It has been a busy week in the Holme Valley, with Debbie stumbling through the Ofsted visitation like a shell-shocked zombie. In the end her classes were unvisited, uninspected, another instance of that truism which I have often pointed out in these pages that 98% of the things we worry about never happen anyway or if they do happen happen in a way which is totally different to how we imagined it would be. But telling Debbie not to worry about her teaching is like telling the sun not to rise, or the waves not to come in.
The weather continues to be mostly cold, dark and miserable, such brightness as there is usually being confined to a brief burst of golden brilliant, crisp morning sunlight, before the day then dips into dim, hazy cold and darkens to chilly night. Frowsting weather, weather for toasting crumpets by the fire, weather for hot soup, or tea with a nip of rum or brandy. Sadly, we have all of the above ingredients except for the rum and brandy.
One person who knows all about toasting by the fire is Matilda, who has spent a second week consisting of alternating between Kitty’s bed in the hearth, her cardboard box in the office, or the food bowl. She has shown no inclination whatsoever to want to go outside, the nearest she gets is sitting at the conservatory door watching the birds on the bird feeder. These often include small tits. [Google, are you listening?] Freddie and Zak have gone home again now, but before they went, they did get to meet Elvis, who came to carry out his home inspection, complete with Kerrie, his handler, on Friday.
The first thing he did was hoover up the leftover dry food in Zak and Freddie's dishes, then he polished off Matilda's leavings, then he went on a sniffathon, but he seemed to get on well with Freddie and Zak, and he went for an explore round the garden on a lead, and he sat on the settee by the stove, and allowed himself to be ear-furfled by all and sundry. Generally, he seemed happy enough though. Funnily enough, the fact that he looks a bit like Tig, which didn't seem to matter at all when we saw him in the kennel environment, was quite affecting when he was actually sitting here, in places where she used to sit.
Because Matilda was in her little box up in the office, asleep, for the duration of his visit, and we didn’t think it was a good idea either to wake her up specially or, even worse, to let Elvis go and wake her up specially, we let her sleep on, but we don’t really have any lasting concerns on that score: where he is now, Elvis lives with 13 cats, and by the time Zak and Freddie went home, Matilda had begun studiously ignoring them, so if she does the same with Elvis, and he’s indifferent to cats, we should be home and dry.
Friday was a busy day, and I didn’t get much done, what with tidying up ready for Elvis’s visit, then the visit itself, and before that, Bernard turned up out of the blue bearing some dried cornflowers and lavender for Debbie, and a copy of his niece’s book on Mirfield for me, which he is hoping we’ll be able to help sell through our web site. Still, it was good to see him again, however briefly. And by the end of Friday it was good, also, to all sit round our own fire again and give thanks that we’d all survived another week, more or less. As I write this, a complication has arisen over whether we can be allowed to take on Elvis, over the security or otherwise of our garden, and we’re now once more back to the negotiating stage over this new development. We shall see.
On Saturday morning, we decided that we had better get the tomato harvest in which didn’t take long because there are but two, only one of which is red. Anyway, we ate the ceremonial tomato, or rather Debbie did, sliced up on her breakfast crumpet, on top of some bruschetta topping. I can’t help but feel that, given all the care and attention that has been lavished on producing that one tomato over the summer, its passing should have been marked with more ceremony, perhaps being paraded around the Quad first on a silver salver by liveried footmen in tabards singing Latin graces. Anyway, there it was, gone.
Talking of ceremony, I also discovered on Saturday that we have a new Archbishop of Canterbury. The new Archbishop of Canterbury said he was amazed to be given the job, and his first reaction on hearing the news was “Oh No”. Well, given his views on gay marriage and the inevitable irrelevant infighting over the issue that will now proceed to rive the Church apart and stop it doing what it actually should be doing, that made two of us.
Saturday evening marked the eve of Remembrance Day and we found ourselves somehow watching the choir of military wives singing in the Albert Hall. I asked Debbie if she would consider joining a choir to sing about how much she was missing me if I was posted overseas. She replied that given my vast bulk, no one would post me anywhere, let alone overseas, because they wouldn’t be able to afford the postage or find a big enough box. So that told me.
Primarily, of course, today is Remembrance Sunday, and it falls, this year, actually on 11th November. As each year goes by, though, I find myself becoming more and more conflicted over the ideas behind this event. On the one hand, obviously I want to remember people like my Great Uncle Harry, of the Royal Field Artillery, who I never knew, gassed at Ypres in 1917 or Deb’s relatives William Evans of the Suffolk Regiment, died of wounds in 1915, or Jack Ross DFC, lost in his Hurricane over the Irish Sea in January 1942
But it also seems to me that a new agenda has been subtly grafted on to the arrangements, a veneer of the same sort of compulsory patriotism that marred the Olympics. The subtle pressure that says, in effect, that commemorating the fallen on Remembrance Day now comes “bundled” with the assumption that you are also supporting “Our Troops” and you are therefore, ipso facto, behind the current operations in Afghanistan.
