Trollheart

Quite probably, though the book I read didn't specifically mention that. Like father like son, huh?

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Trollheart

It’s always a little hard to take anything anyone says about themselves in a positive light at face value, and you’d have to wonder at the almost superhero-like account Goering gives here of one of his squadron’s hardest (and in real terms, least believable) dogfights, but if nothing else it’s entertaining, so here it is reproduced in full from Peter Kilduff’s fine Herman Goering - Fighter Ace: The World War I Career of Germany’s Most Infamous Airman:

'Again it is a clear June day in the year 1917, not even a small cloud in the heavens. In the early morning hours, I gathered my officers and pilots about me and impressed on them all of the regulations about flying and fighting as a formation. Then I assigned each one his place in the formation and gave the final orders. I believed the new Staffel to have been sufficiently trained and I firmly decided to lead them into battle this day and .. . let them show proof of it. 'Soon after take-off the formation was assembled and we set out in the direction of the frontlines. In order to fly and fight in a more mobile way, I had the Staffel separated into two flights of five units each. I led the lower one and the upper one had to stay closely above us and follow. In the sector from Lens to Lille a relative calmness prevailed. From time to time a lone artillery spotter aeroplane moved about with great effort far behind its own lines. We flew on and on northward towarj our chief objective, the Wytschaete Salient. 'When we arrived at Ypres, we were at 5,000 metres altitude. A marvellous view of Flanders was spread out below us.

In the distant background gleamed the coast of France, stretched along the sea; we could clearly recognise Dunkerque and Boulogne; we knew that in the pale mist at the end of the horizon were the chalk cliffs of the British Isles. Below us lay Ypres and the enemy positions, which were situated around the heavily shelled city in a salient opening to the west. To the north the Flanders coast stretched on from Ostende to the mouth of the Schelde river. The Schelde itself glistened in the sunshine on to Holland. From 5,000 metres the eye took in a view of this piece of the earth, above which arched the sky in light blue. 'But danger also lurked here and we had to ... examine everything carefully. A sudden flash in the sun could betray us or the enemy. Despite having dark-green lenses in our goggles it was difficult to make out objects in the blinding flood of sunlight ... Just then I recognized that six enemy fighter aircraft were above us and ... flying with us. Blue-white-red cockades clearly shone on their silver-grey wings. Yet they did not attack us, as we were too many for them; they simply followed at an ominously close distance. For the present, we .. . could do nothing other than be careful.

Then I sighted more opponents. A formation of enemy Spad single-seaters approached from the rear left, another of [Sopwith] Triplanes from ahead on the left, both still some kilometres away, but heading towards us. At this moment, coming from in front of us, there suddenly appeared a squadron of British Sopwith [Pup biplane] single-seat fighters. Now they had to be dealt with. If I were to attack them, I would immediately have the six Nieuports soaring over us and down on our necks and a few minutes later both of the other enemy formations would be rushing toward us, as well . If I were to avoid them, then I must abandon the frontlines altogether, and the airspace would be free for the Englishman; he could do whatever he wanted over our lines. 'I decided to attack immediately, no matter what the cost. Now everyone had to show what he could do and what he was good for. There was no longer any thought of retreat; we had started a fight against a force four times greater than ours, now we battled desperately for our survival. This is how I wished to put the Staffel to the test. The aerial battle was upon us.

I gave the signal to attack - nosed over steeply with my machine - and charged into the Sopwiths. Immediately, they dispersed and the field of combat went downwards. There was wild firing all around me. From all sides you could see smoke trails of one's own and enemy incendiary bullets; tracer ammunition flew past me. Machines turned wildly, reared up, dived down, and looped. The enemy had now thrown himself into the battle in full strength; we duelled against thirty to forty enemy single-seaters. The greatest danger was [that we would] ram into each other. I sat behind a Sopwith that tried to elude my field of fire by desperately twisting and turning. I pushed him down ever lower as we came ever closer to enemy territory. I believed I would surely shoot him down, as he had taken some hard hits, when a furious hail of machine-gun fire opened up behind me. As I looked around, I saw only cockades; three opponents were on my neck, firing everything they had at me. Once again, with a short thrust, I tried to finish off the badly shot-up opponent ahead of me. It was too late. Smack after smack the shots from behil1ct. hit my machine. Metal fragments flew all around, the radiator was shot through; from a hole as big as a fist I was sprayed in the face by a heavy stream of hot water. Despite all that, I pulled the machine about and upwards and fired off a stream of bullets at the first fellow I saw. Surprised, he went into a spin. I caught up with the next opponent and went at him desperately, for I had to fight my way back across the lines. He also ceased fighting. It was a decisive moment. My engine, which was no longer receiving water from the radiator, quit and with that any further fighting by me was over. 'In a glide I passed over the lines and our positions. Close behind them I had to make a forced landing in a meadow.

