1

Disbelief

In May 1940, near the port of Dunkirk on the English Channel, invading German armies trapped more than 350,000 British troops on three sides. Events were unfolding at break-neck speed. The German armies had penetrated deep inside France after a surprise attack through the Ardennes Mountains; the Maginot Line, supposedly impregnable, was lightly brushed aside. French armies were routed, their whereabouts unknown—it was the end of one of the most violent weeks of the war.

The German First and Tenth Panzer Divisions broke out across northern France. General Heinz Guderian ordered his tanks to continue advancing rapidly through France until the last drop of petrol in their tanks was used up. Guderian had praised the speed of tanks—their ability to achieve surprise and a breakthrough—in a 1937 best-seller in Germany, Achtung Panzer! When the tanks appeared south of the Ardennes, the surprise, as he predicted, was complete. Rommel’s Panzer Division was directed cross-country toward the Loire Valley, it avoided roads, traveling rapidly across fields.

Further north, the Channel ports Boulogne and Dunkirk were under siege, the entire British Expeditionary Force was trapped against the sea. Defeat was inevitable. Thousands of soldiers on foot were streaming toward the port at Dunkirk, their fate uncertain. A desperate scramble to find boats, any kind of boat, was underway.

*   *   *

At the same moment, Herbert Read was composing a poem, “Ode, without Rhetoric, Written during the Battle of Dunkirk, May 1940.” It reads in part:

In the silence of the twilight

I hear in the distance

the new guns.

As the evening deepens

searchlights begin to waver in the sky,

the airplanes throb invisibly above me

Unreal war! No single friend

links me with its immediacy.

It is a voice out of a cabinet,

a printed sheet, and these faint reverberations

selected in the silence

by my attentive ear.1

Read was listening to the impact of guns in the distance—“the new guns”—and the throbbing airplane engines overhead. He watched searchlights as they were moving. But the evidence of his senses lacked concrete reality, they lacked substance. The violent events were strangely muted. He was unable to grasp them.

A voice “out of a cabinet?”

“A printed sheet” about a distant meeting in the past, or the record of some unnamed conference?

The events he was witnessing “had no immediacy?” Read exclaimed, “Unreal war!”

As Read was writing, none of our contemporary, postwar information was available. War aims were not declared. It was a time when facts that became common knowledge after 1945 were unknown. Read was confessing to a difficulty shared by countless others at the beginning of the Second World War, it was true of ordinary citizens and leaders alike. It was true not only in England but in other countries already attacked, or soon to be attacked. Disbelief and incredulity were almost universal. They were responsible for some of the worst miscalculations during the early years of the war 1939–41, and later, all the way until 1945. Many witnesses came to think that disbelief—the refusal to admit the presence of danger despite all concrete evidence to the contrary—was the most important theme of the entire war. It was the most likely to cause death or eventual submission, in this sense the most lethal. At the same time it was a widespread human weakness, and not easy to explain. One observer predicted that future historians would marvel at one thing during this period more than any other—the refusal of the Western democracies to take seriously the mortal threat to their existence.2

Disbelief often seemed harmless. But it was closely tied to defense, the decision to take up arms or not take up arms in self-defense. It arose initially as a response to secrecy, to disguise, disinformation, and the confusion that veiled events. Often it would lead to defeat in its many forms of captivity, occupation, or deportation. The use of disguise and surprise continued throughout the period 1939–45. One of the war’s most important features was that the outcome could not be known until the very end. In a sense it should not be called the “Second World War” but perhaps something else, until the surrenders in 1945 when it acquired its name. There were constant changes, surprises, sudden reversals, and defeats. And the refusal to believe the extent of danger, despite contrary evidence, also continued to the end.

During the war years disbelief was considered by many to be important, urgent, and very dangerous. Writers attempted to counter it as forms of communication, both written and oral, acquired enormous value and importance. The “pencil stub” in our title refers to this ongoing effort, and the extremely difficult writing conditions during the period.

As Read’s title indicates, he deliberately avoids any “rhetoric.” The title is significant, the poem might be considered low-keyed or muted; it is also remarkably straight-forward. It is a reminder that Read felt the need to communicate with others as directly as possible. He sought to avoid the wishful thinking and complacency of the “phoney war” period. It was now a time when rhetoric must be abandoned. In his modest way Read was declaring that the defeat at Dunkirk—later some would claim it was a “victory”—was a watershed event. War had arrived and had to be faced, the evidence accepted. Illusions should be discarded.

