There will be links at the end as well, in case you prefer not to interrupt your reading.
Please note: none of these photographs are mine, they're borrowed.
I have no official knowledge yet of my father’s wartime and service RAF record as they are still not public, but as far as I know during the war he was a pilot flying spitfires as a Warrant Officer. Instead of resigning afterwards as a great many people did, tired of planes, uniforms and regimented life, he stayed on; things being so bad outside the practical protection of the armed forces, no doubt he thought that having started a family, it was the sensible thing to do. Having just experienced a war, even if lucky enough not to be physically affected by it, would alone have been stressful, let alone getting married and having a child in those post war years. Those outside the service often had it much harder, the RAF cushioning things for service personnel: financially, medically and in many other supportive ways. Once made a flying instructor, promotions came quickly so my parents were not poor by comparison. At that time a man’s wage was enough to bring up a family, so when my father received his commission, my mother was automatically forced to give up work, since it was unthinkable that an officer should have a wife who was working.
As a teenager I wasn’t easily impressed, but I was completely astonished when I saw photographs of my father as a young man, at how cinematically good looking he was. He wasn’t that bad looking as an older man, but as a young man standing around wearing his flying kit or lounging in a chair looking at the camera, he had the careless outstandingly good looks one might imagine a fighter pilot to be: a romantic figure indeed. I could see why my mother had fallen for him.
The glamour of being a pilot was strong enough in him to defy his Scottish father who wanted him to study law and he fled his home as soon as he could to join up, desperate to get a piece of the action. Apparently, he just missed the Battle of Britain in 1940, whose fighters were made up of international pilots as well as the eager sons of the middle and upper classes.
I’m not sure if many people realise that the Battle of Britain took part in the very early part of the war since that period always seems to be focussed on. Certainly in a military context, the defence of the country at that time has been considered vital, and it was a ferocious battle to stop the attacks but there were another five years of war to get through until 1945. Thinking about it, maybe it’s because in memory, we feel more comfortable with the idea of defending our own turf and not invading anyone else’s. I believe that the emphasis after that time was bombing which my father, I’m relieved to say, didn’t take part in. He flew Spitfires, but most likely other fighter aircraft too. In our days of not believing that there is any excuse for going to war, but with planes dropping 300 tons of bombs on a city as they did in London in the Blitz, I wonder how many of us might change our minds, peace-lovers though we may believe ourselves to be.
I’m not sure if many people realise that the Battle of Britain took part in the very early part of the war since that period always seems to be focussed on. Certainly in a military context, the defence of the country at that time has been considered vital, and it was a ferocious battle to stop the attacks but there were another five years of war to get through until 1945. Thinking about it, maybe it’s because in memory, we feel more comfortable with the idea of defending our own turf and not invading anyone else’s. I believe that the emphasis after that time was bombing which my father, I’m relieved to say, didn’t take part in. He flew Spitfires, but most likely other fighter aircraft too. In our days of not believing that there is any excuse for going to war, but with planes dropping 300 tons of bombs on a city as they did in London in the Blitz, I wonder how many of us might change our minds, peace-lovers though we may believe ourselves to be.
The sound of a Merlin engine sends me into some kind of whirlwind trance; I believe it does that to anyone who hears it. I don’t know what my father did in detail at that time, as my mother in later years was contemptuous of his war record and once said that in examining a log book, noted that he hadn't killed anyone. As a child, I polished his medals and uniform equipment, but I have no idea what they were. Maybe I was told, but I would have been unlikely to listen. I rather suspect that if my father had been given anything outstanding, I’m sure my mother would have shouted it from the rooftops.
She came from a large mixed Irish and English family; her father invalided and blinded by poison gas in the World War I trenches, keeping them living firmly in poverty. Both my parents had been born a little before the Great Depression of the 1920’s so my mother’s family must have been hit especially hard. To make up for it there was a sense of pride that her grandfather or great grandfather [I’m really not sure about the era or the politics of this] invented a loom. As its industrial potential was seen as a threat, a company bought it so that it could be destroyed. The family was too poor to refuse the money, so they lost the rights to it. (I’m assuming a patent on it) I haven’t read around it to understand how that might have threatened industrial commerce. Other than these few facts, she wouldn’t talk about her family. The truth was that she was largely ashamed of where she came from and her marriage meant that she could aspire to middle-classdom; she was going to do her utmost to raise her status and my father was her ticket there. In that regard, as in everything else, my father and I both raised her hopes and disappointed her.
Upon joining the WAAFs in London where she was born, my mother worked on Barrage Balloons held by steel cables to the ground and which were intended to stop enemy aircraft from flying low, forcing them higher into the range of anti-aircraft fire.
Then at some point, she changed trades to become an aircraft mechanic, which was needed at the time to free the experienced and inexperienced mechanics (in other words, the men) to work on the planes on the front line of defence. Naturally this wasn’t appreciated by them but grudgingly became somewhat used to having women take over their sole preserve temporarily and couldn't help but observe that the women learnt the skills and expressed the professionalism that they hadn’t believed could exist in a woman.
