
How the mystery of Winston Churchill's dead platypus was finally solved
Two Winstons and a war
The world has always been fascinated by the platypus. An egg-laying mammal with the face and feet of a duck, an otter-shaped body and a beaver-inspired tail, many thought the creature was an elaborate hoax; a taxidermy trick.For Churchill, an avid collector of rare and exotic animals, the platypus's intrigue only made him more desperate to have one – or six – for his menagerie.And in 1943 he said as much to the Australian foreign minister, H.V. 'Doc' Evatt.In the eyes of Evatt, the fact that his country had banned the export of the creatures - or that they were notoriously difficult to transport and none had ever survived a journey that long - were merely challenges to overcome.Australia had increasingly felt abandoned by the motherland as the Japanese drew closer and closer – and if a posse of platypuses would help Churchill respond more favourably to Canberra's requests for support, then so be it.Conservationist David Fleay – who was asked to help with the mission – was less amenable."Imagine any man carrying the responsibilities Churchill did, with humanity on the rack in Europe and Asia, finding time to even think about, let alone want, half-a-dozen duckbilled platypuses," he wrote in his 1980 book Paradoxical Platypus.
On Mr Fleay's account, he managed to talk the politicians down from six platypuses to one, and young Winston was captured from a river near Melbourne shortly after.An elaborate platypusary – complete with hay-lined burrows and fresh Australian creek water – was constructed for him; a menu of 50,000 worms – and duck egg custard as a treat – was prepared; and an attendant was hired to wait on his every need throughout the 45-day voyage.Across the Pacific, through Panama Canal and into the Atlantic Ocean Winston went - before tragedy struck.In a letter to Evatt, Churchill said he was "grieved" to report that the platypus "kindly" sent to him had died in the final stretch of the journey."Its loss is a great disappointment to me," he said.The mission's failure was kept secret for years, to avoid any public outcry. But eventually, reports about Winston's demise would begin popping up in newspapers. The ship had encountered a German U-boat, they claimed, and the platypus had been shaken to death amid a barrage of blasts.
"A small animal equipped with a nerve-packed, super sensitive bill, able to detect even the delicate movements of a mosquito wriggler on stream bottoms in the dark of night, cannot hope to cope with man-made enormities such as violent explosions," Mr Fleay wrote, decades later."It was so obvious that, but for the misfortunes of war, a fine, thriving, healthy little platypus would have created history in being number one of its kind to take up residence in England."
Mystery unravelled
"It is a tempting story, isn't it?" PhD student Harrison Croft tells the BBC.But it's one that has long raised suspicions.And so last year, Mr Croft embarked on his own journey: a search for truth.Accessing archives in both Canberra and London, the Monash University student found a bunch of records from the ship's crew, including an interview with the platypus attendant charged with keeping Winston alive."They did a sort of post-mortem, and he was very particular. He was very certain that there was no explosion, that it was all very calm and quiet on board," Mr Croft says.
A state away, another team in Sydney was looking into Winston's life too. David Fleay's personal collection had been donated to the Australian Museum, and staff all over the building were desperate to know if it held answers."You'd ride in the lifts and some doctor from mammalogy… [would ask] 'what archival evidence is there that Winston died from depth charge detonations?'" the museum's archive manager Robert Dooley tells the BBC."This is something that had intrigued people for a long time."With the help of a team of interns from the University of Sydney, they set about digitising all of Fleay's records in a bid to find out.
Even as far back as the 1940s, people knew that platypuses were voracious eaters. Legend of the species' appetite was so great that the UK authorities drafted an announcement offering to pay young boys to catch worms and deliver them to feed Winston upon his arrival.In the platypus attendant's logbook, the interns found evidence that his rations en route were being decreased as some of the worms began to perish.But it was water and air temperatures, which had been noted down at 8am and 6pm every day, that held the key to solving the mystery.These readings were taken at two of the cooler points of the day, and still, as the ship crossed the equator over about a week, the recorded temperatures climbed well beyond 27C - what we now know is the safe threshold for platypus travel.With the benefit of hindsight - and an extra 80 years of scientific research into the species - the University of Sydney team determined Winston was essentially cooked alive.While they can't definitively rule out the submarine shell-shock story, they say the impact of those prolonged high temperatures alone would have been enough to kill Winston.
