In the den, Edith and I listened to the radio each night, hanging on every word of the BBC News report. George was in the Royal Air Force, and she was worried to death about him, though she tried quite hard to hide it.
In May of 1940, Germany launched its offensive to the west. They took the Low Countries first. The Netherlands and Belgium fell quickly, providing the German army a route around the Maginot Line. They broke through in the Ardennes, separating the French and British armies. I knew my father had been deployed, but I didn’t know where. I went cold when I heard that the Third Infantry had been one of the divisions evacuated at Dunkirk.
A letter arrived from my father two weeks later. I cried in my room that night—because he was alive. Somewhere deep inside, I had convinced myself that he was dead, and that I was okay with it.
Four months later, in early September, a year after I left London, the Luftwaffe began their air raids on the city. Starting on September 7th of 1940, they bombed London 56 out of the following 57 days. The attacks were relentless. And deadly. The bombings killed over forty thousand people, injured at least forty thousand more, and destroyed over a million homes. My mother was in one of those homes, and she was one of the forty thousand who lost her life.
I had been so concerned about my father’s safety that her death caught me completely by surprise. I was filled with both hatred and sadness. At only six years old, the emotions overwhelmed me. I worried for my father, and then I tried not to care. But that was a lie I told myself.
On D-Day, the Third Infantry was the first to land at Sword Beach as part of the invasion of Normandy. I feared the worst when I heard that, but a letter arrived from my father three weeks later. Those letters continued to come for six months. I was hopeful. That was my mistake. The news that he had been killed in December destroyed whatever was left of my young heart. I was officially an orphan.
George returned home the following month. He had lost a leg and the better part of an arm, and the physical wounds were only half of his struggle. I helped Edith as best I could, but like me, she was overwhelmed.
I knew what was coming next, and I didn’t blame her.
The orphanage in London was filled with other children who had lost their families in the war and had nowhere else to go. I shared a small room with three other boys. The youngest, Edgar Mayweather, was six. I was the oldest at eleven, and there were two brothers staying with us. Orville Hughes was nine, and his younger brother, Alistair, was seven.
The orphanage was in a run-down hotel on the outskirts of London; it had barely survived the bombings. Our days consisted of school and chores that were done under the threat of bodily punishment. We helped repair the old hotel, too. On the whole, things could have been a lot worse. We were fed, educated, and looked after. The hard work, at least for me, took my mind off what had happened and gave me a sense of purpose. Perhaps the only thing we didn’t have was love.
No matter how much they hid it, every kid in the orphanage was out of sorts. Growing up with tragedy changes a person, trains them to expect still more tragedy around every corner. It’s the mind’s way of protecting you; and it is a very powerful defense. At night, many children cried endlessly in the dark. Some hid under their beds. Many were spooked at every loud sound. I didn’t blame them. It was sort of like being in prison, in a way—and just like in a prison, none of us asked the other orphans questions about what they were in for. We’d seen enough of the war; no one wanted to talk about it.
We all handled it in our own way. Many of the kids fought. They’d fight you for a cross word or even the wrong look. They were mad about life and what had happened, and would take it out on anyone and anything. Though Orville was two years younger than me, he was bigger and as tough as a bucket of nails. I never saw him start a fight, but he ended more than his share. His fists and elbows saved me many broken bones and black eyes. He guarded his younger brother Alistair like the queen’s jewels. Me and Edgar too. Alistair was pretty tough himself, but less eager to fight; he was quiet, always had his nose in a book.
Turnover was high; kids were always being brought in or taken out. We knew some were moved to other orphanages as they opened. Most, however, were placed with families. I got another taste of what I’d seen during the evacuations: parents coming through, inspecting the kids, making their decisions—and then leaving the rest of us to wash up, comb our hair, and put on our best set of clothes for the next audition. Rejection eats at a person like a worm winding its way through an apple: sooner or later it reaches the core, and you become completely rotten.
I never got there, but I saw a lot of kids who did.
After my parents died, I told myself I didn’t care what happened to me. But I did. I didn’t want to grow up in an orphanage, with friends who came and went like ships in the night. I wanted a mother and a father and a home that only we lived in. I wasn’t the only one.