The landing proved to be a smooth one, and the machine stayed upright. Now I sawall of the damage. My worthy bird had received twenty hits, some of them very close to my body. I looked around me apprehensively; what had happened to my Staffel? There was a noise above me and shortly thereafter one of my pilots landed in the same meadow. His machine looked pretty bad too; various parts were shot to pieces. Another two pilots also had to make forced landings with shot-up machines. But the pilots were safe and sound. The Staffel had prevailed in the toughest battle. Despite its numerical superiority, the enemy had quit the field of battle. Everything had been observed from down below and we reaped our rewards of recognition. Far more important for me, however, was the feeling that I could depend on my Staffel. During this violent Flanders battle the Staffel had delivered on what it had promised on one fine June day - to fight and to be victorious.

Right. Sounds fanciful at best. An enemy force FOUR TIMES the size of Goering’s and they not only beat them off, shot some of them down, but ALL survived? Pull the other one, kamerad, it’s got bells on! Still, there seems to be a general consensus that, despite what he became, Goering was feted as a pilot in the First World War, and, like Hitler, acquitted himself well in the conflict, however much we might wish to think differently. It was the job of the Nazis to rewrite history; it certainly is not mine, and grudgingly though I may give it, I’ll afford credit where it is due, even to men who later became monsters.

I must however remark on the huge difference in attitudes between the two wars, at least among airmen. Goering speaks of an English (actually Australian, but flying for the Royal Flying Corps) pilot he duelled with, eventually overcame and forced down. When the Englishman (sic) was taken prisoner, Goering spoke to him and they conversed about their dogfight, each congratulating the other on his skill. Knights of the air, indeed! By the time Hitler came to power such “gentlemanly conduct”, such “sporting behaviour” was long gone, even if the speed and power of the aircraft now made it far more likely that the loser was going to die in a ball of flame rather than just be forced down. World War I may have been, in essence, more brutal and savage than its later cousin, but in terms of air warfare and the conduct attending same, it could be said to have been the last “civilised war”. Hitler and the Nazis were not interested in recognising the valour of the opponent; to them, they were an inferior enemy, worthy of nothing more than death or capture. Airmen taken prisoner in World War I were treated well, and officers afforded much honour; in World War II everyone was treated the same.

If the writing is his, and not embellished by later biographers and Nazi revisionists, I must compliment Goering on his prose. It’s quite elegant, as you can see from any of the extracts published above, almost more like poetry or literature than mere reports or accounts. Some very descriptive passages whcih would not be out of place in a novel. However we must not forget that he was not only a Nazi, but one of those in high command, a confidante and friend of Hitler, and like all at least high-ranking Nazis, a rabid anti-semite. This is shown by his slur against one of his own officers in 1917, Lt. Willy Rosenstein, necessitating that officer’s demand he rescind the slur, and on Goering’s refusal to do so, Rosenstein’s request, which was granted, to be transferred. The thing is, reading about his air combat stories you can’t avoid a little grudging respect for the man, but always lurking behind Goering the World War One fighter ace, the hero of many dogfights, is the shadow of Goering the Nazi, Goering the cruel, anti-semite, the luster after power, the trampler on the careers, feelings, property and even lives of others, and Goering who, in the end, proved Goering the coward, taking his own life rather than face the hangman’s noose.

Further evidence not only of the man’s duplicity, but of the typical entitled officer’s attitude to money is seen when he attempted to claim back expenses incurred on his trip back to Mauterndorf in January. He erroneously - falsely, a blatant lie - described the fortress home of his uncle as a health resort, when it was no such thing, and surely had more than enough funds of his own for the trip, not to mention that his uncle was hardly likely to charge him for staying there. Just mean and greedy, two traits which would become apparent as part of his psychological makeup as he grew older and, becoming more powerful and in more authority, more dangerous. There exists, interestingly, no record of his receiving reimbursements, so it doesn’t look as if his little ploy worked.

