The Separation (28 page)

There the flight ended. I cannot remember the moment of the crash or how I was thrown out of the wreck. I next remember I was in the water, floating face down, surrounded by the appalling, unlimited coldness of the sea. I was rising and falling with a sick sensation. Water was in my face, ears, nose, mouth, eyes. When I tried to draw breath I felt an awful fullness in my lungs, a sensation that I couldn’t open them any more to draw in air. Somewhere, from deep and low inside me, a last bubble of air choked out of my throat and burst briefly around my eyes. I snapped into awareness, thinking that I had lost even that, that last gasp of air. I raised my head backwards out of the water, to a black nightmare of heaving, swelling waves, then down again beneath the surface. But I had been in the air so I struggled and floundered again in the dark, pushing my face out of the water, my mouth out of the water, trying to suck in air, trying to empty my lungs of the sea.

Every attempt to breathe was a struggle against death. I coughed, spurted water, sucked at the air, but too late! I was under the waves and taking in more water. I choked it out somehow, breathed again, sank again. I thrashed my arms, trying to lift myself out of the water long enough to live. I was surrounded by floating debris from the plane. As I flailed my arms about, struggling for life, they sometimes banged against these small pieces of wreckage. I snatched at whatever they were, trying to interrupt the endless deadly sequence of sinking and resurfacing. Most of the flotsam was too small to hold my weight and anyway slipped from my grasp.

I was tiring rapidly wanted to end the struggle, to give up and let death take me. I choked once more, tasting vomit-flavoured salt water as it jetted out through my nose and mouth. I thought that was it, that I was breathing only water. I let go, slipped backwards, relaxing at last, feeling the weight of my flying gear drag me under. It was a relief to give way to death, to glimpse the darkness that was waiting for me beyond life. The rage to live had gone.

But a wave washed over my face and as it did so I felt air bubbles bursting from my mouth. Somehow I had taken in air.

Once again I struggled to the surface and gasped for breath.

There beside me, dark and silent, was the round shape of the emergency dinghy, self-inflated on impact. I swung an arm up, clasped one of the ratlines, got my elbow through it, then after another long effort, fighting the pain that was erupting from my leg, I managed to hook my other arm through the rope. I clung there, my head at last safely above the surface of the water, breathing in with a horrible gulping desperation, but breathing. Gradually my panting steadied. Breathing became almost normal and whenever the choppy sea raised itself high enough to splash a wave across my face, I was able to hold my breath for a second or two, shake off the water, then breathe again. I was not going to drown after all.

The next enemies, clamouring to take me, were the cold and the pain. It became vital that I should somehow manage to pull myself out of the water, flip myself over the inflated wall and fall into the rubber well of the dinghy, where I might lie in comparative dryness until rescue came.

Somehow, in that freezing May night, against the huge swell of the sea, against the pain and weakness in my body, I must have done that, because my next memory is of the breaking dawn, a rubbery smell, a soft and shifting floor beneath me, a curve of bright yellow rubber against a dark blue sky, a sense that the sea was distant, that I was tossing somewhere alone, perhaps in some after-life limbo. Yet when I hauled myself to the inflated yellow tube that was the wall of the dinghy and raised myself up with both elbows so that I could see over the edge, there was the great endless sea around me, everywhere, heaving and grey. The sun glinted low and yellow from between dark clouds on the horizon. I felt the touch of wind.

I lay there, probably in great danger of dying but no longer in any condition to know or care, when at last my dinghy was spotted by an aircraft. I heard the engine but I was too weak to wave or set off the flares. The pilot tipped the plane’s wings, swooped down over me, turned at a distance, flew low across me again. Then the aircraft headed away. By that time it no longer mattered to me whether it was British, German or any other nationality, but it turned out that it must have been British. Two hours after the plane flew away an RAF Air-Sea Rescue launch came out and saved my life.

