The Day We Went to War (30 page)

12.22pm (1.22pm), B
ERLIN

It is a still, hot and sunny afternoon in the German capital. On
Deutschlandsender,
the German home-service radio, the Hamburg Radio Orchestra is playing Lizst’s ‘First Hungarian Rhapsody’. Suddenly and without any warning the music fades out. Listeners
now hear the announcer’s voice. He calls them to attention and says, ‘In a few minutes we shall make an important announcement.’ The music then fades in again.

12.29pm (1.29pm), B
ERLIN

On the radio Lizst’s ‘Hungarian Rhapsody’ finishes and the announcement promised seven minutes ago is read over the air:

The British government, in a note to the Reich government, has made a demand that the German troops which have advanced into Polish territory be withdrawn to their original positions. At nine o’clock this morning the British Ambassador in Berlin informed the Reich government in a provocative note that if a satisfactory answer was not received by eleven o’clock, England would consider itself in a state of war with Germany . . .

Just like the British, Germans now hear that they are at war through the medium of radio.

12.29pm (1.29pm), R
OT
-W
EISS
T
ENNIS
C
LUB
, B
ERLIN

Life
magazine’s Berlin correspondent William D. Bayles hears the news at the capital’s exclusive ‘Rot-Weiss’ Lawn Tennis Club, which numbers Goering, von Ribbentrop and former Chancellor Franz von Papen among its members. He has gone there with Norwegian diplomat Carsten Helgeby to play a game and to try and take their minds off the crisis. Instead they have to listen to a German naval officer who assures them that ‘the Fuehrer knows what he is doing; there will be no war with England’. Helgeby is sure that Britain will honour its obligations to Poland. If it does not, he tells the American, ‘it will be the end of the British Empire’. Bayles is not so sure. He still doubts whether ‘the men who had played so selfishly and recklessly with the reputation of the Empire through the bitter years of appeasement would realise that the day of the
show-down had at last arrived’. The German sailor has no such doubts. ‘We Germans’, he tells Bayles and Helgeby, ‘are born fighters and wars bring out the best in us. But the English have dissipated their blood through their Empire and now they are exhausted. They want only an old man’s peaceful world. They won’t fight.’ Just as the German finishes speaking, and as if deliberately on cue to contradict him, the radio announces that Britain is at war with Germany. Bayles is overcome with emotion. His heart seems to fill his throat. He avoids looking at his Norwegian friend because he is barely able to hold himself in check and knows that even a single sign of enthusiasm or understanding from Helgeby might start anything – even tears. At last, Bayles rejoices, ‘The British Empire had come through. The miserable voice of appeasement . . . was dead and the mighty voice of historic England had spoken.’

Looking around the clubhouse, Bayles sees that the news of Britain’s declaration of war has shocked the Germans. Even the supremely confident naval officer is deflated. But he recovers enough to tell the two foreigners in a peevish and reproachful tone, ‘Again and without cause, England has declared war on us. England is in the wrong. The Fuehrer wanted only peace, but England struck away his outstretched hand. This time England will be condemned by the world.’ Afraid that he is not going to be able to suppress the sensation of gloating that is pushing out of his chest, Bayles leaves the glum Germans and makes for home.

12.30pm (1.30pm), B
ERLIN

William Joyce, a former member of the British Union of Fascists, and his wife Margaret are at temporary lodgings in the German capital. Joyce has ‘an absolute belief in National Socialism’ and admires ‘Hitler’s superhuman heroism’. Realising that as ‘England was going to war . . . I must give her up forever’, the Joyces came to Germany last week. Now their landlady rushes into the room
and exclaims, ‘It’s war now with England!’ Her husband enters the room behind her and shakes hands with the Joyces. He tells them, ‘Whatever happens, we remain friends.’

12.30pm, ‘V
ILLA
V
OLPONE
’, S
OUTH
H
AMPSTEAD

James Agate’s secretary, Alan ‘Jock’ Dent, arrives to look for his gas mask. He tells his employer two things. Firstly, that the Irish navvies in Camden Town refuse to leave London, even though Eire has declared herself neutral. One of them has told Dent, ‘Oi don’t mind dying for Ireland, but Oi won’t live in it!’ Secondly, this morning’s sirens caught him eating breakfast at Lyons Strand Corner House. With the other customers, Dent is shepherded to the basement. There, he tells Agate, ‘His first and chief emotion took the form of the angry exclamation, “What a very unattractive crowd of people to die with!”’

