11.28am, SMITH SQUARE, WESTMINSTER
Home Office civil servant Peter Allen and his wife have just driven up to Westminster to attend morning service when they hear an air-raid warning. An air-raid warden, ‘suddenly conscious of his grave new responsibilities’, ushers the Allens, dutifully clutching their gas masks, into a nearby office block to take shelter. From an upstairs window they can see a barrage balloon going up and then down beyond the roof of Westminster Abbey, ‘rather like a slow moving and inverted yo-yo’. Although he realises that German bombers may very well be on their way, Allen experiences a feeling of relief rather than apprehension. The ‘long preliminaries’ are over at last, and Britain is now engaged ‘in a clear-cut contest in which the end, however distant that might be, would surely result in the destruction of the evil regime which held the world in jeopardy’.
11.28am, BRIXTON, SOUTH LONDON
Britain’s most popular newspaper columnist Godfrey Winn of the Sunday Express is in Brixton, intending to buy a motorcycle. He hopes that by having one, with war coming and petrol rationing inevitable, he will still be able to ‘stay mobile’. He is trying out the machine when he hears the ‘first sound of that wailing of the banshee’. Winn, startled and nervous, looks up at the sky, half expecting it to be black with enemy bombers. He promptly falls off straight into the gutter.
11.28am, LONDON
Twenty-six-year-old schoolteacher Mary Custance is sitting with her elderly headmistress in the school’s small kitchen-cum-staffroom. They are the only two teachers on the staff, and have been told to report to school each day of the crisis to await further orders. Mary’s headmistress ‘is in great distress of mind about the possibility of war’ and feels that she cannot face the anxiety. Just as she is unburdening herself to Mary, the school caretaker/cleaner joins them. She tells the two teachers that war has just been declared. No sooner are the words out of her mouth than the sirens begin to sound. Mary’s immediate thought is that they are going to die. But they hurry over to the air-raid shelters, built during the last war, in a nearby works. Like so many others in London today, Mary’s mind has been ‘influenced by science fiction and H.G. Wells’s The Shape of Things to Come’. She imagines ‘that everything and everybody will have disappeared into bomb-strewn rubble when they finally emerge.’ But then the ‘All Clear’ sounds, and Mary and her companions emerge into an unscathed London.
11.30am, ‘LA CROE’, CôTE D’AZUR
At his villa in the south of France, Britain’s former king, Edward VIII, now Duke of Windsor, is impatiently waiting to hear from London. He is anxious to learn how he can best serve his country, just as he had promised he would do in his Abdication speech almost three years ago. The Duke served throughout the Great War. Because of his status he was denied frontline service, but he has always keenly identified with ex-servicemen and they with him. In May this year, he broadcast an eloquent plea for peace and understanding from the former battlefield of Verdun.
And just a few days ago, on 29 August, as ‘a citizen of the world’, he sent a telegram to Hitler, urging him not to plunge the world into war. Now, hearing nothing from London, the Duke and Duchess decide to go for a swim. But just as they are setting off, a servant hurries after them. Sir Eric Phipps, the British ambassador in Paris, is on the telephone, urgently wanting to speak with the Duke. The Duke now hurries back to the house. He is back in a few minutes, rejoins the Duchess and announces, ‘Great Britain has just declared war on Germany, and I’m afraid in the end this may open the way for world Communism.’ He then dives into the pool.
11.30am, FOREIGN MINISTRY, QUAI D’ORSAY, PARIS
The ’phone rings on Georges Bonnet’s desk. It is Daladier telephoning from the Ministry of National Defence. He tells Bonnet that the Army Chief of General Staff General Colson has agreed to advance the opening of hostilities by twelve hours to five o’clock this afternoon. Bonnet now has to telephone Ambassador Coulondre in Berlin with fresh instructions.
