Nicholas Soames, who was aged 16 when his grandfather Sir Winston Churchill died, clearly recalls the grief and pride of a family, and a nation, at the state funeral held 50 years ago today.

 

I will always remember the moment we committed the body of my grandpapa, Winston Churchill, to the earth, 50 years ago today. The crowds of that extraordinary funeral day had melted away and, as dusk approached in the graveyard of St Martin's Church, at Bladon, just his very closest family were there. My grandmother, Clementine, stepped forward to say her final farewells. One by one, we followed. It was over so quickly. A tumultuous week had come to an end, never to be forgotten.

 

We had known that he was going to die. My mother and father were very solicitous in preparing me and my siblings for it. Earlier in January we had all driven especially up from our home in Sussex to 28 Hyde Park Gate, where Grandpapa was lying unconscious after his stroke. I was 16, and he was the first person I had seen in such a stricken condition, but my mother reassured me: "You will find it all very peaceful." And she was right. It was extraordinarily peaceful. He was peaceful. But when I left that day to go back to school, I knew that he was going to be taken from us.

 

I was about to go to chapel on Sunday January 24 when my housemaster came to tell me the inevitable news. It was so terribly sad. But then Operation Hope Not, as the funeral plan was known, began to click into gear under the command of the Earl Marshal, the Duke of Norfolk - and it did so with the matchless efficiency that is the hallmark of British ceremonial.

 

On Monday January 25, all parties in the House of Commons, friend and foe alike, paid heartfelt tribute to Churchill and what he had meant to the House and the country during his long years of service. During the tributes, his old seat below the gangway was left empty. Then, on the evening of the following day, his body, accompanied by his closest family and under the escort of the Lord Chamberlain, was transferred to Westminster Hall, where he was to lie in state until his state funeral the following Saturday.

 

It was only there that I truly began to see the scale of the event that was planned. The bearer party, formed by the Grenadier Guards, with whom Grandpapa had served in the trenches during the First World War, bore him in to the cold and eerie gloom of the great hall. The coffin was placed on a huge catafalque, and after a blessing from the Archbishop of Canterbury, the first four Officers of the Guard, which would keep watch over him for the whole period of his lying in state, took up their places, with swords reversed and heads bowed.

 

I remember finding the occasion almost overwhelming. When the coffin arrived, my mother said to me: "This is the moment we hand him over to the nation." There was something truly historic about the whole ritual. It affected me greatly, but Col Sir Eric Penn, who had played such a large part in organising the event, and stood about 6ft 5in in his uniform, was a great comfort to us.

 

During the next three days, Westminster Hall was open for 23 hours a day, so that people could pay their respects. In the bitterly cold weather, the queue was often over a mile long, and there was a wait of up to three hours. When the doors finally closed early on Saturday January 30, more than 320,000 people had passed by his coffin.

 

I went three times in total - once with my grandmother, Clementine. We were taken in through a side entrance; she was deeply veiled, and just stood in a corner. I don't think anyone saw her. The only light in that great hall seemed to come from the cross at the head of the catafalque, and from the candles around the flag-covered coffin. When I went again, and stood amid that great river of people, of all ages and from all over the country, just me and my mamma, it was only at the entrance to the hall that a policeman recognised us.

 

As the funeral approached, my brother Jeremy and I were told that we were going to walk behind the gun carriage, with two Guards officers, one to either side, to pace us through the streets.

 

I was absolutely awed by the occasion. As Big Ben rang out at 9.45am for the last time that day, the gun carriage, at the command of the Earl Marshal, left the Palace of Westminster, escorted by bands, soldiers, sailors and airmen, all with their arms reversed, in a magnificent and dignified procession through packed streets, to St Paul's, where the Queen and 3,000 others awaited.

 

My uncle, Randolph Churchill, and my father, Christopher Soames, my cousin Winston, myself, my younger brother and other male members of my family, including my grandpapa's devoted private secretary, Anthony Montague Browne, marched behind the coffin. The outpouring of emotion on the way to St Paul's was extraordinary to see: behind the cordon of police and soldiers, one could see the tears streaming down the faces of many in the crowds, which covered the whole pavement. A lot of people wore medals and everyone wore hats - everyone, that is, except Jeremy. It was bitterly cold, and the procession took an hour. Jeremy was only 12, and too young to wear a top hat, so he had to walk bareheaded. I remember thinking how well he was doing in the freezing cold.

 

The service was truly magnificent. The hymns chosen were my grandpapa's favourites, including the mighty Battle Hymn of the Republic. It was overwhelmingly beautiful and sad, and when the trumpeters sounded Last Post and the Reveille high up in the whispering gallery, it was a moment of supreme emotion. I saw people in the cathedral with their faces contorted with grief.

 

After the service, Grandpapa's coffin was taken to Tower Pier and was embarked on the Port of London Authority launch, Havengore. I can still see the massed ranks of Pipers playing The Flowers of the Forest and Lochaber No More as the coffin was piped aboard. I can't hear those tunes today without the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. Then the Royal Navy Guard of Honour crashed to a General Salute and the Royal Marine band played Rule, Britannia!, as Havengore slipped her moorings and turned out upstream on the leaden river to a 19-gun salute. For me this was the most beautiful moment of the day - this immense military presence, with the Tower of London brooding behind. It left us all rather dazed. And then, from Havengore, we turned to watch in awe as the great cranes on Hays Wharf dipped in salute. We didn't know it would happen. It was just the most wonderful thing. You could hear the action of the cranes lowering. And then the jets came roaring over. The noise. The noise.

 

Suddenly, at Waterloo Station, after the week of pomp, it was as if the nation handed Winston Churchill back to us, his family. Just his nearest and dearest, and Anthony Montague Browne, and Grace Hamblin - the Ham Bone, my grandmother's private secretary - were on the train to Bladon. We all watched out of the window and in every field we passed it seemed there were small groups of people waiting to say their goodbyes. I remember one field full of mounted members of the Pony Club with their hats off; a farmer standing with his head bowed; a Thames lock-keeper standing to attention at the salute, with his medals up; and on the flat roof of his house, an old man wearing his RAF uniform. At every station the platforms were thronged with people who had come to watch Winston Churchill's last journey home.

 

After the burial, we took the same train back to London. I remember my grandmother having tea. She was completely rock steady. And when we got back to Hyde Park Gate, my mother had supper with her. Finally, grandmother rose and said that she would go to bed, and my mother began to switch off the lights. Then my grandmother turned and said: "It wasn't a funeral, Mary - it was a triumph."

 

 

| The Daily Telegraph