This is a “mission creep” too far, for me. While I regret the loss of life and admire their skill, professionalism and bravery, I do think in many ways our forces out there are just being used now as “professional targets” in an unwinnable war, to save the faces and the reputations of the politicians that put them in harm’s way in the first place, and who have the hypocritical gall to stand before the Cenotaph in Whitehall carrying wreaths.
I have never been particularly in favour of the Afghanistan war, the more so now it also involves indiscriminate loss of civilian life and drone attacks (increased tremendously during the Obama presidency). To do the job properly in Afghanistan would require massive resources and a garrison force in perpetuity, both of which the politicians (of all parties) know would be politically unpopular, indeed impossible, especially as it might involve increasing taxation to pay for something like that, in a time of austerity and defence cuts. So they send our troops into the valley of death in an unwinnable conflict, with shortages of equipment asking them to die in a vain attempt to impose “western values” on a country in the grip of violent medieval thugs who are quite happy to shoot a girl in the head just because she wants to go to school.
There is so much wrong with Afghanistan, and none of it can be solved with bullets and bombs. And these same politicians who ask our armed forces to carry out this mission impossible, when the soldiers and airmen come back, perhaps having lost a limb or having suffered other injuries, and they leave the service or are even, sometimes, made redundant, these same politicians leave it to charities to pick up the pieces, when people develop mental problems, suffer from stress, or even lose their livelihood and become homeless.
So no, I am afraid – I will wear my poppy, but I will wear it for my own reasons, and not because I am in favour of war in Afghanistan. In many ways, like Iraq, it was the wrong war, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and for all the wrong reasons. It is, in many ways, appropriate that poppies grow in Afghanistan, as they grew in Flanders almost a century ago, because our casualties there are being sacrificed in the same mindless way as the First World War soldiers were, and for similar vague hopes and aspirations. Lions led by donkeys, I am afraid.
I also tend to think, at this time of year, of my Dad and what his war experience would have been like. Physically, at any rate, he was lucky enough to come through the whole five years of struggle against Hitler unscathed, apart from the partial deafness (caused by the guns) which he suffered from for the remainder of his days. I think of what it must have been like for him, sitting up there on the cliffs at Fairlight with his ack-ack unit. Probably a bit like life in general, I suppose, long periods of relative inactivity and boredom, interspersed with a few seconds of blind panic, terror and danger.
I’ve actually done a certain amount of research around the subject, because I wanted to use the material in an as yet unfinished family history project, and there is actually a substantial body of stuff on the Hastings area in wartime, both official accounts, web sites compiled by amateur military historians and oral history and memoirs by people who were there at the time.
Although the pressure eased after the end of the Battle of Britain, when Hitler turned his attention eastwards to attack Russia, the south coast towns such as Hastings still remained very much in the danger zone for the remainder of the conflict.
A change of tactic occurred in March 1942 when fighter-bombers were modified to carry bombs. This resulted in what were called “tip-and-run” raids whereby, as the name suggests, the German fighter-bombers would sneak in fast and low, drop their bombs and then high-tail it back to France. The first tip-and-run raid on Hastings occurred on 17th May 1942 when four Messerschmidt 109s circled the town, machine-gunning the streets in the West Hill area. Twenty-eight year old Constance Ethel Torrance was killed when a bullet penetrated the window of her house, at 60 St George's Road. Formerly Constance Ethel Beale, she had been born in 1914 to Richard Beale and his wife Lydia, whose maiden name was Lydia Nice, and had married Jack Torrance in 1938.
It was on 17th October 1942 (which was also Granny Fenwick’s birthday – she would have been 55 that year) when Feldwebel Karl Hermann Niesel of Jagdgeschwader 26 set off in his Focke-Wulf 190 in a “tip and run” raid on Hastings. Sadly for Hermann, or “Uncle Hermann” as he was known by his family, he came to the attention of two Hawker Typhoons of No. 486 (New Zealand) Squadron. The following extract is from the combat report of P/O Thomas and Sgt Sames "A" Flight No.486 (NZ) Squadron (AIR50/160) and tells the brief, sad and unromantic story of his demise.
