The story of their survival, writes Paul Kalina in the Sydney Morning Herald, is part of a new film by Graham McNeice on Australians who defied narrow brushes with death. The program aired January 5th on Australia’s Foxtel Bio Channel.

Originally a yawl, Winston Churchill was built of huon pine by Percy Coverdale of Hobart, Tasmania in 1942. Restored at the cost of A$360,000 by Richard Winning, she was sloop-rigged with a new aluminum mainmast. Mr. Winning was not interested in winning: he sailed for “a bit of recreation–gentleman’s ocean racing,” when he began entering the Churchill in races. We covered his effort in Finest Hour under the title, “We’re Only Here for the Beer.”

We met through the post forty-two years ago, when he became the third honorary member of the Churchill Study Unit, after his grandmother and his father. The latter had only just sent a letter of encouragement to our little group of stamp collectors when he himself died. It was June, 1968. In sending condolences, I asked Winston to take his father’s place. He accepted, adding, “It is consoling to know so many share my loss.”

And for four decades “Young Winston” was a stalwart supporter, friend and a collaborator on projects too numerous to recount. While kidding him that he was fast getting to be the “Not-So-Young Winston,” I felt he was timeless, always there for us: encouraging, prodding, donating, participating. My grief at his loss, far too soon, is deeply felt.

He gave us permission to publish his grandfather’s articles and speeches in Finest Hour. He appeared for speeches and presentations, from conferences to our Churchill Tours of England. He officiated at joint ceremonies like the commissioning of USS Winston S. Churchill, the American Veterans Center, our 2006 Churchill Lecture. When we founded The Churchill Centre in 1995, he was among the first to contribute to its endowment. He freely allowed his signature to be used on solicitations, most recently in a letter asking lapsed members to renew, which, eerily, was received by some after his death.

Like his father, he preferred to communicate by telephone, announcing himself with a cheery “Winston here!” He would call to tell of his adventures, from flying desperate medical missions for St. John Ambulance Air Wing to exploring scenes of his grandfather’s exploits—like the Malakand Pass, where he rode in an armoured car accompanied by soldiers armed to the teeth. Truly, he lived life large. In London and Washington, he knew everybody, just like his mother. As they said of Alistair Cooke: “He could reach back, reach forward, and make the connections. He was always, triumphantly, in touch.”

On one of his trips to New England, when promoting his book of Sir Winston’s writings about America, The Great Republic, we took him to visit Plimoth Plantation. There he accosted an Indian, assuring him they were related, “since my grandfather was part-Iroquois.” Back in the car I let him have it: “Winston, you’re as Iroquois as my cat!” “If you’re so smart,” he said, “prove it. Meanwhile it’s my story and I’m running with it!”

When I first visited him in London, he showed me his personal memorabilia. Here was the peerless Orpen portrait of his sad grandfather after the Dardanelles; an ornamental table once owned by John Churchill First Duke of Marlborough; a collection of WSC’s works, all first editions inscribed by his grandfather. I was a Churchill bookseller at the time, and he wanted to know what I thought of his collection. “Well,” I said, “you’ve made a good start…..”

We had several literary collaborations. When he assembled Never Give In!, his collection of Sir Winston’s best speeches, I was able to dig out some obscure ones he needed, like his grandfather’s remarks in Durban after escaping from the Boers in 1899. His writings appeared in Finest Hour, most recently in recounting the heroic contributions of Poles in World War II, in issue 145. Sir Martin Gilbert read it without realizing who wrote it: “I said to myself, wow,this is really good, I wonder who wrote it (wish it had been me!)”

Our largest “combined operation” was Churchill By Himself, the book I couldn’t have produced without his permission. Winston provided his grandfather’s words, I provided editorial notes. This, I assured him, would be “a production to rival South Pacific: music by W. Churchill, lyrics by R. Langworth.”

There were amusing adventures, like his call for “cigar quotes” for a company producing a new Churchill corona. I supplied the quotes and he asked if I wanted to be paid. “Yes,” I said, “with a box of cigars.” Sniffed Winston: “I don’t touch the dreadful things myself, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t kill yourself if you wish.” The box duly arrived with the price still on it, and I was temporarily elevated to smoking a twenty-five dollar corona, courtesy of my friend in London. (Recently I gave one to a Bahamian pal, its elaborate band sparkling with a red and gilt Churchill coat of arms. He looked as if he’d received a knighthood.)

Political labels are all too freely applied, and some labeled Winston a right-winger, but his views were too complex to be pigeonholed. True, he broke with Mrs. Thatcher by voting against sanctions on Rhodesia; he deplored the skinning-down of Britain’s armed forces; he worried publicly over unrestricted Commonwealth immigration and the muslimization of his country. But he was also pro-Europe; he strove for a more classless society. And last year, when Barack Obama’s Cairo speech was regarded by the right as a surrender, Winston hailed it as a courageous breakthrough in American foreign policy.

It is too easy to compare him to his grandfather and lament that he (or his father) were not equally great. Who was? It is most awfully untrue “that no acorn grows under a mighty oak.” There are just as many progeny of the great who did better than their parents (beginning of course with Sir Winston himself). For every “Randolph” there was a “Winston”—among the Buckleys, the Chamberlains, the Kennedys, the Salisburys, the Roosevelts, the Rothschilds, ad infinitum. It’s simply wrong to imply on this basis that his life was futile. Ultimately, most lives are.

