Chapter Nine - The Post War Years
THE SECOND WORLD WAR was the bloodiest in history, with an estimated death toll somewhere in the region of fifty five million. This compares with estimates of ten to thirteen million for the First World War, but it is probable that the magnitude of the disaster was not appreciated until it was all over. Even when the war had ended, Mother insisted that the 1914-18 war had been much worse, and that the British people would never have tolerated slaughter on such a scale.
It is true that Britain and the Commonwealth escaped much of the carnage, losing somewhere in the region of half a million. By comparison, it is understood that the Russians lost more than twenty million, but on subsequent visits to the Soviet Union, I gained a clear impression that their version of the bloodbath was much higher. Even so, the big difference between the two wars was the number of civilian casualties. These accounted for more than half of the figures quoted for the Second World War.
There can be little doubt that after the war, the Russians were looked upon as the bogey men of Europe, and their dominance of the East was considered to be a kind of Communist Imperialism. However, this must be viewed against the background of the terrible sufferings they endured, with losses probably around ten per cent of the total population. Ours were considerably less than one per cent, and American fatalities were even lower.
We sustained heavy bomb damage, but many other countries, including the United States were virtually unscathed. By contrast, the Russians, in addition to the huge loss of life, suffered total devastation over wide areas, losing much of their industry and agricultural land. I believe their policy towards the West was driven more by a desire to establish a buffer of friendly states between themselves and Germany than a quest to dominate the World.
Like Father, I have little time for dictators or the communist system, but have no doubt that many ordinary people in Russia have a deep seated fear of the Germans. Emma and I visited several major cities more than forty years after the war, and in every case there were huge memorials to the dead, with an eternal flame that was never allowed to go out. Every day there was a ceremony of homage undertaken by men, women and children in uniform, and flowers were always present to commemorate the dead.
To those who rather cynically suggest that this was a show put on for the tourists, I can only say that we saw the names on tablets of stone, and we counted them. In one city, which was too far back to have been devastated by war, we estimated a toll of at least thirty thousand, and Leningrad alone lost more people than we did in five and a half years of war.
A lady who lived there and survived the siege told us of the ordeals they faced. Constant bombardment from artillery and from the air; near starvation, with pitifully small quantities of bread baked from a mixture of mouldy flour and sawdust; and bitter winters, which forced them to burn their own furniture in an effort to keep warm. It was so cold that many people collapsed and died on the streets, and the survivors were too weak to bury them. To the Russians, it became known as the 'Great Patriotic War', and having been twice invaded by a brutal enemy in a quarter of a century, I can understand their fears.
The surrender of Germany brought with it the quest for vengeance, and those Nazi war leaders who had escaped death were put on trial at Nuremberg. Several of the criminals were executed, but Goering cheated the gallows by taking his own life. There was very little sympathy for any of them, although I was never entirely comfortable with the life imprisonment of Rudolf Hess. He spent most of the war years as a prisoner in Britain, and his sanity had been seriously questioned.
Strangely, I can never remember hearing a great deal about the trial of war criminals in Japan, other than that of General Tojo. There can be little doubt that Allied prisoners were treated very badly by the Japanese, and although there were exceptions, it was far worse than any treatment experienced by prisoners in Germany.
The aftermath of war generated much political instability. The 'Cold War' between East and West started very soon after the shooting war had ended, and there was turmoil in Europe and the Middle East. The communists had gained the upper hand in China, and a year or two later the Korean War broke out. The peace and tranquillity we all longed for had not returned, and it seemed that the arms race had started all over again. America was developing an arsenal of atomic weapons, and the Russians had exploded bombs of their own. We had not yet developed a bomb, but it was only a matter of time, and conscription was here to stay, at least for the foreseeable future.
Life for me never did return to the hard but carefree days of the thirties. That was part of the business of growing up, having to earn a living, and taking on more responsibility. Even so, things had changed, and it seemed that some of the controls we had to endure in wartime were to be a feature of the 'peace'. The state was going to look after us 'from the cradle to the grave', and we would no longer have to worry about a job. We would be looked after if we became ill, disabled, or needed medical or dental treatment, and decent pensions would be provided for everyone. This brave new world would abolish want and fear, and we would all have a place to live and receive a good education.
These changes would undoubtedly improve the lot of the ordinary citizen, but they were not easy to achieve and would have to be paid for. As one of the victors of the war, we might have expected to be living in comfort, but in reality we were almost bankrupt. The war had cost us dearly. We had lost huge overseas markets, and were burdened with industries in need of modernisation. We had been seriously weakened as a world power, our empire was beginning to crumble, and India, the 'Jewel in the British Crown', had become independent.
More than ever, we were urged to export or die. And there were natural disasters to overcome, like the winter of 1947. Above all, we were horrified that rationing was still with us, and that we had to contend with coal shortages and power cuts on a massive scale. I well remember being laid off because the company I worked for had to shut down. People began to criticise the government elected to make our lot better, but the problem was not confined to Britain. Nearly every country in Europe was in similar circumstances. America, it seemed, was the only nation in an all powerful position, and once again the 'New World' came to the rescue of the old, with a plan for aid drawn up by George Marshall.
