Donn French: ‘The people who say they weren’t frightened are liars.’ Photograph: Zed Nelson for the Guardian
Donn French, 87
I was 15, but I said I was 18 because I wanted to join the service. I walked out the door and there was an old marine sergeant. He said, “You look a bit crestfallen, lad,” and I said, “The lieutenant-commander told me to come back later when I’m older.” He looked at his watch and said, “Well, if you go and walk around the block, he’ll be gone to lunch. I shall be in charge, it’ll be later and you’ll be older.”
And that’s what I did – but I went through the wrong door and joined the merchant navy instead of the Royal Navy. We weren’t armed. In 1944, I transferred to the Royal Navy, and I stayed until 1956.
I was in the engine room. It was hot and noisy – that’s why I’m deaf in both ears. We made our own drinking water out of sea water, in an evaporator. It tasted fine but it took all the enamel off your teeth, because it was just pure water – it’s what they put in car batteries now.
In my last couple of years in the navy, I met my wife. She worked in an office, but she wouldn’t tell me what sort. I came home from work one evening in 1976 and on the mantelpiece was a brown envelope. She said, “That’s where I used to work.” It was Bletchley Park. She was a codebreaker. She didn’t tell me for 21 years, until she was released from the Official Secrets Act.
For two or three years after I first got demobbed, I don’t think I would have minded whether I lived or died. But through my wife I settled down, and I’ve got three daughters, which gave me something to live for.
The people who say they weren’t frightened are liars. But the thing I get upset about now is the friends I lost. They are the people who deserve medals. I wanted to do what I thought was my bit, and whether it’s been a good thing or a bad thing, I still don’t know.
Joan De-Vall, 89
Joan De-Vall was a height-finder on an anti-aircraft battery and worked in fashion after the war. Photograph: Zed Nelson for the Guardian
I was a height-finder and predictor operator on an anti-aircraft battery. As the enemy planes flew in, I would check the height they were flying. It was up to us to get the guns into the right position to fire.
On our gun site, each woman had to go for monthly FFI inspections, which means “free from infection”. The medical officer would say, “Have you been a good girl?” and you’d say, “Yes, sir,” and they’d say, “Well, we’ll soon find out.” As for the men, they put bromide in their tea to keep them good. At breakfast there would be two queues, the men down one side, the ladies down the other, and you always knew when one of the fellows was going home on leave because he’d say, “Give us a cup of your tea.” Because we didn’t have bromide in ours.
After the war, I went into ladies’ fashion. On the gun site, we were issued with three pairs of pants, three pairs of khaki directory knickers, a uniform and boots. The knickers were abominable because the elastic came down to our knees, so we used to cut the legs, making them into semi-French knickers, and just keep one pair for inspection. After we were demobbed and got married, we’d had so little for so long that we’d go home feeling like we’d won the pools just because we’d bought an ironing board or saucers.
By the time they declared victory, I was in Greenford, west London. I was in the Nissen hut, and a young woman came in and said, “It’s all over!” We went to the West End and had a bit of fun – I don’t think many people remember an awful lot about the rest of the day. People were dancing in the streets and having a drink; everybody was absolutely delighted.
The man who would later become my husband was on a minesweeper. We’d known one another since we were 16, and we met up again after the war. I lost him in 2002. We had 54 wonderful years together.
Patrick Ready, 90
Patrick Ready was in the Marines and went to Hong Kong to take the surrender of the Japanese. Photograph: Zed Nelson for the Guardian
I fought in the Marines. On D-day there were five of us together, and we got mortar attacked. Two of us were lucky, the other three got killed. I got a big gash on my head and leg.
We went to Hong Kong to take the surrender of the Japanese. When we opened a camp to release some Australian prisoners, they went mad. They were grabbing our rifles and going round trying to shoot the Japanese. They were like matchsticks.