Read’s modest poem expresses no panic and is certainly not heroic. He captured a state of mind that was almost universal as he evokes the widespread disbelief and incredulity between 1937 and 1940. Countless arguments about the possibility of war—whether it would take place or not, which events were bluff and which were not—are caught in an ambivalent balance. Read captured the plight of the individual civilian at a moment when he was most vulnerable, on a path that stretched toward the future: a path that was new, opaque, without markers. An admirable feature of the poem is that Read is able to isolate the theme of disbelief: he pinpoints and addresses it.

A noteworthy admission of Read’s poem is that he sees the disbelief in himself. The poem is a confession, he stresses the inadequacy of his own reactions. The exclamation point after “Unreal war!” admits the failure and stresses it.

Soon after Read wrote his poem, the war came to Britain itself. Daily bombings by the Luftwaffe, what is called “The Battle of Britain,” lasted from July through October 1940. But the inability to appreciate danger continued as before. George Orwell, a talented writer, described the first aerial attacks on England in an essay, The Lion and the Unicorn. At this point his reaction to the attacks on British cities probably strikes most postwar readers as unusual:

As I write, highly civilized human beings are flying overhead, trying to kill me. They do not feel any enmity against me as an individual, nor I against them. They are only “doing their duty,” as the saying goes. Most of them, I have no doubt, are kind-hearted, law-abiding men who would never dream of committing murder in private life.3

The collection of Orwell’s writings during the first years of the war, titled “My Country Right or Left,” is a curious work that displays the widespread complacency and disbelief of the time. He is unwilling at this point to call the German planes “the enemy,” and with an open-minded attitude he attempts to humanize the Luftwaffe pilots. War—the first bombardments of British cities—was a silly misunderstanding, the soldiers of both sides simply following orders from above. They had no lethal intentions. For Orwell at this time, class allegiance was more important than nation. He had no wish to defend the “capitalist” classes.

But it was no longer the beginning of the war. Orwell was writing after the defeat of most of the British Army. More than seven countries in Europe had already been violently invaded and occupied. More startling, Orwell penned these lines after reading and reviewing Hitler’s Mein Kampf for the New English Weekly. But for many people the act of reading was not enough to dispel disbelief. Hitler’s book made only a dim impression on Orwell. He admitted in his review, “I have never been able to dislike Herr Hitler”—a remark he was soon to regret.

For Orwell and most English men of letters, Fascism and Nazism were vague concepts. Orwell’s prose works remind us that before 1939, British writers had only marginal knowledge of Germany and its political system. Convincing portraits of Nazi Party adherents were rare in English and American literature.4 In 1940, how could Orwell or any other British writer have known that in a memorandum written earlier the same year, General Jodl explicitly ordered “attacks against the British homeland,” and “terror attacks against the English centers of population?” Or that the German Wehrmacht already had a blueprint named “Operation Sealion” to invade England after the conquest of France? In the event of a successful landing in England, Germany had a plan to deport the entire British male population between the ages of sixteen and forty-five to the Continent and Germany itself. The official title of the plan, published in the London Times in 1945 in its entirety, was: “Orders and Instructions for the Establishment of a Military Government in England after the Projected Invasion in 1940.”5 But this was hidden by secrecy. If the plan had been successful, the fate of the nation would have been unspeakably tragic.

A widespread and complacent culture of disbelief grew during the early war years. At first it was the period of the so-called “phoney war,” in France the drole de guerre. “Munich”—written often in quotes because the city’s name indicated an optimistic attitude—had made war unlikely. People were convinced “war” was nothing but a bluff. Jokes about the “phoney war” became popular. The word “Sitzkrieg” was coined, a pun on the word blitzkrieg or “lightning war,” implying everyone was sitting down rather than fighting. Humorists spoke of “the Bore War,” a pun on the earlier “Boer War” in Africa. In France, Louis Aragon spoke of “the time of crossword puzzles,” le temps des mots croises. In Parisian cabarets they sang mockingly, “les canons font boum boum.” The self-confident literature of the “phoney war” made fun of the sheer possibility of war.

In Anthony Powell’s novel about this period The Kindly Ones, a typical passage occurs: “‘News doesn’t look very good.’ I said. ‘Do you think the Germans are going into Poland?’ There seemed no particular object in avoiding banality from the start, as the evening showed every sign of developing into a banal one.”

