The Day We Went to War (52 page)

Evacuee schoolteacher Arnold Monk Jones writing to his wife Eileen from Berkshire thought too that ‘It’s a nasty business about Finland.’ But he told her that a colleague thought the Soviet invasion was ‘partly justifiable as a defensive measure by Russia to close a gap thro’ which she was invaded after the last war, against a possible or probable attack on her by the Western Powers’. Monk Jones gloomily concluded, ‘I wouldn’t put it beyond Chamberlain to try and organise an anti-Russian war.’

But this was a decidedly minority view. Most people expected Finland to be overwhelmed in a matter of days. But, as one headline put it, ‘Finland’s Heroic Resistance Surprises the World.’ The Finns had built a defensive line across the narrow strip of land, south of Lake Ladoga, which provided the principal route into southern Finland from the Soviet Union. It was called the Mannerheim Line, in honour of their commander-in-chief. It resembled more the trench fortifications of the First World War than the Maginot or Siegfried Lines. But in the early weeks of what came to be known as the Winter War, it withstood massive Soviet infantry assaults supported by tanks and guns.

Members of the Finnish air-raid precautions organisation keep watch for Soviet bombers over Helsinki, Christmas 1939. ‘But they are unusually alert, these remaining Finns. It’s a peculiar alertness that comes to life under death-dealing skies.’

Very soon in the homes of armchair strategists throughout Britain, maps of Finland began to replace those of the Western Front. And Gort and Gamelin seemed to be in serious danger of being overshadowed by Mannerheim and his Northern Army commander General Martii Wallenius, ‘a great general and a fine man’. It was to Wallenius’s command that
Daily Express
war correspondent Geoffrey Cox went in mid-December to report on Finnish successes on the northern front. He sent back to his paper a graphic account of the battlefield above the Arctic Circle:

‘I stood today among the bodies of a Russian column struck on the flank by the Finns. To make this attack the Finns marched all night through the woods on skis. For more than a mile both sides of the narrow snow-covered roads were choked with lorries, some smashed, some whole with the carcasses of horses, overturned carts, masses of clothing, rifles and foodstuffs. Amid this at every turn lay the crumpled figures of the dead. This was where a supply column . . . had been trapped. The Finns waited in pits by the roadside to fire into them practically at point blank range. But the main battlefield was half a mile back. There strewn across the road lying on the stunted pine trees were bodies in their drab Soviet khaki with peaked caps carrying the red star in front. There too were Finns in their white capes and grey fur caps fallen in the attack. They were easily identifiable. Their comrades had always covered their faces, sometimes with a cloth, sometimes just with a pine brush.’

Contrary to some reports that were being received in Britain about the Red Army’s dismal performance, Cox came across grim scenes that testified to the bravery of the ordinary Russian soldier: ‘In one place a small group of Soviet soldiers lay around a machine gun. They had fought to the end, for Finnish losses in the snow ahead were heavy . . . In a small clearing were a dozen Soviet guns. Their horses were dead in their traces fifty yards behind. The men were piled around a gun wheel. There had been hand-to-hand fighting, for many of the dead had died from bayonet wounds. This battle had lasted for forty-eight hours.’

Further up the roadside Cox encountered a single Soviet prisoner guarded by two Finns, ‘grey with exhaustion. He had been wandering in the woods for two days.’ Later the same day, Cox was driven across a frozen river to see another smashed Red Army column, which looked ‘at first sight . . . like a great junk heap’. Masses of Soviet equipment lay about, and there too were the bodies of Russian and Finnish soldiers who had died in the ambush. As Finnish peasants and soldiers loaded the dead into a large van, Cox reflected, ‘It seemed impossible in the winter afternoon silence, with the sky a soft gold behind the pine trees, to think what this battle meant, to realize how many of these people had been husbands, lovers, sons and fathers.’

New Zealander Cox had arrived in Finland on the first day of the war. He soon developed a real affection and admiration for the people, and wrote that when looking at the dead, ‘I could feel more easily about the Finns, because I lived among them and am surrounded every day by these men in grey uniforms. But the Russians I do not know as individuals. Then suddenly I saw lying in a pile of telephone material a broken plaster doll. It had come from a small suitcase in which was a child’s pair of gym shoes and some woollen clothes. It was not hard to realize how they came there. A Russian soldier, thinking of his child, had picked them up in some evacuated Finnish village. He had probably looked forward to the day when he would go back to his village and his child. Now the doll and clothes lay there in the snow.’

Finnish ski troops pass through a small town on their way to the front. The winter of 1939/40 was one of the harshest since records had begun in 1828, and temperatures of –30°F were not uncommon. The Russians labelled both the dangers of the extreme cold and the snow-camouflaged Finnish troops as ‘The White Death’
(Belaya Smert).

Finnish successes, such as those Cox witnessed, won the admiration and support of virtually every civilised country from the most corrupt South American dictatorship to Finland’s ultra-democratic Scandinavian neighbours. And the Finns made every effort to capitalise on this sympathy, because, as a Finnish diplomat told foreign correspondents as the war entered its third week, ‘Plenty of sympathy has been dealt out, but Finland must have more than sympathy.’

C
HAPTER
16

Christmas and the End of the Year

As December got underway, an advertisement for the Christmas number of the
Strand
magazine summed up the feelings of most Britons after nearly four months of the ‘Bore War’:

‘Do you mind if we forget you for a few hours, Mr Hitler? Let’s ignore that man for a few hours. Let’s get back to the sane, sensible things in life like plum puddings and crackers and the Christmas number of the “Strand” – old friends that we can trust – the spirits of Christmas past and Christmas still to come. Let’s get back to Yule logs and Heath Robinson and P.G. Wodehouse – for a few hours at any rate with the “Strand” Christmas number.’

