大象传媒

Experiences of World War 2

I was not born until 1950, but, for my parents, WW2 was a profoundly influential event. It touched their lives in so many ways. As a child, my parents talked about the war regularly.

My parents lived on a private estate just outside Windsor. It wasn鈥檛 exactly a 鈥淭o The Manor Born鈥� type estate. It was a large house, in its own grounds, on the banks of the Thames, owned by a man of great wealth, who let out parts of the house, and immediate outbuildings, as flats. Some tenants just paid the rent. Others were in this wealthy man鈥檚 employ. Others worked elsewhere, but gave this man several hours a week free in lieu of some rent payments.

My parents were in this latter group. My grandparents on my father鈥檚 side, who also lived on the estate, were in his employ. It was a little community, and what a strange mix it was.

The owner was French, and had made money in shipping, and perhaps other things. There were 鈥渙rdinary English folk鈥� like my parents and grandparents, and others. Then there was a family of well-to-do refugees from Armenia. I think they had escaped Stalin, because they had arrived pre-1939. There was also a family from Holland. I think he was a businessman. Why they were in the UK, pre-war, I don鈥檛 know. It was a bit like the League of Nations!

But the war complicated things even more. The rambling house and estate had surplus accommodation, so, once the USA entered the war, US servicemen were billeted there. My parents spoke of 3 that were there for some time. One, nicknamed 鈥淭iny鈥� was the classic larger-than-life US serviceman. A huge, cigar-smoking individual, who drove his jeep at nightmare speeds around the local country roads, and was always able, somehow, to get supplies of this, that and the other, direct from the USA. My parents suffered from rationing just like everybody else, but Tiny and his associates meant that there were parties from time to time, with smuggled drink, chocolate etc.

Then there were the Germans and Italians. They were attached to the estate to work on the local farms, and do odd jobs. The 2 Germans had been shot down in the Battle of Britain, if I remember right. The Italians had been captured in North Africa. My parents spoke little of the Italians, but they knew the Germans well enough, and they became part of my parents鈥� little community as much as POW regulations allowed. Indeed, once the war was over, neither of the Germans returned to Germany, preferring to stay in Britain!

There were many tales, of course. The owner was an important figure in the Free French exile administration, and played host to General de Gaul on one occasion. My father was keen on amateur electrics, so he was put in charge of arranging lights etc to welcome the General. Things were short, so this was a source of both great frustration and hilarity. He couldn鈥檛 get what he wanted; nothing worked; everything was bodged; but, somehow, it went reasonably OK in the end.

My grandfather was a gardener of some skill and experience. He was put in charge of tarting up the gardens during this visit. So he needed plants. There were local nurseries, so that seemed OK, but he was told he had to rent the plants, not buy them! The owner had something of a reputation as mean. So my grandfather rented hundreds of plants, burying them, still in their pots, for the General鈥檚 visit. Then he had to lift the lot again when he was gone. My grandfather was of 鈥渟imple honest country stock鈥� so what he had to say about that exercise in showmanship didn鈥檛 bear repeating.

My father was conscripted into the Royal Artillery, and rapidly rose to the dizzy heights of Lance Bombardier (equivalent to Lance Corporal in the infantry). But his military career was very brief. He had the doubtful honour of deliberately disobeying a direct order from his Sergeant. My father suffered from eczema on and off, and all of the men were supposed to take sulphur baths for some reason or other. My father believed that this would do his eczema a power of good, so politely refused the order, and was duly marched off to the commander, who was sympathetic. It was the beginning of the end of my father鈥檚 glorious military career. Within a few weeks, he was declared unfit, and given an honourable discharge. He spent the rest of the war working at the telephone exchange in Windsor, speaking to King George VI on a number of occasions.

He was lucky. A few months after his discharge, most of his regiment went to the Far East on the troopship Bombay. This ship was sunk by the Japanese (I don鈥檛 think it was the Germans) with severe loss of life.

My mother also did war work. She made things. Little metal things. In a small workshop on the outskirts of Windsor. There were all sorts of rumours about what they were for. Bits of sea mines was the favourite, but there were other suggestions. She didn鈥檛 like it. The job was pretty dull, but the worst of it were her workmates. There was herself and one other woman, I believe, and several men. Nowadays, it seems obvious that men and women should work together. There鈥檚 masses of legislation that discourages sex discrimination. But in the 1940鈥檚 there was none of this. My mother and her friend were viewed with great suspicion by the male workers, and were only tolerated because of the war needs. When my mother was no longer needed, they were delighted to get rid of her. Mind you, she felt the same about them, so perhaps it didn鈥檛 matter.

My family were fortunate. We lost no-one close in the war. Air raids were a problem. There was a Slough Trading Estate decoy quite close, so there was always a risk from air raids. But the fear was not matched by the reality. My parents鈥� war was about the smaller things. The shortages; the contraband material smuggled in by the US servicemen; the curious social relationships between the various inmates of this strange community my parents lived in. The relationship with the German prisoners was interesting. There was no real animosity, either way. Naturally, showing overt friendship was not on, but there was no hatred. The war was bigger than everyone in it. Life had to go on, and the strange assortment of characters in my parents鈥� lives made for sharp contrasts that perhaps others didn鈥檛 experience.

Narrow escapes are a common theme in war stories. Had my father not been discharged, he would probably have died in the war, and I would not have been here to write this story.

As post-war Britain developed, my parents constantly compared it to wartime. They, like so many, lamented the disappearance of the wartime spirit. In their own lives, the community in which they lived broke up and went its own ways. I think this was a story that was repeated right across Britain. Wars change things forever.

I think these changes were inevitable. Crises bring people together in a way that ordinary life does not, and the bigger the crisis, the greater the cohesiveness. The world of today is full of small crises which touch each of us individually, but seldom as a community. I think the war spirit is gone, and will not return until some sort of similar, overt, tangible, threat emerges. Is this what we want? I don鈥檛 think so.

I think it鈥檚 important to remember. Many lost their lives to give us the better lives that we have now. We need to understand that there are other ways of doing things, of looking at things. Communal security and prosperity breed certain attitudes. We need to understand how other attitudes can arise, and reflect on what this says about us.

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