Sherlock's Squadron

by Steve Holmes

  ‘The belief that security can be obtained by throwing a small state to the wolves is a fatal delusion,’ he said, referring to Hitler’s wish to invade Czechoslovakia.

  The conference had been chaired by Adolf Hitler with Italy’s Benito Mussolini, Britain’s Neville Chamberlain, and France’s Edouard Daladier discussing German demands on Czechoslovakian territory. At the end of the two days the Munich Agreement was signed. It allowed Germany to annex the Sudetenland portion of Czechoslovakia. Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain said ‘I believe it is peace for our time.’

  The Holmes brothers and their father sat in their familiar chairs as the announcement was made. Ernie breathed a sigh of relief while James busied himself polishing his shoes for the next working day. William Holmes was quiet, almost stoic. John drained the last of his tea and walked through to the kitchen. He washed the cup and placed it onto the drainer.

  ‘I’m off to bed,’ he announced, before kissing his mother gently on the cheek. And as he climbed the stairs wearily he mumbled to himself. ‘Czechoslovakia… where next?’

  Events in Nazi Germany were gathering pace. The public school tones of the radio announcer almost faltered as he detailed an event known as Kristallnacht, night of broken glass. The Nazi authorities had orchestrated a nationwide protest against the Jews in Germany and Austria. It followed the murder of German diplomat Ernst vom Rath, killed allegedly by Herschel Grynszpan, a French Jew in the German Embassy in Paris. Jewish homes and synagogues were looted and burned. Hardly a Jewish shop or business survived the bricks and petrol bombs of the fired up mob. By the end of the night 91 Jews were killed and by the end of the week 20,000 had been taken away to concentration camps.

  Christmas came and went. Georgina Holmes had made a real effort that year and John wondered if his mother suspected it might be their last together as a family, at least for a while. James, Alice, Mary and Ernie all had good jobs but their mother was well aware that every one of them was liable for call up should war break out.

  On the stroke of midnight on December 31st, 1938 turned into 1939. It was a time for good cheer, a little alcohol and best wishes for the year to come. The Holmes family sat together in the well-kept lounge of their semi-detached home in front of a roaring log fire. It was a bitterly cold evening and a fine covering of snow lay on the cobbled streets outside. Ernie’s girlfriend Dorothy was there and a young man called Jimmy, who had his eye on Alice. James had brought a couple of friends back from the pub and the assembled group sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’. William sat in his big comfortable armchair by the fire. He was nursing a whisky and looked on with approval at his sons and daughters happy smiling faces. He’d given his youngest son a bottle of best bitter and although not quite the most wonderful tasting drink in the world, John had been only too happy to join his older brothers and sisters and enjoy his first drop of alcohol.

  ‘Just the one now, John,’ his father had warned him and John had nodded before taking a long drink. The alcohol kicked in immediately, making him feel light-headed, a little giggly even, but he was happy to be a part of the adult crowd. The lounge seemed particularly dark that night, probably something to do with all the bodies blocking out the light from the fire and the standard lamp that stood in the corner of the room. If it had been a little lighter someone may have noticed the tears that ran silently down his mother’s cheeks.

  It was early spring 1939 when John began to notice the very visible signs that the country was preparing for war. The workforce at the mill had been reduced significantly and young men from the age of twenty one were disappearing at a rapid rate of knots joining the Army, the Navy or the RAF. Some joined up voluntarily, some were conscripted, they had no choice yet no one seemed to object.

  Hitler was still in the news and some hacks from the press were suggesting he was hell bent on world domination. They mentioned something about a white supremacist Aryan race; blond-haired blue-eyed individuals, powerful, tall, strong and athletic. John almost laughed as he thought about the man whose vision this was… a five foot eight, unhealthy-looking Austrian with black hair and dark eyes. Hardly the perfect role model.

  The radio was still the favoured place to congregate after each evening meal and now the men of the Holmes family were joined by the ladies of the house. One evening John’s father announced that his factory had had a visit from the men from the War Office. They were to stop making furniture for the foreseeable future.

