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365 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1982

I had a good war … not a phrase to be written, still less spoken, with any complacency … But in my case it is accurate none the less: the good war not of a near-warrior at the safe end of one of the sunnier theaters of operation, but of a small boy [age 5] whisked from London at the first wail of the sirens to a green and remote corner of the west of England and kept there until the last shot fired was drowned in the sighs of the world’s relief in August 1945.And where in the West Country? He doesn’t say, but place names nearby (Buckland St Mary, Hatch Beauchamp, Curry Mallet et al) indicate South Somerset district.
I was not, unlike so many other children swept from harm’s way in September 1939, an evacuee. On the contrary – and it was this which did so much to make my war good – I was transplanted in an intact family from one reassuring fireside to another … It was the evacuation programme, none the less, which took me to the West Country, for my father’s war work was to help administer it, as an Inspector of Schools.
By [the first] Christmas my father’s daily round had slowed to the pace of our own, and there, for the next five years, our share of the war stopped …
Thus I began [with his father] my discovery of the secret world of the English countryside - in 1940 literally secret, resulting from a directive ordering the uprooting of all rural signposts …
As I grew and learnt to bicycle these expeditions became my own, no doubt of short range but in memory of immense extent, excitement and mystery …
But I wonder if any [other children of war-enwrapped Europe] retain, as I do, a memory of six years so consistently illuminated by sunlight, so deeply suffused by happiness, so utterly unmenaced by danger? Today conscience attacks memory with accusations of involuntary guilt at what I was spared …
yet in this unruffled pool of peace, the war entirely possessed me …
I knew, with an unshakeable moral and intellectual certainty, that Britain could not lose …
in my class of eight-year-olds, the life of the empire was actually an immanent presence … The very scale of the empire was a guarantee to us of its unshakeable permanence …
[my father’s] regard for the Czechs took second place to what he felt for the Poles. They were peerless, and he sought out their company wherever he could find it …
[my mother] was tempted to listen to the shorthand of wartime English – ‘Gib’ and ‘Alex’ and ‘the Med’ …
I searched the horizons for the brilliant millinery [of the regimental colored side-caps, known from a small book – cherry red for the 11th Hussars; maroon and black for the East Yorkshires; blue and Lincoln green for the Sherwood Forresters], in vain, the only soldiers I saw wore khaki from top to toe, khaki so ill-cut, shapeless and hairy that I could find nothing in its wearers to admire …
And then, suddenly, there were the Americans …
the superiority of the American over the British [gum] and particularly the sumptuousness of the wrapper and the lustrous simplicity of its design, instantly and deeply impressed me; I devoted the evening to study its elements, struggling in an increasingly trancelike state to draw from its symbolism the message which I sensed the designer sought to convey. Thus my first encounter with semeiotics; but also with the bottomless riches of the American economy …
The look assumed by my mother, as Annie [the “pretty, black-ringleted Welsh nursemaid, coming to us from a convent”] swayed towards GI territory on her afternoons off, her pink, plump and rather wobbly legs covered for the outing in a bottled brown preparation called ‘liquid stockings’ which did wartime duty for the real thing, implied a nagging anxiety that she was flirting with another sisterhood, from which the convent had presumably been enlisted to rescue her; but, though silk stockings materialized to replace liquid ones, as did supplies of Hershey bars and Spearmint, Annie was apparently asked to give nothing in return or, if asked, not pressed. My mother’s alarm subsided …
There was something in particular about the American jeeps, and the way they were driven with one high-booted leg thrust casually outside the cab, which softened even the most chauvinist ten-year-old heart …
one evening the sky over our house began to fill with the sound of aircraft, which swelled until it overflowed the darkness; it seemed every aircraft in the world was in flight; the element of noise in which they swam became solid, blocking our ears, entering our lungs and beating the ground with the relentless surge of an ocean swell …
Next day we knew. The Americans had gone, the camps emptied overnight … The BBC news bulletin told us, ‘Early this morning units of the Allied armies began landing on the coast of France.’







