Business as Usual
Wars, rumours of wars, and the ferocious run-up to war—all this was the currency of 1939, an evil year if ever there was one. Thousands were fleeing west from central Europe in terror of the concentration camps; whole countries were being bullied and seized. But the more distant the scene, the less the impact. Men were not callous; they simply led their own lives.
Thus it was in the Isle of Man, secure in the centre of the Irish Sea, less than four hours by boat from Liverpool. The Manx went about their business in their usual manner; they lived by the harvest, from the land, from the sea and from the holiday visitors. The island was a world of its own, shielded by the sea from the strut and menace of the war-merchants who stomped in Europe. It was largely poor, but it was also a place of peace; its people wanted nothing more than to live in good fellowship with their neighbours, to follow the shoals and to make what use they could of the grass that grew so lushly. The spring passed placidly, the islanders greeting the early holiday-makers and preparing for the annual invasion of motor-cycle enthusiasts for the TT races which carried the island’s name round the world.
These races had changed in recent years. No longer were the machines and riders exclusively British. The French, the Germans and the Italians were designing new bikes and providing new men to ride them. A blond German named Meier had even won the Senior TT, and as the time of the early summer important races approached, the German challenge was seen to be stronger than ever. Splendid; the more competition, the more the interest in the races, and the more visitors.
Then a strange thing happened. A Manx newspaper criticized the fact that some British riders were now using foreign machines. The practice, it said, was deplorable. The writer even argued that German and Italian cycles should be barred. It was a sign, perhaps the first, that the island, although wrapped up in its own affairs, was becoming increasingly aware of the swastika strutting in Europe. A human migration was moving westwards from central Europe, but it passed by or stopped short of the small island in the Irish Sea. It is doubtful if more than a dozen of all the victims of Nazi oppression ever sought sanctuary in the Isle of Man. The great mass of refugees went on to the United States or stopped at mainland Britain.
The remarks in the Isle of Man Times were snubbed by no less a man than the Lieutenant-Governor, Lord Granville, the King’s personal representative on the island and the embodiment of its complex relationship with the United Kingdom, which had final authority over much of its affairs; for Man was as British as Manchester, but it had a measure of self-government. At a reception after the races His Excellency repudiated the newspaper’s remarks. Politics, it was obvious, must have nothing to do with sport.
The German visitors seemed pleased; they left the island after the races, promising to be back. Several of them eventually kept the promise.
The Manx removed the protective straw bales dotted along the thirty-seven miles of the racing road circuit and welcomed the holiday-makers as they came ashore in ever-increasing numbers. It was a splendid season; they were well content. Then the island authorities suddenly issued the first pamphlets from distant London about Air Raid Precautions, which were at first called War Emergency Precautions. The seaside landladies read them, a little puzzled. War? Surely not. And certainly not during the holidays.
A few weeks later the Manx government gave the official view: air attack on the island was extremely improbable. Meanwhile, the heads of the Steam Packet Company in Douglas laid the invasion plans of peace and organized forty-five crossings between the mainland and the island for the August bank holiday period. So great was the influx of visitors that the shipping line moved 70,000 people back home over the week-end of 11 August, their energy doubtless restored for whatever lay ahead. Yet as the days ticked by in August, the landladies noticed that, while the exodus was in full flood, the forward bookings for late holidays into September were hanging fire. Cancellations soon started coming in.
Nevertheless, the Manx Grand Prix, the second of the island’s annual motor-cycle racing festivals, promised well. It was due to be held from 12 to 14 September and would bring down the curtain on the season; 108 entries had been received, four more than in 1938.
Then came profound shocks near the end of August. The Manx anti-aircraft territorials were called up. The Steam Packet Company was put on alert; in the ultimate emergency a number of its ships would be needed at once by the Admiralty, and men with them. It was soon realized that, if the threat to Poland developed into a full European war and if it lasted into the following year, the effect on the island could be catastrophic. The holiday trade would vanish, just as it had in the 1914 war. Suddenly the landladies were really alarmed.
‘The Fuehrer knows exactly where he stands’, snapped the Manx Examiner in its issue of 25 August. Wars and the menace of wars; the Germans had better remember that the British in general and the Manx in particular would stand for no nonsense.
A week later the Examiner had the island ‘preparing for the worst’, while announcing bravely that complete preparations had been made. That was on 1 September. On the coming Monday, 4 September, the Grand Prix practice sessions would commence, and readers were assured that the international situation would have no effect on the racing.
That week-end the threat became a reality. The full war had arrived. The Grand Prix was forgotten. It was never held. The Manx landladies filled up forms eagerly as the authorities sent out circulars asking boarding-house keepers to accept child evacuees from the mainland. It was said that nearly 15,000 were expected. They never came.
For a few days transport from the island was erratic and uncertain. Steamer services were drastically cut down, to be restored on a modified but regular basis later. Air services were cut for some months.
As on the mainland, paperwork increased rapidly: there were forms for the fishermen who were allowed a restricted inshore business; forms for the farmers; forms in abundance for the landladies, who met to discuss plans for the reception of child evacuees. Orders and directions appeared everywhere. Suddenly, it was rule by paper.
Within days landing-permits became compulsory for passengers on the Manx boats at the Liverpool landing-stage; but while it was fairly simple to get off the island, it was sheer misery to get back to it or come to it afresh. More than any other of the emergency restrictions, the Manx bitterly resented the business of passports and permit cards between Liverpool and Douglas.
It took little more than a month and a lot of shouted fury for the citizens to win the paper battle; by 6 October the need for travel documents was abolished. It had taken editorial shouts of ‘Hitlerism’ to do it.
Meanwhile, the landladies remained concerned for their immediate future, especially as there was no sign of those promised child evacuees. The outlook was bleak, and sensible people decided to drum up business. A meeting of the Boarding House and Apartment Association was held in Douglas in the first month of war, and a small advertisement was drawn up for the London newspapers.
ISLE OF MAN
A Really Permanent Place of Security
Safe accommodation to suit all pockets. Very
reasonable terms. Home Farm produce.
Regular mail boat services to and from Liverpool.
Write to:etc.
There was a response of sorts. But it was little more than minimal. Maybe those who wanted to escape to the country from the danger of town shied at the prospect of a sea journey on the way. So the landladies were entitled to be anxious.
After the first flurry of excitement at the shrill declaration of hostilities, many people on the island seemed to be carrying on as though nothing much had happened. War was far away, except to the family where the man had been called up to the forces. Even the arrival through the post of the first ration books caused scant comment. More than anything this was a farming community, and it seemed only puzzling when the announcements of shortages came out one by one; bacon and butter were to be rationed, starting in the first week of the New Year. Bacon, perhaps; but to the Manx the rationing of butter seemed almost absurd. Cattle lived on grass, and the island would not be short of it.
In January 1940 Sir John Anderson, then Home Secretary, stated that there was no place in the British Isles sufficiently removed from areas of military importance for it to be suitable to take over a large influx of enemy aliens for internment.
Here at last was something to chew on. The Manx Chamber of Trade soon reminded authority that the island had such advantages. It had housed the main enemy alien camp in the 1914–18 War; Knockaloe became a small town holding 23,000 men, built hut by hut near Peel on the island’s west coast.
Decisions were slowly taken in London. This time there would be no wooden huts. Many of those worried seaside landladies were to find their problems solved, in a way they could not have anticipated.