.
I must say this makes me blush to tell! However, reality returned speedily: “Back in camp everyone kind & fun. Manned till midnight.”
All these events on my home front were happening, of course, against the background of fierce fighting in Normandy, upon which our eyes were fixed with anxiety and eager hope: by the third week in August the battle could be regarded as hard-won. Paris was liberated on 25 August—a great heart-lifter, and not only to the French. Thrilling and important events succeeded one another in quick succession in these weeks.
But amid all these exciting events, as I was reading The Times one day I saw that a friend had been killed in action. It was Tony Coates; he was twenty-four. I had first met Tony when he came to Chequers with the Coldstream detachment, and we used to go out together from time to time in London. That spring he had taken me to see Oscar Wilde’s An Ideal Husband and afterwards to dine and dance. The news of his death shook me to the core, and I poured out my feelings to my diary:
When I read the list and came so suddenly on his name … I felt stunned … I will not—I must not exaggerate—there was nothing between Tony & me—except something intensely young & gay [old-fashioned meaning]—Someone I shall always remember with so much happiness and gratitude and perhaps just a little nostalgia. He’s one of the few people who I liked when I was 17 & who I still loved to go out with now. And of him? He had all the beauty of good looks & health and youth. Intelligent—fun—kind, so very kind.
It so happened that the day after I read this news I went to London and saw Jock Colville, who was Tony’s first cousin: “I think too he is grieved about Tony. He told me how it happened. I must confess I gave way at bedtime to some easy futile tears—& tried to write something adequate to his mother.” Jock would write in his diary: “Wednesday, August 16th. Saw Mary Churchill who has been shooting down Doodle Bugs at Hastings. She has grown much fatter, but looked gay and handsome. She is very distressed about Anthony.”a
SUNDAY, 3 SEPTEMBER 1944, was the fifth anniversary of the outbreak of the war, prompting me to reflect in my diary:
They’ve flown these 5 years to me—and yet paradoxically they seem a whole lifetime. It’s a lovely day—rather chilly, but clear blue skies and brilliant sunshine. We’re on duty, and in a minute there’s going to be a service in front of the control room. The news is wonderful—I can hardly take it in. Trained never to be downcast by failure—always to discount defeat—Ever to perceive light and success in a distance which seemed to be overcome by darkness—This victorious rush—the tumultuous retreat of our vile enemies seems like a huge meal after privation … We’ve had our service—it was rather nice—just manning detachments outside the Control Room in the sunshine. We sang ‘Through all the changing scenes of life’ and ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ and ‘Now thank we all our God’. And Nick [Nicholson] read the 61st Chapter of Isaiah. I feel so deeply thankful …
A few days later the spell of lovely weather broke: “Rain fell down all day without respite. Wind howled. The site was reduced to a sea of mud. We all got wet—some of the tents leaked. It was HELL. Everyone cold & miserable. After lunch we were given permission to issue rum. So everyone had hot tea laced with rum & felt better.” We were inspected by a high-ranking ATS officer, and evidently the conditions were considered to be unacceptable and unnecessary: so, with remarkable speed, all the ATS personnel were transferred back to the Queen’s Hotel in Hastings, from where the duty teams were transported to the site as required. I revelled in the “unspeakable luxury of a room and a bath.” And our morale was raised further when, a couple of days later, “we all marched to Marine Court where Sir Frederick Pileb told us we’d done well. Our khaki bosoms swelled & we walked back.”
By the end of August a combination of anti-aircraft guns, fighters, and balloons had mastered the flying bombs, and in early September the main bombardment of VIS ceased. But now another of Hitler’s “secret weapons”—a long-range rocket, the V2—was launched on the Greater London area. Our intelligence knew about this new scourge—and knew too that there was no known means of resisting or destroying them. Their warheads were much the same size as those of the VIS, their launching pads were nearly 200 miles distant, and they sped at 4,000 miles per hour in a giant parabola before descending on their targets. Also, while the noise of the flying bombs had given warning of their approach, these demons came in silence. The first two rockets fell in the London area on 8 September—a week after the V1 attacks had ceased.c Naturally we in the AA batteries were frustrated at having no role to play against this new threat.
The night before my birthday on 15 September I was on duty: so I “woke up on Friday to discover I was 22. Left the Command Post feeling un-birthdayish—& very old. Was relieved early and had bath & titivated—met Ian [Cowper] at the station. When we arrived at the Annexe Nana [Whyte] … Sukie [my poodle] & a birthday cake were waiting. Also an array of presents,” including a “cheque of great size from Mummie & Papa.” My parents were both away in Canada for the Second Quebec Conference; in their absence Diana had organized a birthday dinner party for me at Quaglino’s. Ian came; there were several other guests, and Sarah joined us later. “Dinner was the greatest fun—they played ‘Happy Birthday’ & there was a cake with candles. Oh how sweet of Diana. But it was rather dreadful of me—I suddenly ‘flopped’ and felt terribly tired & longed for bed. Perhaps we are tireder than we think.” After dinner we all walked to a nightclub, the Astor, but “I longed for bed & slipped away with Ian pretty soon. The Astor is rather haunted for me by gay but wistful ghosts—Graham [a naval officer friend of mine recently killed at sea] Jean Louis [de Ganay] where I don’t know—but care a little—& Tony [Coates].”