I was alone on that sea, the only survivor from our plane. If there was a miracle that night it was one that saved me. Of the others, Ted, Col, Lofty, Kris, JL, they were killed when the aircraft was shot down, or if they survived that then they must have drowned after the plane hit the sea. That was the end of JL, the last I knew of him. ‘I think at least one of us will be OK,’ he had said to me in the last moments before he died.

Part Five: 1940-1941

1

Extract from Chapter 3 of The
Practical Conscience
-
The Red Cross in The German War

by Alan J. Wetherall, published by George Allen Unwin, London, 1958:

... it was in this way that I first encountered J. L. Sawyer, a remarkable figure of the war years. At the time I was still working as a staff Red Cross official, attached to several offices in the north-west of England. Although I was not personally involved with his exploits, my early encounter with him was memorable and in view of events is worth describing in detail. In anecdotal fashion it may provide insights into his later work.

J. L. Sawyer was at that time an obscure figure, unknown not only to the general public but also to the authorities. He lived in Rainow, a small village on the western edge of the Pennines close to the town of Macclesfield. He was married but at that time childless. His wife was a naturalized Briton who had emigrated from Germany during the 1930s.

Sawyer appeared before the Macclesfield Local Tribunal on Thursday morning, March 28, 1940. It was here that I saw him for the first time. My role at that time was to observe the proceedings on behalf of the Red Cross. Pacifism pure and simple is not a part of Red Cross policy, even though in times of war the Society is often associated with it.

In 1939 the British government had reintroduced conscription, the first call-up going to men in their early twenties, the aim being to raise the strength of the armed services to about three hundred thousand men. Experience with conscientious objectors during the 1914-18 war forced the government of 1939 to prepare the ground carefully. Under the circumstances the authorities established an enlightened and indeed tolerant approach to the problem. It should not be forgotten that in the months leading up to the outbreak of war in September 1939, Nazi Germany was seen as a major threat to peace and stability throughout Europe. If war broke out, devastating air raids on British cities were expected. All through 1940 there were realistic fears of an invasion from across the English Channel. The fact that by March 1940 none of these had taken place was seen by most people (correctly, as events turned out) as only the calm before the storm. In this climate it took political sophistication and firmly liberal instincts to implement an official policy that gave a humane hearing to would-be objectors. Needless to say, in the same atmosphere of war preparations it took an act of special courage for those with anti-war sentiments to present themselves for the hearings.

In 1940 a central register of conscientious objectors (COs) was created and maintained by the authorities. A man could register as a CO on one or more of the following loosely defined grounds: The first was that he objected to being registered for military service; the second that he objected to undergoing military training; the third that he objected to performing combatant duties. There was no onus on him to prove his pacifist credentials. For example, the objector did not have to belong to a recognized religion or church, nor did he have to show a past commitment to pacifism, nor did he have to come from any particular political affiliation. The rules were left deliberately vague, allowing each applicant to present his own case in the way he thought best. At the same time, it encouraged the tribunals to judge each man and his case on merit.

J. L. Sawyer appeared at the first hearing I monitored on behalf of the Red Cross in Macclesfield, although it was not the first Local Tribunal that I had monitored.

Sawyer was a young man of striking appearance: he was tall, muscular and powerful-looking, with a comfortable stance and what appeared to be a calm, self-confident manner. His name meant nothing to me when I was given a list of attenders, although when I later found out that he was an Olympic medallist it came as no surprise.

The courtroom being used for the hearings was a small but imposing room, panelled in oak, with a high bench and a deep well, the clerk’s desk being placed at a level somewhere between the two. There were no windows, only skylights. The lighting was dim, in accordance with wartime practices. For anyone walking into the room for the first time, even as an observer, the overall impression was intimidating. Sawyer’s application was heard halfway through the morning session. The tribunal had already turned down half a dozen applicants and give only conditional registration to two others. The members of the tribunal, a businessman, a local councillor and a vicar, struck me as constitutionally intolerant towards pacifists and suspicious of the motives for being one, determined to give each of the applicants as difficult a time as possible. I was taking extensive notes because I considered the Society would interest itself in the appeals, should any be lodged.

