Chapter Two - The Phoney War
SEPTEMBER 1939 had all the portents of an Indian summer, and the 3rd was no exception. Following a warm night, the day had started with a heavy dew in the meadows, giving the grass a silvery sheen in the early morning sun. The air was still, and cattle stood motionless under the elm trees, silhouetted against the early mists which had gathered near the river. The insects were beginning their audible chorus, and the birds were in full song.
It was a scene of peace and tranquillity, broken only by the occasional clatter of a train in the distance, or a motor car as it sped through the village. Smoke from an isolated chimney rose almost vertically in the clear blue sky and as the morning progressed, and the beginnings of a heat haze were just visible. The church clock had struck 10 a.m., and the bells were starting their morning peal as the villagers, after a long sleep and a leisurely breakfast, were emerging from their houses. It was Sunday.
Despite the apparent serenity of that late summer's morning, almost everyone was resigned to the inevitability of war. Eleven o'clock came, and the streets were empty as we huddled around our radio sets listening to the Prime Minister. He sounded weary and heartbroken as he announced that the German government had not responded to our Ambassador's final note demanding the withdrawal of their troops from Poland, and that consequently, we were at war with Germany.
Although the announcement had been anticipated, my parents were devastated. They stood for some time, staring out of the window, shaking their heads in disbelief, reliving memories of the dreadful sufferings of the Great War, with visions of even more terrible things to come. Mother, in particular, recalled the time she had lost her brother, and the manner in which the news had been broken. It was a brief period of reflection, terminated suddenly by the sound of our first air raid warning. War, it seemed, had come to Ferryden with frightening speed.
The warning was like a slap in the face. Villagers rushed into the streets, and for a moment there was stunned confusion. In spite of all the preparations, nobody seemed to know what to do. Mothers were anxious and some children cried. Men listened for the sound of aircraft with glazed expressions on their faces, and Wardens, almost like automatons, ordered people to 'go inside and take cover'.
Mercifully it was a false alarm lasting no more than a few minutes, and when the 'all clear' sounded, the confusion gave way to a need for action. Everybody felt the urge to 'do something' and almost as afterthought somebody remembered that there was a plan to construct an air raid shelter just outside the village. There was no word of command, and no feeling of compulsion, but the villagers moved instinctively and as a body towards the pre-arranged site, where they found that work had already started.
Although the warning had been a false alarm, it generated a sense of purpose which continued for the rest of the day. Men worked without respite and, by early evening, had dug an enormous trench about four feet wide and eight feet deep. This was reinforced by sandbags filled by the women and children, including myself. By late evening the undertaking was finished, complete with a roof made from railway sleepers, corrugated iron, and a generous topping of earth. Access was by way of steps which had been cut into the earth and reinforced with wooden stakes and retaining boards.
The shelter was a splendid co-operative effort, but in spite of its apparent suitability, was never used. It was cold, damp, and unwelcoming, and discarded long before the war ended. The decision to go ahead with its construction was well meant, but nobody had thought the project through. Had they done so, they would almost certainly have opted for more acceptable alternatives. In general, villagers felt safer in their own homes, as most of these were capable of withstanding all but a direct hit. They were more comfortable, more convenient and potentially more effective against gas.
Such happenings were typical of those early wartime days. Nobody panicked, but in their uncertainty people took decisions which, with hindsight, were hasty, and in some cases ill-conceived. Goods were disposed of at ridiculous prices, building and construction work stopped overnight, and many had their pets destroyed. Mother, in particular, had Tim put to sleep because she could not bear the thought of him suffering a dreadful death in a gas attack. He was a very loving and gentle little cat, and Father was angry when he realised what she had done.
In the event, the Germans never did use gas, and I cannot remember one pet being killed by enemy action. There were similar anxieties about the children, many parents wanting to send their offspring to Canada or the United States. However, the loss of the liner Athenia from a torpedo attack changed everything. The waste of so many young lives convinced most parents that it was better to send them to remote areas in Britain, or stay together as a family and put their trust in God. The people of Ferryden could not have foreseen the future, but their faith was vindicated. To the best of my knowledge, no civilians were killed in or around the village as a direct result of enemy action.
Once the initial anxieties calmed down, village life seemed to get back to a semblance of normality. There were restrictions, inconveniences and shortages, but on the whole, life went on more or less as before. The dreadful things we had anticipated did not happen, and confidence returned. After all, who was this little upstart, Hitler? He was nothing more than a 'tin pot' dictator who had grabbed power with the connivance and support of evil men and an embittered nation. We had an Empire and Commonwealth that covered one fifth of the Earth's surface, the largest navy in the World, an army with a proud history, and an air force with aircraft that were second to none. We would soon put him in his place, or so we thought. The milkman said the war would be all over by Christmas, and the butcher gave it six months.
One of the inconveniences resented by most children was the need to carry gas masks to school. These were always being mislaid or lost, with constant interruptions to lessons whilst a whole class dropped everything to look for them. However, the practice periods taken by Miss. Cox, the head teacher, were much more fun. These involved air raid drill, which covered the use-of gas masks and orderly processions to the shelters. I can remember one of these practice periods when my friend Charlie Daws thoroughly disgraced himself.
Civilian gas masks consisted of a filter canister (to absorb the gas) fitted to a rubber hood, with a perspex window in the centre for vision. Straps were used to hold the mask in position, and when fitted, the wearer looked a little bit like a pig without ears. This we found highly amusing, and had a great time snorting and grunting at one another.