  ‘Then what will you be making?’ John asked.

  ‘Oh there’s plenty to make, son, plenty of stuff needed for the war. Waring & Gillow have furnished ships and boats before, lots of famous ones like the Lusitania, Heliopolis and the Queen Mary.’

  ‘So you’ll be fitting out ships for the war?’

  William nodded. ‘Pretty much so. The upholstery department will lend a hand too, making kit-bags, tents and camouflage nets. It’s nothing new, the same thing happened during the Great War, we even made wooden propellers for De Havilland DH9 aircraft.’

  John knew all about the De Havilland DH9, there was even a picture of it in his aircraft book. To think Dad’s factory had made those propellers. Ernie and James, Alice and Mary all detailed the changes that had occurred in their own workplace, their factories and offices. James and Ernie talked about how they wouldn’t hesitate to join up if it came to all-out war with Germany. John wished he was just that little bit older. Almost on cue the familiar music of the BBC World Service permeated the room and the Holmes family fell silent.

  The station played a recent speech by Adolf Hitler. It was in German, of course, and the translator let the tape play for a few seconds before interpreting.

  ‘Czechoslovakia has ceased to exist’ he said, ‘The glorious German troops now occupy the rest of Czechoslovakia.’

  The invading German Storm-Troopers had annexed Bohemia and Moravia too. This was all in violation of the Munich Agreement of the previous year. The dulcet tones of the broadcaster announced that needless to say the British and French governments had protested strongly. Several days later Neville Chamberlain told the Cabinet that continuing negotiations with Adolf Hitler was impossible.

  William Holmes spoke. For the first time John’s father acknowledged that war was inevitable. His statement took everyone by surprise, not least John.

  ‘We’ll be at war within three months,’ he predicted. ‘Mark my words… everyone will be at war on a scale we’ve never seen before.’

  His words would become strangely prophetic.

  ‘Who’ll be at war?’ John asked.

  William Holmes leaned across and ruffled John’s hair.

  ‘Everyone, son… everyone in the whole damned world.’

  And so they sat night after night. They listened to Hitler demanding the return of the Polish Corridor and Danzig and they listened to the BBC as they announced that German troops had occupied the city of Memel, which was situated on the border of East Prussia and Lithuania. Poland warned Germany that any attempt to seize Danzig would mean all-out war. They listened with admiration as Chamberlain told the House of Commons that France and Britain had declared they would stand by Poland and support Polish independence.

  It was early June and John continued to swim in the Crook O’ Lune. On this day in particular he was recalling the words of Winston Churchill as he wrote in a magazine called The Collier. John had studied the words in the magazine during a trip to the barber shop in Lancaster town centre. Churchill had said that unless there was a change of regime in Nazi Germany, war was inevitable. The Germans were spoiling for a fight, he wrote. He went on to say that the war would undoubtedly start before the end of the year. John powered on up the river stroke after stroke drawing inspiration and energy from the words he had heard Mr Churchill speak of late. There was nothing finer than when the BBC announcer introduced a speech by Winston Churchill. Whilst he had nothing personal against Mr Chamberlain it seemed that Churchill knew how to stir up a little emotion, ruffle a few feathers and he talked sense. He made
the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand on end.

  John swam longer and faster than he could ever recall swimming before. As he climbed from the water he was out of breath and after a minute or two the cool river water mingled with his perspiration. He walked down to where he had hidden his clothes, dried himself off and changed, then made his way up to the mill preparing for another long and monotonous day. As he walked through the gates he sighed and wondered how long it would be before he could say goodbye to the place. He looked up to the sky as always and said a silent prayer.

  On August 22nd 1939 Hitler authorized the killing ‘without pity or mercy, all men, women and children of Polish descent or language.’ By the end of the month the Royal Navy was put on full alert and Army and Navy mobilisation commenced. The conscription age was lowered to age 20.

