Mary, the youngest of Winston and Clementine Churchill’s five children, was 17 at the outbreak of World War II. When her father was named prime minister, her family moved into 10 Downing Street. She was with him at key moments, when he wrote his speeches, addressed Parliament and dined at home with eminent politicians. She accompanied him on tours of the blitzed cities Cardiff and Bristol, was his aide de camp at conferences in Quebec and Potsdam, and saw him march down the Champs-Élysées at the liberation of Paris. Throughout all this, she kept diaries, now published as “Mary Churchill’s War.” They are both a historic record of wartime Britain and an unabashed love letter to her father.

Mary was short and stocky (Winston was only 5 foot 6) with a pretty, square-jawed face. She held her own among the formidable people she encountered, from Duff Cooper and Anthony Eden to Noël Coward and Lord Mountbatten (whom she dubbed “Glamour Pants”). She describes being seated at lunch next to Charles de Gaulle, “a stern, direct giant” who tells her (she quotes him in French) that “France now only exists in the souls of her faithful sons and in the hearts of those in a foreign land who still fight against tyranny.”



Mary Churchill's War: The Wartime Diaries of Churchill's Youngest Daughter



But she’s still an adolescent, and the diaries, which span 1939 to 1945, are also a happy record of the many balls, parties and nightclubs she goes to (never mind the Blitz) and the occasional crush. The voice that comes through is uncensored, ebullient and guileless. Entries are peppered with triple exclamation marks, “wows” and “woofs,” and French phrases. Many things are “gay,” in the old sense of the word, whether she’s talking about Gen. Jan Smuts or a new clothes shop. She writes about her “scrumptious” meals, her clothes, her weight, how she bites her nails. She’s also critically self-analytical. “Where is my undoubting burning faith? And my hopes have lost their shine. I feel so wound up & muddled. I am bloody awful—cross, dictatorial, tough, noisy, fat and much more.”

She was astonishingly cool about air raids. On Oct. 8, 1940, a “very agreeable” dinner at the officers’ mess was “brought to an abrupt close by the swishing, crescendoing clatter of a bomb uncomfortably near. Everyone ducked ineffectually—& waited—it seemed an age—before a comparatively small bump—found us rather breathless but intact & morale on all sides good. They were all sweet to me—and I was feeling terribly excited & rather breathless—but thank God—not all white & trembly as I so often have imagined & feared I would be. We all went to the slits [trenches]—very muddy & spoilt my suède shoes. No more excitements SO FAR—but I was escorted home soon after. Damn those Bloody Huns for breaking up an enjoyable party.”



Because of the air raids, the 1941 Queen Charlotte’s debutante dance was held in an underground ballroom at the Grosvenor House Hotel. That night, there was a devastating attack. They heard nothing down below. “There everything was gay & carefree & happy. It seemed so easy to forget—there in the light & warmth & music—the dark deserted streets—the barking of the guns—the hundreds of men & women ready at their posts—the bombs & death & blood. Somehow these last did not seem real—of course it is only a terrible dream, a figment of the imagination. But no—it is real—the Café́de Paris hit—many fatal & serious casualties. They were dancing & laughing just like us. They are gone now in a moment from all we know to the vast, infinite unknown. Oh it was so gay our party . . .” Mary and her friends stayed out until 4:30 a.m.

At the age of 18 Mary joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service as a private in anti-aircraft batteries where she showed remarkable courage. As the bombs rained down during the Blitz she worked in Hyde Park at night. “Quite heavy barrage,” she writes. “Awfully exciting.” Subsequently she served as an officer, commanding batteries in England and Europe where she saw action.

In 1943 Mary accompanied Winston on his Washington trip to confer with Franklin Roosevelt. She found the president, who served them “extremely violent cocktails,” magnetic and full of charm. “But he is a ‘raconteur’—& it can be tedious. But at other times it is interesting & fun. I wonder if recounting anecdotes etc is an American trait?”

Mary hero-worships her father (he is “almost a religion” to her) and relishes their times alone. In February 1944 they went to a play that opened with a scene set in Munich 1938, when Neville Chamberlain signed the doomed pact with Hitler. “In the interval I said ‘It takes one back a bit—we’ve come such a long way since then.’ Papa said ‘I knew what would happen then—and I don’t now—that is the difference.’ The last few times I’ve seen Papa I’ve been struck with his anxious preoccupation with the future—his uncertainty. I know he foresees so much more trouble and grief and struggling ahead of us than we can imagine.”

It was tough to be a Churchill child, and Mary was the only one of the five to have emerged unscathed. She was born in September 1922 (a sister, Marigold, had died a toddler, in 1921). Her siblings were a good deal older. Sarah, an actress, was divorced and took to drink. Diana committed suicide after her second divorce. Randolph fought continuously with his father. “Papa has spoilt and indulged him and is very responsible,” Mary writes when Randolph is 30, “but R has never got over the disappointment of not being super remarkable, super successful and a genius.”

Mary, who died at 91 in 2014, married Conservative politician Christopher Soames. She eventually became a writer. Her last book, the memoir “A Daughter’s Tale” (2011), is particularly moving about her experiences as a soldier.

Emma Soames, one of Mary’s five children, has done an excellent job of editing the diaries. She is correct when she says reading them is like “eavesdropping on history.”


LINK: https://www.wsj.com/articles/m...war-mary-11656961263

Thanks much for posting this.

Silent

quote:

Originally posted by ZSMICHAEL:
“France now only exists in the souls of her faithful sons and in the hearts of those in a foreign land who still fight against tyranny.”

“brought to an abrupt close by the swishing, crescendoing clatter of a bomb uncomfortably near. Everyone ducked ineffectually—& waited—it seemed an age—before a comparatively small bump—found us rather breathless but intact & morale on all sides good. They were all sweet to me—and I was feeling terribly excited & rather breathless—but thank God—not all white & trembly as I so often have imagined & feared I would be. We all went to the slits [trenches]—very muddy & spoilt my suède shoes. No more excitements SO FAR—but I was escorted home soon after. Damn those Bloody Huns for breaking up an enjoyable party.”

“There everything was gay & carefree & happy. It seemed so easy to forget—there in the light & warmth & music—the dark deserted streets—the barking of the guns—the hundreds of men & women ready at their posts—the bombs & death & blood. Somehow these last did not seem real—of course it is only a terrible dream, a figment of the imagination. But no—it is real—the Café́de Paris hit—many fatal & serious casualties. They were dancing & laughing just like us. They are gone now in a moment from all we know to the vast, infinite unknown. Oh it was so gay our party . . .”

And in today's vernacular, it would be, "I mean, OMG! FML! I know, right???"

A remarkably well spoken young lady she was.
Not uncommon then.