Library Reference Number: 085
Oh What a Lovely War!
Shortly after the American Civil War the famous General Sherman was the guest of honour at a school function. The boys were eagerly looking forward to his tales of blood and thunder and daring-do. The general stood up and said, "Boys, War is hell". Well. of course. Everyone knows that. And yet, and yet ..........................
War is very much a matter of individual experience, and for me the war provided "The Best Time of My Life". On the face of it this should not have been so, for I set out to become a Royal Air Force pilot with all its attendant dangers, yet that very process brought me nothing but good things.
A callow youth of eighteen, my service began in the pavilion of Lords Cricket Ground, a most exclusive place I would never otherwise have gained entry to. Even being in London, that great capital city, was exciting in itself. Then followed two lovely and peaceful towns, Stratford-on-Avon and Worcester, in both of which we lived in the comfort of requisitioned hotels.
After a week at sea I arrived in Canada where my flying training was to take place. From the drabness and shortages of wartime Britain I found myself in paradise. Instead of The Blackout there were bright and colourful lights everywhere. Absolute magic ! The Nissen hut with its temperamental coke stove was replaced by cosy, centrally-heated, roomy quarters; dried egg by real ones; dusky bread by pure white. Sweets, chocolate and all kinds of goodies were there for the asking. Rationing quickly became a distant memory. One other little matter ; our pay increased by two or three times to the level of Canadian airmen.
Soon we were off on a train journey which would take us right across the whole of Canada from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Today this costs the tourist a couple of thousand pounds. The train itself was a joy with gorgeous meals and a gentle rocking to sleep in a comfortable bed at night. During daytime, there passed through the window a great miscellany of scenery, the woodlands of the eastern provinces and the scrub along the shore of Lake Superior plus the non-scenery of the prairies.
Very early one morning the train puffed into a town which had popped up out of this vast flatness, It was Winnipeg. The platform was full of people and a band was playing. As we stepped down we were handed cigarettes and sweets, the gifts of Pilots and Navigators of the Great War. Bobby-soxed girls ran forward, and the station became a ballroom.
Thus were we introduced to Canadian hospitality - Western style. Throughout our time in Canada this was a constant. Canadians took us into their homes and pampered us. We appreciated their great kindness and we enjoyed it, of course, yet sometimes we were uncomfortably aware that , while we sat at table enjoying all the comforts of home, their own boys were over in Europe doing the fighting.
Our flying training was often interrupted by lengthy periods of inactivity while we waited for space to become available at the next stage. This meant frequent periods of leave during which we were able to visit some of the greatest tourist spots of the world like the majestic Rocky Mountains with Banff and Lake Louise, Vancouver, Victoria and the Pacific Coast and even San Francisco and the dreamworld of Hollywood. New York too and all done at virtually no cost, for railway travel was free. In any case, our uniform made hitch-hiking very easy, sometimes for hundreds of miles, then, on arriving at some desirable destination, a quick visit to the local Services Club frequently resulted in an invitation to stay at the home of a friendly family. What a gloriously sybaritic life !
Mind you, we also did work and, indeed, worked hard but even this was a joy. What young man of eighteen or nineteen would not jump at the chance to learn how to fly and to do -
"........ a hundred things
you have not dreamed of ----- wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence ; hovering there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, nor even eagle flew. "
What Boy Racer of today would not envy me revving engines infinitely more powerful than anything he could lay his hands on, whizzing along at speeds quite unattainable by him, or feeling that strange thrill of danger ------------ though, in my case, danger readily controlled thanks to skilful training. I ended up flying one of the best and fastest aeroplanes of the time.
I came home, after a full eighteen months of really enjoyable experiences. My homecoming coincided with the ending of the war.
In the years following the war a phrase was often used to describe a veteran:-"He had a good war," meaning he had survived his battles, had been well decorated and highly promoted. Well, I never faced the enemy, I got no medals, and my rank remained stubbornly low but beyond a doubt, I had a very good war indeed!
The Britain to which I returned was an unhappy one. The nation was exhausted, its industry run down and it struggled to pay its international bills. Rationing had become even worse. Now the war was won, there seemed no purpose in life. The R.A.F. didn't know what to do with all its "redundant" fliers. I became a pretty unhappy young man.
Truly, Peace was Hell.
Note - A few lines have been taken from the poem "High Flight." This poem, over the years, has become a mantra to pilots. It was written by an American, Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee, who served with No 412 Squadron, RCAF. He was killed on 11th December 1941. The extract is reproduced here as a tribute to, and in memory of pilots of all generations.