"The heavy breath of war was near everyone in 1943."

Today is the most dangerous and tumultuous time since the 1930s. We don’t know how this will end for us. All bets are off because, in 2025, we lack a coherent and universal political surge towards socialism to counterbalance the appeal of fascism.

Before my father died in 2018, he spent the previous decade using the history of his life and working-class contemporaries as a political canvas to paint the dangers of unfettered capitalism for humanity and democracy. He correctly predicted that without a return to socialist politics- fascism and wealth inequality would destroy not just our society but civilisation itself.

His unfinished history- The Green & Pleasant Land is a part of that project, along with the 5 other books written during those last years of his life.

For the last year, I have been refining and editing The Green And Pleasant Land to meet my dad’s wishes. Below are more chapter excerpts from it. It is almost done and baring sickness or homelessness will be completed by his 102nd birthday on February 25th.

I have also included a tip jar for those, who are inclined to assist me in this project. It's the end of the month, so it is always a scramble to make sure there is enough money in place to cover, the next month's rent.

Take care, John

Chapter Thirty Four.

My unit languished at White Waltham. We were supposed to deploy to Egypt at the start of the New Year in 1943, but we didn't.

No one told us why because the RAF viewed us as inventory. You don't inform a box of nails why it's being sent to a shop in Leeds rather than Sheffield.

If anyone asked what delayed our departure for North Africa, they got a bollocking for speaking about matters above their station. More than likely, the NCOs and officers commanding the unit, also didn't know what caused the delay in our deployment.

During nights at White Waltham, sleep was always broken by air raid warnings, followed by thuds of flak exploding in the sky above. Generally, the Luftwaffe bombers headed for London to sow terror in the civilian population.

In 1943, the Luftwaffe, were out for blood because, for the first time since 1941, the RAF resumed bombing Berlin, and the USAF began their daylight bombing missions leaving ordinary Germans no time to rest between attacks.

In our hut, the men from the South were more enraged over the bombings against London. Ones from the North, like me, were less so.

It wasn't indifference on our part- for the Londoners who perished. But we knew if London was being bombed, it was unlikely our own kin up North were under bombs that night.

During my first year in the RAF, I kept most political opinions to myself.

Military life was about conformity, getting along and not becoming the black sheep. I wanted to both fit in and also not be noticed. Living in cramped spaces during harsh economic times taught me to stand up for myself and my needs- but also not make myself vulnerable by expressing my emotions. Feelings I hoarded and kept under lock and key in my imagination. There, they were free to roam and never be used against me. I was lucky because I was provided more privacy than most in the RAF.

As a Catholic, albeit an atheist- the Sunday church parade wasn't obligatory. As long as my unit remained in Britain, I used Sundays to read books and magazines, sometimes for pleasure, often to improve myself because of the education denied me in youth because of penury and my class. .

During those Sundays, I began to write prose and poetry that I hid from my hut mates. Working class conformity abhorred and feared books, art or a longing for beautiful things. We had been indoctrinated by the entitled to accept we didn't deserve beauty or the profound.

In 1943, the heavy breath of war was everywhere. But at White Waltham, I only witnessed it on a newsreel. I wore a RAF uniform yet the war didn't feel real. During the first year my part in the war was like being an understudy. I learned the lines and watched in the wings, the other actors perform their duties. I didn't know if I'd ever get my curtain call and play my role in that war of unimaginable brutality.

At White Waltham, the war came to me and the rest of the unit as rumour, gossip or scraps from the conversations of others in the mess hall.

"Did you hear", a conversation would begin at tea time or when you were having a slash at the urinals. "George's brother was taken prisoner in Africa or the ship that Chris' uncle was on was torpedoed in the North Atlantic, and there were no survivors."

The war inhaled and exhaled out across our consciousness. Montgomery's 8th Army took Tripoli in January of 1943.

Churchill went to North Africa at the end of that month to meet with Roosevelt in Casablanca. It was where there Britain and the USA declared that the West would accept nothing less than an unconditional surrender of Nazi Germany for the war to end. It was now a fight to the finish.

The war kept grinding on with wins and losses, swings and roundabouts. But at White Waltham my unit played pretend games of war. In between drills, exercises and marching, the men at White Waltham including myself drank beer, went on dates with local women who like us wanted no strings-attached relationships as long as condoms were used.

At the beginning of February, Stalingrad fell to the Red Army. It was a momentous military accomplishment that put the Allies on the road to victory against Hitler.

A week into February the commanding officer gave new orders to the unit. The RAF wanted us to complete a mobile wireless and orientation exercise. We weren't told but the training was to prepare us for the invasion of Sicily. My unit was ordered to drive across Berkshire. During this exercise coordinates transmitted to us in Morse code instructed us to find designated landmarks and when found signal back that we were at the location.

Each vehicle was given different orders and dissimilar locations to detect and report back from. The lorries were each equipped with an RCA radio transmitter, bedding, and provisions for two weeks. A large bucket was in the back of the truck and to be used as a lavatory. For our comfort, the bucket came with a detachable seat. If there were any bashful or self-conscious ones aboard our vehicle, a canvass wrap was included. It could be erected around the bucket to protect one from the blowing winds. It also shielded us from the incredulous stares of farmers as they encountered RAF men defecating in their fields, resplendent with sheep.

There were four of us in my truck: Robbie, Clementine, and a lad from Salford named Jack. I was designated the chief radio operator. I was to transcribe the orders from HQ and submit our whereabouts.

The convoy trundled off like the beginning of the Dakar-Paris road race. However, unlike the French road rally, we were wholly ignorant of our destination or the RAF's true and exact explanation for this weird navigational foray.

It took us the better part of the day to find our first map reference. The grid location was in the middle of a church cemetery. It proved our superiors were as useless as us. Clementine noted.

“Perhaps the RAF is giving us a sign about our ultimate destination with them.”

As we were supposed to set up camp at these coordinates, Robbie and I decided to go to the vicarage. We wanted to inform the padre of our intent. It was not a promising start. The vicar greeted us adorned in his vestments, while beside him an inhospitable dog was growling. The padre had a long, thin unsympathetic face.

“Permission, permission,” he grumbled, “to set up a circus tent in my church cemetery. I certainly do mind. In fact, I take umbrage at the notion. You boys think that my cemetery should be used as your lavatory? Certainly, not, good-bye, goodnight to you, and please be off this land at once. Use a farmer’s plot; use the common. But do not touch my churchyard for your shenanigans.”

By the second week, our transmitter conked out. Without radio contact, we aimlessly meandered across the county of Berkshire, expecting someone from White Waltham to come look for us. At times, we'd sing.

“We are Fred Karno's Army, we are the ragtime infantry.

We cannot fight, we cannot shoot, what bleeding use are we?

And when we get to Berlin, we'll hear Hitler say,

'Hoch, Hoch! Mein Gott, what a bloody rotten lot are the ragtime infantry.”

Running out of supplies, we returned to White Waltham unshaven, filthy, and fearful we'd be disciplined for not completing the orientation exercise. Nobody cared because new orders had come in - our unit was to leave White Waltham immediately, for an RAF base in Chigwell.

As always, thank you for reading my sub stack posts. I really need your help to keep the legacy of Harry Leslie Smith and his Last Stand alive, in the public eye and relevant. Your subscriptions to this newsletter do that and also keep my housed which has become a precarious thing thanks to getting cancer, interstial lung disease and some other co- morbidities during these cost of living crisis times. So if you can join with a paid subscription which is just 3.50 a month or a yearly subscription or a gift subscription. There is also a tip jar for those inclined. I promise the content is good, relevant and thoughtful. Take Care, John