A guest blog entry today for a treat: my dear Papa has penned a poignant memoir essay to share with us recounting his experience as a young boy in the dark, opening days of his country at war. Enjoy.
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How I Started the Second World War
("The
supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” From The Art of
War by Sun Tzu)
I was six when the Second World War
started and that day, 3 September 1939, after all these years is still a vivid
memory. It was a warm summer Sunday in a new housing development on the
outskirts of London where Mum, Dad, six months-old brother Rob and I had
recently moved. That Sunday I was in our back garden helping (or, so I believed
at the time) my father and other men from the neighbourhood dig a large and
deep hole in the dense unyielding London-clay subsoil. It took only a few
minutes of my enthusiastic assistance, aided and abetted by my friend Tony, in
the ‘big dig’’ before we were told to get out of the way of those slicing
through the clay with their shiny steel spades and hurling it skywards to land
on the rapidly growing mountain, as it seemed to me, of excavated material. “Go
play at the end of the garden”, we were ordered, “You’ll get hurt if you stay
here.”
Tony and I slowly clambered up the
ladder out of the deep hole wondering why we couldn’t stay and enjoy playing in
the dirt like all the grown-ups. Our scrambling all over the mountain of dirt
from the hole didn’t please those sweating excavators either. We were still in
their way and adding frustration to their efforts with the lumps of loose clay
that our climbing up and down sent back into their hole. Hearing my father’s
raised voice brought Mum to the back door and her bribe of a cold glass of
lemonade lured Tony and me back into the house.
A little later, just after 11 o’clock, the men
stopped digging and gathered in front of our kitchen window to listen to the
wireless and hear the Prime-minister’s announcement that Britain was at war
with Germany. At the end of the broadcast everyone in the excavation crew all
seemed to talk at the same time. “What’s up?” Tony Fahrenbach asked. “Never you
mind!” was his father’s sharp accented reply. “Go and play, both of you and
keep out of zat hole,” which we promptly did.
It was several days later when the large hole in
our back garden was finished including neatly cut steps in the stiff clay from
the bottom to the surface. On the following Saturday a lorry drew up to the
side of the house. Dad and his friend unloaded the sheets of corrugated steel and
stacked them by the hole. “Now what’s going on?” I wondered. Although my
parents had tried to explain the purpose of the excavating activity I didn't
realize at the time that an Anderson air raid shelter was being built and the
full realization came when the structure was completed.
As the weeks went by there were periodic air raid
drills, day and night, when the wailing of the nearby warning sirens summoned
our family to go immediately to the shelter and wait for the “all clear” siren
before going back into the house. Not knowing if there would be an actual air
raid and what this would be like was a mystery to me and friend Tony, but there
was enough excitement for two six year-old boys to speculate.
When the 1939 summer break started we expected to
be back in the school again in September. But that wasn’t to be. Our school was
commandeered by the army and the children were directed to different locations
in the community to get some form of education. A retired teacher lived in one
of the houses on our street so Tony, I and four other children visited her
weekday mornings where we received some form of instruction, but I’m not sure
that we learned anything. What I do remember though is Tony and I and some
other boys would frequently hike across the fields to watch the fighter planes
take off and land at the nearby R.A.F. Northolt Aerodrome. We learned to identify
Spitfires and Hurricanes and watched open-mouthed as they carried out aerial
maneuvers overhead simulating attack, defense and low-flying actions in
preparation for the Battle of Britain that was fated to erupt in 1940. One of
the boys had an older brother who was an R.A.F. pilot and he was able to give
us all the “gen” so that we couldn’t wait to see some real live action. What
the hell do kids know?
The months of the “phony war” were coming to an
end and those in charge were implementing their plans (Emergency Powers Defense
Act) to evacuate mothers and children away from the Greater London area to
parts of the U.K. that were assumed to be less vulnerable to attack by the
Luftwaffe. My father was employed in the construction of airfields, munitions
factories and other war related infrastructure. The firm he worked for was
contracted to build a new munitions factory in the presumed safety of a town in
North Wales so the organization for our big move from the danger of London was
underway. I wasn’t happy about all of this, but the choice wasn’t mine. Just
before we were due to leave our London home I went to visit my friend Tony to
say goodbye and to make plans for when we could be together again. The door of
his house was opened by a woman I didn’t recognize who asked what I wanted. “I
want to see Tony, please,” I stammered. “Well, ‘e don’t live ‘ere no more,” was
the sharp response. “What’s wrong with him? Can I see Mrs. Fahrenbach?” “She
ain’t ‘ere niver. The whole family’s gawn. Nar clear orf I’ve got all me
unpacking to finish,” she concluded slamming the door in my face.
Running home as fast as I could and bursting into
our kitchen I tearfully told Mum that Tony, his mum, dad and little sister
didn’t live in their house any more, but I didn’t know where they'd gone. Mum
dried her hands, told me to stop crying and to sit at the table. She sat next
to me and explained that Tony’s dad was German, that he’d been taken away by the
police and put into some sort of prison and the rest of the family had been
sent to a camp somewhere in the country. “But he’s done nothing bad,” I
protested, “He’s a nice man and Tony’s my best friend.” “I know love, but Mr.
Fahrenbach is from Germany and we’re at war so things have changed for
everyone.”
I could see that this war business wasn’t going to
be as much “fun” as I expected it to be. But what does a six
year-old-going-on-seven know?
(“Although our intellect always longs for clarity
and certainty, our nature often finds uncertainty fascinating.” From Carl von
Clausewitz “On War”)
