Our mental fight: primary school and thoughts of war

It was a long time ago when folk, for the most part, lived their lives in the district where they were born, shackled by a lack of money or opportunity to venture far. A few did raise their heads above it all, saw a future in the distance and with heart rending courage, wept their farewells and left. I saw and learned these things as a young boy, long ago now, attending Stoneygate Primary School in England in the 1930s.

Our school was built of stone from a local quarry, with a sombre aspect from the outside, and with little variation inside. It had high ceilings with large windows, and in the winter the rooms were nose-bitingly cold to such a degree that the cold made my eyes ache. The threadbare hand-me-down clothes most of us wore did little to keep us warm, but as many of us were in the same state, together we stamped our feet and blew on our cold hands, and managed as best we could.

The furniture was sparse and the floor of bare boards was hard underfoot and reverberated when we moved over it, or when our wooden clogs struck the legs of the chairs or desks. The largest feature in the room was a map of the world suspended above a blackboard at the front. Areas coloured in pink indicated they were part of the British Commonwealth which we were taught that, ‘Hitler despised.’ We learnt that he told the German people that they were the ‘master race’ and were destined to rule the world. The country of Poland was invaded by German jack-booted storm troopers, strutting their way through the shattered country leaving behind them misery, death and devastation.

At school and at home we had heard about the invasion of Poland and it seemed that nothing could stop the Germans taking over the world. We heard about the defeat of our armies; and the escape and rescue of many soldiers from Dunkirk.

Eventually, Hitler stood on the shores of France and looked across at Britain, and from there, echoing Napoleon just over one hundred years ago, boasted:

‘We shall soon conquer them; they’re just a nation of shop-keepers’.

One of his generals agreed:

‘In three weeks England will have her neck wrung like a chicken’.

Winston Churchill’s reply still stirs me deep inside:

‘Some chicken! Some neck!’

I wasn’t fully aware of what it all meant as Longridge, Lancashire, was still a long way from Germany; but we did prepare for it in our way. By our feet sat a small cardboard box containing a gas-mask, which we practised putting on under our desks during air-raid warnings. All the glass in the windows were criss-crossed with gummed masking tape in the hope that it would keep most of the glass from showering down on us if bombs dropped too close. We became familiar with air raid sirens, air raid shelters, and barrage balloons floating like large sausages a little distance above us.

In small parks and recreation areas anti-aircraft guns emplacements mushroomed; some even on the tops of buildings, their long, slender barrels pointing skywards with separate searchlight units close by. Deep anti-tank ditches zigzagged through fields, and barbed wire and landmines prevented anyone from using most of our beaches. The ordinary people of Great Britain had decided that Hitler would not conquer us as easily as he thought he would.

The lesson on general knowledge in my primary school classroom had just finished and our teacher looked more serious now. None of us knew then that she had a fiancé living in Iceland and that she would be leaving to join him in a few weeks. It was almost the end of the school day and we were asked to take out our song books. We didn’t mind, we enjoyed it when she accompanied us on the piano. We sang only one song that day; it was in the back of the book and the words were by William Blake. It was more like a hymn to me and stirred my emotions deeply as we stood to sing. I didn’t need to read the words, I knew them off by heart and hidden tears sprung to my eyes after the first few words:

‘And did those feet, in ancient times, walk upon England’s mountains green?’

The pictures in my mind varied between those feet and those of German troops marching along our country lanes.

‘And did the Countenance Divine, shine forth upon our clouded hills?’

Yes, I wondered about that too. Did the Countenance Divine shine upon Germany?

It was then I noticed our teacher’s eyes moving slowly from face to face around the classroom. They stopped on various faces as we sang: ‘I shall not cease from mental fight’. Our teachers had often told us to think for ourselves. Now she was having difficulty finding the notes on the piano and I saw her blink to clear the tears away. The few who noticed, like myself, tried to carry on singing with the rest, but I found it difficult with a lump in my throat.

Our teacher had taught at the school for six years or more; time enough to know those in the senior classes and know they’d soon be serving in the armed forces. Would they get the chance to go abroad at last, all expenses paid; free at last from the shackles that bound them to the ‘dark satanic mills’ all around? (Many years would pass before I learned that the dark satanic mills Blake wrote about had a great deal to do with the abstract mind.)

No arrows of desire would these young men receive; instead of spears, they’d carry rifles. Some would descend from the heavens in billows of silk, lucky to arrive unscathed, and those who did, still had to do battle with the waiting enemy. Others would operate midget submarines to sink Italian warships anchored in their own waters. Still others would appear in their tanks as chariots of fire, making their last brave dash across the burning sands of the Middle East.

Thus did former members of schools throughout England and the United Kingdom, together with our allies, find their way to fight against Hitler’s attempt to destroy us in order to create his master race. Family members and loved ones would write to those stationed at home and those still alive overseas on active service or in prison camps. They’d pray, and mourn, and remember them at church, at home and in memorial services.

With my teacher and all of my classmates, we played our part in the war too, striving against the mental oppression William Blake wrote of, and of which we sang from our hearts so many years ago. Whatever our teacher was thinking as she struggled through the song and shed her tears I’m sure she hoped that some of us would survive and live to be free to think for ourselves.

And did those feet in ancient times

Walk upon England’s mountains green:

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On England’s pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here,

Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;

Bring me my Arrows of desire:

Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!

Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,

Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:

Till we have built Jerusalem,

In England’s green & pleasant Land

William Blake

Dennis Crompton © 1998

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)