11.30am, TEDDINGTON
‘Sirens went off at 11.30. Guns going off. All Clear 11.55.’ (Helena Mott)
11.30am (12.30pm), WARSAW
The news has broken that Britain has declared war on Germany. Crowds are swarming out of church after Mass and emptying the city’s cafés. They make their way up Nowy Swiat, Warsaw’s Piccadilly, towards the British Embassy. The crowds are delirious, singing their own versions of ‘God Save the King’ and ‘Tipperary’ as they snatch up one-sheet special editions of the papers that carry blazing headlines announcing Britain’s declaration of war. Union Jacks appear and a group of students carry a huge banner emblazoned with the slogan ‘Cheers for England!’ When the embassy is reached, crowds surge into the shabby little court where grey plaster is peeling off the walls. Boys and young men clamber up the walls and drainpipes and shout for Britain and for France. Ambassador Sir Howard Kennard is not the most demonstrative of men, but he allows himself to appear on the balcony to acknowledge the cheering crowds. Military attaché Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Sword also appears on the balcony several times and raises a glass of champagne to toast the assembled crowd, which now seems to stretch miles down Nowy Swiat.
Flowers are thrown at embassy staff, and anyone British, and also a few Americans, are being slapped on the backs and their hands pumped by enthusiastic Poles, supremely happy that their country is now no longer alone. Sir Howard is obliged to show himself time and time again on the balcony. Each time he appears he is greeted with prolonged cheering and shouts of ‘Long live Britain!’ and ‘Long live the fight for liberty!’
Suddenly, there is a fresh outburst of cheering as Foreign Minister Colonel Beck arrives. He has come to convey his personal thanks to Britain’s ambassador. The Foreign Minister’s car can barely negotiate its way through the dense crowds. For ten minutes Beck and Sir Howard have to salute each other across a sea of upturned faces, until the Colonel finally manages to enter the embassy building. Beck is offered a drink. But he refuses, saying in French, ‘Non, le moment est trop triste pour ma patrie.’ (‘No, this is too sad a moment for my country.’) But he and Kennard appear on the balcony together and shake hands. This sets off the ecstatic crowds again. Sir Howard, in Polish, tells the crowd, ‘Long live Poland. We will fight side by side against aggression and injustice.’ A great roar of approval greets the phlegmatic diplomat’s words. Colonel Beck now tells his fellow countrymen, ‘Britain and Poland have locked hands in a fight for freedom and justice. Britain will not be disappointed in Poland and Poland will not be disappointed in Britain.’
11.30am (6.30pm), HOLLYWOOD
After a decidedly alcoholic night at the Balboa Yacht Club, David Niven and fellow actor Robert Coote are sleeping it off on their small sloop, the Huralu. They are due to join other members of Hollywood’s British colony, including Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, on Douglas Fairbanks Jr’s yacht. Niven and Coote awake to hear a man banging on the side of their boat. He asks them, ‘You guys English?’
Well and truly hung over, the two actors reply, ‘Yes’.
‘Well, lotsa luck – you’ve just declared war on Germany,’ he tells them.
‘Police on bicycles ride up from the police station down the road . . . wearing “Take Cover” placards on chest and back and shout “Take cover”, and “Take cover” is echoed by people in cafés and streets.’ The scene in Whitehall, 11.30am, 3 September 1939.
Not speaking a word to each other, Niven and Coote go below and fill two tea cups with warm gin.
11.42am, HMS WALKER, ST GEORGE’S CHANNEL
Second Officer of the Watch John Adams is given the Admiralty signal, sent out at 11.17am, to ‘commence hostilities at once with Germany’. Adams senses the feeling of immense relief that goes round the bridge of the destroyer at the news. He and the others are all pleased that the decision has at last been made. Now help can be sent to the Poles.
11.45am, OLYMPIA EXHIBITION HALL, LONDON
Eugen Spier and his fellow internees are told by a German
-speaking British officer that Britain has been at war with Germany since 11.00am. He tells them that they must elect a camp leader who will act as their spokesman. ‘Putzi’ Hanfstaengl tries to engineer the unanimous election of a known Nazi to the post. He tells his fellow internees, ‘Comrades, we want to show these Englishmen that we are well-disciplined Germans. We want, above all, to keep order and to display the strictest discipline like true German soldiers on the parade ground.’ But Spier steps forward and manages to thwart Hanfstaengl’s ploy. He suggests that they hold a truly democratic election with an alternate candidate. Spier puts forward Dr Weiss as that candidate. The vote takes place and, much to the disgust of the Nazi internees, Weiss duly wins the election.
11.45am, LIVERPOOL TO LEEDS TRAIN
Ninette de Valois and the Sadler’s Wells Ballet Company are travelling from Liverpool to Leeds. En route they pass through a small village station without stopping, but see stuck up on the platform a placard which reads, ‘WAR DECLARED.’ On reaching Leeds, the Company find that the theatre is closed by Government order, and so they now have to return to London.
