I grew up in southeast England during WW2; a very different teenage from that of today. I have many memories of everybody, young and old, making a contribution to the war effort. Of myself spending many hours on a tractor, seeding, harvesting, then ploughing and harrowing for the next crop. We ploughed even at night when there was a full moon - the bomber's moon it was called. There was a maximum effort to grow food to replace that in ships sunk by U-boats. Private "victory" vegetable gardens flourished.
Despite strict rationing, we were very healthy. We ate less food but what we ate was better for us, junk food was completely gone. I hunted wild rabbits, two a week for our stew pot and several to sell at twenty cents each. I missed the simple things like bananas and oranges, gone for five long years. Then there was that frustratingly long wait of a month for one lonely small chocolate bar.
Our house was in the country in an air triangle. One mile to the east was an American fighter base; two miles to the west, a B-17 bomber base, and just three-quarters of a mile behind us an RAF base.
Aircraft, both friendly and otherwise, were constantly in the skies above us. Two crashed in the field beside our house. We dragged them to one side and then torched them. I remember firing a Messerschmitt 109 and watching in fascination the intense white flames of burning magnesiumand the pressurized landing gear struts glowing red then white before exploding. Later, the salvaged metal was used to build more aircraft. The sound of enemy bombers overhead at night, followed by the sight of V1 flying bombs with their pulsing motors, were regular events.When they cut out, one had just 15 seconds to find cover.
Constant noise. Besides aircraft, there were tanks and soldiers in the woods around us. Then suddenly it was very quiet; everything had moved to the coast. It was two days before D-Day.
Came my 18th birthday and I was in the army. The dictionary defines a veteran as someone who has had military experience.
Though I was not in combat, I came close to it. Even though the war had just ended, we went through full combat training. We were told to expect three per cent casualties and we had them. My wife, Dorothy, says my hearing is a little off, not surprising after being exposed to bombs, shells and much else.
In one particularly bitter experience, we were told to advance upa hill while an artillery barrage would continue to creep ahead of us. Trouble was, it did not creep and a member of my squad lost his head, literally!
The army threw everything my way. I was a weapons instructor; I ran the camp cinema (a cushy job) and, towards the end, was on staff at a prisoner of war transit camp. First were the Afrika Corp soldiers, many of whom had been sent from Libya to the Russian front. Then came the Russians who hated Stalin and fought with the German army. They were later executed when they returned to Russia. Finally, SS guards from Belsen concentration camp about whom the less is said the better.
If I could have a wish, it would be that none of our young men will ever be called to serve Canada in such a war situation and that their growing up memories will only be normal happy ones.
ERIC LAWSON
SPECIAL TO THE UNDERCURRENT
