Читать книгу Reluctant Hero - John Hickman - Страница 11

In February 1940 Bill was seventeen years of age and a touch less than six feet tall. His body was not yet filled out to fit his frame.

‘He’s hollow in the chest, not much weight behind him, Girl.’

‘Skinny as spaghetti, you mean. Lean as, with that raw-boned look of an adolescent.’

But despite his physique, Bill was about to enter the most extraordinary period of his life and prove to be a man useful to employ.

Britain braced for German invasion. March 1940 to September 1941 the Luftwaffe bombed targets in Britain at will. From as far apart as London to Liverpool, Glasgow to Portsmouth they reigned supreme. The primary aim of most British plans during the summer of 1940 became defensive. London and several other major cities came under attack from enemy bombers. More than 40,000 British civilians were killed in London alone during the Blitz. An average toll of two hundred and fifty fatalities were recorded a day following hits over sixty consecutive nights.

‘Our troops abroad are getting about as much support from home as measured by a fart in a thunderstorm,’ ranted Fred. Lily made a face.

In May 1941, Egyptian born Nazi Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s deputy and third in command, flew to Britain on a peace mission. The Daily Telegraph reported he baled out over Scotland at 6,000 feet and told a Scottish farmer in impeccable English, ‘I have an important message from Hitler for the Duke of Hamilton.’

Accused of displaying signs of mental disability he was swiftly declared insane and locked away in solitary confinement as reward for his odyssey.

‘Something’s not quite right, Girl. It smells suspicious to me.’ *2nd Footnote.

Bill’s eighteenth birthday approached. With ears like radar dishes he sat spellbound listening to Cousin Eric, on leave from the infantry. ‘Conditions at the front line are bloody awful enough to frighten anyone.’

Fred shook his head and lit a smoke. ‘Despite propaganda bullshit, news from there is never good two days in a row.’

Eric went on to recount his horrors of the trenches, the mud, drenching rain and death in stupefying detail.

Lily bent from the waist to pick up her sewing; the exertion seemed to leave her breathless. Her lips retreated to thin lines. ‘It’s enough to swear anyone off having babies. They’re cannon-fodder for the British government, that’s all they are.’

Then Eric started to lose it. ‘You’ve got no idea what it’s like. It’s bloody terrible.’ His torment came in waves. Lily cried as he talked.

When he finished, there was a long pause.

‘I know it’s hard out there, Eric. I knew those trenches in the last war,’ Fred said quietly.

But nothing deterred Eric. ‘We worry we’ll be killed in a bayonet charge and all the while we lay in mud. We’re lucky to get any food at all. When we do everything tastes the same. Yuk! Even our smokes get wet.’

At home Eric spent most of his time in idleness. He cried often. When he visited Lily and Fred he warmed himself at their hob and stared unseeing at the floor. Occasionally he gazed out of a window. Otherwise he fought to hold back his sobs, which upset Lily big time, and embarrassed Fred. All this scared the crap out of Bill. As to what lay in front of Eric, his demons were beyond anyone else’s control. He was too upset and frightened.

‘I don’t want to go back, Lily. It’s terrible. I don’t want to die,’ sobbed Eric.

‘But you have to go back, Eric. You can’t change your mind. It’s too late now.’

Fred steered Lily out of the room. ‘Not much I can say to the kid, Girl. He’s barely in control of his own bladder.’

Lily was in tears. She composed herself and they rejoined Eric.

‘It’s not as if you picked a bad day for it. If you don’t return to active duty and they catch you, they’ll shoot you for sure,’ Fred said.

Now Eric understood. At fourteen, he’d lied about his age, as many had and joined up. Enthralled with excitement and filled with a sense of adventure he’d seen war as a free ticket to see Europe and get laid.

‘You had no idea what you were getting yourself into,’ said Lily.

Fred changed tact. ‘What people don’t understand about being in the army; is its inaction. When men aren’t scavenging for food or smokes, they’re in trenches full of water. All because some idiot educated beyond his intelligence said they should be there.’

‘You’re right, Fred,’ said Eric. He lightened up. ‘We were shifted in the middle of the night once by another nincompoop. Corporal said it was a less than defensive position from where we’d been.’

‘We never slept properly, our equipment was always defective,’ continued Fred. ‘And when supplies arrived, if they ever did, they were never what we expected.’

Bill was candid. ‘Now I know why I’m terrified of being drafted into the army.’

Fred frowned. ‘History will confirm those in charge have been lax with birth dates. But mark my words sending children as young as fourteen to the front line won’t be talked about much in the future. They’ll keep that under wraps for sure.’