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Trollheart

In February Goering’s squadron moved to Marcke in Belgium, establishing its headquarters at the seized castle of Baron Jean de Bethune and Goering, in command, was once again lord of the manor, though this time it was not someone else’s. Well, it was, but he did not have to share it with anyone, as he had done in Mauterndorf with his uncle and his mother. Goering did not have everything his own way though. Having tried everything he could to secure Germany’s highest military honour, the Pour le Merite, he was pipped by Loerzer, who was awarded it a day after he, Goering, had had a Knight’s Cross of the Military Karl Friedrich Merit Order pinned on his chest. Twenty kills were required for the Pour le Merite and Goering was lagging behind his friend (and rival) by three, then fate intervened and he contracted severe tonsillar abscess, so severe that he was at one point in danger of dying as the abscess cut off his breathing, but once again the Devil was on the case and he survived to return to his squadron. It’s believed that this may have been the first time he was given morphine, something he would end up with an addiction to in later life.

A few days after returning he had to give up the comforts of Castle Marckebecke and move with his squadron to an airfield outside of Douai, not far from where another WWI ace, Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron, was stationed with his squadron. He would not be there for long, as he would be shot down and killed within a month, no doubt souring the morale of a German Air Force whose military was already losing the war, the end clearly in sight. At the end of May, Goering was finally awarded the coveted Pour le Merite, which he had yearned for over the last year or more, though it was now three months later than Loerzer had achieved the honour. Nonetheless, as Goering had yet, at this point, to rack up twenty kills - he was stuck on eighteen - some backhand bureaucracy must have been taking place, with his friends in high places speaking for him. It would in fact be another month before Goering reached the requisite number of victories.

Goering’s personal prestige was further swollen (and no doubt again due to backroom deals) when he replaced Wilhelm Reinhard, Richthofen’s successor, as leader of the Red Baron’s squadron. He soon had competition though, in the shape of the late Red Baron’s brother, Lothar, who, when Goering took leave, assumed command of the squadron his famous sibling had founded and led. Back at Mauterndorf, Goering spent more time with Epenstein than with his fiancee, as her father could see how the war was going to end, and believing his daughter’s prospects poor if she married a defeated fighter ace, laid plans to end the relationship between Marianne and Goering. When he returned to retake command of his squadron - Richthofen having been injured and invalided out - he too could see that the end was in sight.

And yet, for all that, the famous stories of the “knights of the air”, the unspoken chivalry and gentlemanly conduct between enemy fliers do seem to have some basis in truth, as this account from a Danish pilot, Niels Paulli Krause, who was flying with a French squadron and who tangled with Goering reveals:

'One day I was alone on a long mission with my machine and I had taken some photographs when in the distance I could make out a German aeroplane returning from the French lines. As we had to cross paths, I was eager to know who this lone wolf might be. My opponent had also seen me and was heading toward me. We probed a little, circling each another at a great distance. I really had little desire for this circular angling while I was on the way home, but my opponent abruptly began the fight and forced me to respond. We flew around one another, coming ever closer, without finding a clear target. Then suddenly the German machine made a tight turn, almost into a loop, and in an instant its machine gun was trained on me. 'It all happened so suddenly that I was totally unable to respond. All that ran through my head was that [the pilot] must be some great opponent. Then once again the enemy aeroplane made such an incredible and for that time almost impossible manoeuvre that I knew my opponent was ... Goring. 'Every great flyer has ... special tactics. Thus, only Goring could fly like that.

As for me, I fought like I had never fought before ... And yet I clearly recognised that my opponent was better than I. This was no mere cat-and-mouse game, but a battle with a flying genius against whom it was impossible for me to prevail. I do not know how long we circled each other and strained our bracing wires. Linen tatters in my wings showed that I had been hit many times. But the decisive shot had not yet struck. 'Then, in the midst of " . [my gaining the advantage j, my machine gun jammed. I pounded with my fists against the red-hot gun breech, to no avail. I tugged at the ammunition belt, to no avail. My only thought was: "It is all over!" My opponent seemed perplexed that, suddenly, I was no longer shooting at him. He circled around me, noticed me hammering away at the machine gun and understood that I was no longer able to fight. Then suddenly .. . he flew quite close to me, put his hand to his flying helmet in a military salute, and turned toward the German lines .. . '

