Trying to survive during an era where ignorant armies clash by night.

In today's excerpt of Harry Leslie Smith's The Green and Pleasant Land; it is the second year of World War Two. He is almost 19 years old and serving in the RAF. Hitler's armies are near the gates of Moscow, and Britain's war in the desert is a hard-fought slog with high casualties. There was a real fear that Egypt would fall and the Suez Canal overrun- causing Britain to be cut off from India. There is rationing in Britain which caused demoralisation among civilians. Among the working class, there is still no real commitment to fighting the war with their blood, sweat and tears. 1941, the working class is waiting to hear what they can expect come peace for their efforts to defend Britain. My dad in 1941 is a bairn caught in the high beams of destiny. He is someone small and insignificant who is trying to make sense of his world whilst attempting to survive during an era, "Where ignorant armies clash by night."

And now apologies for the paragraph of pitches for your support. But it is followed by a new chapter excerpt from The Green and Pleasant Land.

The Harry’s Last Stand project, which I worked on with my Dad, for the last 10 years of his life, was an attempt to use his life story as a template to effect change and remake a Welfare State fit for the 21st century. His unpublished history- The Green & Pleasant Land is a part of that project. I have been working on it, refining it, and editing it to meet my dad’s wishes. It should be ready for a publisher sometime this month or in August. This book of my dad’s ends with his eyewitness account of the 1945 General Election. It makes for an interesting contrast to what was offered for Britain by today’s Labour Government during this summer’s General Election. Neoliberalism has definitely short-changed the generations living in the 21st century.

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Chapter Thirty-Three

In the autumn of 1941, my unit was transferred from St Athan's to RAF base White Waltham outside of Maidenhead.

At the beginning of the war, White Waltham's airstrip was grass fields.

But they were in such bad condition from the wet winter the year before my arrival that the commander in charge attempted to requisition two elephants and a mahout as tractors to plane the fields. The officer’s novel approach to runway maintenance was rejected. It was feared if there was an air raid, the pachyderms would bolt and cause mayhem in the surrounding villages.

When my unit arrived at the base, White Waltham was a marshalling hub for lend-lease aircraft from the USA. Throughout the day and night, the bucolic surroundings were continuously disturbed, by the ceaseless drone of arriving or departing bombers and fighters.

The aircraft were primarily ferried by brilliant female pilots who weren't allowed a combat role. Although there were many female pilots at White Waltham, I never interacted with any of them because as an enlisted man, I was considered background scenery in the war. I wasn't important except perhaps as future cannon fodder.

Our unit was commanded by a sergeant major named Meade. He was a proper bastard who made us do full kit marches lasting from sun up to sundown. Within a week, my feet were blistered and bloodied, and my legs felt like they could take no more punishment. But strangely, the more Mead screamed, the further I marched because I was more afraid of his wrath than my body breaking down.

My unit marched down country lanes, through fields and across pasture land until our bodies were numb from exhaustion.

We marched in sunshine, rain, and sleet. Then, one day, Mead stopped our march midway. He shouted for us to take a good look around at the countryside.

"Paint a picture in your heads of England because pretty soon it's war in the desert for you lot."

The notion of searing heat, no water and being face-to-face with the enemy was a dismal prospect.

There were some new men from the South billeted with us. But they came from the lower middle classes and didn't mix well with us from the working-class world of the north.

Generally, I felt contempt for them. But one man who kipped in our hut from the south did stand out. His name was Clementine, and he possessed an eccentric intelligence. He was always disassembling equipment to see how it operated. Later in the war, Clementine would become an expert scrounger and black marketeer.

 He was considered reckless by the top brass, who refused his request for pilot training. The RAF believed Clementine was more inclined to wreck more planes of ours than down enemy aircraft, so he was kept on the ground.

The following morning, we were assigned another NCO because Mead was required to train a newly arrived unit. Our new Sergeant was named Green, and he was built like a farmhand. At first, I thought Green would be as brutal and heartless as Mead.

But his rough exterior was for appearance's sake because, after several days of marching with him, he broke routine and had us halt in front of a cake shop.

"Right lads, time for a brew up. If you want to buy a bun or cake go inside the shop and get it from the lady."

We then walked to a meadow with our cakes and brewed our tea. It seemed to be more of a picnic than a march and some of my mates became boisterous.

"Steady on," the sergeant major reprimanded. "Keep your voices down. Gather round, and let me give you the lesson for today's sermon. I don't much care for walking. I don't much care for marching, and I don't much care for trouble. If anyone tries to grass me out and spoil our afternoon holidays, I will crucify the bastard and have their balls thrown to the camp dogs to eat."

He paused to let us digest his words and then continued.

"The most important rule in marching is always to keep the fucking load light." He opened his kit bag to show us it was full of straw.”

"My kit, is like our leaders- filled with bloody straw. If you want to carry the weight of England on your back, so be it. If you want to get through these days lugging the least amount of shite. Straw is not only good for cows and horses. It's good for us because it's as light as a fucking feather."

Green allowed us to visit Maidenhead when we weren't on duty. Unlike the villages and cities I knew in the north, which had been constructed with brute force for utilitarian needs during the Industrial Revolution, Maidenhead was different. It was pretty and looked as delicate as porcelain. But when it came to the class system and people like me from the north, Maidenhead was as sharp as rusting barbed wire.

Your subscriptions are so important 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 co- morbidities which makes life more difficult to combat in 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. I am offering a 20% reduction in a yearly subscription to ensure my prescriptions can be purchased today. One new subscriber covers that cost. I promise the content is good, relevant and thoughtful. But if you can’t it all good too because I appreciate we are in the same boat. Take Care, John