  Hitler received the Polish Ambassador to Berlin, mainly to appease Mussolini, who was trying to establish a peace formula. The talks lasted no longer than a few minutes. Hitler had already made up his mind to invade Poland. He declared to his generals a few hours later that at 4:45am on 1st September 1939, the German Armed Forces would invade Poland.

  On 2nd September Neville Chamberlain issued an ultimatum to Nazi Germany that Hitler must withdraw his troops from Poland with immediate effect. Chamberlain would broadcast live to the nation the following day.

  John could hardly wait to get home on September 3rd 1939. His work that day had been shoddy, like many others he was unable to concentrate or focus on the task in hand. After all, it’s not every day that your country is on the brink of war. His supervisor understood and sent him home early. For once he wasn’t hungry; for once his mother understood and didn’t scold him for leaving good food on his plate.

  They sat and waited for the appointed hour. William, Georgina, James, Alice, Ernie, Mary and John sat in a stony yet deafening silence. The radio crackled into life and the commentator announced that they were going across to the House of Commons. It seemed like a poor connection, a little distorted but after several seconds Neville Chamberlain spoke.

  ‘This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.’

  Chamberlain paused for dramatic effect or was John just imagining it.

  ‘I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  By the evening of September 3rd, Britain and France were at war with Germany and within a week, Australia, New Zealand, Canada and South Africa had also joined the conflict. The world had been plunged into its second world war in 25 years. No one, not John, not his father, mother or his brothers or sisters would have believed that the war would last six long and bloody years. No one would have predicted it would be so fierce and fought over many thousands of square miles or would claim so many innocent lives. It would be fought from the hedgerows of Normandy to the streets of Stalingrad, the icy slopes of Norway and Finland to the sweltering heat of North Africa and the insect infested jungles of Burma and the tropics of Java. It would affect every single family in Great Britain.

  Towards the end of September, John made his way home from work and lingered on his boss’s words that it would be over by Christmas. He hoped that was the case, he hoped everyone would return home safely and they would enjoy the festivities like he’d remembered from the year before. But something welling in the pit of his stomach told him that wouldn’t be the case.

  He recalled the history lessons at school as his teacher, Mr Mackenzie, gave him the facts on World War One. ‘The War To End All Wars,’ ‘The Great War.’ The teacher said as he pontificated at the front of the classroom. What a stupid name, thought John; which idiot named it ‘The Great War?’ It didn’t appear very ‘great’ after listening to his lessons.

  It was the Germans again who had antagonised half of Europe by invading Belgium, Luxembourg and France. The war was fought mainly in the trenches of Northern France, young men and boys massacred like toy soldiers. Cannon fodder, Mr Mackenzie had said, and by the war end, Great Britain had lost five million military personnel. John couldn’t even contemplate those sorts of figures. One of his classmates said there wasn’t a million minutes in a year; he wondered if that were true?

  His boss was wrong; the war hadn’t ended by Christmas. John still listened to the radio reports about the battles and the push for territory, the successes and the losses sustained by the Allies. He hated to admit it but he was almost disappointed that the war hadn’t seemed to have reached Lancaster. Why hadn’t the war arrived here?

  Lancaster was so distant, it had never seen any real action. It was like there wasn’t a war going on at all, as if it was happening somewhere else in some far-off distant land. No strategic bombing, no soldiers patrolling the streets or air wardens shining small torches through gaps in windows ordering people to block out lights. Nothing. No munitions factories here. Just warehouses, textile mills, cobbled streets and the Crook O’ Lune.

  But the war was happening in Lancaster, and it was happening in Skerton too as one by one, young men and women in their early twenties gradually disappeared from the grey cobbled streets to do their duty for King and Country fighting a war in a foreign land. John recalled Mrs Roberts from a few doors down standing in the kitchen of her home as she proudly boasted to John’s mother that her son Frank was one of the first to be called up. And she had been proud, mighty proud as the day for Frank’s departure arrived. John watched from his bedroom window as close relatives and extended family arrived at number 43 to wave Frank off until eventually a small crowd gathered around the step to the front door. And they sang songs and waved flags and bunting adorned the doorway and hung from lampposts nearby. And how Mrs Roberts smiled and beamed with pride as Frank set off along the street.

