When
war was declared
we
were waiting for it:
Auntie
Clarrie’s living room,
cousins
and grown-ups round the wireless.
We’d
been waiting a long time,
speculation
and rumour.
Hitler’s
tanks were made of cardboard.
On a
country walk with cousins
Grandad
told us if it came
they’d
call it a World War;
Cynthia
said it could be European.
Sure
enough it came,
but through no sudden surprise attack,
but through no sudden surprise attack,
Just
a long slow slithering into war.
When
Holland was invaded –
along
with Belgium, Luxembourg –
I
went with mum to a small-room,
one-woman
hairdresser where
they
spoke about it quietly.
It
sounded serious but to me
just
another step of many.
When
Sicily was invaded
I
heard about it from women
in
the queue for buns and sausage.
We’d
been sent that Saturday morning,
knowing
there’d be something special.
Sicily
wasn’t so special though.
“Not
Italy, then?” “No, Sicily.”
When
D-day landings hit the beaches
our
geography teacher chalked
the
Cherbourg peninsula on the blackboard,
drew
arrows to suggest
which way the 2nd
Front would go.
We’d
waited for that day, too –
never
doubted which way it would go.
When
victory came in Europe
we
wondered, was tomorrow
the
promised day off work?
We
decided yes and stayed home.
No
memories of bells, dancing in the streets,
but
soon after came V.J. Day
which
I spent playing cricket in the sun.
Stuart Randall
