Waiting in the queue at my local suburban post office, I saw a book called "Fighter Pilot" by Wing Commander Paul Richie DFC & Bar. It was the story of his experiences flying Hurricanes in France 1939-1940. The book has been reprinted and updated many times. For two dollars it was a steal and I spent several enjoyable hours reading it.
It then struck me that tomorrow, 3rd September, is the 73rd anniversary of the Declaration of War by England against Nazi Germany and I wondered if Pprune readers of a certain age would remember where they were when war broke out on that day.
As for me, I remember the event clearly, even though I was only seven years old at the time. I was living in England. I had been press-ganged into the church choir by my elderly Uncle and Aunt who were religious types. Choir boys received something like sixpence a month to sing their heads off. That was for soprano voices but I don't know about the older boys. Maybe they got more higher duty pay? The Vicar in the pulpit announced in a suitably grave voice that the Prime Minister had broadcast to the nation we were now at war with Germany . Of course most of the older parishoners knew the stoush was coming sooner or later, but I was too young to understand the ramifications of where we lived in Cranbrook which was relatively close the coast of France and only 30 miles from London. A dangerous place to be as it turned out later.
At the end of the church service, we (Uncle, Aunt and me) walked respectfully around the moss-covered tombstones of the churchyard and wended our way over nearby fields to our house called "The Oaks", Angley Park, Cranbrook. Then we heard the sounds of the church bells of St Dunstan's ringing. It meant nothing to me of course - in fact I thought it was practice for the bell-ringers. My old Uncle and Aunt who had both served in the 1914-1918 Great War, knew otherwise. It was a pre-arranged England-wide warning that meant German parachutists were landing. Later the "All-Clear" siren was heard. The church bells had been a false alarm. Nevertheless I noticed my Uncle had his twelve bore shot-gun and cartridges handy. From that day I have never forgotten to stop and remember that date the 3rd September 1939.
In Melbourne, Australia, I doubt if the newspapers will give the events of that year the time of day. Their priority will be pages and pages of the results of the weekend Australian Rules football games with photos of biffo going on between the opposing sides. After that, the next priority would be media coverage of the latest industrial mayhem between the under-resourced police and the militant union thugs in balaclavas, picketing Central Melbourne.
School children in Australia wouldn't have a clue about 3rd September because most likely it is not covered in school history books and most likely it would mean nothing to their teachers, anyway. Priority in history books here is given to how the bad white men from England beat up and murdered the local native population. Even the popular E's-E-2-C calender doesn't mention 3rd of September as the anniversary of the start of WW2; instead it records the date as Australian National Flag day. Big deal...
