Peter Carroll is the author of Queen of Misfortune – A Lady Jane Grey Novel and Doodlebugs & Spitfires. For more information, see his website.
Brave New World
Excerpt from Peter Carroll’s new book “Doodlebugs & Spitfires”
Doodlebugs & Spitfires is available at Amazon.Com and its Kindle store, Amazon.co.uk and its Kindle store, Barnes & Noble, and any other good bookstore.
Come Armistice Day on November 11th, I will be buying a poppy to commemorate another remembrance day, remembering all those souls of all nations who have died as a result of war.
Then, taking in the numerous wreaths surrounding the cenotaph in my hometown, the mind invariably flashes back. The march of time has taken its toll, joints stiffen and ache, not so flexible as when we danced and celebrated in the streets at the end of World War II. The hair thins and recedes, but we were fortunate indeed to survive the onslaughts of that terrible war when thousands upon thousands perished. We were given the opportunity to grow old in a brave new world, fit for the returning heroes. A world we could rebuild from the rubble, to start anew. Everything was going for us. It was going to be a great new future. We had every reason to rejoice. It was victory in Europe that day, May 9, 1945. I was just eleven.
The lights were switched on again, the restrictions of war almost gone. The blackouts were torn down, air raid shelters demolished, gas masks disposed of.
For those of us who grew up during the war, it was a little confusing. We had known no different. That’s how it was, the bombs dropping down, the dash to the shelters, the dogfights above, Spitfires, Hurricanes and Messerschmitts. Every day was an adventure.
I can remember it as if it were yesterday. Every time those wreaths appear, I am transported back in time asking my mum: “When will Dad be home?” He had been gone a whole year, but it seemed like a lifetime. He was in the Royal Air Force fighter command serving as a pilot, and I was terribly proud of him, boasting to my pals that he was an ace pilot and, when we saw a Spitfire zooming overhead, it was always my dad flying it. Then we would mimic the aeroplanes, arms fully outstretched and running and twisting between each other, and there always had to be the good and the bad guys and invariably resulted in more German aircraft being shot down than ours, but in my heart I was hoping it would never be my dad. I tried to convince myself, he was a cut above the rest, and he was always the one doing the chasing, never the other way around. Well, he was my dad, wasn’t he – and ‘one of ours’!
My mum didn’t reply immediately to my question. She looked remorseful and sad, but I could tell, she was having difficulty to put on a brave smile.
“Jack, you will have to be very brave. You see, your father has been reported missing after being shot down in France.”
I was flabbergasted: “No, that can’t be Dad! He would never get shot down. He is the best pilot in the world! I know it! They must have made a mistake.” But, nevertheless, I felt the tears running down my cheeks as mum held my head against her breast.
“We must hope, Jack – that’s all. Let us believe that he is safe. Perhaps, someone on our side in France has taken him in, maybe hiding him, or even if he is a prisoner of war, at least he will be still alive and maybe we shall hear soon. So let’s keep our chins up and hope and pray.”
Mum was an angel. I felt that my concerns were hers shared and, looking back, I was so glad she came out with the truth and told me what was happening, that there was a good chance that dad may have been killed, but we vowed not to ever think that way.
“I shall say a special prayer to God every night, Mum” I vowed.
“And so shall I, Jack. Tell you what, let’s say one together.” And even now I can remember those words giving me hope along with mum’s warm smile.
After that, my pals asked why we never played the spitfire games, but somehow I just wanted to forget, persuading them to play other games instead. I never said why. I could not bring myself to tell them that, maybe, my dad had been shot down, but the trouble was they would invariably ask about him, saying that they wished they were old enough to be a pilot.
But all the while, us youngsters were being reminded almost every night that there were so many more bombers up there that had not been shot down and huddled in the family Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden, along with my elder brother, mum, and my pet marmalade cat, Tibs.
