[Congressional Record Volume 161, Number 11 (Thursday, January 22, 2015)]
[House]
[Pages H513-H514]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]
HONORING WINSTON CHURCHILL
(Mr. HOLDING asked and was given permission to address the House for
1 minute and to revise and extend his remarks.)
Mr. HOLDING. Mr. Speaker, this Saturday, January 24, marks the 50th
anniversary of the death of Winston Churchill. Over the past half
century, he has passed from memory into history, yet stands
unchallenged as one of the greatest figures of modern times.
[[Page H514]]
Born of an American mother and a British father, his life and career
symbolized the fellowship of the English-speaking peoples.
Just outside this very Chamber, Mr. Speaker, stands an enduring
tribute to the ``British Bulldog'' in the Freedom Foyer. The placement
of Churchill's bust inside the U.S. Capitol serves as a testament to
our special relationship with the United Kingdom and to the values our
two nations have fought so dearly to defend: democracy and freedom.
Mr. Speaker, I would like to submit into the Record a touching
account of Mr. Churchill's passing written by Celia Sandys, his
granddaughter, and the only surviving member of the Churchill family
present at his death.
My Grandfather's Final Days
The Personal Account of Hon. Celia Sandys
His birthdays were always a big family occasion. The first
one that I can remember clearly was his eightieth birthday in
1954 when there was a huge event in Westminster Hall. The
purpose was for both Houses of Parliament to mark the day
with tributes and the presentation of the portrait by Graham
Sutherland, which had been commissioned as a gift for him.
The rumour was out that the image was less than flattering.
I remember my parents discussing how he had disliked it when
he had seen it two weeks earlier. He did, however, rise to
the occasion and accepted it saying; ``It is a remarkable
example of modern art.'' As usual he had chosen the perfect
words. The portrait was never seen again!
Ten years later we celebrated his ninetieth birthday at
Hyde Park Gate. He had left his beloved Chartwell for the
last time the month before. As we raised our glasses of Pol
Roger to toast him, the unspoken thought in everyone's mind
was that the final meeting could not be long delayed.
Six weeks later, on 10 January 1965 he suffered a stroke,
the effects of which worsened over the next few days.
On the evening of the 15th, I received a call from his
personal secretary, Anthony Montague Browne, to tell me that
my aunt Sarah was on her way from Rome. He said she would be
arriving at Heathrow in the early hours of the morning and
had asked if she could stay with me.
I remember driving like the wind to get to Heathrow in time
and then having to run the gauntlet of a huge crowd of
journalists before we could get out of the airport. The press
had only heard of my grandfather's condition a few hours
before and so were hungry for information.
We went straight to Hyde Park Gate and found Grandpapa
sleeping peacefully with his cat Jock curled up beside him. I
don't know if Jock ever left the bed, but every time I was
there the cat lay curled up by his master.
It was clear that the inevitable was about to happen. We
were all sad; for ourselves not for him. Anyone who had spent
time with him during the last few years knew that he was
ready to go.
During the next nine days we had two urgent calls to go to
Hyde Park Gate when it seemed the end was near, but each time
he rallied. Otherwise during this period we visited once or
twice a day, as much for my grandmother as for him.
Initially we had to struggle to get through the crowds of
press and concerned onlookers who filled the little cul-de-
sac day and night. After a few days, in response to a request
from my grandmother, the bystanders moved to the main road
and our visits became much easier.
Early on the morning of the 24th of January we received
what was clearly the final call from my aunt Mary. Sarah and
I raced to Hyde Park Gate. There we joined my grandmother,
Mary, my uncle Randolph and my cousin Winston.
Clementine sat holding Grandpapa's hand with his doctor,
Lord Moran, sitting beside her; Randolph and Winston stood on
the other side, while Sarah, Mary and I knelt at the foot of
the bed. Also in the room were two nurses, whose work had
finished, and Anthony Montague Browne.
No one made a sound except Grandpapa who breathed heavily
and sighed. Then there was silence.
It seemed as though time stood still until Clementine asked
Lord Moran, ``Has he gone?'' He nodded.
