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)