"It's way easier to just shift the blame on the Germans, rather than say we weren't feeding it enough, or we weren't regulating its temperature correctly," Ewan Cowan tells the BBC."History is totally dependent on who's telling the story," Paul Zaki adds.
Platypus diplomacy goes extinct
Not to be dissuaded by its initial attempt at platypus diplomacy, Australia would try again in 1947.High off the achievement of successfully breeding a platypus in captivity for the first time – a feat that wouldn't be replicated for another 50 years – Mr Fleay convinced the Australian government to let the Bronx Zoo have three of the creatures in a bid to deepen ties with the US.Unlike Winston's secret journey across the Pacific, this voyage garnered huge attention. Betty, Penelope and Cecil docked in Boston to much fanfare, before the trio was reportedly escorted via limousine to New York City, where Australia's ambassador was waiting to feed them the ceremonial first worm.Betty would die soon after she arrived, but Penelope and Cecil quickly became celebrities. Crowds clamoured for a glimpse of the animals. A wedding was planned. The tabloids obsessed over their every move.
Platypus are solitary creatures, but New York had been promised lovers. And while Cecil was lovesick, Penelope was apparently sick of love. In the media, she was painted as a "brazen hussy", "one of those saucy females who like to keep a male on a string".Until 1953 that is, when the pair had a four-day fling - rather upsettingly described as "all-night orgies of love" - fuelled by "copious quantities of crayfish and worms".Alas, Penelope soon began nesting, and the world excitedly awaited her platypups, which were to be a massive scientific milestone – only the second bred in captivity, and the first outside Australia.After four months of princess treatment and double rations for Penelope, zookeepers checked on her nest in front of a throng of excited reporters. But they found no babies - just a disgruntled-looking Penelope, who was summarily accused of faking her pregnancy to secure more worms and less Cecil."It was a whole scandal," Mr Cowan says - one from which Penelope's reputation never recovered.Years later, in 1957, she would vanish from her enclosure, sparking a weeks-long search and rescue mission which culminated in the zoo declaring her "presumed lost and probably dead".A day after the hunt for Penelope was called off, Cecil died of what the media diagnosed as a "broken heart".Laid to rest with the pair was any real future for platypus diplomacy.Though the Bronx Zoo would try to replicate the exchange with more platypuses in 1958, the finnicky beasts lasted under a year, and Australia soon tightened laws banning their export. The only two which have left the country since have lived at the San Diego Zoo since 2019.
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles


Telegraph
an hour ago
- Telegraph
Now that I've quit alcohol, I can finally enjoy sex
As a young adult in the 1980s, I woke up on countless mornings wondering where I was and whom I had been sleeping next to. I often couldn't recall the drunken night before, and how I had ended up in bed with a stranger. Now in my 50s, I'm going on sober dates and having alcohol-free sex for the first time in my life. It's a total shift away from decades of being a high-functioning alcoholic. When I was a teenager, drinking copious amounts of alcohol was totally normal and perfectly acceptable. Even as a 15-year-old, I didn't think twice about drinking the two bottles of cider my brothers had bought from an off-licence. All my first dating experiences, including losing my virginity, included alcohol. When I moved to Manchester in my early 20s, it was the height of the rave scene, and I had a job as a half-naked podium dancer, a job you can't really do sober. I was a party girl having a fabulous time, but my love life was pretty chaotic, filled with drunken dates that ended in sex. Drinking removed all my nervous inhibitions about sex, and made me unbothered by anxiety about my body or performance. But I also made a lot of poor judgment calls. I'd often wake up in a stranger's bed, overwhelmed with self-loathing and regret. Occasionally, I wouldn't remember what had happened, and would make any excuse to leave. Sex was a cure for a hangover In my mid-20s, I decided I needed to settle down, so started an event-planning company and experimented with online dating. When I was 31, I met Andy, who would later become my husband, on a dating website. We had a whirlwind love affair filled with mix tapes, dirty weekends and fabulous fun. Eighteen months after meeting, in February 2004, we were getting married on a tropical beach in Jamaica, surrounded by friends and family. I remember thinking how absolutely perfect my life was. As a couple, we drank together most nights. During the week, we'd share a bottle of wine after work. On Sundays, Andy would prepare and cook an epic roast dinner from noon, and we'd open three bottles of wine over