For many, Christmas 1939 was going to be comparatively normal. Rationing was on the horizon, but food was still plentiful in the shops. An advertisement for Stork margarine in
Picture Post
confidently informed readers: ‘War-time cooking isn’t going to be such a problem after all! For you can get Stork again –
as much Stork as ever you need.
So now it will be no trouble to make your Christmas cakes, puddings and pastry as light and delicious as Stork always makes them. And remember, Stork-made things are
more digestible – more nourishing, too. Both are especially important in these times. Be sure to use Stork for all your Christmas cooking.’

Women’s Own
magazine featured a recommendation for producing a complete Christmas dinner of ‘clear soup, roast turkey with chestnut and forcemeat stuffing, bread sauce, baked potatoes and Brussels sprouts or celery, Christmas pudding or mince pies’. It also carried recipes for making marzipan holly and fruits, trifle and shortbread. Its rival,
Women’s Pictorial
, thought, ‘One of the best things about Christmas is all the lovely things we have to eat – a greedy thought perhaps, but I think that is one that most people have. Why we don’t have plum puddings, turkey and mince pies at other times of the year I don’t know.’

Such thoughts of culinary extravagance were, however, frowned upon by the Ministry of Food. Just before Christmas, its Parliamentary Secretary Alan Lennox-Boyd suggested that those families who normally treated themselves to a ham at Christmas should, in view of the imminence of rationing, forgo it this year. Such advice went down badly when, the very next day, the public read in their newspapers that the Lord Mayor of London had attended a dinner at Frascati’s restaurant. The menu, which was supposed to consist of dishes unlikely to be rationed, comprised: Whitstable oysters, bortsch soup, fillets of sole, kirsch punch, wings of chicken with a puree of mushrooms, comice pear cooked in vanilla syrup, vanilla ice and cheese savoury with chopped almonds on toast, dressed with pickled walnuts. At the same time there was a massive advertising campaign to popularise French food and drinks. In its 23 December issue,
The Economist
devoted three full pages of advertisements to boosting British Allies’ wines, liqueurs and foodstuffs. Wines from Alsace were highly recommended for cocktails, ‘at any time of the day’, while no meal could be complete without a French cheese and a French wine with which to wash it down.

Chancellor of the Exchequer Sir John Simon’s Budget back at the end of September had raised the price of a pint by 1d a pint,
1s.6d (8p) on a bottle of whisky and 1d on a packet of cigarettes. But despite these increases, newspapers and magazines were full of advertisements both for alcoholic Christmas cheer and tobacco products. In one,
Band Waggon
stars Askey and Murdoch boosted the restorative properties of Martini Vermouth, ‘to make it a
Merry
Xmas, Playmates!’:

‘Challenge the blackout by opening a bottle of Martini, nature’s gayest health-giving wine . . . Martini Vermouth is an economical drink even in these hard times, so open a bottle tonight and close the doors against “wartime nerves,” and don’t forget to order your supply of Sweet and Dry for a Merry Christmas.’

And, in another, Father Christmas, wearing a steel helmet, ‘advised’ readers, ‘Since parties find black-outs a bit of a blow . . . I’m taking them MOUSSEC wherever I go!’ For those households which found it difficult to splash out seven shillings (35p) on a bottle of sparkling Moussec, there was always Stone’s Ginger Wine – ‘You’ll Glow In the Blackout’ – at a more modest 3s.3d (16p). And for ‘housewives who win praises rare when preparing Christmas fare’, there was always ‘Point’ British Sherry from Vine Products at Kingston, Surrey, at a modest 2s.6d (13p) a bottle.

Cigarette smokers and their friends were urged to ‘Give them all Craven A this Xmas . . . because these famous Cork-Tipped cigarettes are so fresh, cool-smooth to the throat. You can be certain you are a choosing a gift which will be thoroughly appreciated if you send all your friends Craven A this Christmas. Made specially to prevent sore throats.’ And for those wishing to imitate the First Lord of the Admiralty in their smoking habits: ‘Make it a Mannikin Xmas: a case of Manikin Cigars is the ideal gift that suits
your
purse and
his
pocket. He’ll enjoy their Mild Havana Flavour. You can send sixty Mannikins to the boys in France for 7/6d [38p].’

As Christmas approached, the public were being bombarded with conflicting advice from Government ministers as to whether they should spend or save this year. President of the Board of Trade
Oliver Stanley saw no harm in a little seasonal spending on Christmas gifts. But, in a ministerial broadcast, Chancellor Sir John Simon strongly recommended that money should not be wasted on presents. Only if everybody saved, Sir John said, could prices be kept down. In the event, most people spent much the same as normal. Traditional Christmas gifts like Yardley soaps and perfumes, ‘lovely things, priced to suit everyone from 2/6d [13p] to 45/- [£2.25] await your choice at any good chemist or store’, were as popular as ever.

Books were popular gifts, ‘to beat the blackout’, and a number of celebrities were asked to recommend their Christmas favourite reading. Arthur Askey chose Arnold Bennett’s
Imperial Palace
, while Gracie Fields opted for John Galsworthy’s
The Forsyte Saga
. Tommy Handley recommended
The Diary of a Nobody
by George and Weedon Grossmith. Vic Oliver, when asked, replied rather pompously, ‘I have no time for books. When I don’t work in the theatre, I entertain the troops.’ Mrs Chamberlain recommended Collingwood and Myers’s
Roman Britain
. The Prime Minister himself received a Christmas gift of a walking stick in the form of a rolled-up umbrella, carved out of elm wood with a pocket knife by an eighty-six-year-old Suffolk shepherd.