Oh What an Exclusive War!

By FRED MAJDALANY

WHAT one particularly remembers about September, 1939, is how hard it was at first to get in the act. It was an exclusive club; ihe Kitchener poster in reverse; nobody, for a lime, needed one.

BY September 2, a Saturday, it was obvious even to the Daily Express and me that nothing could now stop it. The Express, with their 'No War this year or next year either,' had main- tained to the last their well-known policy of optimism at all costs, however absurd. I, for More crudely selfish reasons, had nursed the same silly hope for a last-minute miracle., A revue I had written was due to start rehearsals at a West End theatre on Sepember 4. My °PPosition to war at that time was based therefore on something more substantial than a distaste fOr shooting at people and being shot at. Although Chamberlain did not actually declare the thing open, so to speak, until the morning of Sunday, September 3, it was, as I say, per- fectlY clear by Saturday that this was now inevitable.

Wrenching my thoughts with difficulty from 1,he prospect of my name in lights and being nailed perhaps as a new Noel Coward, I directed !hem to graver matters. The time had come to Join something. Ever since Munich, people had been joining things, at first in a trickle, more lately in large rionibers: the Territorials and their naval and air equivalents; the new-fangled ARP. A few Of one's chums had even been making shame-faced weekend appearances disguised as sPecial constables. '

I had myself resisted joining anything on the grounds that it would be time enough when the War actually started to worry about getting in- Volved in it. I was fortified in this resolve by a Canadian friend with whom I shared a flat. We ci)ostantly reassured one another that we were tSh'wing balance if not nonchalance in refusing ° be panicked into joining things. In our tiny

way, we liked to think, we were finishing our game of bowls.

By September 2 we were not quite so sure. All of a sudden it felt vaguely uncomfortable to be doing absolutely nothing. We ought to find some kind of war work, we decided. All over London buildings were being sandbagged. We must contribute. We went out in quest of someone who would let us.

We soon found that the work seemed to be in the hands of professional teams of sandbaggers who neither needed nor desired any voluntary helpers. Sandbagging had become a closed shop and no one would let us join in. After a morning of frustration we had a few beers and some lunch and then tried again, working our way methodically up Whitehall.

At last we found a group willing to let us help. They were fortifying the Foreign Office and this pleased us. It seemed particularly appropriate to be doing up Sir Edward Grey's old hang-out just before the lamps went out all over Europe for the second time in twenty-five years.

The work, however, was less congenial than our workmates. The sandbags had reached head height and swinging them aloft to this height and higher is crippling until you have mastered the technique and rhythm. We were young and fit and we did our best, but it was obvious that we were not helping much and, if anything, were disturbing the smooth teamwork of the profes- sionals. We stuck it for two hours--we could hardly quit sooner--and then, to their relief as much as ours, felt it possible to withdraw without too much dishonour. We had had our first taste of war's beastliness. Stiff and aching, we limped back to our fiat, which was in the Adelphi, and considered the next move.

At 5.30 we went to our local, which was next door, and asked for Harry, the landlord. He was an air raid warden and we thought he might besglad of a couple of volunteers. We were told that he was at his post for the night. Before

leaving to look for him we bought a bottle of whisky. It set us back 12s. 6d.—more than we could really afford—but in the circumstances a justifiable extravagance, we thought. We took it back to the flat and left it there for use if Hitler's bombers came to lay London waste in the night. We also smothered it in cushions against blast in case the bombers preceded the declaration of war—you never knew with Hitler. Then we went to look for Harry, whose post was in a basement in Bedford Street.

We found him in the far corner of a heavily sandbagged cellar, crouched over a table of packing cases, playing pontoon with his aides by the light of a shaded torch. Wearing his blue steel-helmet (the current status symbol), he looked very tough, stern and important. We asked if he could use a couple of volunteers. He told us in a voice much gruffer than usual that he could not. We withdrew into the street feeling snubbed and began to walk. Before long we came upon a line of men forming a human chain and swiftly passing parcels from one of the build- ings to a lorry. They were standing so close and handing the parcels on so quickly that one thought they must be explosives or something. We forced our way into the line and joined in. The parcels turned out to be round and very light. They were moving so fast from hand to hand that we had to concentrate in order not to drop one and there was no time to look and see where they were coming from.

After about twenty minutes the stream dried up and the loaders began to disperse. We started to walk towards Leicester Square and after a few yards we could at last identify the doorway from which the parcels had come. It was one of the entrances to Moss Bros.

We bought an evening paper and read the latest news from Poland, where the German in vasion was going alarmingly well. Then, outside the old Leicester Square post office, we found that we had again run into a human chain— this time passing packages from a van into the post office. Once again we joined in, only to discover that we were now unloading the parcels we had recently loaded. When the last round package was safely inside the post office, we went into the nearest pub to celebrate. We might have been indifferent sandbaggers of the Foreign Office, but we had impeccably helped the Brothers Moss to begin evacuating their toppers to a place of safety in the country. We could not exactly pretend with Rupert Brooke that God had matched us with his hour—but in His own mysterious way He had tried.

Next morning, of course, the bad news was definite (and Chamberlain's sepulchral croak on the radio made it sound even worse). Being Sunday and England, it was no use trying to join anything that day as everywhere would be closed. But first thing on Monday I went round to the recruiting office in New Scotland Yard to join the army. There was a board outside the door on which had been chalked : `No Recruits Wanted.' A corporal confirmed its authenticity.

At the same time my Canadian friend formed up at Canada House and asked how soon the Canadian army was expected as he wished to join it. They said they did not know exactly when Canadian formations would be arriving, but when they, did they would come over complete. Canadians in England would not be able to join them.

Patriotism, it 'seemed, was not enough. To get into this war you would have to have pull. Kitchener would have been astonished.