the course of the day. Even though, looking back, I can see we were drinking over the weekly limit, I wouldn't say it was problematic. We just enjoyed wine together. All of our sex was had when we were either drunk, or in a morning after having been drunk the night before. Sex was quite often a cure for a hangover – it helped to clear my head. I remember having rather fabulous hung-over sex with Andy at a festival we went to. When I became pregnant with our son, Finn, in 2007, I didn't drink, and while I missed it, I didn't have any physical symptoms of withdrawal. Since we had spent three years trying to get pregnant, when I finally managed to do so through fertility treatment, Andy and I didn't have sex. I didn't want to jeopardise the pregnancy, and Finn was born safe and well in November 2007. Drinking to cope Life continued – I was busy running an events business, and Andy helped run things at home. Twelve years into our marriage, Andy started complaining about chest pains. Seeing a doctor on three occasions, he was told the pains were caused by stress. Andy was never stressed – he was one of the most laid-back people I knew – so I pushed for him to get an electrocardiogram. It turned out that the chest pains were a sign of heart disease and he was on the verge of a heart attack. He was rushed to hospital, where doctors inserted three stents to widen his arteries. The night we got home from the hospital, I slept in the guest room because Andy was snoring so loudly. At 6am, I was woken by the most awful sound – Andy was having another heart attack. For 40 minutes, I did CPR on him, before the ambulance arrived and took him to the hospital. Once the paramedics had taken over, I went straight to the wine rack and downed an entire bottle of wine in seconds. It was my first reaction – my way of coping. Before leaving for the hospital, I poured vodka into a Diet Coke bottle so I'd have something to get me through the next few hours. For two weeks, I sat by Andy's bedside, hoping and praying. Finally, the consultant told me the bad news: our story would not have a happy ending. Andy had suffered a catastrophic brain injury as a result of the lack of oxygen to his brain. There would be no recovery in sight for him. He was transferred into 24/7 nursing care, and I was told he would never come home. For three years, I lived anticipating his death, preparing myself for the grief of losing him. Yet at the same time, I had already lost him. He didn't recognise me. Although married, I was already widowed. 'Chapter two' This is the point where my drinking became a huge problem. My perfect life had been shattered, and all I wanted to do was numb the pain of what had happened. Although I couldn't start a day without a glass of wine, I never missed a day of work and Finn never missed a day of school. Just as the pandemic hit, in April 2020, Andy died. Unable to leave the house, I tried to juggle my grief, parenting, and my business. It all became too much. The world and my world had fallen apart and I coped by sitting in the hot tub in the garden with a drink in hand. When the world got back to normal after lockdown, I just carried on drinking. I couldn't find a way through my grief. I saw a doctor, who prescribed me antidepressants, which I took alongside alcohol. Joining a support group for young widows, I found a tribe of women who had experiences of loss that mirrored my own. One of them asked whether I had thought about my 'Chapter Two' – dating again after losing Andy two years prior. With her encouragement, I downloaded Tinder, and quickly realised how much online dating had changed from when Andy and I had first met. It was like the Wild West, full of d--- pics and married men. It was a really dreadful dating experience. Lots of the men didn't know how to respond or treat me when I told them I had been widowed. I ended up creating a dating app for widows – Chapter 2 – to connect people who know what it's like to be a widow. Even though I felt I was turning my pain into positivity, I was still broken inside, and still drinking heavily – several bottles of wine a day, or Diet Coke and vodka when I needed to hide what I was having. I had two short-term relationships, but pushed both men away because of my drinking. They both confronted me about it, and when they did, I broke it off. I couldn't admit I had a problem. On one date at a music festival, I got so drunk that I fell down a flight of stairs and got badly bruised. In 2023, I had another drunken fall that resulted in a trip to hospital. In November 2024, I had a seizure when I briefly tried to stop drinking. The people closest to me – Finn, my dad, and my two best friends – were very worried about me, and I felt so much shame about how bad things had got. Days before Finn's 17th birthday in November 2024, I phoned my private insurance company and told them I needed to go to rehab. 