By Linda Lee Greene, Author & Artist.
The Citadelle, Quebec, Canada, August 23, 1943 – Over our
afternoon tea break, the prime minister was noticeably reflective. I had grown
accustomed to the great man’s assorted dispositions. However, his mood today was
solemn in a way I had not witnessed in him. Mrs. Churchill had retired to her
room, leaving him and me alone at table. The idea flitted across my mind that
perhaps Mr. Churchill’s somber tone reflected a concern over his wife’s health.
He patted his mouth with his napkin and studied my face as if weighing whether
or not to trust me with conversation I felt sure was about to commence, and one
that would have to do with matters outside the Second World War business in which
both he and I were involved. I was assigned to him as an Attaché from the
Canadian government during his war-planning conference with Mr. Roosevelt, President
of the United States. It goes without saying that I was flattered that the
prime minister had invited me to join him for tea, although it was well-known
that he made a practice of doing such as this for the purpose of gaining the perspective
of the young people who worked for him. I think he also enjoyed the openness of
individuals decades younger than himself.
Moisture rimmed his
eyes. I was horrified that tears would spill down his cheeks, but he got hold
of himself and raised his napkin to his face and wiped it. “My Clemmie and I are
putting every good effort into distracting our minds from the death of our
little daughter, Marigold twenty-two years ago today,” he said. I hadn’t the
faintest idea that he and his wife had endured such tragedy. I was at the same
time amazed at the personal character of his statement and hadn’t a clue as to
how to respond. But then I realized there was no appropriate reply, and I sat
back quietly against my chair. I understood then Mrs. Churchill’s low spirit. I
was surprised when Mr. Churchill spoke about Marigold further. “Our little ‘Duckadilly’s
greatest delight was in serenading us in song in her sweet, true voice: ‘I’m
forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air…’” In a falsetto voice, he
trilled the words of the song and twirled his hand in the air in accompaniment. His hand dropping to his lap, he continued, “Even as
she lay dying, she asked Clementine to sing it to her. I wrote to Clemmie in a
note at the time, ‘…It is a gaping wound – whenever one touches it and removes
the bandages and plasters of daily life.’ The wound wounds evermore!”
His splendid head
lowered and his hand rose to his heart. And then he looked around the room as
if in search of an answer to life’s cruelties. He turned his face to me again
and said, “This has been a year of difficulties for our family, not the least
the illnesses that struck down both my wife and me. You are no doubt unaware
that I was sent to bed for several days in late February for ‘convalescence.’ I
suffered a roaring fever and sore throat, diagnosed finally as pneumonia. It kept
me less of my normal self for many weeks. Overcome with concern for me, and
exhaustion from these many years of the conflagration that holds the blade at
our throats, as well as her demanding duties, Clemmie developed a painful
affliction. It required her to endure seemingly endless treatments. She too was
ordered to rest and managed to organize a nice seaside retreat for several days.
She rallied and we were comforted with the assurance that she would be hale and
hearty for this trip. But alas, she has suffered wearying sleeplessness
throughout our voyage to Canada. Am I so selfish to wish her near me on these
long journeys to foreign lands while I conduct the business of the war?”
I was startled by his
inquiry, and of course, confounded by it. Did he expect me to respond? But
then, I realized that in reality he was talking to himself, and that his
question was a rhetorical one. I hesitated in the response I wished to
interject in our exchange and nearly kept my council. But then I felt I would
be doing him a disservice. After all, he had confided in me and perhaps hoped I
would offer some contrast that might help him through his darkness. “Sir, mightn’t
we allow our spirits to be rallied by the excellent progress of the
Mediterranean Campaign of the war,” I suggested to him. “Mussolini has been
removed from power and a new government set up in Italy. It began negotiating
for peace with us immediately. The news that the Sicilian campaign came to an
end just nine days ago with U.S. General Patton’s aggressive push into Messina
puts the whole of Sicily under Allied control.”
His brow relaxed and he
sat back in his chair for a moment. And then he moved forward, reached into his
cigar box on the table and commenced the fascinating ritual of lighting a
cigar. He said in response to me, “It had been decided that Britain’s General
Montgomery and his Eighth Army would take the lead in the siege of Messina, but
his army was bogged down by German forces at Catania. He had no other choice
than to send a message to Patton to go ahead with the offensive. A few days
later, Patton and Montgomery met there and posed for photographs, staged for
the good of the Allied cause. Montgomery looked none too happy in them. He had
courted High Command for the job of taking Messina, and had won the assignment,
much to the chagrin of Patton and his comrades. What a great disappointment it
was to Montgomery to lose to Patton the honor of taking Messina.”
The prime minister’s
summary was not new to me. These events were discussed and celebrated at the
conference. He went on to say, “That seaside city will be our launching point for
our invasion of the toe of Italy. I fear we lost needless time in the back and
forth over Montgomery vs Patton in the Messina situation. Montgomery and his
Eighth Army will lead the charge across the Straits of Messina and onto Italy’s
shore, a decision of which Patton is unaware.” The prime minister took a deep
draw on his cigar and then knitted his brow. “Eisenhower is conflicted over
Patton, as are all of us. Nobody does his job better than Patton. In fact, he
is the Anglo-American Allies best general, but he is a disciplinary thorn in
our sides. Two recent incidents in which he slapped hospitalized soldiers
suffering from nervous exhaustion whom he accused of cowardice have created a
firestorm of protest against him. ‘I can’t help it, but it makes my blood boil to think of
a yellow bastard being babied,’ Patton said in defense of his actions. Surely
Eisenhower will sideline him.”
I felt emboldened by
the prime minister’s willing acceptance of the shift in our conversation and
pressed a point that exercised me. “Sir, with all due respect, has High Command
considered that our success in the Allied North Africa campaign was due in perhaps
the greatest part to General Patton’s stepping in and taking the situation in
hand? Likewise, in my view, it is difficult to deny that our victory over
Sicily must be credited mainly to General Patton. Montgomery has served the war
effort well, but he is also not the picture of congeniality. This competition
between the British and the Americans gives me pause. Does it truly matter who
wins the bragging rights for gaining victory on any battlefield of the war?”
The prime minister rose to his feet, heavily. I saw without question that I had
trod on sacred ground. Nobody dares to argue against the supremacy of the British
Empire upon which the sun never sets. Our tea was over! I pushed out of my
chair, saluted him, made my way to the door of the room, and said under my
breath, “If you didn’t want to hear the truth, you shouldn’t have invited a young
Canadian to your table.”©
Note: The above is a work of historical fiction conjured by its author from Mr. Churchill’s actual journey to Quebec, Canada in August, 1943.
Image: Winston S. Churchill with his daughter, Mary, Quebec, Canada, August, 1943
Recommended reading: CLEMENTINE CHURCHILL, the Biography of a Marriage by Mary [Churchill] Soames.
A DAUGHTER’S TALE by Mary [Churchill] Soames.
Books by Linda Lee Greene are available for purchase in eBook and soft cover on Amazon.com and by request at other booksellers.