Seventy years to the day and almost to the minute since his
father, Lord Randolph, had died, Winston Churchill had
slipped imperceptibly away to meet his Maker.
We all sat down to a subdued breakfast and listened to the
radio as the announcement of his death was broadcast to the
world.
Some years earlier the Queen had decided that her first
Prime Minister was to have a Lying-in-State and a State
Funeral. The was the first time such an honour had been
granted to a commoner since the funeral of the Duke of
Wellington more than a century before.
Preparations for the ceremony had been given the code name
``Operation Hope Not'' and, in true British tradition, had
been worked out to the last detail some years before.
More than 300,000 people queued in the freezing cold along
the Embankment, across Lambeth Bridge, back along the Thames
and across Westminster Bridge to file past the catafalque in
Westminster Hall, the oldest surviving part of the Palace of
Westminster where, my grandfather had spent so much of his
working life.
The family were allowed to slip in by a side door and watch
the extraordinary sight of so many who had come from near and
far to bid farewell to the man for whom they felt love,
respect and gratitude.
On the day of the funeral we gathered in Westminster Hall
for the journey to St Paul's Cathedral.
The men of the family together with Anthony Montague
Browne, who had served his master faithfully and lovingly to
the end, walked behind the coffin, which was borne on a gun
carriage.
The women rode in the Queen's carriages. My grandmother,
Sarah and Mary were in the first carriage. My sister Edwina
and I rode in the second. We had rugs and hot water bottles
to keep us warm on a very cold day. We were so close to the
crowds lining the streets that we could have touched them.
The emotion in their faces I will never forget.
When we arrived at St Paul's, we all lined up for the
procession up the aisle. The women of the family looked as
though we were in uniform. Quite independently we were all
wearing more or less identical black fox fur hats.
As the bearers struggled to carry the coffin up the steps
and into the cathedral, it seemed they might be going to drop
it. Apparently they had rehearsed but not with a lead-lined
coffin! They made it and we all followed up the long aisle
where the Queen and her family were waiting.
We were told that the Queen had said we should not curtsey
to her so we filed into our seats opposite the Royal Family.
After the service we processed out and watched anxiously as
the bearers carried the coffin down the steps, probably an
even more difficult task.
As we got back into our carriages, the Queen and her family
joined on the cathedral steps with monarchs, presidents,
wartime colleagues and political allies to say goodbye to the
man they had come to honour.
The carriages took us to Tower Pier where, after Grandpapa
had been piped aboard, there was a seventeen-gun salute. We
boarded the Port of London Authority's survey vessel, MV
Havengore, for the journey to Waterloo Station. As we sailed
off we could hear the band playing Rule Britannia.
The crane drivers on the quayside dipped the heads of their
cranes in salute. This was the only unscripted part of the
day and one of the most moving. The RAF flew over-head.
At Waterloo the coffin was placed in the guard's van with a
military escort of the 4th Hussars on constant watch.
We sat down to have lunch and a glass of champagne, which
we certainly needed, as the train moved off, pulled by the
engine, which my then seven-year-old brother Julian had named
``Winston Churchill'' during the war.
Along the entire route from Waterloo to Long Hanborough,
the railway was lined with people of all ages, some waving,
some crying, some saluting, all of them silently saying
goodbye to the man they admired. Finally we reached the small
churchyard at Bladon, the burial place of Winston's parents
and his brother Jack and within sight of Blenheim Palace
where he had been born ninety years before.
The day immediately turned into a family affair, and we
could say goodbye in private to the husband, father and
grandfather who we all loved so much.
After the service we stood by the graveside as the bearers
lowered the coffin into the grave. The silence was broken by
a metallic clatter. Lying on the coffin were the shiny medals
that had fallen off the coat of one of the bearers.
We were a sombre party on the train going back to London.
When I got home I realized how strange the past weeks had
been. It was as though I had been in a state of suspension
but had now come down to earth.
Aunt Sarah and I watched the rerun of the day on television
and wondered at all the events in which we had played a part.
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