I was a product of the war years. We learned to be street smart, to survive without food and to take care of ourselves in a fight. We lived just for the day. Tomorrow we could be blown to bits.
We grew up with a strong sense of loyalty, bravery and honour instilled into our psyche – even at the risk of death. Although I was too young to fight in the war, the lesson was drummed in: if you were captured by the Gestapo, you would never reveal information, no matter what the outcome. The public were continually brainwashed. Everywhere you looked, on trains and buses, were slogans like: ‘Be like Dad, keep Mum’, ‘Careless talk costs lives’ and ‘Walls have ears’.
As kids, we practised our reading on these public propaganda signs, which were not exclusively directed against the enemy. They also advised on the nation’s health: ‘Coughs and sneezes spread diseases. Trap the germs in your handkerchief and help to keep the nation fighting fit.’
In the struggle to survive within our own little world, the ‘enemy’ became the authorities and the lessons from all that propaganda brainwashing we received as children applied to them too. Cossers in particular: my father’s refusal to talk to police, let alone acknowledge them, was virtually inborn in the family.
The English are a barbaric and warrior-like race, although the public only recognises this attribute during wars. Young men in particular need to let off steam and prisons would have far fewer inmates if the authorities helped youths channel their energies in positive ways.
I am a warrior. I would defend England to the death if need be, and I admire the fighting spirit for which we have been recognised throughout the ages. I remember reading a Roman soldier’s account of the bravery of a British warrior fighting with Queen Boudicca when she rose against the Romans. The soldier sliced the British warrior through the jaw with an axe. A lesser man would have fallen but not the Briton. He tucked his beard into his mouth, holding it with clenched teeth and came back on the attack with his jaw wide open.
Nothing has changed since then. We proved it during the First and Second World Wars and in the Falklands. We are a fighting nation and I’m proud of the fact. Even Hitler said, ‘Give me the British soldier and a German officer and I’ll conquer the world.’ That inbred loyalty, which wins battles and keeps alive national pride, is also evident in prisons. The men I served time with would sacrifice their liberty to stay solid with you.
Looking back, I have learned to understand some of the forces that dictated my actions. Being brought up in a violent era was one factor; obviously, I went over the top on a number of occasions and I would put that down to the madness of youth. Although young men at the time never considered the implications, if someone died as a result of a fight you could very easily find yourself facing a murder charge. And in the 1950s and 1960s, the death penalty was still in force. In spite of that, you continued to risk life and liberty by doing violent battle with others.
As young men, we had no fear. Nobody wanted to lose their freedom or their life, but there was literally nothing that could frighten us. Physical pain was something you accepted as inevitable and confidence inspired by youth made you think you were infallible. If you took part in a serious fight and someone got hurt, you would take every precaution to avoid arrest, but, at the crucial point of battle, nothing could deter you, particularly if your foe was a liberty-taker.
In 1939 when I was seven, Sheepcote Lane was pulled down and we moved to a brand-new block of flats at 32 Croxteth House, Union Street, Wandsworth Road. This was luxury compared to before. Our new home was a three-bedroom council flat that had electricity and a bathroom and wash basin – thank God, no more tin baths.
The only downside – which became obvious to us a couple of months after moving in – was the location. Opposite us was a projectile-munitions factory identified to the enemy by Fifth Columnists. As a result, the factory – and the surrounding area – became a target for German bombers. Next to the factory was a foundry and we would watch a small train carrying the white-hot, glowing shells for storage on a concrete base across the road. In the winter, we kids stood close to the shells for warmth. The factory was targeted many times during the war, but only hit twice. Most streets in the area were wiped out by bombs missing their mark, though.
War was part of our lives. My first memory of it was watching an aerial dogfight high above London on a clear summer’s day. The sky became a spaghetti junction of vapour trails from Spitfires and Messerschmitts. At first, nobody took any notice. It was only when the blackout sirens sounded that we were warned to get under cover to avoid fallout from shrapnel.
From our first-floor window at Croxteth House, I would watch the WAAF girls practise putting up barrage balloons filled with helium gas to deter bombers from flying too low. We lived in daily fear of bombs. Other than being killed outright by a direct hit, windows and doors represented the greatest threat of injury: flying glass could be a killer, and so could a door ripped off its hinges and sent flying through the room. We were advised to cover the glass to stop it shattering or, if the windows were blown out, to staple translucent material in their place until workmen could be sent to make repairs.
There were six concrete shelters at the back of our flats, with bunk beds littered around them. When the bombing started, people would pour into them, bringing their bedding and food. There were no toilets, just tin buckets behind a tarpaulin sheet for about 40 people. Even back then I thought it was quite degrading to hear the sound of adults urinating all through the night. The refuge the shelters provided was awful. There was no privacy. From a dark corner you would hear couples carrying on their sex lives, grunting and groaning: ‘Ooh, you’re hurting me, Joe!’ Through half-closed eyes, I would be trying to see what was going on, but I couldn’t work out why two people should be lying on top of each other facing the same way…
All my older brothers joined up and fought in the war. Watching them go was a stirring experience. Young men dressed in uniform with kitbags and rifles making their way down to Parliament Square, Westminster, under the gaze of Big Ben. Their first steps to war began with a march across Westminster Bridge amid the fanfare of brass bands and cheering crowds; but they didn’t know what they were letting themselves in for. The younger kids followed them all the way to Waterloo Station. Later, the young servicemen were to say it was safer being with the Forces than facing the Blitz in London.
I still find it hard to believe that some people are alive today who have not been properly educated about what happened to England, and in particular Londoners, during the Blitz. The word Blitz comes from the German Blitzkrieg, which literally means ‘lightning war’. The attacks would happen so quickly – and so devastatingly. By the end of May 1941, over 43,000 civilians had been killed and more than a million houses destroyed or damaged. When the Germans invented the pilotless V1 and V2 bombs, they raised the death toll to 51,509 in 1944 – an astonishing figure when you compare it to the 2,819 that died in the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks in New York. Another common misconception is that the Blitz lasted only between 7 September 1940 and 16 May 1941 in World War II. Oh, no. We lived in fear every day until 1944, and even then the V2 rockets had only just started to fall.
Before the war began in 1939, Wally was in the Territorials, awaiting a posting abroad, but he immediately joined the Royal Artillery, when battle commenced. Herbie had already joined the King’s Royal Rifles (my father’s old regiment) in 1939 and George was in the navy. When the bombing got too bad, I was evacuated with my brother Bert (and 650,000 other children). The people who billeted kids got about 50 pence a week per child – quite a decent amount of money. But it was