Were this an account given by Goering we could take it with probably a tablespoonful of salt, as he was, as we have learned already, given to embellishment, especially if it helped him to shine. Although whether an action such as this - letting an enemy pilot escape when he had him right where he wanted him - would be lauded or frowned upon is another matter. But this is not the account of the victor but the vanquished, and there is no percentage for the man to have recounted how he ended up at Goering’s mercy, and the only reason he survived was because the German ace allowed him to. So we must take it at face value, and allow that Goering did in fact at times respect his enemy, if that enemy had earned that respect.

Though perhaps it was expected of the pilots, a sort of gentleman’s code. Conrad Hoster, a retired wartime pilot, explained the agreed procedure: 'In order to make the expression "force down [an aeroplane]" understandable one must mention that aerial combats on the ,t\Testem Front were settled with a certain Ritterlichkeit [chivalry]. The vanquished or wounded adversary was spared the moment he gave up all resistance and sought his salvation in an involuntary landing. Such a moment always occurred when ... totally unexpected, the German pilot made a deft manoeuvre that put him right on his opponent's neck and he had the enemy aeroplane directly in his machine gun's stream of fire. In this situation the opponent knew that the German had only to press the firing button on his guns and in a few seconds his own crate would be fired on and at least his fuel tank would be set on fire or he would be hit. In this circumstance, therefore, the opponent gave up resistance and acquiesced to the victor that he would have to land, i.e., to be "forced down" to the ground at a minimum behind [the victor's] lines”

That, however, is not what Krause maintains happened in his encounter with Goering, which has to lead us to believe that Goering again did as he liked, what he thought was appropriate for the situation, and made his own rules. Again, though Hoster casts doubt on the veracity of the story, he does admit there is no reason for the Dane to have either embellished the story or even told it and had it published, as he was already a decorated war hero and in 1930, when the report was printed, the Nazis were on the rise, with war less than a decade away. Perhaps, having fought through the Great War, he was unwilling to see the world fall into the same trap again, and was trying to show, hoped, that the Germans were trustworthy, not barbarians, not the kind of people who would force another global conflict. On all fronts, of course, he was wrong there, but it may go some way towards explaining his motives. This is, of course, only my opinion, and quite likely wrong.

In October, as Goering was again in Berlin checking out the newest fighter aircraft, the war was already winding down, dragging painfully towards its inevitable conclusion, defeat for Germany and ignominy and humiliating surrender waiting in the wings. This did not stop him partying, but his flying days were drawing to a close. On November 19 1918 he disbanded the squadron, thanking the men for their service and promising their exploits would go down in German history. A short time later he was forced to call off his engagement to Marianne Mauser. His last words, given in December 1918 at a meeting of new officers association, held a dark warning and prediction for the future:

'For four long years, we officers did our duty on the ground, at sea and in the air, and risked our lives for our Fatherland. Now we come home and what do some people do to us? They spit on us and want to take our honour away from us. And I will tell you this: the real [German] people are not responsible for this [conduct]. Each and every one of them was a comrade, irrespective of social standing, for f(;lUr long, difficult years of war. It is not the real people who are to blame; rather, it is the ones who incited them, who stabbed our glorious army in the back and who wanted nothing more than to enrich themselves at the expense of the real people. And for that reason I urge everyone here today to [nurture] the deepest and most abiding hatred against these criminals [who are] against the German people. The day will come - that I know and I ask that you believe it - when these gentlemen are finished and driven out of our Germany. Prepare yourselves, arm yourselves and work toward that day ..


That day, to the world’s sorrow, would not be long in coming.

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Trollheart

While war is full of uncertainty, one thing is clear: it is never black and white. No matter how just and right the cause may be, no matter how noble the fight may appear, there's no such thing as the naive concept of good guys and bad guys. Very often, in order to achieve their objectives, those on what is seen as the “right side” or “the side of good” are forced to make hard decisions, take actions they would rather not, wrestle with their conscience and sacrifice for the greater good. Nobody ever won a war easily, not even a small one like the Falklands, or that time Cork declared its independence from Ireland (we crushed them, but a lot of brave Dublin lads gave their lives for the cause of liberty) – war by its very nature is a struggle, and even in the most one-sided conflict, or one that seems so, both sides will suffer, if only later in the court of public opinion and historical documentation. The British may have outnumbered and outmatched the Zulus, but these days it's the latter we remember mostly with sympathy and an understanding of their cause. Xerxes suffered massive losses at Thermopylae, but it's the brave defenders we remember.