‘Poor babies,’ sniffed Lily. ‘They say it’s being called to arms. It’s their mother’s arms they’re wanting.’

Now Eric had had a taste of reality, he wished he’d been less hasty.

Lily tried to mother him.

‘There,’ she said, ‘I’ve made you a nice pack of your favourite sandwiches.’

Fred rolled him some smokes and gave him pocket money from their rent jar on the mantelpiece. They both tried to cheer him up. Fred told him one of his favourite stories from his war, the First World War.

‘It was the war intended to end all wars, Eric. At least that’s what they told us then. Back when radio communication was in its infancy, it was hard to understand. According to the crackle, ‘Reinforcements are coming and we’re going to advance.’ Or was that, ‘Three and four pence and we’re going to a dance?’

Everyone laughed, even Eric.

When they saw him off from the railway station the next day, the three men shook hands and Lily kissed him on the cheek. ‘Be strong. You’ll be fine, Eric,’ she whispered.

They waved and promised to love each other forever but Lily couldn’t hold back her tears. *3rd Footnote

After he’d gone, Bill was unable to shake memories of Eric from his mind.

Fred held court. ‘It might be simpler if we stayed in England and shot 5,000 armed men every week, Girl.’

Bill’s morbid sense of foreboding had him worried. He visualised desperate unwashed men at the front, sweating with anger and fear as he had with Alf. He racked his brains for a less physical alternative but time was against him. He didn’t want to wait to be called up for fear his freedom of choice would be taken from him. If he was conscripted into the Army he knew he would be up against Germany’s finest and he knew Eric’s prospects of survival were poor.

‘Trouble is those bloody Germans are all hulks of troopers, Son.’

Death had never been busier and would become more so, but thoughts of being skewered by an eight-foot Hun death machine in hand-to-hand combat, with or without his trusty cricket bat, caused Bill to wake up most nights in a cold sweat.

‘You’re behaving worse than a whore in church,’ laughed Fred.

Bill’s recurring nightmare was being effortlessly attached to the pointy end of a German bayonet and flicked around for amusement as if he were a giant Catherine wheel.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Lily, ‘If that big boy Alf doesn’t join the Army. He likes to fight and they’d be a profit in it for him.’

‘Judging by the size of him,’ laughed Fred. ‘They should have a war, just to employ him.’

‘Worse in the Navy, Son,’ frowned Lily. ‘There you’d be trapped on the rolling deep.’

Bill imagined visions of him being permanently seasick. While a delightful addition to the crews’ endless amusement, this clouded Bill’s judgment.

‘Of course in the Navy, you’ll still die, Son,’ sniffed Lily.

‘But instead of playing ring-a-ring-a-roses with German bayonets those seas will rise up to swallow me whole,’ frowned Bill.

‘No mercy out there, Son,’ Fred shook his head. ‘Not with the briny less than friendly.’

‘They say drowning is a pleasant death, although I can’t see it myself,’ sniffed Lily.

‘Bloody hell no, Girl. The cold, the exhaustion, they can keep that to themselves. I’d rather take a bullet.’

Cold sweats and nightmares continued to exhaust Bill.

If he wasn’t dodging giant Hun troopers he was desperate to keep his head above the icy cold wobbly stuff.

Father and son sat quietly by the hob after Lily had taken herself off to bed. For a while they tried not to disturb the air they breathed.

‘Fuck those bayonets, Dad. They leave a hole!’

‘Army’s out then, Son.’

‘And a pox on their damn ships!’

‘Nothing nautical then, Son.’

The British Government promised everything possible to attract young men to arms. Bright new buttons on their uniforms, even a free haircut. Things were hotting up. There was an opportunity to trade an empty stomach and tatty clothes for a sense of belonging.

Death and misadventure were not promoted.

‘They make going to war look romantic,’ sniffed Lily.

‘Provided they overlook dying for their meal ticket, Girl.’

In London it was as if everyone rallied to the flag.

‘There’s more flags than at a dawn service,’ quipped Fred.

Men in uniform were everywhere and the ladies were easily impressed, even by boys as fashionable as Sabre Toothed Tigers in flared trousers.

The propaganda machine was in full flight. Bands marched, wirelesses blared. Who wouldn’t want to take part? Bill began to relax.

Fred shook his head. ‘Those bloody politicians are on their band wagon and everyone’s being primed to fight.’

‘The kids you mean—not the politicians,’ corrected Lily.

Who wouldn’t want to make that ultimate sacrifice? These were crazy times.

After filling adventurous days with killing there was an added perk. Volunteers would be de-mobbed immediately following the cessation of hostilities. This guarantee of an early discharge was seen as a massive advantage not to be missed.

