[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 161 (2015), Part 1]
[House]
[Pages 992-993]
[From the U.S. 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.
  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.

[[Page 993]]

       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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