History is of course also written by the winners, and they are naturally going to paint themselves in the best light possible. It's always important, when reading about any particular war, to try to get an account or accounts written by a disinterested party, or even by the losers. A chronicle of World War I written by a German author is going to read far different to that related by a British or French one, and what, I wonder, would an account of the Iraq War look like from an insider there? I'm always reluctant to trust the writings of the winning side – although sometimes, they are the only ones available – and usually try to check my sources and ensure that, like a good Ken Burns documentary, both sides of the story are told, in so far as can be achieved. I haven't found many books about World War II by German authors, probably because it's not a subject Germans are particularly keen to revisit or remind people of, and with Wikipedia there's no way to know who wrote what, though in general I tend to trust most of what I read there.

But biographies are almost always written in two ways: gushing, congratulatory prose by people who knew or know the person, or are connected with him, or scathing, biting attacks on the person by someone who has an axe to grind. Hard to find unbiased sources there. However when talking about this man, you'll do well to find a biographer who will slander or even cast doubt on his legend, so we're left with the accounts which would have to be considered “friendly”. But through a combination of research outside these books and articles on Wiki, I hope to get somewhere close to the truth. I'm not looking to canonise the man, but neither am I looking to vilify him. I just want to write a reasonably accurate and unembellished account. After all, it would hardly be fair, would it, to rail at Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels and Stalin, and present their adversaries as pure souls, untouched by scandal or even ill-advised plans?

So if anyone out there is a Churchill devotee, don't take offence at anything written here. I'm not trying to tear the man down: I realise what an icon he is, how important, even indispensable he was to the war effort, indeed to winning the war, and I agree he deserves the place he occupies in history. But sometimes idols can stand a little kicking, to see if those feet are made of the same tough substance as the rest, and what we find may surprise us. I already know there are skeletons lurking in the Prime Minister's closet – skeletons not exactly hidden, to be fair, but ones which cannot be ignored – and they'll get a good airing. It's only in looking at all sides of a man that you can get a proper picture of him, and we would in fact I believe be doing Churchill a great disservice by pretending he was untouchable, unimpeachable, without blemish. I'm sure even he wouldn't want that.

I: Born in a Palace – The Best Laid Plans

Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill was born on November 30 1874 in his family's ancestral home, Blenheim Palace. If he can be compared to anyone, in terms of upbringing and lineage, it is probably Herman Goring, which is to say he was born into an aristocratic family, and was certainly no working class boy done good. Winston would never have to struggle for the basic necessities of life, and so in many ways would perhaps be seen as disingenuous when he assured the British people during the war that he understood how they felt. Of course he did not. He never went without food or drink, or hot water, or his famous cigars. But to some extent, you can't help what you're born into, and it's the measure of a man how he responds to that birthright. Does he coast on through life, living on stipends and allowances, exploiting his position in class society, or does he get down and dirty with the people his class traditionally look down upon? Churchill has certainly been called all but the archetypal man of the people, but does he deserve that title? We'll find out, but not here probably, as this account, like the others I've written and those yet to come, are only intended to cover the early years of each figure and their rise, if any, to power prior to the onset of World War II.

It was a bitingly cold Tuesday in November, 1874, when only months earlier, half a world away, the Great Chicago Fire had levelled that proud city, and further south, the Texas-Indian Wars were drawing to a close, while closer to home Prince Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh had married the only daughter of Tsar Nicholas III of Russia. Meanwhile, 160 miles to the north, Alfred Cellier's comic opera The Sultan of Mocha had premiered only days before in the Prince's Theatre in Manchester, while luckless emigrants fleeing poverty and discrimination in England and heading for a new life in far-off New Zealand were destined never to reach that promised land, as the ship carrying them foundered and sunk with all hands.

