Ned Black, Visiting England in 1939, Relates to His Family in the United States How Anxious Londoners Are Bracing for War

Throughout the 1930s, as much of the world suffered through a punishing economic crisis, Adolf Hitler brazenly defied the Treaty of Versailles and trampled on basic human rights in Germany. After becoming chancellor he dissolved all other political parties, purged his enemies, eliminated freedom of speech, and, in 1935, instituted the Nuremberg Racial Laws, which deprived German Jews of citizenship and forbade them from marrying gentiles. On March 7, 1936, Hitler again violated the Versailles treaty by sending troops into the Rhineland—a buffer zone between Germany and France. The French had a substantially larger army but did not retaliate. (Hitler later conceded that “if the French had marched into the Rhineland we would have had to withdraw with our tail between our legs.”) The First World War was still fresh in the minds of millions of French men and women who had served or lost loved ones, and few were enthusiastic about the idea of another confrontation with Germany. When Hitler occupied his native land of Austria in March 1938 and invaded Czechoslovakia a year later, Europeans readied themselves for the worst. George Edwin “Ned” Black, a nineteen-year-old American, was traveling with a college friend throughout Britain in the summer of 1939. Black wrote home to his parents in Fargo, North Dakota, describing the preparations being made in London as tensions mounted. (The letter, reprinted in its entirety, is one in a series written over several days.)

On Board R.M.S. “Queen Mary”

August 30, 1939

Dear Family,

But a moment ago I began to write you when the trumpet sounded the muster at the life stations; so I was forced to give up my work and attend. That completed now and being thoroughly safe and saved, I may return to my original plot and write as intended—but starting anew, and I am hoping for it, better.

I have very grave concern for the nervous health of all of you—and particularly Mother. Dad’s two cables have had a convincing nature—that worry is an uninvited visitor at our house. I am much afraid that crises have made the position of anyone, near or about London, that of a manifestly and thoroughly dead man—requiring only an early burial.

I need hardly tell you that the continent and Britain are on the threshold of another war. I need not say that all are prepared to fight again in the names of justice and peace, corrupted and perverted—you probably know more of all this than I do.

I knew little of the crisis until my first day in London. I was astonished and astounded that, during these weeks of apparent apathy, the crisis had taken on such grave nature again. Don told me of it my first night in London. The next day we were advised to evacuate! I will tell you more of this when I am returned.

Preparation for defense was being advanced in every quarter of the city. Sandbags (and their number is increasing rapidly) were being placed in important buildings to absorb shock. Blimps are stationed in Green Park, ready to arise at a moment’s warning to drop cables to ward off enemy planes. Anti-aircraft guns are stationed at located points—notably Hyde Park. Troops are constantly being called up—and our second night there, several especially-commandeered buses were loaded with men directly in front of our hotel—or better said, our pension. In the streets aluminum paint is daubed upon curbings and pedestrian islands, as traffic precaution in a blackout. Street lights are being dimmed, changed, removed, or screened (even to the traffic lights). Tubes are being prepared to carry women and children to remoter quarters immediately upon the declaration of war. Museums are being closed, art treasures are fast disappearing into safe caverns or cellars.

Naturally, all citizens hold gas masks, have alloted shelters to give them sanctuary, if there is a sanctuary from a posse of shrapnel and bombs. Hundreds—nay thousands—have left the city for the south of Wales: yet there is no panic, no riot, no confusion. All moves on at its usual pace—and, but for a few wild-eyed Americans, calm and quiet confidence and strength is everywhere, in every face, on every lip, in every eye. They seem to feel that this will be a messy little business, but the policing must be done—and after it’s all over, there’s plenty of soap.

In Canterbury the stained glass was all being removed and the crypt was in a clamor with partitions, packed with sand, appearing as the workmen labored hurriedly. Students at Cambridge are crating old manuscripts. The thirteenth century West Gate at Canterbury has a small garrison of artillery in the north tower. Banks, stores, offices of the government have established rural centers for records and archives. Even the boat on which I travel will be under partial black-out when night comes (the lounge windows by which I sit are blinded) and smoking will not be permitted out of doors.

And in the churches the faithful gather in a silent prayer for peace. But peace is lost. As I stepped aboard the ship this morning from the pier, a man called to his friend from his bicycle, passing by, “I think we shall be over there again,” and the friend replied, “Yes, I think we shall.” And, lacking the intervention of something greater than we, they will.

They will die, these men. They will believe to the last that they know why they die. But I do not believe they do. I think no one does….

My love to each

Ned

On September 1, 1939, just two days after Black wrote his letter home, Hitler’s forces invaded Poland. Britain and France declared war on Germany four weeks later. Ned Black would, himself, be one of the war’s casualties; in September 1944 he was shot dead by a sniper at the age of twenty-four while serving in France.