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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Vijiha Bashir, at ´óÏó´«Ã½ Scotland on behalf of Justine Dowley Wise and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

WAR DAYS

The news on the wireless was full of threats of air raids and warnings about spies being dropped by parachute all over Britain. All signposts were removed and should anyone stop to ask the way to a particular place, they were to be regarded as potential German spies. Air Raid Precaution Wardens (ARPWs) were appointed for every road, to ensure strict ‘black out’ procedures were observed by every householder. Instructions were issued as to how every windowpane was to have masking tape stuck on it to prevent the glass causing damage in the event of bomb blast. The curtains had to be lined with thick black cloth, so that no light was visible from outside, should German bombers fly over us. All street lights were extinguished, so walking back from school in the blackout on dark winter’s evenings proved difficult, especially when there was thick fog. Everyone burnt coal, anthracite, coke or wood in their fireplaces, which often caused thick foul-smelling smog. There were no governmental controls about such emissions in force then but, because of the problem, the government later introduced The Clean Air Act in 1956. Until then, we had to endure what were then called peasoupers, when it was impossible to see even a foot in front of you, and the foggy air that was filled with thick, acrid sulphurous fumes that could choke you. I remember seeing a bus conductor walking along in the gutter in front of his bus in one of these, with a flaming torch to guide the driver as it crawled along the curb. I once had a nasty experience myself when I went to post a letter in one of these peasoupers. Even though the post box was only a few yards from the house, I became totally disorientated because the fog was so dense, and spent ages groping around until I found our front gate again.

Soon the undulating wail of the air raid sirens could be heard at night and we had to hurry downstairs to squeeze into a tiny cupboard under the stairs, which we had been advised would be the safest place if we didn’t have an air raid shelter. The pulsating drone of the German bombers on their way to the munitions factory at Hereford were often heard, and when ever there was a full moon, these bombing raids were more frequent. There was a scare that the Germans might use poisonous gas on the civilians, so we were all issued with gasmasks and instructed to carry them with us at all times.

Young men all over Britain were being called up to enrol for active service and were responding in their thousands as they flocked to the recruiting centres. There was a great feeling of patriotism in Britain at the time and everyone wanted to do their bit for their country. Many young lads keen to join up were too young, so lied about their age and were accepted into the forces. It was a very sad day when Denis called to say goodbye because he had received his ‘call up’ papers, and had to leave at once for the training centre. He wanted to train as a pilot so joined the Royal Air Force (RAF). We had enjoyed so many happy days together and now I was going to miss him.

Mother received several cables from father because he was becoming increasingly concerned about the news of the escalating situation of the war in Europe. There was a threat of a German invasion in Britain, as well as the Blitz on London and the bombing of many of our major cities. Because of these dangers, he wanted us to return to him as soon as possible. Due to the hostilities, the shorter route via the Suez Canal was closed, so the only alternative was a six to eight week voyage around the cape of South Africa. There was no aeroplane passenger service to India then, apart from the Sunderland Flying boat, which took about four days because it had to touch down to refuel en route in several countries. Father had decided that he didn’t want us to return to India on the long sea voyage because of the dangers, so instructed the travel agent Cox and Kings to obtain tickets for all the family to fly out to India on this flying boat. As our wardrobe consisted mainly of school uniforms, mother took us to Daniel Neal’s in London, to purchase suitable outfits for this prestigious flight.

Our outfits consisted of smart fitted cream Shantung silk coats, matching gloves, silk stockings, smart brown bar shoes, and to complete the ensemble, hats of fine cream coloured straw with a garland of silk flowers around the crown.

We were packed in readiness to depart when a message was received from the agents, telling us that the flight had been cancelled due to the intensity of the bombings on London and that our only alternative route was to join a convoy of troopships. So we would have to make that long voyage around the Cape after all. The British government in conjunction with the military had commandeered all passenger liners that had been converted to carry troops out to the Far East. With difficulty, passages were obtained for us on a troopship that had reserved some cabins for civilian passengers, and would be leaving Liverpool for Bombay shortly. I was worried at the thought of travelling on such a long voyage with all those men on board.

When our friends the Golders heard that we were leaving and would be travelling back to India by sea, they decided to join us because the bombing had become so intense in London, that they also felt it wasn’t safe to continue to live in England any longer.