None of this concerned the young woman, newly-wed, as she walked in a party of shooters in the grounds of Blenheim Palace that morning, November 30, trying to keep warm and probably quite bored. Jennie Jerome was the daughter of an American financier, and had been born in Brooklyn, spending her youth in Paris. She was a socialite who had edited magazines and probably did not understand nor care for the class system in Britain, where everyone was expected to conform to certain behaviours deemed “proper” for their status. In the USA, things were much freer and more lax, but here in the heart of the British Empire, and in her new married position, she had to conform, and she more than likely resented it. She may also have resented carrying the soon-to-be-born child of her husband, Lord Randolph Churchill, though she probably did not realise how soon that event was to occur.

As a girl, Jennie had been quite a talented pianist, tutored by no less a personage that Stephen Heller, a close friend of Chopin, and believed by him to be capable of rising to concert level. She therefore, it can be assumed, would have been discontented in the role she now played, very much second to her husband, with no real life of her own, subservient to his wishes and trapped in the snares of his class. She had been, for the past hundred days or so, Lady Churchill, but may have considered herself as a bird in a gilded cage. And a heavily pregnant bird, at that. Married at twenty years of age she was already carrying her first child and due to deliver in a matter of months. She had met her future husband at a regatta on the Isle of Wight, introduced to Lord Randolph by the Prince of Wales, the future King Edward VI, and three days later they were engaged. Family bickering over arrangements delayed the marriage, which did not take place until April 15 1874.

To nobody's surprise, the idea of his son marrying a liberated, opinionated American woman did not sit well with Randolph's father, who had then final say in the marriage of his son. He did not in fact have so much against Jennie as against her father, Leonard, who, though he had involvement in newspapers (he once part-owned the New York Times) had made his money in horses, in racing, and while horse racing was seen in England as “the sport of kings”, that was watching and betting on it, not financing it or owning any part of it, which was seen as common and vulgar. However, whatever else he might be, or said to be, Leonard Jerome was rich, and if there's one thing that will placate even the deepest disapproval it's hard cash, and so, after some new world ideas about women owning property met old world ones which said everything was the right of the husband, and some considerable money crossing hands, differences were settled and the marriage was allowed to proceed.

Whether Jennie could shoot, or had any interest in doing so, or was just bored and tagging along, I'm not aware, though in general I think women shooting was frowned upon in nineteenth-century England (though her being an American, it's quite possible she did shoot). Whatever the case, an accident occurred which was to have long-ranging implications for her. She had a fall and was then placed in a pony carriage, the resultant jostling and bumping in which resulted in her going into labour the following Saturday night. No doctor being available, it was left to the county physician to deliver the baby. This was not how it was supposed to have been.

Lord Randolph had rented a fashionable house in Charles Street, Mayfair, from which his first progeny was intended to glimpse the world and in which his birthing cries would be heard, but the house was not ready, and so Lord Randolph and his pregnant wife moved into the family ancestral home at Blenheim for the autumn. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but when Jennie went into labour there it became the site of Winston's birth, and the friends and social butterflies and powerful magnates and nobles Lord Randolph had no doubt planned to be in attendance were conspicuous by their absence. The room, in fact, which saw the emergence of the future Prime Minister of Great Britain pop out his head was a small, dark, cheerless one, and I suppose in some ways you could say its austerity and bleakness might have been seen as a metaphor for what was to await the little baby in his long and illustrious life.

He would also be, like most children of the time, deprived of the love and attention of his mother. This was simply how it was done in England at that time. A nanny took care of the child and the father and mother seldom saw them until perhaps they were grown, and so it was with young Winston. Elizabeth Everest, a spinster nurse, was engaged to look after the baby a mere month after his birth, and would become in every sense but reality his mother. He looked up to her, loved her dearly, referring to her as “woomany”, and shared all his problems, thoughts and dreams with her. He would, when he grew old enough, write regularly to his mother, but would seldom receive a reply, much less a visit.

In 1876, when Winston was two years old, Lord Randolph's brother, John Spencer-Churchill, had an altercation with the Prince of Wales over a woman, and was as a result sent to Ireland to serve as Viceroy. This was clearly punishment, as no Englishman, never mind a nobleman, wished to serve in Ireland, which was mostly still seen as “that barbarous country”, as Queen Elizabeth had described it in the sixteenth century, and was bitterly opposed to English rule. During the Churchills' time there they would witness the unspeakable horrors of the Great Famine, brought about mostly by greedy and thoughtless English landowners who treated Irish farmers and peasants as little more than slaves, and allowed them to starve in the fields or die on coffin ships.

