It is well known that telling a child not to do something is the surest way of guaranteeing it will. Likewise, protecting a young person from uncomfortable truths will only inspire the child to uncover them.
While our parents may not have spoken much of WW2, children of my generation, the so-called Baby Boomers, quickly learned all about it. It wasn’t hard, given the books written and the multitude of films that covered all aspects. Such is the human fascination with combat.
And the need to record and memorialise history – for what it’s worth.
“Boomer” boys raced around playing soldier. My brother was always thrashing things, though it wasn’t long before he was satisfied with merely bashing cricket balls.
What was it that little girls liked to play at? I have no memory of playing with other children when I was small, perhaps because severe asthma prevented me from joining in most physical activities. I was given a couple of dolls, but I much preferred my teddy bear and stuffed animals. I made clothes for them, loved and “looked after” them.
Sometimes, perhaps I saw myself as a nurse, like my aunt Win.
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Even before WW2 my father disliked living in England, finding the climate dreary. In the aftermath of the war, finding it unbearable, he took a job with UNESCO and in 1956 we went to Southeast Asia.
In Cambodia there were no bomb sites or depressing reminders. The weather, while often extremely wet, was always warm. I was blessedly free of asthma.
Life changed completely and forever. Each time we went back to England on holiday, more of the war damage had been repaired. The shadow of war had gone.
Back in Asia though, things were not going well. We left there in 1964. My parents went to the West Indies and I came to live in New York with my mother’s younger sister. Quite capable by then, of digesting the news, I blessedly found myself safe again.
Young Americans not much older than myself were being drafted and sent to have their lives destroyed in a far away war, but even that did not affect me, as I did not know any of them. I felt – there is no word that adequately describes what I felt.
Inadequate. Undeserving. Lucky. Excluded. Guilty.
Did I want to be involved in a war? God no. War is an abomination.
Perhaps what I felt and still feel, growing up in London after WW2 and having escaped what occurred in Southeast Asia, is that I have always been untested and thus, not quite good enough. I have had my share of challenges, but have never had to face anything totally devastating.
As a little girl I remember wanting desperately to prove that I was brave, but withholding tears over skinned knees and being sent to boarding school didn’t quite do it.
It has always been my feeling that those of us who have been fortunate in this way should care for those who are not. I was deeply affected by poor children that I saw in Asia, forced to scratch a living in the detritus of the wealthy. But for an accident of birth, I could have been among them.
How? I asked myself. How can I deserve better?
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So, I grew up with fancy ideas of what I would do to help the less fortunate of this world and what have I been able to do? That’s right, not a thing.
Good intentions do not suffice.
The other naive delusion I had in extreme youth was that mankind would have learned from two world wars and would forge a better way ahead.
It didn’t take long for that notion to fall flat.
Perhaps it was the horror of what happened in Cambodia that destroyed my innocence. The kind, gentle people I had known in that country overtaken by such monstrosity?
It was unthinkable. I, who had been spared, had nightmares about it for years. As much as I had longed to go back, even years after it was over, I had not the courage to confront the fear of how it would feel.
At heart, I think I have always believed myself to be a coward. What would I have done in WW2? Joined the Resistance? I would have been terrified.
There are few people that I admire more than those.
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Growing up post-war in the docklands area of South London, most adults constantly talked of the war. The men who had served talked about it, and the civilians who had endured the bombing (including my mum) talked about that. I was brought up expecting to have to do National Service, but that was stopped before I was of age. I later leaned to be very grateful for that, and very happy to have been spared the carnage of any war.
Best wishes, Pete.
It’s interesting that the docklands people who suffered so badly spoke of it readily. My mother was never bombed out but friends were including one who lost everything. I think it was mostly my father who didn’t wish to talk of the war since my brother recalls Mum telling him not to ask him about it. Dad was in Malta during the siege and ended up being evacuated on medical grounds but we were never given any details. As you no doubt realise it is the current situation that has brought all this to mind. Insanity. To have a man that is clearly mentally unwell in such a position is unthinkable.
What a thought-provoking post, Carolyn. We can’t blame ourselves for our personal circumstances. We can only do our best to treat everyone equally and fairly, and to try to help others in any way we can; however small or ineffective our efforts may seem.
Thank you, Carolyn, for your fascinating memories and thoughts! Wars are always horrible and only necessary if we defend our own country.
Joanna
PS. Apologies for the late comment; I was away from home.
Beautiful, thank you. I have read time and time and time against that the bravest and most decorated and revered heroes of war were just terrified men and women and, oftentimes, still just kids, literally if not figuratively. None wanted to be heroes. Most wanted to be home steeling themselves against skinned knees. In war, even the forces fighting against real and perceived evils, there are no “good guys.” Good and kind individual men and women with noble intentions, yes, but these are human beings forced or manipulated into taking up arms against fellow human beings at the beck and call of leaders who are often merely playing chess, scotch in hand, using children and young adults who have barely begun to live life, as their pawns. Living life is brave enough. Surviving life is heroic. I count my blessings that I have never had the opportunity to demonstrate my bravery by doing something that might inflict harm and injury and death on another fellow human being who wants nothing more than to be home tending to skinned knees and spilled milk. In England and Cambodia – and today – you have bore witness to the senseless evils of powerful men. Fight against that evil by standing up and speaking up and, in your case, putting “pen to paper,” to convince future generations that war and violence for land and resources and power is not the way. Convince just one person and you have saved a life, and that human being you saved can save more. And in the end you will be on the right side of history, perhaps playing a role in future generations who find no need to kill one another, and allow no one to convince an entire nation that killing is the answer. That is the most heroic and noble act I can imagine.
This is a very thoughtful post, Carolyn – beautifully written. I know nothing about war — I did not grow up during that period. But what I can say, according to what I have read and heard from people who have gone through a war, is that it is a memory that stays with you for a lifetime (and definitely not in any good way). And although the wars currently taking place in different parts of the world are far from my home, they still have an impact on me. One tries not to read too much about it, but social media makes it impossible to avoid the cruelty that is going on. I think people who are just trying to survive, trapped in the middle of a war, are the real heroes … and not the big and powerful countries who want to make us believe they are fighting this war for the better of humanity.
Indeed!
I woke up one day when I was 17, sitting in my Camaro after dropping off a girl. Wearing good clothes, doing stupid sh*t, being cool. And out of the blue I realized at my same age my father was freezing his ass off getting shot at over Germany, crawling out on a catwalk 25.000 feet in the air to release stuck bombs. He flew 25 missions, got a platinum plate in his head and a fistful of medals and memories I’m sure would make me vomit hearing about second hand. So we have no idea what it’s like to believe because we’ve never had to. But we should remember those who did, even if it’s beyond our comprehension to understand.