On VE Day, I was in India, outside Pune. We were training for another raid, but they gave us a day off to have a drink. We were issued with one pint of Whitbread’s beer each.
My wife wouldn’t marry me while I was in the service. I came out and went to work with my brother as a long-distance lorry driver. She said, “I waited 10 years for you, and now you’ve got a job that means I don’t see you.” My brother-in-law worked for the Bank of America. We were having a drink and he said, “The bank are looking for a private security man, would you be interested?” And my wife said, “Yes, he would!” I got the job and stayed there for 30 years. My wife lost her first child in 1956, and they told us she wouldn’t be able to have any more children; so we adopted a boy, Peter, in 1965.
In the family, we had about nine servicemen – guardsmen, navy. When we get together and chat, we only talk about the good times.
Eric Drube, 91
Eric Drube worked on a minesweeper. Photograph: Zed Nelson for the Guardian
I was a minesweeper. It’s dangerous. On D-day we ran into a great big minefield, mines like big dishes. One plate mine alone could sink a ship. Prisoners of war were put in factories to make them.
There were so many mines in the water, it’s a wonder we never got blown to bits. Every morning you woke up to find lives lost somewhere in the water. I wasn’t frightened, but it affected some people. We were only 19.
When we were anchored in the Channel, we used to see the rockets going up in the middle of the night over London and Portsmouth.
When the war finished, the minesweepers still had to carry on. Some were given leave to go to London to celebrate, but I was on duty on the boat, so I didn’t get the chance. We were sent to the Irish Sea: the minefields there were colossal. I was due to be demobbed in 1945, but I was still minesweeping in Ireland in 1946. They’re still bringing up mines today – there are fishermen out there wondering what’s pulling on their nets – great big thousand-pounders! And they could still blow up.
Dorothy Runnicles, 90
After serving as a Wren, Dorothy Runnicles became an academic and joined the Peace Pledge Union. Photograph: Zed Nelson for the Guardian
I came out of the war appalled by the slaughter. I lost friends, and I lost my first boyfriend when I was 19. I was in the Royal Naval Air Service, a petty officer Wren. We serviced the planes, and I was a mechanic. At the age of 19, I was ticking the box saying, “This plane is fit to fly.” It was a huge responsibility.
On VE Day I was 20, and I was up in the north of Scotland on a Royal Naval Air Station called HMS Fearn, run almost entirely by women. We had to take the place of men who went off to war. We had a chief officer woman, all the mechanics were women – you wouldn’t believe all that was happening in 1945, would you?
Of course, at the end of the war most women went back to the kitchen. I was 21, and lucky enough to be offered a place at Bedford College for ladies in Regent’s Park in London. We were the first batch of women who’d been through university and come out as qualified social workers. I became an academic, and now I’m a community worker and researcher.
I still think about the war regularly because it was so awful, a ridiculous slaughter of people. I joined the Peace Pledge Union, and did cooperative studies with my students. We should have had much more peace studies. By now we should have learned how to avoid war.
Edward Bullock, 89
‘People don’t realise how ill-equipped we were; the German equipment was a thousand times superior to ours,’ says Edward Bullock, who was in the air force. Photograph: Zed Nelson for the Guardian
After eight months of bombing London, the sewers were all smashed, rats were running around; you’d look up and half your house would be gone. I remember the Queen Mother came down and said to us, “I know how you feel, they bombed my house as well.” She brought us to a little hut and poured us cups of tea.
I come from a military family: my eldest brother did six years in the navy and was killed at Normandy. My other brother was on Arctic convoys and he’s dead, too. I was one of the lucky ones. I was in the air force. People don’t realise how ill-equipped we were; the German equipment was a thousand times superior to ours. We rounded up 1,000 prisoners in Hamburg and I said to one of them, “When you had us surrounded at Dunkirk, you could have wiped us off the face of the earth.” He said, “To be honest, we couldn’t stomach killing you, so we shot over your heads.” Whether that was true or not, I will never know.