The drone of the engines seemed to vibrate the corrugated sides of the shelter, even though they were covered in soil. My elder brother Alan took over the role of the head of the family, my dad being in the war, and I objected to him bossing me about like he was my dad, but looking back, he was only caring with the best intentions, and some nights we were joined by his pal Jack, one of his Air Training Cadets. He was a great guy who taught me how to play card games to keep our minds off of what was going on in the skies above us, but we always knew from the dull throbbing sounds of the engines, that those German planes were full of bombs, which could fall on us at any minute, hearing the occasional screech when they were released, pausing the card game, looking at each other intently until we heard the resulting horrific explosion, knowing that we were safe. But one night two, three, maybe more bombs exploded very near, and the whole earth shook and rumbled as I closed in to mum and squeezed her hand. The loud rumble seemed to be never ending, and I closed my eyes hoping it would soon stop and praying that perhaps my dad was flying again and chasing those nasty planes away.
When at last the noise died down and I raised my head, I saw Alan peering through the sackcloth curtain at the entrance of the shelter, yelling that it looked as though the bombs had made a direct hit on a house just down the road, that there were flames and smoke everywhere, that he would go out and see if he could help. Mum didn’t like that idea at all but he insisted, saying it was probably someone we knew, and they may be needing some crucial help.
But then I realised something. Tibs was missing. He had possibly scampered with the resounding noise of the bombing. Then I felt terribly guilty, that I should have been watching him more carefully. But he was gone. Where? I just had to go out and find him.
“Wait until the all clear siren has gone,” mum advised, holding me back, “and then you must be careful because there will probably be dangerous shrapnel and debris everywhere. I have a feeling our windows have been smashed in with the blast”
I looked at her pleading to let me go take a look, but she resisted saying that cats are cleverer than we may think, that Tibs would return of his own accord. “You’ll see if I’m not right!” she assured.
But all the same, I was on tenterhooks. I found so much comfort in Tibs to offset the possibility that dad may never return, the sound of his rich deep purr as I stroked him, the way he rubbed his wet nose against mine. He was a cat to be treasured.
But things did not look good with Dad missing in action, Tibs still missing after two days and learning that one of my school colleagues, Doreen Williams, had been killed along with her family in the direct hit of a house just five numbers away. All this was very traumatic and all at once, the war did not seem so much of an adventure for me anymore or any of my pals in the street.
But there were always those grown-ups who cheered us, the ‘good Samaritans’ that helped keep everyone going. Especially the elderly, they were always there to help and dish out positive thoughts that soon the war would be over, and we could live a normal life again.
There was the ‘community’ shelter we could go to if we were out and about when the air raid siren sounded, and you can bet your life there was always the ‘comedian’ to arouse laughter and delight and the singers who spurred us on with the joy of the sing-song that became a must during those times, mimicking all the wartime artists like Vera Lynn, Gracie Fields and George Formby, to name just a few who were, like Winston Churchill, a positive element to raise those subdued spirits.
Somehow we youngsters never got bored; there was always something to do when food was rationed and a few pennies to be made collecting acorns for the pig farms. We were quite poor and, with dad being away, lived on a limited income. I wonder now, how ever did my mum manage with food rationing feeding our hungry mouths? But she did. I remember her bountiful suet puddings served with a dollop of treacle, bread and dripping or condensed milk, packets of dried eggs sent over to ease our food shortage and shipped in from the USA, lashings of winkles and sprats to give us the protein we needed.
We bathed just once a week come Friday. The bath was situated beneath a large fold-down table in the kitchen, and mum filled it with hot water from the gas copper, which was also used for the Monday washing and boiling, and topped up with each bathing, I was usually the last when a tidemark appeared around the edge.
I helped mum with the cleaning and polishing, and one of my regular chores was to clean the eating utensils. I also made handkerchiefs from old sheets, toilet paper or from newspaper. Mum taught us how to fend for ourselves and looking back, she was a great mum, like so many bringing their children up during those war torn days. I remember doing the mangling for her after school on washdays after she had hand washed the clothes and such,
I still cherish that special time we were raised, and somehow we managed to keep happy despite the consequences of what might and could happen each night the bombers came,
The days went by, and I had to live with the notion that Tibs may not return but never dared think that about Dad. If I ever mentioned him maybe not coming back, mum would simply place her fingers on her lips and beckon me to hush with that certain encouraging smile.