12.30pm, L
YONS
C
ORNER
H
OUSE
, C
HARING
C
ROSS

Home Office civil servant Peter Allen and a group of colleagues have come up from Whitehall. They are enjoying an extravagant and hilarious lunch. All share the same feeling of relief that at last the decision has been taken and everything now seems simpler.

12.30pm, B
ALCOMBE
S
TREET
, M
ARYLEBONE

The Bayne-Powells decide to lunch at The Sussex, a local pub, and then take a walk in Kensington Gardens. They are struck by the beauty of the gardens, ‘the sun and the green trees and the bright pink and white hibiscus flowers’. The only reminders they have that Britain is now at war are ‘the barrage balloons shining silver in the afternoon sunlight’. Robert and Nancy walk to Paddington Station to see if there are crowds of people leaving London. But they only encounter a slightly larger crowd than normal, mostly made up of women and children. They walk back home, as the No. 27 bus does not seem to be running this afternoon.

12.30pm (1.30pm), B
UGAJ
, R
ADOM
D
ISTRICT

A Polish two-seat plane is brought down by ground fire from the 4th Panzer Division. The crew are taken prisoner by German soldiers. One of the Poles is tortured by them. His tongue, ears and nose are cut off. He is then murdered by his captors.

12.30pm (1.30pm), W
ARSAW

News of the French ultimatum has reached the Polish capital. Crowds now surge towards the French Embassy to acclaim Ambassador Leon Noël and his staff. On their way, they pass the British Consulate-General, where Consul-General Frank Savery, who has been a Warsaw fixture for nearly twenty years, greets the crowds. On the balcony he appears waving the Union Jack and the crowd goes mad with joy. An old pump organ is brought out and someone starts playing ‘Tipperary’. The crowd bellows its approval. Savery leads shouts of ‘Long Live Poland!’ In turn, a Pole steps up and shouts, ‘Long Live King George!’, ‘Long Live England!’, ‘Long Live British Democracy and twentieth-century civilisation!’
Times
correspondent Patrick Maitland and his colleague Hugh Carleton Greene of the
Daily Telegraph
receive their share of acclamation from a wildly enthusiastic band of students.

The crowd then cross the street to the United States Embassy to cheer Ambassador Biddle and President Roosevelt. Pushing his way past the crowds, Ed Beattie manages to get into the embassy. He goes upstairs to see the American military attaché Major William Colbern. Beattie asks the Major how Britain and France can now help the Poles. Colbern tells the reporter, ‘They must draw the pressure from here. They must strike in the west with everything they’ve got and force the Germans to pull back their tanks and planes. But,’ the military attaché insists, ‘they must strike now.’

1.00pm, SS
A
THENIA
, A
TLANTIC
O
CEAN

All of the liner’s twenty-six lifeboats are now ready for launching. Two are swung out in case of an ‘abrupt emergency’.

1.00pm (2.00pm), W
ILHELMSHAVEN

Commodore Doenitz signals his U-boat crews: ‘U-boats to make war on merchant shipping in accordance with operations order.’

1.00pm (2.00pm), U-30, A
TLANTIC
O
CEAN

Oberleutnant Fritz-Julius Lemp, twenty-six-year-old commander of the 650-ton submarine, receives signal confirmation from Wilhelm shaven that Britain has declared war on Germany. He gives orders for the U-boat to make for its operational area.

1.10pm (2.10pm), U-30, A
TLANTIC
O
CEAN

Radio operator Georg Hoehgel is asleep in his bunk. Suddenly, he is roughly woken up by a shipmate who tells him, ‘My God, Georg, England has declared war on Germany!’

2.00pm (3.00pm), B
ERLIN

Even before the French ultimatum expires, orders are issued to the inhabitants of the threatened Red Zone of Saar-Pfalz to start the evacuation of their area. Already, two days ago, the sick and infirm, old people and children were evacuated on special trains, but now everyone between the ages of ten and sixty must leave. They are only being given two hours’ notice to lock up their homes and make for the evacuation assembly points. Nearly half a million civilians are on the move. A rumour is going the rounds that of the thirty-four ‘Hitlers’ in a Saarland lunatic asylum, only twelve still maintain this identity after being evacuated.

