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Page 12

by Ben Graff


  There were other presents too. Tapes: Elton John, Now 17, Now 18. Aftershave as worn by Paul Gascoigne, no less. The best of all was a chess computer, a Kasparov Stratos with its wood and felt pieces and super strong playing strength. Perhaps we will meet across the board someday, Kasparov said in the foreword to the instructions.

  I did not discover books until I was sixteen, not really; and I don’t remember any as Christmas presents, until The Bonfire of the Vanities, much later. Dave and Theresa would give us money and knitted jumpers; comics, calendars and diaries, water pistols from the market; one year a dart board; electronic gadgets, radio-controlled cars.

  We would pull Christmas crackers and wear paper hats until they started to itch, sharing the terrible jokes, discovering combs and plastic games, occasionally pocket screwdrivers. One year I got a dark brown china fox, heavy and expensive. How it had got into a cracker I don’t know, but I kept it on my desk for a long time. I’d run my finger down its smooth, cool back in times of stress.

  All that food. Turkey (which I didn’t eat), sausages (which I did), roast potatoes, parsnips, Yorkshire puddings, carrots, peas, and gravy (again, not for me). Red jelly encrusted with raspberries, nuts in different shades of chocolate, marzipan fruits, After Eight mints. Only I liked the Turkish Delight. White slabs of Christmas cake, with silver balls on top and yellow marzipan beneath the cool layer of icing, often reserved for afternoon tea.

  In the evening there would be indoor fireworks in the kitchen. Dad would be the ringmaster as black snakes unfurled. Other devices would smoke and crackle and sparkle, filling the air with the smell of gunpowder and possibility. Him having fun, fully with us in the moment, all of us laughing. Mum pretending to worry about the state of her baking trays. Looking back, perhaps she was actually worried, but it was all quite funny.

  Finally the smoke and ash would clear. All the main food would have been eaten and all the presents unwrapped. It would be done. Then we would nibble at sandwiches and crisps and watch the Only Fools and Horses Christmas special. Holding the world away.

  Martin’s Journal –

  The Island at War

  In the 1930s Europe was preparing for war again, even though the carnage and destruction of the previous one scarcely seemed to have abated. It increasingly dominated the news and conversations in pubs and shops, as if somehow talking of it might make the whole thing go away.

  First there was Mussolini, who provoked real fear in people to begin with, even if he was ultimately dismissed as something of a joke, but he was soon followed by Adolf Hitler, whose menace was all too apparent. I would look at pictures of him in newspapers. The intensity in his eyes, the neatness of his clipped moustache, his uniform – he always sent a chill through me.

  Our sleepy and peaceful land, through its determination to avoid more conflict, was slow to awake to the danger in any practical sense, denial trumping logical thinking perhaps. Few wanted to contemplate more of what had been before, and that was almost our undoing. But ultimately, evil was loose in the world, was spreading and would not be tempered, things were out of kilter and it appeared that tragically they could only be righted through more bloodshed.

  On that fateful Sunday I sat in the garden with my parents and we listened to Mr Chamberlain announce that we were now at war with Germany. His life’s work in ruins, the situation disastrous, and yet still a tone of quiet resolution and determination in his voice. It was a perfect late summer’s day, the carefree birdsong and soft insect buzz hard to reconcile with the gravity of his words. The sun still felt pleasant on me; the soothing sensation of its warmth on my skin and my feeling of dread at what might be to come were a strangely odd mix in the moment and I recognised the contradiction. Perhaps nothing, not even an instant like this, is ever wholly one thing or another. I tried to read my father’s expression as he listened but I could not.

  It might have been that he was thinking back to his time as a World War One dispatch rider. I suppose he could have been, as he now viewed the onset of another war as an older man. He had been through the horrors of one conflict, and as he sat in the garden, just listening to the radio, we were starting on another. Perhaps he was thinking to those he had known who had fallen, perhaps not. He was of course too old to fight this time around, but I know that for many of his generation, another world war underscored yet again the futility of the first one. We did not have the kind of relationship that might have lent itself to us having talked about any of this; I might be wrong, but when you do not know for sure you can but speculate.

  I do want to say a little more about Neville Chamberlain. There are certain things that have now become obscured that are worth repeating. Of all the prime ministers in my lifetime, none has matched the popularity and enthusiasm he generated when he returned from Munich with his famous (perhaps that should now be infamous) piece of paper. Peace in our time had resonated; how could it not? We did not know then what we know now about the full depths of Nazism and all its horrors. The desire to avoid more conflict, at least to explore this in the 1930s, only seems doomed and wholly misguided with the benefit of hindsight; despite my own sense of foreboding, when I looked at Hitler’s face it somehow had the power to draw you to it when you looked at a newspaper.

  We rally against appeasers today and I was never one, but I could always understand why people wanted to close their eyes. We were willing for Chamberlain’s magic trick to work, even if ultimately it did not. Those who criticise the way he played his hand, with some justification, should also acknowledge that once it had all appeared to be a master stroke.