Previous to the country's crisis, the vast majority of women were either housewives or in service, although of course many did work outside those areas doing cleaning, laundry and working on farms. In the war, women in the forces were generally used for menial tasks and those jobs without fighting responsibility. They were there primarily to relieve the men of the burden of routine unskilled jobs so that they were free to fight or concentrate on their various skills for the war effort. WAAFs, like most women in the country, were paid a great deal less than any man but I assume the men feared that their family-providing wage packet might be reduced with this change in working patterns or that their jobs might disappear. Their masculinity, including the authority and status within the family and their society - even for a plain working man, came into question and as a main breadwinner, this must have been very challenging. Years ago, I would have been rather snooty about that sort of patriarchy, but now I feel softer about how the opposite gender might have seen things then and even sometimes now. Perhaps the root of things wasn't all about being brainwashed and wanting power over women but held at least a good proportion of gaining and maintaining self respect regardless of their position in society and a deep, deep need to provide and protect one's mate and offspring. At that time too, they would more often than not have provided for the extended family - have carried a weight of responsibility for both sets of parents, uncles and aunts just as many people of other cultures still do.
Then at some point, she changed trades to become an aircraft mechanic, which was needed at the time to free the experienced and inexperienced mechanics (in other words, the men) to work on the planes on the front line of defence. Naturally this wasn’t appreciated by them but grudgingly became somewhat used to having women take over their sole preserve temporarily and couldn't help but observe that the women learnt the skills and expressed the professionalism that they hadn’t believed could exist in a woman.Previous to the country's crisis, the vast majority of women were either housewives or in service, although of course many did work outside those areas doing cleaning, laundry and working on farms. In the war, women in the forces were generally used for menial tasks and those jobs without fighting responsibility. They were there primarily to relieve the men of the burden of routine unskilled jobs so that they were free to fight or concentrate on their various skills for the war effort. WAAFs, like most women in the country, were paid a great deal less than any man but I assume the men feared that their family-providing wage packet might be reduced with this change in working patterns or that their jobs might disappear. Their masculinity, including the authority and status within the family and their society - even for a plain working man, came into question and as a main breadwinner, this must have been very challenging. Years ago, I would have been rather snooty about that sort of patriarchy, but now I feel softer about how the opposite gender might have seen things then and even sometimes now. Perhaps the root of things wasn't all about being brainwashed and wanting power over women but held at least a good proportion of gaining and maintaining self respect regardless of their position in society and a deep, deep need to provide and protect one's mate and offspring. At that time too, they would more often than not have provided for the extended family - have carried a weight of responsibility for both sets of parents, uncles and aunts just as many people of other cultures still do.
Oddly, my mother never gave me any impression of having any knowledge of mechanical or structural things at all; she hid it carefully. Perhaps she considered it unfeminine and unladylike; I can only guess.
However, even while wearing unflattering military overalls she was feminine and brightness itself, seen in a photograph standing in front of an Auster which was the non-fighting plane she used to work on: a weird looking creature from the front with a rounded heart shaped face and sad ‘eyes’. Used commonly by the RAF for reconnaissance and weather reporting, it was a single propeller, relatively lightweight aircraft with wings hunched over the top of its body.The Auster is the plane on the left.
I realise now that she was actually very attractive but my own ideas of female beauty were warped at that time – the common condition of the teenage girl. I used to scrutinize the early photos to see what points I might have inherited, or rather - not inherited, attempting to judge where I might fit into the ever important female hierarchy of desirability. She lamented the loss of her young attributes - wavy light brown hair and clear face, claiming she was the most desirable woman around because of her beautiful legs and elegant white teeth. This was how she attained the prize of my father. My parents quite clearly hadn’t passed their good looks on to me, but then, I didn’t pass their genes on either. I always felt that I was a horrible mix of the weak points of both parents, or instead a throwback to my ugly aunts. Saying this, I can hear the howl of disapproval of my dear friends, but rightly or wrongly, that’s how I felt.
Away from home and barracked in a Nissan hut, a makeshift dwelling comprised of naked corrugated steel in which shivering servicemen and women existed damply, my mother smuggled in a dog. Fed on scraps, this tiny dog to which she was devoted, was hidden in a cupboard: its presence never discovered. I’m surprised (as one can be by the simplicity with which children tend to see their parents) that she was insubordinate and wayward enough to do that and keep it despite it being in violation of military regulations. Her colleagues never betrayed her; it would have been a serious matter if they had, but it developed some kind of madness fits and to her horror she had to have it put down. Decades later, she grieved for it. Never far in her life from a dog, she was dog crazy. My father and I shared the cat-loving gene.