‘First out of the services will beat the long queues for the best jobs,’ Fred said.

Bill thought he’d be spoilt for job offers. He perked up. But he was to learn the hard way, how politicians are for the most part a waste of skin. This pledge, as with many others, would never be kept. Assurances were only given to achieve their own short-term agendas.

Advertisements portrayed aircrew as supremely glamorous. Odol Toothpaste showed a delighted RAF officer with a pretty woman on his arm and urged: Cheer up and smile—keep smiling even if you’re running risks.

What risks? Their testosterone fortress only had to defeat Hitler’s hairy little one-balled arse, which shouldn’t take too long, His Majesty promised.

The Battle of Britain was around the corner, as was the Luftwaffe under Field Marshall Hermann Goering, an ace fighter pilot from the First World War. Weighted down by his Iron Cross for bravery but now a little too large in the bum to squeeze into a cockpit, he burned with speeches. Mainly about how he would throw more planes and bombs at England than anyone had ever done before him. And in that he would succeed.

Germans were a formidable foe. Their armaments were supreme, their discipline extreme. They were superior Teutonic beings who did everything better than everyone else.

The Luftwaffe had no such concept as a tour. German pilots didn’t retire after thirty missions or ops (short for operations as the RAF cal ed them.) They flew until they died or survived the war but German morale was higher than high. Their military intelligence ran circles around the British, as did their technology.

Hitler was on a roll. He promised to wring England’s neck like that of a chicken.

‘Some chicken; some neck,’ quoted Winston Churchill.

‘Churchil ’s up for the top job, and he does nothing for anyone except on cash terms,’ said Fred.

‘He’s good at speeches,’ retorted Lily. ‘I’ll give him that. But I’m not sure dying is preferable to kowtowing to those Germans.’

‘No! Nor drive their wretched Volkswagens, or own a Dachshund, Girl.’

* * * * *

. .We shall go to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight in the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender. .

Winston Churchil , 4 June 1940

(An excerpt from his speech in the House of Commons, after he became Prime Minister).

* * * * *

It was on for one and all as paranoia gathered momentum in triumphant procession.

‘Wherever Churchill goes people flock to cheer him,’ Lily said.

‘People,’ sneered Fred. ‘We’ll cheer anyone, if frightened enough. And don’t forget Churchill needs to break the old guard, Girl. New brooms replace the old.’

Rationing was in and the first items under the hammer were bacon, eggs, tinned ham, butter, sugar and precious icing sugar. To begin with the Germans had an underdeveloped air force but by late summer 1941 they’d seriously upgraded.

Nazi Germany dominated continental Europe. August 1941 saw over one hundred British aircraft lost. The following month was worse with losses of over one hundred and thirty. Many were shot down over English cities. One in four British planes perished but worse was to come. October saw more massive losses.

The Germans missed their East End docks target. Instead their bombs dropped on London. Hitler became angry that civilians had been attacked unnecessarily and issued an apology to the British Government.

Did Churchill see this as an opportunity to accelerate hostilities in his favour?

And was that why he ordered the RAF to attack Berlin as a reprisal?

An angry Hitler then ordered the Blitz on London.

Oh, well. Nobody’s perfect, thought Bill.

Often on smoggy days in London it was impossible to see a few yards ahead. Other times a heavy overcast sky appeared laden with snow, when it wasn’t. Even on those better days distance was relative as any horizon became lost in a sea of smog. Pilots reported visibility reduced to less than a few hundred yards. The days grew shorter as winter approached. Children went to school and came home in the dark. Any warming sun might appear sporadically about noon and disappear soon afterwards.

It was on a miserable day like that in January, with dismal thoughts about the weather in mind; Bill came to terms with reality. In the face of so much horror, he’d decided not to lie about his age as Eric had done.

One month before his eighteenth birthday at Lord’s Cricket Ground in London, Bill joined with hundreds of other would be hopefuls, for duty at the feet of a bunch of aeroplane enthusiasts. His Majesty’s King George VI’s Royal Air Force.

Bill filled out their masses of forms and stood in line for selection. He knew the next few hours might well be a turning point in his life. Aware time, once behind him, could never be retrieved or revisited his mood became mixed. He reasoned as a Leading Aircraftman he should be far removed from strapping eight-foot Hun troopers with pointy bits. If by some stroke of luck he made the elevated status of flight crew he would be even further removed. Bill had lifted his hands for emphasis. ‘Way, way up higher than high. And far, far above any rolling deep seas too.’