The experiences of other countries offered much information about a war that had become increasingly international, but the delusion was widespread that events a hundred miles away could not happen at home. Throughout history the use of verbal reports to compare attacks in nearby countries has been precious communication, hindered often by difference in language.6

The philosopher Bertrand Russell argued that if the Nazis invaded Britain, they should be treated as friends, coerced if necessary by civil disobedience. He argued that they would be too embarrassed to retaliate. It is difficult to imagine a more complete misunderstanding of reality. If such a belief were taken seriously the country would be stripped of effective defense, conquest by Germany would be made without a battle.

Disbelief and incredulity were among the most contentious topics in the first years of the war. Was talk of war a bluff? How great was the danger? If other countries were attacked, could one’s own country somehow escape? The arguments and discussions were accompanied by anxiety, frustration, and suspense.

The postwar reader is often unaware of these writings in the first years of the war, and the many heated disputes that accompanied them. The history of the war with its ending in 1945 has been written many times over. The outcome is no longer in doubt, the names of the victors and defeated are well-known. The suspense is lost, the reader usually thinks he knows better. The infusion of postwar information into most narratives about the Second World War has been almost universal, especially in popular media and film.

The postwar writer attempting to reconstruct events is often at a disadvantage, his postwar perspective a liability. A historian, H. Stuart Hughes, observed that “second-hand parties and historians cannot give the full sense of events as reality in the process of becoming—because they know the outcome.”7 Revisions and corrections of history regularly use hindsight. Raymond Aron criticized our popular acceptance of what he calls “retrospective illusion,” and the tendency to project the present, with its updated perspective, onto the past. In his study of narration J. P. Stern observed, “All historical knowledge goes against the grain.” In an earlier century, Voltaire called these “tricks we play on the dead.”8

The writings by English authors during the early years of the war are highlighted here because they offer a remarkably broad range of attitudes. Ordinary citizens and writers had time—precious time—to confront major problems, to discuss, debate them, write about them. The curtain of occupation did not fall over the country, extinguishing dialogue and exchange of views. The literature of the time contains both expressions of extreme illusion and, simultaneously, an awareness of danger. As the violence of bombing continued, there was still no consensus. British writings during the early war years highlight the crucial nature of both oral and written communication, and the lively exchange of information. Read’s description of the war’s “unreality” was repeated by other authors in different ways. For example, Stephen Spender wrote that he and Louis MacNeice doubted the war “was for a purified cause.” They turned inward toward personal subject-matter, avoiding the world of outer events. The spectrum of British attitudes in 1940 was wide: it included a powerful pacifist movement; complacency; still vivid memories of World War I; belief that rearmament increased the chances of war; “placatory appeasement” (Winston Churchill’s phrase); conservatives intent on maintaining privileges and the empire; a political left that believed capitalism was a larger problem than war or invasion by Germany. A historian observed that “the idea of maintaining peace through strength was not in fashion.” Noel Annan noted in his “group-portrait” of the period Our Age, “Hitler did not weaken the peace movement. On the contrary, the smell of danger strengthened it.”9 Kingsley Martin, editor of the New Statesman, wrote that “if only Hitler spoke, all would be well.” Views were often combined with a self-righteous religiosity that believed sin and evil could be overcome successfully by the example of unilateral virtue, trust and good will.”10

Major British writers took part in discussions of conflicting views. As bombing of cities and airfields continued, uncertainty became intense: would the nation survive? No one knew what the outcome would be. It was impossible even to guess. The diplomat and writer Harold Nicolson kept one of the finest journals of the wartime period, and wrote in 1940: “In ordinary times one seldom thinks how odd it is to have no knowledge of what may happen even within the next hour, but now the consciousness of this ignorance becomes acute. I see the future only in terms of color: scarlet and black.”11

What stands out is the extreme range of opinions expressed, often contradictory, and the intensity of the debates. If disbelief was rampant so was the need felt by many to combat it, to struggle against it. The contemporary discussions are reflected in most serious nonfictional and fictional works of the period. Their sheer number is overpowering. The result was a matter of suspense, of high drama.

The arguments were significant, their outcomes important, because they influenced the decision to take up arms in self-defense, and—ultimately—determined the country’s survival as an independent sovereign state. Everything hung on the discussions and communication in its broadest sense. Other countries had similar debates that were tragically cut short by events. Britain was relatively unprepared, but with swift change, and luck, the country managed to mount a vigorous self-defense, barely avoiding defeat. The margin of “victory” was razor-thin.12 If Germany had continued its attacks on the southern airfields for two more weeks, if it was not diverted by London as a target in revenge for the bombing of Berlin, it would probably have prevailed.

