Despite growing up in the 1970s, The Second World War loomed large in my childhood. Probably due to a mixture of factors but mainly because the children who had grown up in its shadow were now the adults in charge. Television output seemed mainly to consist of afternoon repeats of black and white acts of heroism such as The Longest Day, The Dambusters and Ice Cold In Alex. their influence on the seemingly endless free time we had back then cannot be underestimated. My parents ran a village pub in Suffolk and so, between the hours of 11 and 3 and then from 6 until bedtime, my brother and I were free to do as we pleased. Activities usually centred on tree climbing, den building and war games. We had access to a formidable arsenal of toy weaponry and would take great delight during these unsupervised hours in pretending to massacre the pub’s clientele. Sporting our plastic tin helmets and armed with authentic looking cap guns we imagined ourselves comic strip heroes from Victor or Commando. The pillbox left over from Second World War in the paddock behind the beer garden lent some authenticity to the proceedings. For a time I was convinced my father had won the war all on his own. I have a distinct memory of my five year old self looking up at Dad and visualizing him engaging in brutal hand to hand combat with Adolf Hitler against the background of a bombed out city, eventually dispatching the Nazi leader with a Gurkha knife. In reality my father was eleven years old at the time of Hitler’s suicide and living in Colchester while his father remained in London.
I’d always wondered what my lovely grandad, Bill Stewart, did during the war. I know what his father Bob was up to – passing secrets to the Soviets. There were some rumours that in the years before Germany invaded Poland that Bill had helped smuggle people out of mainland Europe to safety but unfortunately I’ve so far not been able to find any concrete evidence to support this. I used to wonder why he had never joined up when everyone else around me seemed to have a grandparent in the Army, Navy or Air Force. This was answered a couple of years ago when I read his files at the National Archives in Kew. He’d been prevented from joining up due to his communist views and his close links to the Soviet Embassy. It was Civil Defence for Comrade Stewart. I’m quite interested in British communists’ experience of 1939-1945 and it’s something I might return to later. In the meantime here’s some images showing my grandad’s involvement in the Home Front.
Here’s the note I found in Grandad’s MI5 file in the National Archives suggesting that his call up was blocked due to his links to the Soviet Embassy.
A letter from grandad’s old boss the Soviet Ambassador Ivan Maisky. The family were clearly glad that the Red Army was now an ally!
Bill Stewart is the figure second left in the dark suit holding the pole while defending Tottenham Lido from the enemy.
I love this photograph too. Especially the sign ‘Bathers in Swimming Costume NOT SERVED in Restaurant.’ Grandad was a very dapper man and despite his his belief in Marxist-Leninist revolution clearly had standards.
On a related note I think this extract from Matthew Sweet’s The West End Front is interesting – British communists led by Phil Piratin forcing their way into The Savoy’s as air raid shelter provision was inadequate. As my great grandad Bob wrote, “Everything you get must be fought for.”
Alan Stewart.
Breaking the Fetters 