In spite of our problems, there were bright spots. In particular, my relationship with Emma had developed to a point where we were seriously considering the possibility of marriage, although we both felt that this would have to wait until I had completed my national service. The royal wedding of Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip gladdened all our hearts, and I was proud to have rung in a quarter peal attempt at our church to commemorate the occasion. County cricket had soared in popularity, and I attended my first game as a spectator in 1947, seeing two of my idols make centuries in a match between Kent and Essex. Soon after that I was conscripted into the army, and served in camps around Aldershot and Guildford.
My army career was somewhat chequered and lasted twenty months. It began with basic training, which was quite a shock.to the system. From a rather lazy civilian existence where mother did everything, we 'new recruits' were suddenly confronted with the need to look after ourselves. We had to make our own beds, mend and press our clothes, keep our boots and webbing spotlessly clean, and take full responsibility for the kit we were issued with. The first week was a nightmare. The kit was filthy, and we had to bring it to an immaculate standard within twenty four hours or face some very unpleasant consequences.
The Regimental Sergeant Major (nicknamed RSM 'Big Bum' because of his huge posterior) was in charge of discipline. He was a mountain of a man who stood nearly seven feet tall in his socks. He wore massive army boots and a peaked cap which must have added a good two inches to his height, and he rode about the camp on a large army bicycle. His voice could be heard bellowing insults nearly half a mile away, and in some parts of the camp we could actually see his head above the roof tops.
Almost everybody feared him, and he would not hesitate to intimidate or charge a subordinate who got in his way. He was a bully, as were the other NCOs, and among ourselves, we all questioned their parentage. Our squad had two corporals in charge of it, and we had to spring to attention immediately they entered the barrack room or addressed us. They were so intimidating that most of us almost involuntarily restricted our verbal responses to "Yes corporal" or "No corporal" whenever questioned. We were forbidden to indulge in broader conversation unless specifically invited to do so.
This verbal response became a 'kneejerk' reaction, and I can remember one occasion when the camp Commandant (a full Colonel) came to inspect us, and was questioning one of the recruits. The poor lad was so cowed and shaking with fear that he repeatedly addressed the Colonel as "Corporal". We all thought he would be put on a charge for insubordination, but either the Colonel was in a good mood or he understood the situation, because he never commented or took any action. The RSM was livid, and dying to put the poor lad on a charge, but dare not question the more understanding attitude of a superior officer.
It was a tough existence. We had to be out of bed at six a.m. every morning, wash and shave, have breakfast, make our beds, and be ready for inspection by eight a.m. The day's programme consisted of lectures, physical training, parade ground drill, and route marches. Everything was done at the double, and woe-betide any defaulters. Punishments were known as 'Jankers', and involved extra and very unpleasant duties before and after the day's routines.
So much energy was expended during the initial training that we would eat almost anything we could get hold of. On the whole, the food was very good, and we had three meals per day, i.e. breakfast, lunch and supper. If we wanted more, the NAAFI was always there to oblige. 'Lights out' was sounded at ten p.m., and we were fast asleep within minutes.
After the first two weeks, we were transferred to another part of the camp for more specialised training, which still included a lot of physical activity. It was at this point that the army made a great mistake. They decided to make me a 'Militia Lance Corporal'. This meant that I was in charge of a squad of about thirty recruits, with responsibility to march them from 'A' to 'B'. To be a successful NCO in the army, you really do have to know your left from your right, and I was a little weak in that area.
In all, I twice marched them into a brick wall, once took them over the company office flower beds and, worst of all, gave the "Eyes left" command in response to a saluting officer who was riding his bicycle past me on the right. His was a particularly awkward salute because he had to take his eyes off the road, remove one hand from the handlebars, and touch his cap with his baton.
I hate to think that I was in any way responsible for his downfall, but there was a cry of alarm as he passed, and a rather ominous crash. However, by this time the squad was out of sight behind one of the huts, and I consoled myself that he had probably stopped rather suddenly to pay his respects to the Company commander. In any case, I had no desire to find out, as a day or so later we were assigned to secondary training units where conditions were more agreeable.
Life in the secondary training unit was so different that we could hardly believe our luck. We travelled to the camp by rail, and were met at the station by a sergeant who had laid on transport, and addressed us as "Lads". We were shown round the establishment, and given quarters which were a pleasure to live in. The buildings were modern, and the mess rooms were as clean as a new pin. There was a choice of menu, and mealtimes had a degree of flexibility built into them. The RSM was a gentleman, and the officers treated us with great respect.
There was only one black spot - the cookhouse sergeant. He was a very unpleasant character who had served time in the glasshouse, and we were warned not to cross him. For most of the time, I managed to keep out of his way, but on one occasion I was detailed for cookhouse fatigues. There were seven of us on this particular assignment, including two Jews. For some reason, the sergeant had a soft spot for Jews and they got all the easy jobs. The rest of us were given greasy pots and pans to wash up in cold water, and mountains of potatoes to peel.
