大象传媒

On 5 June 1944 Rome fell to the Allies. I wrote to my wife, Minna: 'Judging by early reports it seems that no damage has been done, for which the gods be praised. I suppose that some of our more extreme Calvinists will be grinding their teeth. They must have thought that the Scarlet Woman would get it in the neck this time. One can but hope that the lovely old towns of northern Italy will also be spared - there is little enough beauty left in the world.' A sizeable section of our forces were in favour of bombing Rome in revenge for the bombing of London. And when Vesuvius erupted in March the idea was mooted of dropping 'blockbuster' bombs into the crater.

Next morning, June 6 the long-awaited invasion of Normandy began - 'D-Day '. I remember little of the reaction in Algiers. There were sighs of relief that we were not there and a general crossing-of-fingers on behalf of those who were. Europe seemed far away. I recall some noisy 'fireworking' from ships in the bay and the usual number of drunks picked up by the military police increased by a small percentage. In England my friend James, now an agricultural labourer, wrote up his diary:

'Tuesday, 6 June. 'D-Day. Weather dull. Up 6.30. Deeper and deeper into Moses Mead. Holiday-makers cut the bulrushes. A bearded man told me that the Russians had invaded France; our parachutists had landed in Germany, but confessed that his memory was bad. Afternoon: an old gentleman gave me four lettuces. Evening: A poorly-attended meeting of the Union lasted an hour and a half.'

Now the first of Hitler's 'secret weapons' began to hit London and the south-east: the V1's - unmanned aircraft filled with explosives which fell at random. These flying bombs (soon labelled 'buzz-bombs' because of their peculiar sound) contained their own warning: when the 'buzzing' stopped it was time to take cover. They brought a letter from Minna dated 19 June:

'I wonder what you are thinking about the latest developments, particularly as the Huns seem to be making a real splash about their latest toy so I will start by reassuring you. You may not need it - knowing the Huns - but here goes. It was with a sigh of relief that I welcomed the new weapon! I felt sure that something nasty was bound to happen after the opening of the Second Front and expected much worse.' (I knew what she meant - poison-gas or germ warfare). 'I and my next-door colleagues at the Council office have actually been seen to giggle over the thing, it struck me as so funny and just what might have been expected of ambitious boys who had taken a beating and wanted revenge. Of course it is nasty, all bombing is. And that is about all I have to say about the latest German brain-wave.'

Later: 'The latest novelty in raids started on the evening of my first Promenade Concert. Yes, I took your advice and went to hear Sibelius' Seventh, the overture to The Magic Flute, Elgar's violin concerto (Albert Sammons), the Fountains of Rome and a, to me, unknown Bellini piece from Norma sung by Joan Hammond (who was not very good). A delightful evening. Never have I enjoyed the full surge of a symphony orchestra so much as I did when the ocean of sound, which is the Fountains of Rome, caught me up and carried me away, right over to you. It was almost ecstasy. I was alone with you in space and the huge ugliness which is the Albert Hall disappeared into nothingness. And I very nearly forgot to tell you about it! I get so taken up with a thought or a subject that I forget you did not actually share it with me.'

Germany's flying bombs were not the only problem for Minna: 'I have Miss Vernon, the Council鈥檚 Housing Manager, staying here for a week. Her house was damaged by the bombing. She is bringing her dog so I brought out Ib's basket for him. I stood weeping, weeping so intensely that I thought I should never stop. (Ib was our Scots terrier who died an agonising death soon after I went overseas - see Mail from England - The Joy and The Grief). Later: 'Thank heavens she is going elsewhere so I shall be able to write to you in peace. I am no good with untidy women, and she is a horror - quite unable to see it herself.'

'You are so near to me and so often that I find myself puzzling over the letters I write, wondering how often I have told you this or that. You seem to be an integral part of my life. When I do things here in our home it is for you because the thought of your homecoming is helping to keep me sane. Yet I often feel I ought to spend my time writing endless letters to you - that if anything happens to our home or to me, letters would prove more substantial than any work carried out in the house.

'As for the world - well, it can never be too much for me as long as you are in it beloved, for you are 'a very remarkable fellow.' (This was a private joke taken from a catch-phrase in a 1937 James Stewart film - Seventh Heaven). It makes me not only happy to have you for my lover, my friend and my one and only comrade, it makes me fiendishly proud.'

The months passed. The French put up an enormous board on the front of the General Post Office. It showed a map of France. Each morning the municipal fire-brigade arrived with an extending ladder and painted in another white patch showing the latest Allied gains. I wondered if they had paint-remover for use in case of Allied retreats.

Our July-August 1944 letters read like some romantic composer's counterpoint: we soldiers high and dry in one of war's backwaters, our street-lighting restored; the civilians at home bombarded in a blacked-out country with decisive battles being fought on the other side of the English Channel.

'My sleep is disturbed,' wrote Minna, 'but don't imagine I am walking about in a blue funk. I remember your attitude during the 1940 blitz and go about my business as usual... with an occasional attack of nerves. This week-end was quite hilarious. Geoffrey, Betty and the baby came for the week-end and we spent part of the night hanging out of the windows admiring the "fireworks". They said they had never had such a good view in Richmond. But how ridiculous it is when the womenfolk of soldiers serving overseas write to them of marvellous escapes and give gruesome details which can only upset their dear ones.' At about this time she also wrote about a near-miss from a V1 that interrupted afternoon tea with our landlord's family: see the article 'Flying Bombs over Warlingham' (A2585630) elsewhere on this site.

Algiers suffered one massive air-attack: by millions of locusts. They settled everywhere, consumed anything green and the streets were strewn with their grasshopper-like bodies ground to a paste by lorries and jeeps. Arab urchins stuck pins through them, attached a bit of string and, lo! Model aeroplanes. Arab entrepreneurs set up charcoal braziers, toasted the insects and offered them for sale. They were quite palatable.

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