My parents spoke little of the war and later realised that most of their generation didn’t. Eventually, one realises people of all warring nations whether winners or losers, whether German, Japanese or English, don’t want to burden their offspring with their experiences and pass on that pain. They all want a brighter world for their children and for themselves if they can manage it. Although Britain was dingy and grimy with post-war gloom and most people trying to get by, the constricted, rigid feel of the older world was slowly, slowly receding. We can’t imagine what it was like to not know whether your country would be taken over by a brutal dictatorship or whether the country would remain self-determined. World War I had ripped apart the country’s self confidence as well as shifted the awe in which the upper hierarchy had been held: a degree of social slackening like the loosening of a woman’s girdle that had been too tight. World War II pushed that further still. Despite the country being in a state of disillusionment, nevertheless it still had the spirit and idealism to bank on a new world arising from the pain and death of so many, among them precious and irreplaceable people, in order that the new generation of children – the Baby Boomers - would flourish. Perhaps that’s how one has to be after such a trauma as war, believing otherwise one could imagine it being unthinkable.
With neither parent talking about families, bar some few titbits and an oddly soft spot for my paternal grandparents who died early – my parents like many, took advantage of opportunities available due to the war and it’s aftermath, wanting a new life away from their roots. It was a time of social shift and new hope on the horizon, which I don’t think appeared to blossom in England until well into the 1950s.
There weren’t many visits to Scotland and my father’s family, but he went fairly often and my mother complained of his Scottish burr when he returned. Frankly, I think he went for a breather.
I spent some time visiting my two Scottish aunts in Glasgow and in a photo one of my horse-like aunts and I are positioned in front of a tram: me, holding her hand, tiny and shy in a kilt, she tightly buttoned in coat and hat. The trams there were the last of the big city trams, the second biggest in Britain and were part of a particular culture and loved by the people of the city. The Scots seemed to have a pride in themselves, an attitude that was unfamiliar to me.
I remember the cosy darkness of my aunt’s house: huge furniture including a massive and beautiful grandfather clock that my father had always loved, old fashioned crockery, a secure, unchanging environment: a feeling of being in a world other than the one I knew and being thoroughly spoiled there. They taught me a bit of the Gaelic, though I forgot it later. The family on my father’s side were highlanders and I retain a bit of pride in that for no reason at all, symbolised by my middle family name which was normally only handed on to a male child. My father and I also shared our birthday, which always perplexed me; I don't think I could get my head around that one.
At that time, it was fashionable amongst the medical profession to whip out children’s tonsils almost as a matter of routine, so when I was four, it was decided that I should have them out. In later decades, they discovered that doing that to a whole generation of children wasn’t such a good idea.
Walking along the pavements within the RAF hospital grounds, my parents and I discovered the children’s ward, a small low-lying building surrounded by grass, rather than being part of a main building. Viewed from the entrance, I could see that the one room was full of beds with their accompanying children. To my utmost horror I was given a cot – though large enough for me – which I found totally insulting! I wasn’t a baby! I could see there were toddlers in them while older children like myself (aged 4) were in beds. I’d slept in a bed as far as I could remember and was damned if I was going to suffer the humiliation of a cot! Of course, parents and staff somehow wheedled and shoved me into it, soon finding myself next to the others helpless behind bars. That irked for a long time. I remember all too well that outraged anger.
Children’s feelings in that era weren’t taken into consideration as a matter of course; it was believed you would ‘get over things’, and automatically forget the good and the painful, like last year's Christmas presents and bruised knees. Maybe my father did want to preserve the cup from clumsy child fingers, but then again, likely it was just useful. I never did see it again. One can never tell what motives one’s parents had about anything, then or now.
To mitigate my child’s response, I have to say that I was decently treated as a child if not actually spoilt and had very little to complain about. Nothing terrible happened: there were no horrors above or hidden underneath the veneer of family life; if anything it was the veneer I objected to. And not that I didn’t suffer from various things and the lifestyle that I found myself in much later on, but they were at least within a reasonable context. What we call an unreasonable upbringing, at least from a social point of view, is the unacceptable within this country and in any other which reach the dizzy depths of hell. I don't need to state them; we all know what they are. However, I was lucky enough to have had a relatively protected and supportive early childhood.
That winter, in the dark of one Christmas afternoon, I remember Father Christmas came to us by helicopter. Running together from the caravans to greet him, us aerodrome children were wrapped up tight, mittens on, sewn onto elastic threaded through our coats so as not to lose them, our wellies pounding in the cold, dark and wet airfield towards the helicopter as it circled overhead. Hurrying, our parents anxiously explained that Santa was sorry he couldn’t use the reindeer because it was an aerodrome. Although at that time it was rather unorthodox, we didn’t mind; being RAF children it seemed more natural after all. I’ve no idea what we received but considering the era, it was probably sweets, which were then a rare luxury.
The next year I joined a kindergarten, which was just beyond the airfield so escorting me was a quick and easy job for my mother. On the first day she was more nervous than me so I was surprised that I liked being there. I had a photo taken as everyone did: fresh porcelain faced, blonde hair in the obligatory bowl haircut, now cunningly called a bob, held back to one side with a kirby grip. With posters of rabbits behind me, I’m politely absorbed in reading what I presume is a picture book, probably of rabbits. I wasn't there very long.
Some of these LINKS are cringe-making:
The women look really miserable on this, but I thought it was funnier (and shorter) than the more informative one below.