Back at the battery, all was activity and excitement as orders had been received that we were to move back to our London site—so our seaside summer was over. Three days later I wrote in my diary: “Back to London—the girls singing all the way ‘If I had my way,’ ‘She’ll be coming down the
mountains when she comes,’ ‘Wrong—Would it be wrong?,’ ‘Tipperary’—And ‘We’re here because we’re here because.…’ And here we are back in Hyde Park which is a blaze of snapdragons & paint.”
* * *
* Over 6,000 civilians were killed and 18,000 seriously injured by flying bombs.
† The casualties in this incident numbered 121 civilians and soldiers killed and 141 seriously wounded.
‡ It fell on the Tyburn Convent, killing and injuring nuns.
§ “Right” in the sense that shooting them down over London merely tended to serve the enemy’s purpose, since some of them might have missed their targets and fallen in open country.
‖ A play by Noël Coward, written in 1939 but not first performed until 1942, about a working-class suburban family in the years between the two world wars.
a When Jock published his fascinating diaries as The Fringes of Power, he dedicated the book to me “with affection and with penitence for some of the less complimentary references to her in the early part of this diary.” This quotation is from p. 503.
b Commander-in-Chief, Anti-Aircraft Command.
c Of the 1,190 rockets launched between September 1944 and the following March, when the Allied armies liberated The Hague, from which area most of the rockets were fired, about 500 fell on Greater London, killing 2,724 people and seriously injuring 6,467. On average each rocket caused twice the number of casualties as a flying bomb. (Figures from Winston S. Churchill, The Second World War, vol. 6, Triumph and Tragedy, p. 47.)
CHAPTER 17
Paris Again
I HAD NOT BEEN BACK IN LONDON LONG BEFORE DASHING OFF one morning to Euston Station to join a posse of family and colleagues gathered to welcome my parents and Sarah back from the Second Quebec Conference. I had a thorough debriefing from Sarah, and later in the afternoon from my mother, who walked me back to Hyde Park by a circuitous route. As always it was a blessed relief after the inevitable days of anxiety during their sea voyage to have them home.
We had all been fraught in the third week of September as news came in of the fierce, costly, and unsuccessful battle for the Arnhem bridges. An appeal was made for blood, so I went to St. George’s Hospital, where a special centre had been set up to take donations, and wrote in my diary that evening: “they told me it will be flown to Holland—I longed to say—take more—let me give something for them out there.…” A few days later I learned a piece of news which saddened me very much when I met Eve Gibson by chance in a nightclub: “Alas—the sweet & gallant Dam Buster is missing—O God.” My father, knowing Guy would always want to be in operations, had taken him to Canada in September 1943 to do public relations; but of course as soon as he returned to his squadron he took part in raids again, and now he had been lost.
But in among the anxiety and the sadness there were times to savour. About now I had a week’s leave, and as usual I crammed in as much enjoyment as possible—including outings to four plays: Scandal at Barchester, Richard III, Pink String and Sealing Wax, and The Last of Mrs. Cheyney. Ian Cowper came to Chequers for a weekend, and my diary shows that I was much exercised by a tug-of-war in my emotions between him and Jean Louis de Ganay; also that I had some long talks with my mother about (in connection with Jean Louis) living abroad and the pressure I would inevitably feel to convert to Roman Catholicism. “But oh how I wish I could settle for one—I sometimes feel in despair in case I never really fall in love,” I wailed to my diary.
WITH PARIS LIBERATED, General de Gaulle invited my parents to celebrate Armistice Day as his guests on 11 November—and I was included in the invitation, to act, in my father’s words, as his “orderly officer.” The others in the “Paris party” were to be Anthony Eden, Pug Ismay, Sir Alan Brooke, John Martin from the private office, and the excellent Tommy Thompson.
On the very day we left, 10 November, Molly Oakey telephoned from the battery to say my “third pip” had come through, making me a junior commander (the equivalent of captain): I was consequently the object of many family “back-pattings” which greatly added to my own pleasure.
It was a very cold, clear day, and I found gazing down on France again during the flight very moving—as did my mother, who wept. We arrived in the late afternoon at Orly, where the airfield, apart from the main runway, was “a sea of mud—pitted & marked with bomb craters,” to be greeted by a large party of personnalités headed by General de Gaulle. We bundled into cars:
Mummie & I drove with the President de la Chambre [des Deputés] M. Jeanneney—80 and battered by four years of oppression. Just after we started, the car—which was also rather the worse for wear—broke down. However we transplanted into another one & then were driven at breakneck speed as the driver was determined we should maintain our rightful place in the procession. Crowds appeared from nowhere, mystified by the long line of cars.