  And then it was John’s brothers’ turn as they received their papers. The papers told them to report to various drill halls in the North West. James, the eldest, received his call-up first. It was spring 1940. The letter advised him to report to a church hall in Lancaster on a specified date, unless he was in one of the reserve occupations listed, in which case he had to notify the war office within 48 hours. Georgina Holmes looked at the list. Dock-workers, miners, farmers, merchant seamen, firemen, railwaymen and utility workers in the water, gas, or electric industry. James had always wanted to be a fireman but she had discouraged him; she thought it was a dangerous occupation. She was so proud when he left school and took up his position as a store-man. Within a few short years he headed the department.

  No one in the house knew of the torment she was going through as her eyes hovered over the word fireman. No one knew of the anguish she would suffer during the six years of conflict that would claim 60 million lives and devastate most of Europe and large parts of Asia and Africa.

  James reported for duty and basic training at Squire’s Gate Camp in Blackpool. He had chosen the East Lancashire Regiment. After eight weeks’ basic training he would find himself fighting the Germans in a muddy field in northern France. Latterly he would be posted to Malaya and Burma. He was 25 years of age when he kissed goodbye to his family. His sister, Alice, held his girlfriend Marjorie tight as James walked to the end of the street. Marjorie cried as if the world had come to an end. She was inconsolable.

  Ernie was next. His papers arrived two weeks later. Ernie’s girlfriend Dorothy Mossop was having tea with the family when William placed the envelope on the kitchen table.

  ‘This came this morning,’ he announced. ‘I thought I’d wait until we’d finished our tea.’

  Ernie had forked the last piece of potato into his mouth, which was just as well because his appetite vanished immediately. There was a prolonged silence. It was only an envelope, yet everyone who crowded around the small kitchen table knew of its significance, not least his girl
friend Dorothy who burst into tears as she dropped a knife onto her plate causing everyone to jump. Ernie laughed it off.

  ‘Don’t be stupid lass, we knew this day would come and you know how much I want to go and give Hitler the kicking he deserves.’

  John smiled. He wanted to go and give Hitler a good kicking too. John wanted to join his two older brothers, wherever, whenever. Why couldn’t he go? He could work, he could get served in the local pubs and hotels in Lancaster and he was even old enough to get married and yet he couldn’t go and serve his country, protect it from a man and a country hell bent on destruction.

  ‘It’ll be over soon, don’t you fret Dot, and I’ll be back before you know it.’

  John admired his older brother’s courage and dignity, even if he was just putting on a brave face. John was always close to Ernie despite the five-year gap. It had been Ernie who took him into the Greaves Hotel in town and bought him his first pint of bitter a few weeks back and it had been Ernie who first encouraged him to ask the attractive-looking barmaid, Joyce, out on a date even if she was quite a few years older than him. John would miss Ernie, that was for sure. He’d miss his guidance and his protection, his humour too. He had accepted a small packet from Ernie the third time he had taken Joyce out.

  ‘I got these from the barber, John. I think you’ll need them soon.’

  John unwrapped the stiff brown paper. He was about to open the packet in full view of the regulars in the pub. Ernie reached across and clamped his hand on the packet.

  ‘Not here, our kid… later,’ he grinned.

  John sensed from Ernie’s smile that they were something to be opened in private though at the time didn’t know exactly what it was he held in the palm of his hand. He slid the packet in his pocket and promised himself he would take a peek the next time he needed to go to the toilet.

  Ernie joined the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment. He read up on the regiment at the local library and was very proud to be joining such a famous and well respected outfit. During the weeks before he left for their headquarters at Fulwood Barracks, Preston, he reminded anyone who would listen that during World War One three members of the Regiment had been awarded the Victoria Cross. He said that the regiment recruited from the towns of Central Lancashire, including Preston, Chorley, Bolton and Wigan. What more could he ask for than to go to war with a bunch of his blood brothers, salt of the earth Lancashire lads?