2.00pm, W
ESTMINSTER

Winston Churchill and wife Clementine are guests at the flat of their son-in-law, the Austrian-born entertainer Vic Oliver. Their daughter Sarah married the much older Oliver against their will nearly three years ago. Although there is still tension over the marriage, the Churchills, Sarah and Oliver today are as one as they raise their champagne glasses to toast ‘Victory’.

2.00pm, E
ALING
F
IRE
S
TATION
, W
EST
L
ONDON

Elsie Warren finishes her shift and goes to Westbourne Park. Elsie reflects that ‘the past few days have been very morbid’ under the shadow of war. Now in the park with the sun shining, ‘the folly of war seems so stupid’.

2.00pm (3.00pm), A
DLON
H
OTEL
, B
ERLIN

Alex Adams and the rest of the British Embassy staff are now incarcerated on the first floor of the Adlon. For their own protection, they are assured by the Berlin police. The second floor is already reserved for the staff of the French Embassy. The British diplomats find that they can still use the hotel telephone to ring numbers within Berlin, and so they get some of their essential belongings sent to them at the hotel. Naval attaché ‘Tommy’ Troubridge even manages to have a case of champagne delivered for an impromptu celebration. As he waits for ‘Tommy’s’ party to begin, Adams is relaxing on his bed, reading a John Buchan novel. Suddenly, there is a knock on the door and the sound of heavy breathing. A burly German enters, and Adams sees in the reflection of the wardrobe mirror that he is carrying an axe. In a flash, Adams is off the bed and gripping the back of a chair. He is determined to keep it between himself and the intruder. Adams’s voice is unsteady as he asks the German what he is going to do with the axe. ‘I have been sent to open a wooden case,’ comes back the simple reply. Adams gives a sigh of relief, and directs the German to the naval attaché’s room, where the case of champagne awaits. Adams follows on not far behind, keen now ‘to slake an anxious thirst’.

2.00pm, F
OREIGN
O
FFICE
, W
HITEHALL

Oliver Harvey, Lord Halifax’s Private Secretary, notices the ‘strange silence’ in the Foreign Office after all this morning’s excitement. Halifax gives orders that the Office is to close this afternoon, and Harvey thankfully goes home and drops exhausted into bed.

2.15pm, W
ILHELMSHAVEN
, G
ERMANY

Flying Officer McPherson’s Blenheim bomber has successfully completed its mission. Unfortunately, flying at 24,000 feet, the aircraft’s radio has iced up. McPherson is thus unable to send back to base immediate information as to the disposition of the German warships. But they have taken seventy-five valuable reconnaissance photographs. McPherson can proudly write in the ’plane’s logbook: ‘Duty successful . . . the first RAF aircraft to cross the German frontier.’

2.30pm, E
ALING
, W
EST
L
ONDON

Elsie Warren arrives home to find that her Sunday dinner has got cold. Her mother is in good spirits and believes that despite the declaration of war, ‘it can’t come to much’.

2.30pm (3.30pm), B
ERLIN

Seventeen-year-old schoolgirl Else Danielowski is travelling on the ‘S’ Bahn suburban railway. She and her fellow passengers have heard of Britain’s declaration of war. Looking across the carriage she senses that everyone is sharing the same feeling that ‘a huge thick cloud was bearing down upon us’. Nobody is the least bit cheerful, let alone defiant.

2.30pm (3.30pm), W
ARSAW

The weather is changing, and not for the better, and with it the mood of the capital’s inhabitants. The feeling of exultation has passed. It is drizzling now, the wind has risen and it is turning cold. A party of foreign correspondents are being taken out to view the Jewish children’s home and hospital that was bombed yesterday evening. It is situated at Otwock, a few miles from Warsaw. The flimsy building has been blown into matchwood, while part of it is still smoking from the fire caused by incendiary bombs. The correspondents are told that eight Jewish children
between the ages of three and seven were burnt to death in their beds. They are shown one of the bodies, completely carbonised, still in the twisted metal of a bed. Reporter Cedric Salter, looking down on the body, thinks that it does not look as though it could ever have been human, and is not therefore particularly terrible unless you permit yourself ‘to imagine the agony that it must have suffered before it was reduced to this handless, footless, hairless, faceless blob looking more like a badly overcooked joint of lamb than a human being’.