“P/O. G. G. Thomas (Yellow 1) and Sgt. A. N. Sames (Yellow 2) airborne 13.15 hours for Coastal Patrol Beachy Head - Dungeness. At 13.25 hours when flying East to West at 500 feet about half a mile inland they observed two FW 190s flying roughly NE over the sea at 20/30 feet and about one and a half miles ahead. Yellow 1 saw a bomb burst in the town[Hastings]. The enemy aircraft then turned port due South and out to sea where they split up, one flying SE at sea level and the other continuing South at about 20/30 feet followed by Yellow Section flying at 345/350 a.s.l. Yellow 1 opened fire at long range with several short bursts of cannon fire and noticed slashes in the sea short of the enemy aircraft which immediately started to weave.
Yellow Section closed to within 500 yards and enemy aircraft began a spiral weave. Yellow 1 opened fire again with several short bursts and observed strikes on the side of the fuselage. The enemy aircraft pulled up violently and then winged over to port and down to sea level right across Yellow 2's line of fire, then straightened out and climbed up slowly. Yellow 2 fired three more short bursts striking fuselage and engine.
A jet of flame burst from the starboard side of the engine, the hood was jettisoned and parts of the enemy aircraft fell away and it turned over and fell burning into the sea, disappearing immediately. In the meantime the other aircraft had escaped in the direction of France. Yellow Section returned to the English coast and on approaching Hastings at about 6/700 feet were fired upon by coastal guns without effect”
Yes, regarding the bit about the British coastal guns firing at their own planes, it was probably my Dad! He always used to tell me that they fired at it first, whatever it was, then looked it up afterwards.
Hermann Niesel was the youngest but one of seven children; he had five older sisters: Edith (1907), Johanna (1908), Herta (1910), Ruth (1911) and Irma (1912) and one younger brother Karlheinz (1920), who died 1922, two years old. Hermann Niesel was not married and had no children, he was betrothed to a girl called Hanni Kuhne. They intended to marry after the end of the war. Hanni was a Red Cross Sister during the hostilities.
Hermann’s progression in flying was probably typical of many young men in the Luftwaffe, learning at first with a glider on a gliding field near Hirschberg (now Jelenia Gora), and becoming a flight instructor for gliders by the beginning of 1934. Then he went into the Luftwaffe, and he was in the Spanish Civil War with the Condor Legion. After the war Silesia was given to Poland and the Niesels were relocated, like many more of the German population in Silesia.
I’ve given his story in some detail to show, I suppose, that, contrary to the cardboard cut-out “Squareheads” and “Huns” that filled the war films and comics of my childhood, he was a real person, and his loss in the English Channel, with no known grave, was no doubt mourned by other real people. True, he had just dropped a bomb on Hastings, and that also killed real people, just as we dropped bombs on Germany, because they had dropped them on us, and so on. Niesel’s attack hit Pevensey Road, Warrior Square, and St Columb’s Church, killing two civilians and wounding 16. And given the chance, no doubt he would have done to the pilots of those two Typhoons what they did to him. And meanwhile, down below on the cliffs, my Dad was busily trying to kill all of them, even the ones on his own side!
It just goes to point up the absurd tragedy of war. Here you have two people born within a year of each other, Constance Torrance and Hermann Niesel. You can almost imagine them growing up, falling in love; meanwhile, over the other side of the world, two young New Zealanders are growing up, learning to fly, and the chain of events, the skein of sequences, somehow contrives to bring them all to Hastings, 70 years ago, where Constance is struck one day by bullet fired through her window from a German plane on 17th May, and Hermann is brought down off the seafront by a stream of cannon shells on 17th October. Jack mourns for Constance and Hanni mourns for Hermann, and the people who knew and loved the civilians he killed mourn their dead, and you take all that pain and extrapolate it across all of the other losses and the mourning and you begin to question even the very basic premises that underlie it all, even though, admittedly the Second World War was, from our point of view, the nearest thing to a “just” war that we have experienced, because it was about more than merely curbing Germany’s territorial intentions, it was about stopping Hitler’s insane one-man mission to enslave the planet. But even so the waste, the waste…
The military theme continues with today’s saint, St Martin of Tours, or “Martinmas”. His feast day marked the time when the harvest was complete (well we did pick the only ripe tomato) and hiring fairs were held so that agricultural labourers could seek new posts for the following year.
St. Martin of Tours started out as a Roman soldier. He was baptized as an adult and became a monk. It is understood that he was a kind man who led a quiet and simple life. The most famous legend of his life is that he once cut his cloak in half to share with a beggar during a snowstorm, to save the beggar from dying of the cold. That night he dreamed that Jesus himself was wearing the piece of cloak he had given away. Martin heard Jesus say to the angels: "Here is Martin, the Roman soldier who is not baptised; he has clothed me."