'It is the best birthday present you can give me,' Finn said to me when I told him. Waking without shame or remorse Thirty-one days after checking myself in, I left rehab, and haven't had a drink since. To mark 90 days of sobriety, I took myself on a cruise, which is where I met Troy. He became my first-ever sober kiss, and we went on to have sober sex. It felt like the first time, and I suppose it was – the first time I was truly present during sex. I was totally aware for all of it, albeit nervous about someone seeing me naked. I noticed that, in the past, I'd always been a selfish lover, but without the crutch of alcohol, I was more active while lovemaking. In the morning, I woke without any shame or remorse. Now, Troy and I remain friends with benefits, and I've dated others since him. The more I've dated without the 'Dutch courage' alcohol provides, the more my confidence has grown. But it has taken practice. Without the empty calories of alcohol, I've lost some weight, and feel so much more body-confident during sex. I make better choices about men when I'm sober, having sex only with people I genuinely like and see potential with. All-sober sex has resulted in further dates with that person – no one-night stands anymore. But the biggest challenge of dating sober remained: having to tell my dates why I wasn't drinking. As soon as my date noticed, the reasons for my sobriety would come up. It was too much to reveal, too soon. Having already created a dating app for widows, I set up another dating app called SoberLove, for people who wanted a connection without the crutch of alcohol. It's been really well received and given me so much purpose, as I help people who have chosen sobriety to find relationships. Getting sober has been one of the best things I've ever done. It's been one day at a time since I left rehab, but I know I will never drink again, and my dating life is all the better for it.


Telegraph
an hour ago
- Telegraph
The Midults: I'm worried I will be left until last for our inheritance
Dear A&E, We are a family of four grown-up children, and our surviving parent has recently died. While some of the bigger pieces of jewellery, furniture and paintings have been itemised in the will, most of the other stuff has been left for us to divide among ourselves. I'm the youngest member of the family – and even though I'm an adult I'm still treated that way – and I'm worried that I'll be left until last when it comes to working out who gets what. None of it is really worth much, but there is lots of sentimental value. How can I avoid this happening? – Apprehensive Dear Apprehensive, This sound brutal but, bear with is, and we'll expand: how do you avoid being treated like 'the baby'? Don't behave like 'the baby'. Just because your older siblings may see you as the little one, does not render you helpless. Get organised. Get kind. Get proactive. And remember, all the while, that stuff is only stuff. We all have roles assigned to us – early – by our families. Eventually, the responsibility lies with us to communicate that these roles or labels are no longer valid, applicable or helpful. And then the responsibility transfers to our family to listen – as much as they are capable of listening. We do well when we remember that people (even the ones we love the most… even the brilliant ones) have limits. And, when we embark on new emotional territory, we can never know when we might hit one of these limits, which could manifest as an emotional landmine, a broad denial or a total avoidance. Life is about context. First of all, do you suppose the oldest might be thinking: 'I'm always treated like the bull-dozing oldest'? Perhaps the middles are thinking, 'We are always cast as the invisible/peace-keeping middles'? While you may see yourself as the one who got all the and-me-downs, they may see you as the indulged baby. Context, you see. A strange part of sibling retrospection – and one which will tend vastly to inform the present – is that, for all your commonality of experience, you have had different childhoods. Siblings have different parents because those parents are constantly moving through their lives and sense of selfhood; their happinesses and sadnesses, while the kids are at varying ages or may have left home or may not yet have been born. For all the 'We don't have favourites' shtick that is bandied around, siblings are parented differently. Much of the time, it is not about being more or less loved. It is because parents are human beings, with all the accompanying frailties. For the good and the bad. Which is to say that all of your siblings will be experiencing something of what you are feeling, from their own different perspectives. It's hard being oldest, middle, youngest, only. And when the second parent goes, and that final barrier between us and the stars is removed… Well. It's a moment. But that is for another column. This is just stuff. Pictures and vases and pill-boxes. Do not confuse what it is worth with what you are worth. Do not confuse sentimental value with your own value, as a person. It would be easy to do but it would also be mad – a very