  I smile and lift my head as I write this to stare at the television which is playing without sound on the other side of the room. Tony Blair has just been on and, as I write this, it makes me reflect that he is the only other prime minister that I have seen who ever got close to the popularity of Chamberlain around the time of Munich. Albeit he is in many ways easier to see through, a less complex character, I feel, and these are altogether less substantial times.

  But there we were. All had failed and it was now to be war again. I had been facing my own personal struggles as the war approached. I was suffering from heart trouble that had been caused by a severe bout of pneumonia I had contracted seven years before. I already knew this was deemed to be serious and was likely to mean that I would not pass a war medical. I did worry about my health then and what this might mean for me, but I was also worried about the stigma that might come from not joining up, from not attempting to do something. I think at one level I both worried about and simultaneously did not accept the advice I had been given, if such a thing is possible.

  On making enquiries in 1938 I had been advised that no medical was necessary to join the Auxiliary Fire Service, indeed it was more a case of ‘just sign here,’ which I did, and I had been training ever since. We were to be a final line of defence and protection for the Island, should the anticipated widespread bombing break out. I was ready to do my bit, albeit I was mindful of the risks, fire is its own master – yet one that we were determined to do all we could to hold at bay should the need arise.

  My war started within minutes of Mr Chamberlain’s declaration, when the air raid siren duly wailed. A new, uncertain era had begun. Hastily donning my uniform I cycled on to Ryde to report for duty. I wondered as I cycled how many others might be responding to the first call of sirens, the first chain reaction following the declaration of war – something had been put into motion now that would not be easily stopped. We were all tiny cogs subsumed by something bigger, and yet still all a living part of it, at least for now.

  When I reported for duty, all was quiet. The station officer said it was a false alarm and I was to return home, which I did, surprised at the adrenalin that was pumping through me. Had I been needed then I was ready, but in the event it was a metaphor, perhaps, for the wider, ‘phony war’ that was now upon us. For all the pace of the German blitzkrieg through Europe, whic
h started with Poland being attacked and conquered with contemptuous ease, it was to be months before anything happened here.

  The main fire engines for our area were stationed in Ryde, but there were small units dispersed around the outskirts, just in case. My outfit was located at Binstead in the station of Brook House, now called Brook Edge. I can still see men in uniform and think to where our equipment used to be stored, how our rotas used to work, and all the other associated paraphernalia, when I pass the place today. It is possible for people to see very different things when looking at the same object or building, I think.

  Most of my fellow firemen were from the building trade and were used to climbing ladders and walking nonchalantly along narrow parapets. Although in training I often carried people, and practised doing fireman’s lifts out of upstairs windows and down ladders, I was never nonchalant, and fortunately was never called upon to do so in real emergencies. I did not feel like an imposter amongst them, but there were few I had known before joining up and it did feel far removed from the world of Holmes & Son. Like so many others, the war of course lifted us out of our normal lives and there was little that could be deemed normal about everything that was to happen.

  Whilst the Auxiliary Fire Service was certainly something, I wanted to do more and hoped in spite of my previous medical troubles to be able to join the air-sea rescue. Perhaps it was always a forlorn hope, I don’t know. It certainly seemed to be worth a shot. You can convince yourself of anything if you truly put your mind to it.

  In the autumn of 1939 a small party of us from Ryde went over to Portsmouth to try out together. We all knew one another slightly then, but over the years that followed I got to know many of them better. The success stories and the failures, the early deaths and the alcoholism, the self-made fortunes and the jail sentences; there would have been no way of guessing which of these destinies would have befallen which of this group just to look at them that day, but it all came to pass. Yet for all that was to come, we were united in purpose that day, with the same hope of being accepted, of proving our worth.

  There was a man called John who I knew well from the Round Table, who was large, powerful and an amateur heavyweight boxer. You would certainly want him with you in a fight as his sheer bulk was enough to stop any argument even before it had broken out. We found the building in Portsmouth, entered and there was an arrow pointing to the stairs. John and I, deep in conversation, failed to notice the words Medical Board on the first landing, so started up the second flight of stairs. A door behind us flew open and a little man bounded out.

  “Where do you men think you are going? Come down at once! Can’t you read?” Pointing at the notice, John turned and walked slowly toward the man, then picking him up by the front of his jacket, held him with his feet well clear of the ground. I could see the sweat dripping down the poor unfortunate’s face as he wriggled in the air, legs flaying this way and that to no avail. Military commander to pinned and squealing runt in a moment.

  “Right, Martin, still got him. You hit him!”

  “John,” I ventured. “Do you really think this would be a sound way to start our military careers?”

  He looked over at me. “Perhaps you are right.”

  He put the chap back on his feet, patted his cheeks not too gently, saying, “Just mind your manners in future.” The man scuttled off and we did not see him again that day.

  I felt somehow both proud and embarrassed. I did wonder whether I perhaps lacked the necessary aggression for all of this. It was hard to say. I could not have imagined being driven to the same sort of reaction, but we are all different and who knows what we might do until the moment arrives.

  We went on to join the rest of our group. One of them called Rodney was a well-known figure in Ryde. An insurance man, he cycled around calling on his customers to collect their premiums, which was how business was done back then. He ran other business ventures on the side, which was also not uncommon in those days. There was a black market during the war, as you might well imagine, and his day job gave him the perfect opportunity to make his real money. He had permed hair, a pencil-thin moustache, and went in for suits that were slightly too tight and seemed to accentuate his weediness.