11.45pm, PARIS
Daily Express staff reporter Geoffrey Cox is making his way by taxi to the Express offices in the Rue du Louvre. Cox has already heard that Britain has declared war from an American colleague, Edwin Hartrich. Now he tells his taxi driver of the French ultimatum. The driver reacts with fury. He pours out a stream of obscenities and oaths against Hitler and the Nazis. In his terrible rage, the driving has now become so erratic that Cox has to plead with him, ‘Take it easy. There are eighty million Germans trying to kill us now. There’s no need for you to do the job for them.’
11.48am, RAF STATION WYTON
Blenheim bomber N6215 of No. 139 Squadron takes off on the Royal Air Force’s first operation of the war. The two-engine bomber is piloted by Flying Officer Andrew McPherson and crewed by an air gunner, Corporal Vincent Arrowsmith, together with an observer from the Royal Navy, Commander Thompson. Its mission is to make a reconnaissance of the German naval base at Wilhelmshaven. This will prepare the way for a later bombing raid. Though reluctant to order attacks on German land targets for fear of killing civilians, the Government are agreed that the German fleet is a legitimate target. Even so there are still a number of provisos in place. The ships may only be attacked if on the high seas, or in the open waters of their bases, but definitely not while still in dockyards.
11.50am, PARLIAMENT SQUARE, WHITEHALL
A member of the Mass Observation organisation joins a group of working-class men in Parliament Square to hear what they have to say about the air-raid warning. One remarks, ‘They didn’t lose any time attacking.’ To which another replies, ‘Course he didn’t – he meant it all along.’ A third member of the group adds, ‘I wonder how they got on in Paris.’ Surprised at this mention of France, the Mass Observer asks if the French have been attacked. ‘Yes,’ replies the first speaker, ‘so’ve we. They turned ’em back off Southend.’ The second speaker ‘confirms’ this: ‘That’s right, isn’t it? Perhaps we’ve already bombed Berlin – no one knows. We’re too much for ’em. We’ll split Berlin so they won’t know it again.’
11.52am, HMS WALPOLE, ST GEORGE’S CHANNEL
HMS Walker’s sister ship gets a good ASDIC contact, and carries out the Royal Navy’s first depth-charge attack of the war against a suspected U-boat. But the attack brings not a U-boat to the surface but a shoal of dead fish. From the bridge of HMS Walker, Sub-Lieutenant John Adams sees the fish. Their bladders have been forced through their mouths from the shock of the explosions.
12.00pm, HMS SUFFOLK, PORTSMOUTH
Hugo Bracken and other members of the ship’s company wearing beards are ordered to shave them off in order that their gas masks will fit properly.
12.00pm, TAKELEY
London buses full of child evacuees from Wood Green pull up on their way to Felstead. Myra Charlton watches as the children, ‘hundreds of rather gay little things’, swarm to the nearest lavatory.
12.00pm, GERMAN EMBASSY, CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE
Robert Dunbar and Dr Kordt have reached an impasse over who should or should not receive diplomatic status and protection from among London’s German colony. They decide to call a halt and Dunbar prepares to return to the Foreign Office. As he leaves he wishes Kordt ‘goodbye’, but remembers just in time not to add ‘good luck’. The Chargé d’Affaires likewise wishes the British diplomat a plain ‘goodbye’. Dunbar retraces his steps back to his office. There he sets about working on the details of the German diplomats’ departure from London.
12.00pm, ‘VILLA VOLPONE’, SOUTH HAMPSTEAD
James Agate hears the ‘All Clear’ sound and emerges from his ‘dugout’, as he calls his air-raid shelter. Curious, he goes out into the street and sees a man look at his watch. It is now midday and the man joyfully exclaims, ‘They’re open!’
12.00pm, SS ATHENIA, ATLANTIC OCEAN
Captain Cook orders Chief Officer Barnet Copland and Chief Purser Wotherspoon to draw up a notice to tell the passengers that war has been declared. ‘The important thing, of course,’ Cook tells the two men, ‘is not to alarm the passengers. Try to avoid discussing the matter with them; but if you have to, be reassuring. Make certain they understand that our preparations are precautionary.’