Bill completely forgot his fear of heights. At home he was incapable of standing on a chair to change a light bulb without assistance. But if his decision needed any reinforcement, there was an additional carrot. Payment for qualified pilots was a dizzy nineteen shillings and sixpence—per day! To Bill that was a worthy pinnacle.

Good money for the boy from the slums especially with more than a million people unemployed, thought Bill.

There were medicals to be conducted and then issue of an enormous pile of kit.

Like other local lads Bill was to be billeted at home as accommodations were reserved for those from out of town. Some luxurious north London flats were used, which belonged to exceedingly rich Jewish princesses. Bill looked on with envy. If only he’d been an out of town lad. Luxurious before they were stripped of everything flash, as in fancy fittings.

Even carpets were lifted before the rabble moved in. Colonial and country lads alike sat in bathroom sanctuaries second to none and used unlimited hot water from taps not blanked off —yet.

Bill’s anticipation and excitement continued to mount. Before him, he knew; would be an extreme test, both professionally and socially. The higher they raised the bar, the closer to the ground he felt. The boy from the slums was having troubles but he wasn’t the only one.

Many quietly suspected this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. Nor would it be an opportunity to sit around thinking about sex every day. But any such talk might smack of negativity, even treason.

In the First World War many good brave men were executed for far less by firing squad. They were made an example of to ensure the rank and file toed the line. A timely reminder of how any discussions about what might go wrong with the strategies of the powers-that-be, be kept to whispers and shared in private with only family and close friends who could be trusted.

Bill was barely eighteen years old, when full of beans but clueless, he looked about him in the examination room. He felt about as useless as a screw-in light bulb for a bayonet fixture. What to do? He might as well be attached to the sharp end of a Hun trooper’s bayonet. Most of those who competed against him for prospective aircrew positions were from better backgrounds. They could hardly have come from worse. Some had entire houses to themselves with lots of chimneys, even their own bathroom with hot and cold running water. The majority were from middle class families. Above them, aristocratic elite, who wore better uniforms with officer status and Oxbridge accents.

Back at home Bill said to his dad. ‘Makes them sound as if they’re talking with a plum stuck in their mouth. They’re so bloody wah, wah; their talk is so affected it’s hard to understand what they’re saying.’

‘Few of those upper classes will see much combat, Son. As with the world over you’ll find wealthy kids are rarely drafted. They’re easily identified as better educated when they speak.’

But everyone was better educated than Bill. Some were on leave from universities others had fancy double-barrelled names heralding aristocratic and privileged origins.

Bill felt leaden footed and totally inadequate. For him there was the measured collapse of one expectation after another. He wrestled with his doubts. Why on earth would the Air Force ever choose him over this lot? Bill’s ambition to become aircrew, perhaps a pilot had been formulated over cups of hot sweet tea in his parents’ scullery kitchen. Tea stewed the colour of his pipe tobacco from a teapot rarely allowed to run dry, two sizes bigger than his head. And all in a small flat, with only one smoking chimney. While Lily had ironed and folded the washing, Fred had washed and shaved over their kitchen sink. Bill chatted excitedly about his plans how he might become a fighter pilot to avoid death in the trenches.

Fred was enthusiastic. ‘Sounds a good idea, Son. ‘If yer can pull it off.’

It had been a big day for smiles and nods, but what had seemed logical then, had fast become foolhardy, now a distant mirage.

Bill rubbed his sweating palms on his knees and tried to concentrate. Pondering his fate with the exams, he twiddled with his pencil. He felt stonewalled again. Perhaps he should give up.

*2nd footnote. Rudolf Hess was an expert pilot. On 10 May 1941 he flew a Messerschmitt ME-110 fitted with long-range fuel tanks for the 900-mile flight of five hours. He navigated to within thirty miles of the Duke of Hamilton’s residence in Scotland before baling out. After parachuting safely to the ground he encountered a Scottish farmer and told him in perfect English, ‘I have an important message for the Duke of Hamilton from my Fuhrer. His plan was to approach the British government through the Duke whom he knew personally. Despite his attempts to negotiate a peace settlement with the British government, he was ridiculed until Churchill ordered Hess to be imprisoned for the duration of the war in solitary confinement. If the British government had handled his intervention diff erently, might not his eff orts have saved millions of lives? No one will ever know. Many, including Bill, believed it was the usual whitewash and cover up.

*3rd footnote. Young Eric never returned home. He didn’t survive the trenches. A telegram stated he was—Killed-In-Action. One more unfortunate casualty of war, another name added to the ever-growing list of thousands killed or missing. Nothing was left of Eric but cameo memories. No one ever imagined a death toll of over sixty million. But why had so many died for so little?