And it is gratuitous to compare him to his female relations, since in those years, women were expected to mind their own business and perpetuate the family. The Churchill women who exceeded those roles did so through their own talent and character. Much more was expected of the Churchill men—more, perhaps, than could be expected of anyone. The onus was upon them both: Randolph, only son of Winston; Winston, only son of Randolph.

Still, with their pens, Winston and his father could reach heights matched by few. Were they great journalists? Read Randolph’s first two volumes on his father; read Winston’s biography of Randolph; read their joint book on the 1967 Arab-Israeli Six-Day War. The question answers itself.

Concerning his grandfather, Finest Hour once quoted Shakespeare’s Malvolio: “Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.” Winston was one of those whom some tried to thrust greatness upon. He shook it off by being himself—not what some thought he was obliged to be.

His record was one on which I think he was content to be judged. Having no doubt about the verdict, it seems appropriate to conclude with another quote, by Rossiter Raymond, which adorns the tombstone of  Parry Thomas, the great Welsh racing driver: “Life is eternal, and love is immortal, and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.”

On Eleuthera, where we spent many winters, there was fascination with U.S. Presidential elections. A virtue of island is that racism, in the sense we all know it, doesn’t really exist. Our easy-going tropical strand features smiles of welcoming locals and friends who have known each other for years. It just doesn’t seem to matter whether the face in front of you is black or white.

So it was perfectly natural for the wife of our local grocer to ask me in 2008: “Is it possible for a non-white to be elected President?”…

…And for me to reply without even a thought: “Sure. In fact it was possible twelve years ago, if the ticket had been Colin Powell and Jack Kemp.”

I am firmly convinced it was possible—not only because Colin Powell is a man vast numbers of people like or admire; but because Jack Kemp, was equally so: a politician who, like Churchill, never wrote off any voter, who believed that his libertarian philosophy could appeal to all, that it was the height of patronization to single out minority groups and declare that they must have more government because they cannot get by with less of it.

Kemp at speed

Jack was a man who lived life at maximum velocity, whether as championship quarterback for the Buffalo Bills, as a U.S. congressman who promoted enterprise zones in inner cities, as an empowerment-advocating Housing Secretary, or as a candidate for Vice President who described himself as a “bleeding-heart conservative.” But you can read all about those achievements by searching the web. I would rather write about what he meant to Churchillians.

The Tenth International Churchill Conference in 1993 was a stellar occasion. We welcomed Lady Thatcher, Winston Churchill, Ambassador Kirkpatrick, Celia Sandys and General Powell. We held a service at the Washington Navy Yard Chapel which duplicated that of Roosevelt and Churchill at Argentia in August 1941, with veterans of USS Augusta and HMS Prince of Wales to read the Lessons. We hosted Ambassador Alan Keyes, who not only sang five national anthems including God Defend New Zealand, but all six verses of The Battle Hymn of the Republic—without music in freezing cold on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. As Churchill wrote of Argentia: “Every verse seemed to stir the heart. It was a great hour to live.”

***

Jack Kemp was our keynote speaker at that conference. He spoke words of wisdom and inspiration, delivered with vigor and humor. When his introducer made so bold as to compare him to a former congressman named Abraham Lincoln, Jack rose in haste to disclaim even the slightest similarity. After her appreciation following his speech Jeane Kirkpatrick and Jack embraced: old colleagues, veterans of political wars, together again, even though (as Jeane told me at dinner), they had differed fervently over the 1982 Falklands War, with Jack firmly on the side of Margaret Thatcher and Great Britain.

Supply sider

Jack and his gracious wife Joanne were with us again at the commissioning of USS Winston S. Churchill in Norfolk in 2001, and we dined together in the wardroom. His last run for office was six years past. He was still passionate about what The New York Times called his “most important idea.” That was the theory that tax cuts woiuld lead an economic boom. Lost revenue lost is more than offset by taxes on greater earnings.

“What was it that Churchill said about Supply-Side economics?” Jack asked between bites.

“He didn’t say anything about Supply-Side economics,” I replied. “He was a Liberal!”

“Yes he did!,” Jack retorted. “You know, about keeping money in people’s pockets.”

Later I looked it up and sent it to him, because of course he was right. Churchill’s words ring as true now as when Churchill spoke them, ion 16 August 1945, Perhaps they have temporarily fallen out of favor:

What noble opportunities have the new Government inherited! Let them be worthy of their fortune, which also is the fortune of us all. To release and liberate the vital springs of British energy and inventiveness, to let the honest earnings of the nation fructify in the pockets of the people….

Godspeed, Jack

In January 2009 Jack Kemp announced that he was diagnosed with cancer. He said he was undergoing tests but gave no other detail. Scarcely four months later he was gone. Immediately I thought of the words Churchill offered, as only he could, quoting from Adam Lindsay Gordon’s grand poem “The Last Leap,” upon the death of his dearest friend, Lord Birkenhead:

The summons which reached him, and for which he was equally prepared, was of a different order. It came as he would have wished it, swift and sudden on the wings of speed. He had reached the last leap in his gallant course through life. All is over! Fleet career, Dash of greyhound slipping thongs, Flight of falcon, bound of deer, Mad hoof-thunder in our rear, Cold air rushing up our lungs, Din of many tongues.