Although the quarrel had nothing to do with him, Randolph was John's secretary and so was constrained to accompany him to Dublin, along with his new family. Three months before their return to England Winston's brother Jack was born, another entrusted to the care of Mrs. Everest (although she had never married, spinsters were traditionally called Mrs), who was summarily and, many say, rudely and unfairly dismissed in 1893. Although no longer in her care, it must have been an emotional wrench to Winston to see the woman whom had more or less filled the role of his mother being so cruelly and thanklessly treated, but he of course had no say in the matter. Elizabeth would die two years later, and Winston paid for her tombstone and for her grave to be perpetually upkept by the cemetery.

Another thing parents did with their children back then was send them off to boarding school as soon as it was possible. You'd imagine they must have had very little feeling towards their offspring, and often this was correct: while the father wanted an heir (and so a male child) to take over from him, he would be generally – not always of course, but it seems in the majority of cases – uninterested in the boy's babyhood, childhood and adolescence, and perhaps only even meet him again once he had grown to be the man his father had impatiently awaited him to become. Girls were, I think, mostly kept at home – fathers had little to no interest in them, as a rule, as they could not inherit anything from them – and probably got more of the mother's love (if there was any to give) than her son would have. In Jennie's case certainly, evidence seems to indicate that though Winston loved his mother (“at a distance”, according to himself) she never quite returned the kind of affection he craved, possibly seeing him as an unnecessary distraction to her career as a socialite.

Seven years was the age at which Winston was packed off to boarding school, the first being St. George's in Ascot, Berkshire, where he hated every moment. The school – now a girls' one – had a reputation for brutal, uncompromising discipline, and for a boy of seven years who had, while not having the love and affection due to him from his parents, never received any such punishment at home, and had only had devotion and kindness from Mrs. Everest, his “woomanny”, this must have come as a terrible shock. Whether such treatment toughened him up for the life he was to follow or not is open to debate, but when many of the teachers in boarding schools were known at the time to be both sadists who relished their power over the young boys and men of at best limited education themselves, it seems doubtful that it served any useful purpose. Certainly, his lack of progress academically while there, and his transfer to Brunswick School in Hove, a mere two years later, does not point towards his having advanced in any way under the tutelage of the masters at St. George's.

Indeed, his health had begun to deteriorate (whether due to the beatings or not I don't know, but you can speculate; they certainly wouldn't have helped) by the time the decision was made to enrol him in Brunswick, and here he found a completely different world. Punishment and discipline were not used in this school, the teachers far more friendly and relaxed in comparison, yet this was attended by a general lack of incentive to learn. While I personally would never advocate the corporal punishment of children, especially to gratify personal tastes, and while it's clear that the application of same did nothing to help Winston (or, presumably, the other students) learn anything, the lack of discipline at Brunswick may have had the very same effect, leaving no impetus for improvement. It would not be until he was finally moved to the famous Harrow, in 1888, that any sort of real education would begin for the future Prime Minister.

Historians, particularly British ones, would love to say that Winston Churchill sailed through the entrance exam, excelled in his studies once he had “found” the right school, and that Harrow had only been waiting for him, to open and impart its centuries of knowledge to his eager young mind. Unfortunately, that was nowhere near the case. He barely scraped through the exam, narrowly missing being turned down, and was never a good student; which is to say, or clarify, that he did not easily take to the accepted important subjects of the time, Greek, Latin and mathematics, for which he had little or no time. He was, however, deeply interested in English and history, and expended all his learning energies on these subjects. Despite private tuition offered by one of his teachers in the Classics, he did not seem interested, though one of his other teachers, Robert Somervell, was impressed by his grasp and usage of English and sought to bring this latent talent to flower, for which Churchill later wrote he was very grateful: "Mr. Somervell - a most delightful man, to whom my debt is great - was charged with the duty of teaching the stupidest boys the most disregarded thing - namely, to write mere English. He knew how to do it. He taught it as no one else has ever taught it As I remained in the Third Fourth [a very disregarded form] three times as long as anyone else, I had three times as much of it. I learned it thoroughly. Thus I got into my bones the essential structure of the ordinary British sentence - which is a noble thing.”

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