The date fixed for our departure was the Saturday of August Bank Holiday weekend in1940. We were sorry to say goodbye to all our friends at school and especially to Kathleen who had become part of the family whilst she had been with us. She wept as we left knowing that she might never see us again. The dear Weston family came to Malvern Link station to see us off as we boarded the train, where they were fond but tearful farewells. I was thrilled that Denis had been able to come too, but felt very sad that the time had come for me to say goodbye to him. Being the first young man that I had ever met I had always remained aloof, but we had enjoyed each others company because he was always so cheerful and amusing. I realised now that I was going to miss him because our friendship had blossomed and I had grown very fond of him. He had joined the RAF and was soon to train as a pilot and as he stood there smiling at me, I thought how stunning he looked in his smart blue-grey uniform. The last precious memories I have of him are as he came over to give me a portrait photo of himself that he had made especially for me. The family were boarding the train and as I turned to follow them, he took me in his arms and hugged me. As we stood there embracing each other, he bent down and kissed me tenderly on my forehead and whispered in my ear; ‘Please promise to come back to me after this war is over and marry me, because I do love you’. His plea was so sincere, that I promised him I would. He was reluctant to let me go, but the guard was blowing his whistle so I had to board the train. I was overcome with emotion and stunned by what he had just said. The train pulled out of the station and as Denis ran beside the carriage waving to me, I shouted a tearful ‘goodbye’. He blew me a kiss and called out, ‘Not goodbye, only until we meet again’. I leant out of the window and waved until he was out of sight, then burst into tears.

I missed him, and wondered how long it would be before I would have the joy of seeing him again. We kept in frequent touch with each other by letter, and he always ended them with the words; ‘Your loving Denis’, followed by a PS. ‘I still think the same’, by which I knew he meant that he still loved me.

When I returned home from school for the holidays, mother broke the sad news to me that Denis had been killed in an air crash, but she didn’t have any further details. She had withheld this news until then for fear of it upsetting me during my studies. I had been wondering why his letters had stopped, but wouldn’t allow myself to think the unthinkable, that he might have been killed. I was heartbroken when I had heard it, and for years wondered how it had happened. It’s only very recently that I have been able to discover this and where he is buried.

He joined the RAFVR on 11 Jan 1941 to train as a Pilot Officer and after training at Ampthill (Beds) and qualifying after only four months, he was flying his Wellington bomber back to base when it went out of control and crashed at 2.25 am on the 29th of May 1941, just 2 miles SW of Cranfield Airfield. Sadly he was killed, but mercifully the remainder of the crew survived. He was only 21 years old, and is buried in St Peters Churchyard in Malvern Wells and remembered on the War Memorial in Holy Trinity Church Malvern, where he worshipped with his family.

What a tragic waste of a young life that had so much to offer and still so much to live for, but that was the case for so many fine young men as the war dragged on. After the First World War, King George V visited the Flanders Battlefield in France in 1922 and said of the tragic loss of life then: ‘We can truly say that the whole circuit of the earth is girdled with the graves of our dead….and, in the course of my pilgrimage, I have many times asked myself whether there can be more potent advocates of peace on earth through the years to come, than this massed multitude of silent witness to the desolation of war’.

It was Dr John McCrea, a major in the Canadian Expeditionary Force, who fought and tended the wounded on the battlefields in France during the First World War and saw all the carnage there, that led him to write this famous poem that so poignantly echoes those words of King George V and expresses the thoughts of thousands of people who like me, have visited the many War cemeteries in various parts of the world and seen those white crosses and memorial headstones row upon row, disappearing into the far distance.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, through poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

This poem ensured that the poppy became the lasting symbol of remembrance. These same fields are still covered in poppies. I have seen them there in full bloom looking like a red carpet, and from time to time the bodies of those soldiers are still being unearthed, then receive a full military re-burial with honours. It was only about twenty years after these words were written, that thousands more were to die in the cause of freedom as World War II spread over the globe bringing with it such desolation, suffering, hardship and grief. As I look back to those early days of that war, I thank God that I was able to leave England then and return to India where I was able to live in more peaceful surroundings. But we still kept in touch over the wireless with the news of those terrible events as they unfolded from day to day in Britain and Europe, and listened to those marvellous speeches of that great man Winston Churchill, which helped to encourage the members of the forces and the people of Britain to ‘keep going’ throughout those dark and difficult days.

Thas story also links to Justine Dowley Wise's story Return to India part 1 & 2

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