  I am sure most of us were wondering how this effeminate and unimposing young sap would manage in the armed services. We need not have worried. When he removed his clothes the real Rodney emerged, a muscleman with rippling biceps and a perfect physique. It really did look as if he was as strong as two ordinary men.

  One of the attendants gave him a push. “Hey there, you!” He found his hand seized in a grip of iron, and a hyped-up Rodney staring menacingly into his eyes.

  “Tell me where to go,” said Rodney, “and I’ll go there. Push me again and I’ll break your arm!” We somehow felt that the boys from the Isle of Wight had made their mark that day.

  However, whilst many were accepted, I was not. As a result of the medical I was deemed unfit for the armed services, and indeed the verdict was rather more severe than anticipated. In fact the doctors were relieved to hear that I was not going home alone. The chances of my living long enough to return to the Island seemed to them remote. At the time of writing, that was sixty-two years ago!

  Having this prognosis did affect me though. How could it not? I had to somehow assimilate the advice I had been given that I would not live long and should make the most of each day. That everything could (and most probably would) come to an end at any moment.

  In some ways I never really shook this, as subconsciously I feared that if I stopped worrying about it, that would be the thing that made it happen. Of course, it hardly matters now, and perhaps it mattered less then than it did to me later, as those were exceedingly uncertain times for everyone. No one really thought much about the long term in those years.

  Given I was not fit to fight I was told that I would be directed into industry as a wartime occupation, whilst also continuing in the Auxiliary Fire Service. I was offered a job as a security man at Founders Roe, the aircraft factory at Cowes. Friends advised me not to go near that one as it made you very unpopular with your workmates. Nobody likes a grass and for all that the history books paint a picture of the time as one of great national unity, in many ways you had to be particularly careful to choose who you stood with.

  There were two jobs going with the Electricity Board: a clerk in the general office, or a meter reader. I smile now that all these years later Ben works in the electricity industry, although I know he does different things. I chose meter reading, a strangely independent occupation.

  At 5 pm you left the office armed with your rota for the following day. No one expected or wanted to see you until 4.30pm the following day. There were days when the work did not last until 4.30pm, and days when it was all over by 10.30am. I felt a curious sense both of connectivity and freedom, much as an artist or a writer might, even if I did not create something that lasted in the way that they did.

  Saturday morning was for revisiting those houses where no one had been at home during the week. Estimated accounts were unknown, and you were only allowed a small quantity of non-reads.

  Generally speaking the public were friendly. There were hazards of course. Dogs could be an absolute menace; so too could cups of tea, freely offered despite their being severely rationed. You can only drink so many, and loos were not always to hand! Even worse was to be handed a cup in a house that was utterly filthy!

  Women could also be a problem. The very first day back at work after my honeymoon I called at a large house in Pelham Fields. A pretty girl answered the door saying, “I am sure you know where the meter is. When you’ve read it come and find me in the drawing room; I’ve just made a cup of tea.”

  I took a seat beside her on the sofa and was handed a cup. After a couple of sips, the girl took it away from me, saying, “Oh, for God’s sake!” The next moment I was flat on my back being smothered with kisses, u
ntil I managed to sit up and draw breath. I noticed on the table beside me the photos of a very large, tough-looking captain in the commandos. “Is this your husband?”

  “Yes” she said. “Isn’t he gorgeous? Trouble is, he is overseas.” I was convinced that he had returned unexpectedly and would come charging through the door at any moment, so I fled hurriedly before the dear girl could do any more! It wasn’t like this was common, but it was certainly embarrassing for a newly married young man hopelessly in love with his wife. It would be hard to imagine me having such an effect on a woman now!

  Six months after the war started all remained quiet. Then one lunchtime the air raid sirens wailed and we saw our first action. I reported to Binstead fire station, from where we watched as a wall of bombers flew overhead to drop their load on Portsmouth. The German war machine up close gleamed in the sun as if from another realm, the noise from the planes’ engines a roar completely obliterating any sound from the waves. Fighter cover at that time was non-existent and our only defence was anti-aircraft fire.

  Daylight raids continued for a time, as the war drew closer, whilst the Germans swept through France, followed by the miraculous escape of a large part of the British expeditionary fleet from Dunkirk. It felt like such a triumph at the time; it was only much later that it occurred to any of us that it was actually a defeat. Sometimes the framing counts for more than the reality.

  None of us ever really thought that we might actually lose the war, which surprises me now when I look back at how grim things were in those early years. I think that that was Churchill’s true gift. He was never as popular as people now think, either before or after, but in those moments his belief carried many of us with him.

  After the first raids on Portsmouth, German planes would regularly fly across the Solent, always little more than a few feet above the waves, to avoid the flack from anti-aircraft guns. Even today, so many years on from this, when I look at Wootton Creek I can still see those planes and sometimes think to those times. This quiet corner of land and sea where I have essentially lived my whole life, during most of which it has been quiet, was in those moments at the vortex of a struggle that spanned whole continents.

 

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