From the late 4th century to the late Middle Ages, much of Europe, including the UK, engaged in a period of fasting beginning on the day after St. Martin's Day lasting for 40 days, and called "Quadragesima Sancti Martini", or "the forty days of St. Martin." On St. Martin's eve, people ate and drank very heartily for the last time before they started to fast. This period of fasting was later shortened and became what we now call “Advent”.
There are many weird and wacky customs associated with St Martin, including, historically, sacrificing cockerels in Ireland. Also in Ireland, no wheel of any kind was to turn on St. Martin's Day, because Martin was thrown into a mill stream and killed by the wheel and so it was judged to be not right to turn any kind of wheel on that day.
In some parts of the Germany, Netherlands and Belgium, children make their own lantern and go door to door with the lantern, and sing St. Martin songs, in exchange for sweets, a follow—on from the “Souling” for soul-cakes we talked about last week.
St Martin is also credited with a prominent role in spreading wine-making throughout the Touraine region and facilitating the planting of many vines. The Greek myth that Aristaeus first discovered the concept of pruning the vines after watching a goat eat some of the foliage has been somehow transferred to Martin. Martin is also credited with introducing the Chenin Blanc grape varietal, from which most of the white wine of western Touraine and Anjou is made. And very nice it is, too; before it became too expensive to buy, Touraine was one of my favourites.
Because of this element of being thankful for the fruits of the earth, and its association with the end of harvest and preparations for winter, St. Martin's Feast is much like the American Thanksgiving (celebrated on the 4th Thursday in November) a celebration of the earth's bounty. Because it also comes before the penitential season of Advent, it is seen as a mini "carne vale", with all the attendant feasting and bonfires. As at Michaelmas on 29 September, goose is eaten in most places (the goose is a symbol for St. Martin himself. It is said that as he was hiding from the people who wanted to make him Bishop, a honking goose gave away his hiding spot). I can only assume the same method was employed when picking the new Archbishop of Canterbury.
In many countries, including Germany, Martinmas celebrations begin at the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of this eleventh day of the eleventh month. Bonfires are built, and children carry lanterns in the streets after dark, singing songs for which they are rewarded with candy. Many of these associations are obviously graftings of pre-Christian pagan ceremonies or events, and the result is a curious mixture now, where the pagans have surrendered the Martinmas Bonfires to the Christians, who have in turn rendered them up to Guy Fawkes, and the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month has now been appropriated as the formula for the Armistice.
In some regions of Germany, the traditional sweet of Martinmas is "Martinshörnchen", a pastry shaped in the form of a croissant, which recalls both the hooves of St. Martin's horse and, by being the half of a pretzel, the division of his cloak with the beggar. Another widespread custom in Germany is bonfires on St. Martin's eve, called "Martinsfeuer." In recent years, the processions that accompany those fires have been spread over almost a fortnight before Martinmas, but previously, the Rhine River valley, for example, would be lined with fires on the eve of Martinamas.
Sadly, that is not the only time the Rhine Valley has been lined with fires, there were quite a few, less happy occasions between 1939 and 1945 when it was ablaze from end – see also under Coventry, Rotterdam, Hull, the East End of London, Hamburg, and, finally, Dresden. I wonder whether Hermann Niesel ever ate Martinshornschen, or watched Martinsfeuer.
So, anyway, today I have been mostly meditating on the futility of war, which ought to be a no-brainer. Well it is a no-brainer, all meditation is. Am I against war? When you look at the absurdities of it, the random evil of it, yes, as a concept, I conclude I am, apart from, perhaps, the need to stop another Hitler or to defend our country against unprovoked aggression, but for me, the latter stops at the White Cliffs of Dover, and doesn’t extend to misguided foreign adventurism that comes with a heavy price tag.
Maybe St Martin, paring off half of his cloak and giving it to a frozen beggar, could be a paradigm for a new kind of armed forces, more emergency services than armed services. God knows, with all the freak weather happening all over the world, there is a need for it. War is a failure of the political process, and the people who are stopping us beating the swords into ploughshares and stopping us clothing the beggars and feeding the hungry are not the soldiers. By and large, our soldiers, sailors and airmen did, and continue to do, their best. They’ve proved, by and large, to be as humane as possible in Afghanistan when dealing with wounded opponents or allies, at a terrible cost sometimes, when the injured ally turns out to be not injured at all, and not an ally.
I don’t begrudge the soldiers, sailors and airmen their Remembrance Day, and I don’t blame them. I blame the politicians.
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