Soon came preparations for D-Day, and troops could be seen everywhere awaiting orders. US, Canadians, Indian and most servicemen from the commonwealth were in abundance, and somehow I felt that soon everything would be alright, that we would catch that nasty man called Hitler and Dad would come home.
“Boys, I have received a telegram,” my mum told me not too long after all the troops had left, transported by air and lorry out from Northolt and other nearby bases and airfields. I remember literally hundreds of Dakota Aircraft pulling gliders full of troops and the essentials of war.
Mums face beamed, she was over the moon, and I instantly knew what she was going to tell my brother and me. “Your dad is safe, and he will be home in days. Hooray!”
And would you believe, that very same day Tibs appeared poking his head through the cat flap.
That was one of the happiest days of my life.
It was a good omen and soon we were told, the war had been won. I was two months off my twelfth birthday.
The grown-ups went absolutely crazy, dancing and milling around. We had never experienced such joy, everybody was so happy, decorations were draped across the streets, and Union Jacks were everywhere. This was a new adventure and experience to behold.
In our road two long tables were set side by side. I shall never forget that very special day. Even though strict food rationing was still in force, the grown-ups somehow managed to fill the tables with an ample supply of food; spam, corned beef and sprat sandwiches and even a couple of home cultured chickens which was a real treat after the paste, dripping and condensed milk sandwiches to which we had become accustomed.
Then there was the ‘afters’ – blancmange, jelly and all sorts of homemade cakes. It is difficult now to understand what this meant to us at the time. It was the first time for years that our stomachs were really full.
Of course, we all dreamt it would be the perfect world from then on. Hitler’s reign of terror was finally crushed for all time, and we at home were safe in our beds again. No more guns. No more bombs or rockets, no more worrying if it was going to be your turn next time the air raid warning sounded. Of course, we let our hair down like never before.
The war was at an end in Europe, and we cherished the normality of peace and an extraordinary feeling of well being, the ‘feel good factor’ was overwhelming, flooding the souls of those fortunate to survive. The utter hell of it all had suddenly diminished; the fires had stopped burning. There really was a heaven up there. No wonder we sang and danced with joy.
Many of those who lived through those traumatic times, who are still with us these days, will remember how we shared the joy of peace.
Alas, the hopes and dreams of a brave new world did not materialize in the way we would have liked, and many will doubt if the human race will ever learn.
We shall remember those who died, not only in this country but also throughout the world. We may question the peace for which we rejoiced and the ultimate sacrifice at a time when unrest, violence and hatred surround us. We seem to have failed to build that brave new world for their children and grandchildren
But we do have our freedom, and the struggle for peace in the world continues. It must be right for us to give thanks for that, trusting those who have gone before us in the wars did not die in vain. We grow older but we still remember them.
But what did give me hope is, when at the time we were brought up to hate the Germans, was a wonderful story told by my dad after he had been shot down and landed in enemy territory with a parachute. He was captured and treated well in an officer’s concentration camp, and he made friends with one of the German guards, quite a different story from many who had rough treatment by the Nazis.
And that qualified my two-and-a-half-year tour with the RAF in Northern Germany after the war, when, stationed as a medic at RAF Rostrup, I met and befriended many Germans who were just like us – which says it all.
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DOODLEBUGS & SPITFIRES
Memories and Short Stories by Peter Carroll
“Doodlebugs & Spitfires” is a delightful collection of memories and short stories written by Peter Carroll, the author of “Queen of Misfortune,” in his trademark poetic and profoundly thoughtful style.
Most of his stories, previously published in limited form in local English newspapers and magazines, like “Brave New World”, “The Forties Street Tradesmen”, “Doodlebugs”, or “The Christmas of 43” evolve around his childhood in the Northern part of London during and after World War II. He describes the horrors that came with the V1 flying bombs, nicknamed the “Doodlebugs.” Heroic British pilots in their “Spitfire” airplanes would attempt to divert the flying bombs from the populated areas, sometimes successful, and sometimes not.
Doodlebugs & Spitfires is available at Amazon.Com and its Kindle store, Amazon.co.uk and its Kindle store, Barnes & Noble, and any other good bookstore.