Before Sawyer was called, the clerk handed up to each member of the tribunal a typewritten copy of his statement. They scanned it briefly, before saying that they were ready. Sawyer entered, glanced around the courtroom with evident nervousness, then took up the position he was directed to, standing in the cramped space of the back row of seats in the well of the court. Asked to identify himself, Sawyer said, ‘Joseph Leonard Sawyer, aged twenty-three, of Cliffe End, Rainow, Cheshire.’

‘The members of the tribunal have read your statement, Mr Sawyer,’ the clerk said. ‘You do not have to take an oath unless you wish to. Do you wish to?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Is there anything you want to add to what you have written in your statement?’

‘Yes, sir. There is.’

‘Is it going to be relevant, Mr Sawyer?’ said the chairman of the tribunal, a man I knew to be Patrick Matheson, the owner of a large insurance brokerage in Manchester.

‘I believe so, sir,’ Sawyer replied, facing the bench squarely.

‘All right, but keep it brief. We’ve a lot to get through this morning.’

Sawyer glanced at the public gallery where I was sitting to take my notes, together with three other members of the general public, then at the press bench, where a reporter from the local newspaper was paying close attention to everything that happened.

As this is for the public record, sir,’ Sawyer said, ‘I will need to go over some of the material you have read in my statement, so that the rest of what I have to say will make sense to other people.’

‘Very well, but be quick.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Sawyer shifted position, trying to ease his muscular legs within the narrow confines of where he had been made to stand. ‘I have been a pacifist since 1936, when I travelled to Germany on behalf of my country and competed in the Olympic Games. Before then, I was too young to take much notice of world affairs, having been at school, then at university - ’

‘Which university was that, Mr Sawyer?’ Mrs Agnes Kilcannon asked.

‘Brasenose College, Oxford, ma’am.’

‘Thank you. Carry on.’

‘While I was staying in Berlin I came into contact with Chancellor Hitler and other members of the Nazi ruling party. I also saw at first hand the effects of their ruthless control over the country. My father was a conscientious objector during the last war, and what I saw made me remember what he always said, that the Treaty of Versailles was merely stoking the fires of future troubles. I saw much that alarmed me. Germany was controlled by the police and army, also by groups of armed militia who did not seem answerable to the authorities. Newspapers had been closed. Certain minority groups, like the Jews, were unable to work and were being constantly harassed by officials. Many shops owned by Jews had been burned. My friends in Berlin, with whom I was staying, were formerly a well-placed family, the man a doctor, his wife a translator, but because of the Nazis they were virtually unable to work. There were extensive laws which affected their most basic rights and freedoms. As well as that, I was shown convincing evidence that the Nazis were secretly expanding their army and had created a modern air force, in breach of the Treaty.’

‘If I may say so, Mr Sawyer, it is for reasons like these that most young men have taken up arms to fight Hitler.”

‘I know, sir, but I’m trying to show you that I’m aware of the danger Germany presents.’ Sawyer paused to look down at his own copy of his statement, which he was holding. I could see the page trembling. He cleared his throat and went on, referring to the statement but speaking from the heart. ‘I am personally convinced that war is wrong, no matter how good the cause. I am also convinced that although a war can be fought for what is believed to be an honourable reason, such as with the intention of forming a peaceful society, the war itself, by causing so much death and destruction, defeats its own object. Human suffering, pain, misery, separation and bereavement are inevitable when wars are fought. Violence, when opposed by other violence, creates a set of circumstances in which more violence will inevitably follow. Revenge, retribution and reprisal become predominant in people’s minds. They seek to hurt others because they themselves have been hurt. I know that views like mine are unpopular in wartime, sir, but they are sincerely held and openly expressed. I am applying for complete exemption under the Act and request you to register me unconditionally as a conscientious objector.’

After a short silence the chairman said, ‘Thank you, Mr Sawyer.’