common kind of madness that many of us are afflicted with and one that powerfully animates around death and wills. Please do not see this as some kind of opportunity for Freudian wish-fulfilment – a way to prove your sense of littleness in the family scheme of things. If you sit back and go floppy while the others pick and choose their bits and pieces while inwardly sighing, 'I am the youngest and so I always get the scraps,' you are merely transferring these feelings of smallness on to inanimate objects. This is small stuff – it would be wonderful if you could find some resolve not to sweat it. Why weaponise a side table against yourself? You would just be saying 'I got the least because I am the least.' Work with your siblings to establish a healthy system. Perhaps you have lunch and then go round, choosing one thing, in rotation? Maybe you have different coloured stickers and do deals or toss coins or even share any contested items. Perhaps send an email suggesting this and also saying how important they are to you and recognising that this is a new phase for your family; a time when it becomes your choice to bind together, now that your parents are gone. Someone is bound to be a d--- about this. Forgive them. They have just hit a limit. The best thing you can possibly walk away with is a loving and joyous future with as many of your siblings as is possible. That is the enrichment. That – more than any trinket – is the precious and lasting legacy.


Telegraph
an hour ago
- Telegraph
Dear Richard Madeley: I've just found out my husband had an affair
Dear Richard, My husband and I have been married for over 40 years. Recently, I discovered quite by chance that he had an affair about 14 years ago with a woman 25 years his junior. They went their separate ways and I don't know of any other times he's strayed. Needless to say, I was utterly flabbergasted as I had absolutely no idea anything was going on at all. Since I discovered the affair, I've tried extremely hard to act normally around him but I'm now suffering from low self-esteem, and feeling insecure, anxious and vulnerable. It's undermined what I thought was a basically good relationship. I am in two minds as to whether to raise this with him – I also don't want to talk to our (grown-up) children about it. Part of me thinks these things happen and he has never been inattentive or cold towards me, so I shouldn't rock the boat or risk other things coming to light – I certainly don't feel 'vindictive' towards him, just hurt and confused. Should I bring the subject up? — L, via email Dear L, Well, well. Quite a conundrum for a Saturday morning. Firstly, my congratulations on keeping such a cool head. You would have been fully justified in confronting your husband the moment you discovered his infidelity – and I'm sure many of my readers, finding themselves in a similar position, would have done exactly that. But you have bided your time. You have paused to reflect. Interestingly (indeed paradoxically) it is you now who holds a secret – your husband's secret – and he who is living in blissful ignorance. He doesn't know what you know. That puts you in a position of power, L. The question, of course, is how and whether to use it – and to what end. And there I'm afraid I must reflect your request for advice about what to do next directly back at you. Not because I'm timid or dodging the question, or at a loss for an answer, but because you and only you, L, can possibly know what will work for you. The reasons for what he did present an almost infinite list of possibilities. Some explanations are somewhat kinder than others. Was he chasing some notion of lost youth? Was he insecure and in need of validation? Did he simply fall into temptation, come to regret it, and end the affair? Or is he – as you yourself speculate – a serial cheat? Is he a master of the double life? Is he anything but the man you have, for 40 years, taken him to be? You wouldn't be the first to discover, late in the day, that their partner is a Jekyll and Hyde. Judging by the tone and content of your letter, with its description of a warm and attentive partner, I doubt the latter, darker theories – although you never know. The problem is that if and when you confront him with his affair, he may simply lie about it and the reasons for it and, frankly, you'll be no further forward than you are now. The best advice I can offer is that you ask yourself a much simpler question. Can you live with this knowledge if you keep it to yourself, indefinitely? Will it eat away at you? Or would you find at least some catharsis in confrontation, even if telling your husband what you know doesn't necessarily bring you any closer to understanding or forgiving his behaviour? Only you can answer that, L. I'm so sorry that you should have to wrestle with such a difficult, painful question at this stage in your life and marriage. Of course, you just cut through all of it and divorce the old so-and-so. Kick him out. Have you considered that? Just a thought.