Generation which won a deadly war – then built a lasting peace

Second World War veterans at the National Memorial Arboretum, during an event hosted by the Royal British Legion to mark the 80th anniversary of VE Day (Picture: Jacob King/PA Wire)

My mother was born only months before we went to war with Germany, so she doesn’t remember much, but she told me once about sleeping in the bomb shelter. The adults hid their fear under smiles and songs, and presented her with a very rare treat – a bar of chocolate. It was tucked under her pillow, and she was told she could have some if she heard the bombers. Being a wee girl who hadn’t had that much chocolate at all you bet she listened closely for the Luftwaffe.

My dad was nine when the war started. He sat on Dunoon pier in 1943 and watched RMS Queen Mary, the Gray Ghost herself, silently slide past. She had just hurtled across the Atlantic at breakneck speed, throwing wild zigzags to keep the U-Boats at bay. She had to. She was carrying 16,683 people. Later he saw the distinctly queasy GIs marching past. He said if you shouted “Any gum, chum?” you might get lucky and score a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint.

We lost dad too soon to hear more of his wartime childhood. All his life, though, he remained fascinated by the war. All our grownups were. They call us the Boomer Generation, the kids born to the parents who actually faced the war, either directly or through family. It was an entire generation with PTSD. Our childhoods were saturated by a conflict they were still processing.

The telly was awash with programmes like Colditz, Family at War and Dad’s Army. You couldn’t escape at the cinema. The Longest Day, The Colditz Story (yes, again) and A Bridge Too Far. Sometimes the screens converged. No Christmas Day was complete without The Great Escape, because nothing says festive fun more than a film that ends with a massacre. Well, we’ll always have Steve MacQueen on his motorcycle.

We read Commando comics, played war games, and our youth organisations reeked of cordite. The Boys Brigade were decked out like First World War subalterns and the Scouts looked like the sort of chaps who could reliably light a fire, spot a plane and/or lift a siege.

The Girl Guides were equally gung-ho. In my short Guiding career I learned much, mainly that uniforms were not my thing, I had problems with authority and I was no good at sewing badges on. I did, however, learn semaphore. Apparently, we were to create a vital communications resource in the event of the Third World War. Not sure just what me and pair of wee flags would signal across the post-nuclear apocalyptic landscape.

We were told to “eat up” by mums who knew what rationing looked like, and had sweeties lavished on us by grans who remembered when sugar was scarce. No wonder mad weightloss regimes ruled in the 70s. Cabbage Soup diet, anyone? Funnily enough, that generation, the ones who actually faced the bombs and the fear of war, rebuilt Europe with Germany as an ally. That tough, resilient generation created a welfare state, improved our schools, our housing and built the magnificent NHS. Yes, they did buy us toy guns and Airfix spitfires for Christmas, but they won a deadly war and built a powerful peace. Thank you.