There had been no public announcement of Churchill’s visit on grounds of security—and indeed, the whole idea of it had been subject to serious misgivings right up to the last moment: fighting was still going on in France, and in Paris itself there were still known to be undercover Germans and others who might pose a serious threat. However, my father waved away any suggestion that it should not proceed.
As the guests of the French government, we stayed in the Quai d’Orsay, where the King and Queen had stayed before the war. My diary account lingered lovingly on the splendour of our surroundings:
a contingent of the Garde [Republicaine] awaited, lining with drawn swords the scarlet carpeted staircase. The suite is sumptious [sic] and ornate with gilt & lustres & tapestries & Savonnerie carpets. Mummie & Papa’s rooms are palatial with bathrooms like Roman Catholic cathedrals & beds a l’Empire. I am in a humbler room and think it is the prettiest of the lot—cream & gilt & watered blue paper & sprigged blue taffeta curtains—and a huge bouquet of white lilac—in November!* Gabrielle, my femme de chambre is charming and she cannot do enough to please me. She is so kind and we had a rather emotional meeting—and both became a little confused & damp.
Dinner I described with equal enthusiasm as
Anglo-French—English people & French food—both were extremely agreeable. The party was the Duff Coopers† & the Edens & CIGS [Sir Alan Brooke] & John [Martin] and Anthony’s private secretary Nicholas Lawford. I sat between him & Anthony. Papa & everyone was in excellent spirits … It’s nearly one o’clock—I’m so excited & feel so wakeful. But I must go to sleep. Pray God tomorrow passes with no mishap—one must not think of it. What a wonderful thing to happen to me—and how grateful I am and how lucky.
Although tight secrecy had been observed officially at the beginning of the visit, the news had leaked early on in the British and French press, and public announcements and posters had encouraged people to join in the celebrations on this first Armistice Day since the liberation of Paris. My diary entry for that momentous day was long and detailed:
It was a lovely day, cold, clear and dry. The crowds were really enormous, and processions were forming from very early in the morning till late that evening awaiting their turn to lay wreaths and banners beneath the Arc de Triomphe. M. Massigli‡ came & collected Mummie & me at half past ten and drove us to our places in Mde de Gaulle’s stand [some way down the Champs Elysées]. Elisabeth [de Gaulle] was there, the Corps Diplomatique—all the women that is—I sat between Beatrice Eden & Diana Cooper who looked exotic & beautiful—but [she] nearly died of cold. Mummie looked beautiful in her new black hat. Papa & the General then arrived amid much cheering & excitement. The sight of the crowds was unforgettable—people had clambered into the trees and were clinging to the chimney pots.
After the brief ceremony at the Arc, the General and my father walked together followed by their immediate entourage down to the saluting base.
The parade was long & splendid—the Garde Republicaine on horses looked simply lovely. After Papa & the General drove away amid shouts & cheers, we were taken back to the Quai d’Orsay. Unfortunately we were not able
to see Papa lay wreaths on Foch’s & Clemenceau’s tombs. Papa & the boys were lunching together so Mummie & I lunched at the Embassy. Diana [Cooper], Mummie, Mlle Eve Curie,§ Virginia Cowles,‖ ‘Blogs’ Baldwin,a Victor Rothschild, Cecil Beaton.b Scrumptious lunch. Victor, to whom I am truly devoted, then whisked me off in a car to try and get some scent for Mummie—we didn’t get the scent, but it was delightful driving around. He dropped me at the Quai d’Orsay, & I then braced up my courage & rang up Madame de Ganay—who sounded charming & said I might visit her. Mummie & I walked to their house, and I then left Mummie & feeling very nervous called on Mme de Ganay. I was charmed by her & her three other sons—dear dear Jean Louis you have a most delightful family. I now long to have huge sons to comfort my old age. Once back at the Quai I rushed out again to Victor’s flat & drank tea & cognac. His cousin Guy de Rothschild arrived … also there was Tessc who helps Victor with his contre-sabotage.
We dined at General de Gaulle’s house in the Bois de Boulogne. Mummie & Papa, the Duff Coopers, the Massiglis, M. Bidaultd and M. Palewskie (between whom I sat), Capitaine de Levis Mirepoix, Elisabeth [de Gaulle] & Lt Guy. It was most enjoyable. Diana Cooper was, I thought awful after dinner. She attacked the seating arrangements at the parade in the morning—hot-making—very. She is a donkey.
Sunday, 12 November, was a lovely sunny morning, and as there were no official arrangements until lunchtime I asked if I might go to church: one of the General’s ADCs collected me and escorted me to High Mass at the Madeleine. The church was packed; seated in the front row, I was in a considerable quandary as to when to sit or stand. There was a remarkable sermon by an army chaplain—declaimed without a note—calling the people of France “to throw themselves beneath the figure of Christ & of her qui a sut se repentir de ses erreurs, and to arise in strength & spiritual regeneration.”