Having as I thought successfully negotiated the pots and pans, I started on my quota of potatoes and caught the sergeant's eye. "Come over here soldier" he demanded. "Why are you peeling those potatoes?" "Because I've finished the pans, Sarge" I said rather smugly. He was clearly not impressed. "Stand to attention, you dozy man" he snapped sarcastically. "There's another half dozen pans under the drainer, and you're nowhere near finished." He dragged me over to the sink and pushed my head into the pans. "You're a dozy man, Wilks! What are you?" I had been told not to question him, but to go along with anything he wanted. "I'm a dozy man, Sergeant" I said.
He tweaked my ear and looked at me menacingly. "I didn't hear that laddie. Tell me again, what are you?" I raised my voice. "I'm a dozy man, Sergeant". "Once again," he demanded "what are you?" I raised my voice even higher, "I'm a dozy man, Sergeant." "That's better." he said quietly. "Now get on with those pans, and stay here until they are spotlessly clean." I tried not to let him see that I was shaking in my boots, and felt annoyed that the two Jewish lads thought it was all a big joke. In the event, I managed to satisfy him on the pans and peel my way through the spuds without incurring any more of his wrath. However, it was a close run thing, and although I did not work too much extra time, it was an experience I did not want to repeat.
Apart from this one unpleasant incident, my period of service with the unit was a happy one. After the secondary training had been completed, I passed out as a tradesman class three, and was on draft for Cyprus. To make use of the waiting time, several of us were detailed for duty at the officer's mess, and one of the officers saw me reading a book on chemistry. He enquired about my background, and I informed him of my civilian work as a laboratory assistant. He must have been impressed, because he invited me to work for him in the army laboratory, and my posting was cancelled.
In those days, work in an army laboratory was both interesting and amusing. In addition to routine testing and research, we were often asked to solve all sorts of bizarre problems put to us by individual officers. I remember one occasion in particular, when Lt. Colonel Horner had some peculiar ideas about a model farm, and among other things he decided to keep a cow, which he called 'Gert'. There were no suitable buildings within the camp perimeter to house such a beast, but he overcame the problem by commandeering one of the mess garages. He also decided to appoint a cowman, and detailed the mess night porter. His job was to take Gert to pasture in the morning, muck out the garage, milk her, lay fresh bedding, and return her safely at night. He was not very happy with this on top of his other duties and sometimes 'took it out' on the poor cow. Colonel Horner, on the other hand, was obsessed with the idea, and did everything he could to ensure Gert's comfort and well-being.
We were, at that time, right in the middle of summer, and on one particularly hot day the Colonel was horrified to see his beloved cow being attacked by hordes of flies and mosquitoes. He was clearly upset, and set up a conference with some of his fellow officers. I have no idea what went on at the meeting, but after some deliberation it was agreed to set up a series of 'defensive measures', code-named "Operation Gert". This would involve the laboratory technicians, whose task was to relieve the cow of her torment and, of course, satisfy the Colonel. As with all military operations, results are obtained by planning and teamwork, and this was no exception.
The plan was to employ the latest technology and we decided to use a deadly combination of insecticides. The teamwork was achieved by combining the skills of our chemists with 'artistry' from the resident company of Royal Engineers. The attack would be a simultaneous assault from the front and rear. The frontal attack would involve: (a) the fitting of wooden blinkers made by 'chippies' from the engineers and impregnated with insect repellents and (b) a hair net saturated with DDT and Pyrethrum. The assault on the rear would involve camouflage netting, also saturated with DDT and Pyrethrum.
'D day' came, and the order was given for the troops to close in. Very little resistance was encountered, and Gert became the proud owner of a hair net, delicately arranged on her horns, and a set of blinkers to cover the eyes. The camouflage netting was attached to her tail, and made a good extension to her own anatomy, allowing her to brush flies off her belly.
From that moment on, all insect attacks were repulsed, and Operation Gert was considered to be a great success. The cow reverted to her normal peaceful self, grazing contentedly on pasture land just outside the officer's mess. We treated it as a huge joke and quite expected the Colonel to see through our pretence, but to our astonishment he was delighted, and went out of his way to congratulate us.
There were many more amusing instances which helped to lighten the time we had to spend at the unit, and I shall always remember those times with great affection. There were long summer days when we were able to spend time fishing or boating on nearby lakes, and winter evenings when we were able to reminisce by open coal fires, play table tennis and billiards, or spend an evening at the camp cinema. Demobilisation came in late 1950, when I returned to Ferryden and the rather more testing realities of 'Civvy Street'. Life in the army had started in a very grim way, but it ended on a high note. Above all, it taught me to be self-reliant, and since then I have never shirked my share of domestic chores. Had it not been for the war, I would most probably never have had the experience.