12.00pm, HOUSE OF COMMONS
The House is crowded. There has not been a Sunday sitting since 30 January 1820, when King George IV came to the throne on the death of his father George III. As usual, there is the Speaker’s procession and the ritual of prayers. To MP Beverley Baxter they appear to give a secure sense of permanence to a world that seems already collapsing. He too notices a complete absence of emotion. Members know that they are witnessing a great historic scene and yet the element of drama is missing completely. Because everybody has heard the Prime Minister’s broadcast, Baxter cannot get over the feeling that he and his fellow MPs are like mummers performing in a play which the audience have already seen. But already a subtle change has taken place in the appearance of the Commons. About half a dozen members are now in uniform. One young MP, booted and spurred, is already wearing the badges of rank of a colonel, while another is in Royal Air Force blue. An older MP is wearing Other Ranks uniform with a single lance-corporal’s stripe on each sleeve.
Those in the gallery are equally devoid of emotion. The ambassadors give the appearance of ‘a board of directors attending the liquidation of a business that once had promised well’. French ambassador Charles Corbin is in his usual place, ‘his fine, pale face is utterly impassive, his delicate hands are always still,’ Baxter notes. Next to Corbin is Poland’s representative to the Court of St James, grim-faced Count Edward Raczynski, who is clearly showing the effects of the enormous pressures that have been on him over the last few days. Near him is the immensely popular American ambassador Joseph Kennedy. Kennedy too is not looking his usual ebullient self. Even more than Racyznski’s, Baxter thinks that Kennedy’s face is showing the marks of suffering. The MP hears a report that the ambassador has just now been to see Chamberlain at Number 10. Both men broke down and wept unashamedly. For today’s historic Sunday sitting, Kennedy has brought his wife Rose with him, together with their two eldest sons, Joe Jr and twenty-two-year-old Jack. Harvard student Jack senses today ‘a feeling of grim determination among the Government and the people’.
‘You can imagine what a bitter blow it is to me that all my long struggle to win peace has failed.’ Neville Chamberlain, accompanied by his Parliamentary Private Secretary, Lord Dunglass (later Sir Alec Douglas-Home), leaves 10 Downing Street for the midday sitting of the House of Commons.
The Duke of Alba, representing Franco’s Spain, is also in the diplomatic gallery, and so too, much to the surprise and disgust of many, is Stalin’s ambassador, Ivan Maisky, ‘smiling his Cheshirecat smile’. Baxter reflects that the ambassador, like his country’s reputation, has shrunk. For a few brief months this year, ‘While the flirtation of Russia and the
Allies had been on, Maisky had experienced something of the exhilaration of Cinderella. He had been taken from the kitchen to the ball. Flattery had been poured upon him and Russia praised as a civilizing influence . . . now he was an outcast again . . . Russia had sold the pass, and Russia’s ambassador reverted to his permanent position of diplomatic outsider.’
The King’s younger brothers, the Dukes of Gloucester and Kent are also sitting in the gallery directly behind the clock. Like the diplomats, their faces are earnest but impassive as they look down on the Commons waiting for the Prime Minister to appear. Making his way to the chamber, David Lloyd George, Britain’s victorious First World War leader, tells a lobby correspondent in a cheerful voice, ‘There’s nothing new in all this to me. I’ve been through it all before.’
Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax, with his Private Secretary Oliver Harvey and followed by his Under-Secretary R.A. Butler, leaving the Foreign Office, 3 September 1939. Harvey recorded in his diary, ‘Halifax and I then walked across to the House of Lords where Halifax announced a state of war with Germany.’
12.00pm, DAILY EXPRESS BUILDING: FLEET STREET
Editor Christiansen’s phone rings. It’s Parliamentary Lobby correspond ent William Barkley on the line. He’s at the Palace of Westminster and has just seen how the ‘Mother of Parliaments’ has reacted to the first air-raid warning. Barkley tells Christiansen that it’s all been a great joke: ‘Chris, you should have seen all the MPs squashed together in the terrace corridor. If anything had happened, my dear, we’d all have been crushed to death or drowned in the Thames.’ Christiansen, rather exasperated, asks, ‘Go on, Willie, where’s the joke in that?’
‘Well,’ Willie replies, ‘it suddenly occurred to me that the whole thing must be a false alarm organised by Neville Chamberlain.’
The Day We Went to War Page 18