Charlie was inclined to have a problem with flatulence or 'windiness', and often used these noisy occasions to relieve himself. He normally got away with it, but the night before this particular drill, his mother had cooked his favourite dish of fried onions, and Charlie had made a 'pig' of himself. We all knew from past experience that the combination of Charlie and a generous helping of fried onions was 'lethal', giving rise to the most revolting and evil smells.
We had just processed into the shelter and settled down, with the usual chorus of snorts and grunts, when Miss Cox walked in minus her gas mask. The snorts and grunts stopped immediately, and she moved along the benches checking each individual in turn to see that everything fitted correctly. She got within about six feet of Charlie, stood there for a moment, and suddenly let out a cry of utter revulsion as a sulphurous aroma engulfed her. She screwed -up her face, put a handkerchief to her mouth, and left the shelter as If pursued by the Devil himself. Miss Davis, another teacher, had accompanied us to the shelter with her gas mask on. She looked mystified, but realising that something was wrong, took us outside. She told us to remove our masks, and instructed us to return to the classroom while she went to investigate.
Needless to say, Charlie was on the carpet in Miss Cox's office almost immediately, and although he argued (with some justification) that he was only trying to add a little realism to the drill, got detention and the additional punishment of writing "I must learn to behave myself" five hundred times. Miss Cox was generally a very sweet lady, but we all felt that she sometimes lacked a sense of humour, and that poor old Charlie had been treated a little harshly. After all, we and Miss Davis hadn't noticed a thing until she departed in such haste. We felt that this proved the efficiency of our masks, and that he should have been commended rather than punished.
By the end of winter, the 'Phoney war' had already lasted several months, and nothing much appeared to be happening on the Western Front, apart from a few patrols being sent out from either side. The R.A.F. had been busy 'bombing' one German city after another with leaflets, and the only significant action had been at sea.
The sinking of the Royal Oak at Scapa Flow had been a blow to our pride. She was an old battleship and would probably not have seen front line service. Even so, we were horrified that so many sailors had perished, and that an enemy U-boat had succeeded in breaching the defences of such an important naval base. Sad though the loss of the Royal Oak was, German activity on the high seas was a more serious problem. Our merchant fleet was suffering badly at the hands of U-boats and surface raiders.
One such menace was the Admiral Graf Spee. She was a 'Pocket Battleship' said to be the pride of the German navy and you can imagine our excitement when we learnt that three British cruisers, the Ajax, Achilles and Exeter, although heavily outgunned, had engaged her in the South Atlantic and seriously damaged her. This action had forced her to put into Montevideo harbour in Uruguay for emergency repairs. Characteristically for the German navy, she had tried to get away from the British warships to avoid a 'stand up fight'. In spite of this, we all thought there would be a 'battle to the death,' and it was a great relief when she eventually scuttled, on Hitler's instructions, at the mouth of the River Plate without a shot being fired. No doubt many British and German lives would have been lost had her captain received orders to 'shoot it out'.
That victory was an inspiration, and George made some splendid models of the British ships in wood. These were put on display at the box factory where he worked, and emphasised the relief we all felt in having something to celebrate.
The lack of activity elsewhere and the seeming normality created its own problems. Apart from the somewhat disturbing air of complacency, we were getting rather paranoid about German spies and 'fifth columnists.' Posters were everywhere warning that 'careless talk costs lives', and we were constantly being told to keep 'on the lookout' for suspicious characters. Even the radio programmes had more than their fair share of German spies, my favourite being 'Fumf' in the comedy show 'ITMA'.
We imagined that they were everywhere - under the bed, behind garden walls, in bushes and, of course, always bending down with an ear to a keyhole. Villagers became suspicious of the least little thing, and the police were concerned in a number-of 'wild goose chases.' These usually involved an innocent passer-by, or some poor old tramp who was merely trying to find a place to sleep.
The propaganda war during this period of relative inactivity was in 'full swing', with insults and exaggerated claims being traded almost daily. Dr. Goebbels was the acknowledged master, but the man we hated most was William Joyce, or 'Lord Haw-Haw'. He was a former British subject who became a traitor, and worked for the Germans as a broadcaster for their English language programmes. I am sure they never realised that his sarcastic manner and traitorous defection did more to stiffen our resolve than almost any other factor. The women, in particular, would almost have a fit at the mention of his name, and it is the only time that I can remember Mother becoming violent over a radio programme.
We could easily pick up the broadcasts on our powerful set, and the familiar introduction of "Jarminy calling - Jarminy calling" was enough to send her into a towering rage. As soon as she heard the call sign, she would scream at the top of her voice, "Switch that lying sod off" and if we did not comply, saucepans, brushes, or any other implement she could lay her hands on would come flying in our direction. I don't think she ever realised that we sometimes put the programme on to 'wind her up'. At that period of the war, 'Lord Haw-Haw' was more hated than Hitler, Goering, Goebbels, or any of the rest of the Nazi gang put together. If he had dared to set foot in Ferryden, he would have been lynched.
The 'Phoney War' lasted for seven or eight months, and just as we were beginning to think that things might be resolved without a major land conflict, the German army struck with such speed and ferocity that they completely overwhelmed the Allied forces, destroyed most of their equipment, and left our army in a seemingly hopeless position on the beaches of Dunkirk. With the surrender of France and the closeness of the enemy, war had come to our doorstep. Even the Americans were convinced that it was only a matter of time before we suffered the final humiliation. Only the Royal Navy and a dangerously depleted air force stood between us and total defeat. We were alone.
