"In 1944, I knew socialism was the only ideology going to give the working class a life worth living."
For the last 18 months, I've been piecing together my Dad's Green and Pleasant Land, which was unfinished at the time of his death. It's almost done which gives me a sense of enormous relief. It covers his life from 1923 to July 1945 concluding with Labour winning the General election.
Like my Dad's 5 other books written during those last years of life, The Green and Pleasant Land is an exploration of his generation during the eras before and after the creation of the Welfare State.
Harry Leslie Smith correctly predicted that without a return to socialist politics- fascism and wealth inequality would destroy not just our society but civilisation itself. 2025 is proof we are living through the birth of a new and more permanent age of fascism. It is no longer possible to prevent his past from becoming our future because we living it today. Now, we must take from his history and those of his generation lessons about how to defeat fascism and a capitalist system run amok because of the greed of the 1%.
The final chapters will appear before Victory in Europe’s 80th anniversary on May 8th. If you want a beta copy of the book, DM me.
I have also included a tip jar for those, who are so inclined to assist me in this project.
Chapter 38
The week before the D-D invasion, my unit joined an RAF communications centre on the coast. Confined to base, I worked 12-hour shifts in a team of wireless operators, who transmitted and received messages about bombing targets as well as supply drops to the underground in France.
On the sixth of June as I began my shift, the stillness of the early morning was broken over the airbase, and much of England's Southern coast, by the drone from the propellers of over 2000 transport aircraft on their way to Normandy laden with paratroopers, and supplies. “It’s on,” we whispered in our communication room.
When I finished my day's work and emerged into a bright sun, I heard, distantly, the crack from artillery guns on battleships stationed in the English Channel and it sounded like a far-away thunder signalling storms.
From the comfort of England, I was subdued and humbled by the reports of fierce fighting to secure the landing sites at Sword, Juno, Omaha and Utah on the coast of Normandy.
After D-day, England was attacked by a new weapon, the V1 rocket, which terrorized the inhabitants of London. Fired from bases in occupied Holland And Belgium, the V1 killed 10,000 civilians during the summer and autumn of 1944.
The RAF was so overwhelmed by the V1 attacks and unsure how to lessen their lethal blows against civilians; my signals unit was deployed to roam the countryside outside of London. We became a tracking unit to seek, identify and signal where the RAF should scramble spitfires to attack them.
On patrol, I scanned with binoculars, the horizon for V1 rockets in the sky. When spotted, we’d radio in the rocket's coordinates and then fire a starburst shell from a mortar. The shell exploded with a loud pop and then burst into an array of brilliant colours, which allowed Spitfire planes to mark its trajectory and shoot it down before it did any harm to the capital.
However, prosperous farmers were not amused when their prized herds of cattle and sheep were felled by spent mortar canisters crashing into their fields. One farmer approached us, outraged at our role in the death of his beloved bull. He said he would have the local constabulary lock us up for the willful murder of his animal.
Some afternoons when there were no V1 attacks, we parked our Leyland Lorry in a meadow beside a brook. There, we picnicked on tinned corn beef and drank beer bought from an off-license. We listened to popular music on a windup gramophone as if it was a summer holiday. But across the Channel, young men my age battled to the death for the liberation of Europe.
During one of those picnics, Clementine played a recording of Marian Anderson singing "Softly Awakes My Heart", from the opera Samson and Delilah. Listening to her voice, with closed eyes and my head resting on a kitbag, I had an epiphany stronger than the one experienced at the age of twelve when I rode my bike to York and marvelled at how the anonymous hands of artisans built a Minster of profound architectural beauty.
Marion Anderson conveyed in song, so many elements of human existence: desire, love, longing, sacrifice, empathy, and loneliness. Listening to her sing and being moved by the power of Anderson's voice was more proof that I and everyone from the working class deserved a life worth living. I knew that was only possible with an economy that was socialist and provided not only good wages but enough leisure time for workers to connect with nature, music, art, sport and education that wasn't utilitarian.
After the record finished and the needle scratched the final bits of vinyl on the disk, everyone was quiet. We were afraid to speak and break the thin strand of distance that separated us from that moment of beauty.
When autumn returned, I was transferred to an air traffic signals unit near Luton. Shortly before Christmas, my unit was called into a meeting in the mess hall. A Captain said our Christmas leave was cancelled because we were to be transferred into the European theatre of war.
However, on the day we began to board vehicles to take us to the ships that would transport us to Europe, our orders changed.
The Battle of the Bulge delayed our Channel crossing as there was a fear that the Western Front might collapse due to Hitler’s last military gamble to take the port of Antwerp.
As we loitered and marked time for orders to depart for Europe, through the first weeks of January, the people of Holland were reduced to eating tulip bulbs and shoe leather as they endured a famine created by the retreating German army.
It’s a bit of an SOS with days left before rent day. About 5 new subscribers will put it over the line.
Your support keeps me housed and allows me to preserve the legacy of Harry Leslie Smith. Your subscriptions are crucial to my personal survival because like so many others who struggle to keep afloat, my survival is a precarious daily undertaking. The fight to keep going was made worse- thanks to getting cancer along with lung disease and other comorbidities which makes life more difficult to combat in these cost-of-living crisis times. I promise the content is good, relevant and thoughtful. But if you can’t it is all good too because we are in the same boat. Take Care, John
Keep up the good work! Your dad was a credit to our nation and this book will help to make sure that he's not forgotten.
“I knew that was only possible with an economy that was socialist and provided not only good wages but enough leisure time for workers to connect with nature, music, art, sport and education that wasn't utilitarian.” This is so poignant, and needed.