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Air Raid Precaution staff duties included enforcing the strict blackout |
The day war broke out
Today marks the 70th anniversary of the outbreak of the Second World War. Historian and author Peter Richard recalls the mood on the streets of Camden
SUNDAY, September 3, 1939 was an extraordinary day, for it is not often that one awakes to witness the beginning of a World War. A radio announcement from the then Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, was awaited.
Fears were confirmed when at 11am, Chamberlain told the country that Germany’s attack on Poland two days earlier we were at war. No sooner had the significance of the announcement sunk in than the air-raid sirens sounded their dreaded wail.
With gas masks at the ready, people flocked to the shelters, or dived into whatever domestic cover they had arranged. But it was a false alarm, and it was to be another year before bombs were to fall on London.
During the lunch period that day there was an air of what does one do now? Some people went to the pub and were anxious to down a few pints before their beer mugs should be blown out of their hands. Others took a sober look at their domestic Air Raid Precautions (ARP).
Before September there had been widespread scepticism about the government’s organisation of ARP; indeed it was regarded as something of a joke. But now it was taken deadly seriously.
Domestic ARP arrangements varied with the types of dwellings that people occupied. Some families had access to a garden or backyard that could accommodate a tin box affair called an Anderson shelter. Provided that it did not flood, and one could brave the risk of catching pneumonia, it offered a reasonable amount of protection.
Those who had no garden, and had the run of the house, could choose between sleeping on the top floor and falling with it should the house receive a hit, or sleep in the basement and have the “protection” of the upper storeys, but risk being buried under the rubble. The options of how one could die were endless.
Apart from minor matters such as where to house the stirrup pump for use on incendiary bombs, a major concern was the blackout. Henceforth, no dwelling was to show any light whatsoever. So thick material had to adorn every window and crevice. “Put that light out!” was a cry that was soon to reverberate in the streets. Billy Cotton, the band leader, made a comic song about the situation.
The streets had already been plunged into darkness – lampposts remained unlit, advertising lighting was banned, and car headlights and traffic lights were modified. Venturing out after dark became a hazardous affair as road accidents increased dramatically. Small wonder that the song,“I’m Going to get Lit-up when the Lights go on in London,” was soon a hit.
Robb Wilton, a music hall comedian, claimed in his famous sketch “The day war broke out my missus said to me, well, what are you going to do about it?” The idea that the bumbling person that Wilton portrayed could do anything significant raised a much needed laugh. But on that historic day many pondered on what they were going to do.
There were some changes in Camden that were felt immediately. Apart from the tense atmosphere, the Gaumont cinema in Parkway, together with all other places of public entertainment, was a sorry spectacle as it remained closed and in total darkness. The BBC underwent a marked transformation as the wireless became a main source of news and entertainment.
As it was Sunday, the effects of the blackout on the street markets was not for a few days. Camden High Street on a Saturday night had been a blaze of light as butchers like Pages had auctioned off joints of meat to crowds who had to watch every penny. The post-war market that developed was of a much different character.
Children had already been evacuated to safer areas, and mothers had begun to weep, and fathers turn glassy-eyed, as the wireless gave out with, “Goodnight Children Everywhere”. At the other end of the age range, senior citizens pondered whether or not they could, or should, take themselves off to the country.
But it was among young men that the question of the future lay most heavily.
Conscription, or National Service, had been introduced in the spring of 1939, and the first batch of conscripts, or militia men as they were called, had reported for duty in the summer. Under the terms of the various Acts of Parliament, men between the ages of 18 and 41 were liable to be called up for six months’ training, and then return to civilian life on a reserve basis. Women were not included, but their turn came in 1942 as the war made ever-increasing demands for people power.
It was now clear that the men who had been called up during that fateful summer would not be going home after the stipulated six months. In fact, if they were lucky enough to survive, some six years service lay in store for most of them. Men still in civvy street reflected on whether to await the arrival of their calling up papers, or volunteer for the service of their choice?
In 1939 I was 15, and I remember discussing with a friend whether or not there would be any fighting left for us when we reached military age. Unfortunately there was, and I have the scars to prove it.
On that first day, apart from concerns over military service, 101 questions surfaced. Could London survive the expected air raids, would poison gas be used, and how long would the conflict last? Would we get enough to eat? As night fell, people prepared for bed in a sober mood. The day seemed to have changed everything.
In the small hours of the morning the air-raid sirens wailed again, but it was another false alarm. Unknown to us the “Phoney War” had begun.
Whether or not this title was warranted is debatable, for there was nothing phoney about the fighting in Poland, nor in relation to the Atlantic where a savage battle had started.
But in London the dreaded air raids did not materialise. After several weeks the cinemas and places of public entertainment that had been closed on Day One reopened, and many shops displayed the notice of “Business as Usual”.
It was, however, the calm before the storm that was sudden, brutal, and long-lasting.
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