Victory in Europe, 1945

Harry Leslie Smith remembers how the Second World War ended for him, in Hamburg

So that was it; after millions dead, a continent in ruins, the war was over on May 8th 1945. Hitler was kaput. And me, a boy from Barnsley, was alive. After years of pulling the short straw because I was working-class during an era of extreme inequality, I was on a winning streak. I was alive and now part of the allied occupation forces station in Hamburg, along with the rest of my RAF unit. If I played my cards right, the world could be my oyster because I sensed a new age was dawning where ordinary blokes like me would get a fair chance to make something of themselves. 

To mark "Victory in Europe", my unit marched from our airbase to the town square in Fuhslbuttle, a suburb of Hamburg. My squad, in full dress uniform, paraded passed a building known during the Nazi era of tyranny as Kola-Fu. Later, I would learn that the building was a subcamp for Neuengamme concentration camp. It was used to process the Roma of Hamburg for their eventual extermination at a death camp. On May 8th, I did not know that. Later when I learned about the evil of Kola-Fu, I was not surprised. On my way to Germany, I witnessed the Nazis inhumanity to civilians in Holland. 

When we reached the town square, I stood at attention with the rest of my mates as we waited for the official announcement that the war was over and that we standing here were the lucky few that survived it. 

In front of us stood a wooden platform, which was crammed with RAF officers, our wing commander, a padre and a military band. 

It was warm that day, and the sun shone for the first time in 5 years without a cloud of bombers darkening the sky with a promise of death for the cities below.  

An officer strode over to a microphone at the centre of the dais. A wind whispered through the linden trees, and I discerned songbirds in the distance.

The officer tapped the microphone, which created a screeching feedback sound that echoed across the square, and then he introduced the padre. He asked us to bow our heads to those who had died in this brutally long conflict. 

Afterwards, the men on parade, including myself, let out three cheers to the, end of this "fucking war." Then the military band played, “We’ll meet again,” while our formation joined in to sing the lyrics to the song. 

Our wing commander congratulated us on a job well done. We were dismissed, from our parade, with a blessing that God would keep Britain safe. Bugger that, I thought if he could for once keep the working classes safe, I'd be a believer again.   

After the service, an officer reminded us that; there was a party across the road to celebrate Victory in Europe, which brought thunderous applause from the men on parade. Once, we were dismissed, my mates and I walked over to the building, a primary school, where the victory party was held. Entering the school, we made our way to the gymnasium, which had been hastily decorated with streamers and pictures of the royal family and Churchill. 

A W.A.F approached and told us that everything was on Hitler today because all the drink was looted from a Luftwaffe officer’s mess. 

She kissed each of us on the cheek and let us pass to join the party guaranteed to challenge even the most; abstemious to stay sober. I drank copious amounts of beer; while I pounded the table to music played by an RAF band forced to entertain witless wireless operators and their ilk. As there were few women, airmen danced with other airmen in abandon and youthful joy. We all stood a chance to die in our beds as old men, especially if the next time an election was called, Labour won. 

But politics was for another day. This day was for beer, wine, calvados, and schnapps. This was a moment for jokes, sentimentality and promises to do something with our lives as soon as we received our demob orders. 

After many hours of drinking, some stumbled into the washrooms to barf and then returned for more beer.

While the band played "Roll out the barrel," for what felt like the hundredth time, I went outside to get some air.

I spotted an airman propped up against a wall with a burning cigarette resting on his unconscious lips. I pulled the fag away from him, and uselessly, I attempted to light my cigarette from his, but my hands could not make the connection. 

“Sod it,” I slurred to myself, and I started smoking the passed out airman’s fag. 

It was now dark, and in the streets, I heard catcalling and whistling from drunken servicemen. In the distance allied soldiers drunkenly discharged their guns into the air. I stumbled up the road a bit. I wanted to get a good look at the nation that had disturbed, destroyed and derailed so many lives. On my way, I yelled, "Fuck you, Hitler, " while in the houses near me, German civilians hid behind drawn curtains and darkened rooms. 

Ahead, in the shadows, I recognised my mate Clementine, and I beckoned him over. 

Clementine approached and offered me a swig from a bottle of wine he'd scoffed from the bar back at the party.

“We did it, old chum, we did it, we lived, brilliant isn’t it?” 

Clementine concurred. But then said, he was off. “I’ve got things to do.”  

“Do?" 

“I’m looking for war booty," he said cynically.  

I returned to the schoolhouse and sat down at my table. I felt very drunk, and the room spun while the gymnasium’s interior resembled a kaleidoscope to my eyes. Other people’s words were as intelligible as rapidly transmitted Morse code. 

Jack and Sid took one look at my jellyfish appearance and noted, “You’ve had your chips. VE Day is done for you, mate.” 

They carried me back to base as if my body had been found wounded on a battlefield. To their laughter, I stopped and vomited in the bushes. Back at the airfield, they dumped me into my bed. Hours later; I sensed dampness at the side of my face. It felt like l was in a cold ditch made of china plates.

I opened my eyes and discovered I was face first in a urinal. I must have lurched there after needing to relieve myself. But, there was light shining in from the window above the urinal. I had been there for hours, covered in my own vomit and other people's piss. I was about to extricate myself from the piss trough when a sergeant major entered the washroom. 

 “Lad, unless you get up right now, a wee bit of Scottish rain is going to fall onto your head.”

I stood up slowly and made an unsteady salute.

“Get yourself cleaned up lad. The war is over, but not your time in the RAF. You've got work to do.”