For me, it’s important that future generations know what we suffered during that time. I recently went into a school to talk to children, and when I spoke to the older kids, aged about 14 to 15, I told them there was something they could do for me. “I want you to forget about your mobile phones and your laptops and your iPads, just for a short period of time, and join the cadets,” I said. “Do not be in the position we were in: unprepared.”
Clifford Guard, 91
‘I remember fighting on Omaha beach just after D-day. It was absolutely terrible,’ says Clifford Guard. Photograph: Zed Nelson for the Guardian
I had a good Catholic education in Swansea, but when I was nearly 16, I ran away and joined the British merchant navy. The war was just starting. I was a cabin boy, deck boy, and engine room boy. Then I went to New York, and I met a physician who asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I said I’d like to become an American sailor, and he said, “Well, you’re not a citizen – but I can get you in the army.” And he did.
We were getting ready for D-day down in Weymouth. I had two close buddies, one from Pennsylvania, who passed away six months ago, another from Michigan. They protected me whenever we were in action. I’m here today because of those two guys. I remember fighting on Omaha beach just after D-day. It was absolutely terrible. I got hit in my left knee by a piece of shrapnel. It was just very slight, just a splinter from a mortar, but it floored me.
After the war, I stayed in the army of occupation for about six months and then I went back to the US and ended up as a clinical psychologist. It bothered me – what I saw, what I did, that I’d had a .50 calibre machine gun. I wanted to learn more about myself, and I didn’t turn out such a bad one after all.
Tom Schaffer, 89
Tom Schaffer was a butcher’s boy before the war and went back to the shop afterwards. Photograph: Zed Nelson for the Guardian
I was in the 6th Airborne division. I was in the battle of the Ardennes. I never got injured, luckily. It was snowy and very cold. We suffered 61 casualties and withdrew into Holland.
We met Russian soldiers in the Baltic and there was plenty of vodka. Every night we would round up all the women, put them in a barn and guard them overnight, so they wouldn’t get raped by the Russians.
On VE Day, we were given the day off, and some of the boys went swimming in the Baltic. One of them didn’t come back – he drowned. Afterwards, I went back to England for one month’s leave and then straight out to the far east for training – where they dropped the two atom bombs. We started infiltrating Java, and headed to Semarang, where people were dying in the streets. So we organised water and food, and when we left they didn’t want us to go.
Before the war, I was a butcher’s boy. After it all ended, I went back to the shop. I was happy to be back, it was a family business in Winchmore Hill, in north London. I also did 11 years as a National Standard Bearer. I got married – my first wife and I divorced, but we’re still friends. My second wife died of a bee sting in the neck when we were visiting Arnhem in Holland. We’d been married three and a half weeks.
I still think and talk about the war a lot. Other veterans and I meet and have a beer once a month. But I only talk about it when somebody brings it up.
Geoffrey Pattinson, 91
‘It wasn’t until 1994 that I went back to Normandy, to pay my respects to those who didn’t make it,’ says Geoffrey Pattinson. Photograph: Zed Nelson for the Guardian
In Normandy, we got separated from the main part of the battalion. We managed to catch up with them three days after D-day, and we realised there were only about 200 men left. I got shot in the back of the legs and evacuated to a hospital in England.
The day they declared victory, I was back in a place called Wismar, on the Baltic in Germany, guarding the frontiers. We weren’t celebrating. Inwardly, I was very, very pleased the war was over, but a bit sad about what it cost us to get that freedom.
It wasn’t until 1994 that I went back to Normandy, to pay my respects to those who didn’t make it. I didn’t talk about the war at all for 50 years. Nobody ever asked me. It’s only now that it’s become talked-about because of the length of time it’s been – the 50th, 60th, the 70th anniversary. The longer it goes on, the fewer veterans there are. I feel very lucky to be here today, to be able to talk about it to people who want to know. I’ll be back for the 80th.
Erica Buist 