The 226th Day
Part II
Having never been the sort of person who cared for politics and having an uncanny knack for tuning people I didn’t want to listen to out, I wasn’t particularly sure if the rumours of war I heard early that morning were true, or partially true, or not true at all- all I knew was that there was talk of war.
I can remember, with crystal-clear clarity, getting bored of listening to rumours and (as my parents weren’t home) deciding it would be simplest to just go and fetch myself a paper. So, up I got and fetched my coat and a handful of coins from the jar in my bedroom at home and strode down the road. No longer was I twelve, and there was a girl I was trying to impress, so I didn’t run. Not until I had rounded the corner anyway. When I reached the marketplace, I had to weave in and out of a crowd of people, not unlike the one surrounding the stalls when Neville Chamberlain was appointed Prime Minister.
Still, this was a different crowd as it was then. It was likely filled with the same people, but there was a different energy. It was an energized hype, as though a fog of panic and confusion had clashed with airs of excitement and hasty conclusions and resulted in hysteria. Opinions were clashing and all I could here were shouts about ‘Germans’, ‘invasions’ and ‘soldiers’ coming from left, right and centre. I fought my way to the middle of the mob and purchased the second last copy of the Daily News the poor man had left. As I dodged women and men of all ages flying past me to get the last newspaper, I remember seeing a woman I recognized as Mrs Hopkin’s sister fighting another woman over the newspaper. Upon seeing this I tucked my own copy under my jacket and put my head down, refusing to look anyone in the eye until I made it home.
Settled in the comforts of my own living room, with a cup of tea on the wooden coffee table before me, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking at its usual steady pace and my feet resting on the well-used flowered footstool which my mother refused to get rid of despite the moth-eaten fabric, I read the first page.
I reread the page, slower, skimming less, not quite sure I believed what I was reading.
Britain and France have declared war on Germany, following the German invasion of Poland.
Stunned, I read the remainder of the article. Intrigued, I moved on to the seven more inside. No sooner had I turned to skim the last page for more details knocking sounded on my back door, heavy knocking which could only mean Marty was at the door, seeing as how Arnold had married and moved to Liverpool with his wife and daughter.
After letting my friend in and letting him make himself comfortable in my living room, we began discussing the shocking news. Neither of us could quite believe what was written in black and white before us but once the questions started the reality of what was happening hit. Three questions seemed more important than the others: ‘What happens if it’s brought here? England is our home.’, ‘what happens if the people we love are hurt?’ and ‘are you going to sign up?’
Personally, I knew the answers to all three of them. If war was to be brought to my home, I would fight it back with all my might.
If someone I loved were hurt, I would avenge them.
And would I join? I most certainly would, I wasn’t about to risk the people and places in questions in one and two.
So, when the British Army marched down Main Street, I was one of the hundreds who watched, eagerly, as they saluted and twirled their rifles and whatnot. I had known from the off I was going to sign up and this was the day I was going to do it.
My mother cried when I told her of my plans, she broke down in tears and my father had to comfort her for a half hour straight to calm her down. He himself told me he was proud and I was a brave man, but there were tears in his eyes and his gruff voice had a sense of foreboding to it, a deep sorrow which had not previously existed lingering on his tone. He walked with Marty and myself to Main Street, talking in low tones with Marty’s father- a workmate of his and, following mine and Marty’s shenanigans as youngsters, a close friend. We couldn’t hear what they were saying, but both of them were more sentimental that day than I’ve seen either of them before.
Despite the excitement brewing as General Marks stood at the podium at the head of the street, telling tales of the Great War, there was a deep undertone of alarm. The older generation were all solemn; I reasoned it must have been due to them being alive in the Great War, if only I was right. Women were crying and clutching their sons and husbands, all of whom stood with the same steely expressions on their faces. Only the young and unattached (such as Marty and myself) seemed excited when you looked deeper into the crowds and it flared a little voice of worry inside of me.
When the General announced sign-ups there was a surge of people as an influx of men rushed forward, some of them steadily, others shoving and pushing to get to the front. I like to think of myself as the former, even if the only reason I didn’t push to the front was because I was brought up with manners. By the time me and Marty were signing up, the groups had thinned out somewhat. Sergeant Fox, who was taking down names for the under-20s suggested I stayed home with the territorial’s, due to my childhood illnesses and young age. I agreed, because the sense of misery emanating from the adults around me had planted a seed of doubt deep in my mind. Marty signed to go straight there, and I received a letter four months later stating that my best friend had been shot and had died.
That frightened me more than anything else, anything I read in the paper or heard on the radio. Anti-German propaganda was everywhere, egging me to just go sign-up again, rather than wait to be called on for National Service like I was supposed to.
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