The conflicts of the time were especially well suited to the novelist and short story writer. They were not obliged to create a linear narrative, with knowledge of the outcome; they were free to render the unpredictability of the time with all its psychological conflicts. Novels, autobiographies, memoirs, nonfiction and fiction, all evoke the disparate points of view and individual differences.

Writers used many of the novelist’s devices, especially psychological highlighting, to illustrate and dramatize conflicts. One passage in Richard Hillary’s novel The Enemy Within leads to a dramatic confrontation, a climactic conversation between two friends:

Yet I wanted to hear his arguments. I had an idea that the issue for him was an apprehension of something related to faith and not to any intellectual concept. My chance came when we were sent down from Montrose to Edinburgh by train to fly up a couple of new Spitfires. We had the compartment to ourselves. I didn’t temporize but asked him straight out his reasons for fighting the war. He gave me that slow smile of his. “Well, Richard,” he said, “you’ve got me at last, haven’t you?”13

The discussion that follows plumbs the depths of two different, even contradictory motivations and attitudes toward the war. They were both fighter pilots. One is motivated by a strong religious faith that he believes requires active military defense. The other—Hillary at this stage in his life—has a secular, questioning attitude.

Heated discussions mark most works of the time. Opposed beliefs and opinions divided friends, family members, and colleagues. In this atmosphere the “war” was not a clear struggle between one country and another but among Englishmen and women, a battle among themselves. After 1945, a deliberate effort was made to play down these great divergences of opinion during the early stages of the war. Generosity toward those who opposed the war—or were lukewarm—was recommended. Unity was stressed. But we should make no mistake about the intensity of the “debates” and conflicts, and how much was at stake. The best writers such as William Sansom and Richard Hillary, when they evoke 1940–41, show that everything was at stake. It could have ended entirely different.

The “Battle of Britain” was probably observed by more civilians than any other battle in the Second World War. It took place in the open air, above major metropolitan centers and in clear view from the ground. Civilians outdoors could pause and follow the maneuvers of airplanes overhead. Scrambled Spitfires and Hurricanes fought in close airplane-to-airplane combat with German Dorniers, Stukas, and Messerschmitts at altitudes ranging from 1,500 to 20,000 feet.

What was the attitude of the large audiences for these noisy “shows” taking place in the sky? For some, they were unwanted distractions from recreation or the enjoyment of gardens. A young pilot, Kenneth Lee, wrote a vivid description of a close encounter with tragedy; his Spitfire was shot down over rolling countryside, he was wounded.

I was taken to a local golf club, just inland from Whitstable, to await an ambulance. I was in shirtsleeves, slightly bloodstained. But I couldn’t help hearing members at the last hole complaining that the distraction of the Battle in the air was disturbing their putting, while once inside a voice demanded, “Who’s that scruffy-looking chap at the bar? I don’t think he’s a member.”14

Lee’s irony was sharp. He points out an uncomfortable fact that a significant part of the population chose to take lightly or ignore crucial, dramatic engagements of the war. Club members refused to interrupt leisure activities and entertainment, in this case putting on greens. They were unable or unwilling to make the connection between a bleeding man, taken for treatment to the clubhouse bar, with airplanes fighting in the sky overhead.

Another pilot, Peter Simpson, was shot down by a low-flying German Dornier, crash-landing on another golf course. His reception was more hostile than Lee’s; enraged golfers brandished their clubs menacingly, and threatened him. Farmers, too, were upset when an airplane, shot down by the enemy, intruded on their fields. Douglas Turley-George remembered a crash he barely survived, his Spitfire cutting a deep swathe through a cornfield: “The furious farmer wanted to know ‘Why the bloody hell couldn’t you have landed in the next field?’”15

The violence of bombing by the Luftwaffe continued to mount. Disbelief was often accompanied by shock, which made it enter another psychological dimension. Some sought refuge in unreality. In a short story The Mysterious Kor, Elizabeth Bowen described a soldier and his small sister in a park at night, watching huge opaque balloons in the sky above them. The girl imagines they are in a legendary city she calls “Mysterious Kor, recently discovered by anthropologists.”16 Bowen explained in a “Postscript” that during the Blitz many people had strange, deep, intense dreams. The stupefying events were impossible to understand. The girl’s fantasy was actually an attempt to make sense of what she was observing. For the child, everything was riding on the fate of the city. She imagined all was lost, even the name “London,” which became an archeologist’s “Kor.” In her novel The Dressmaker, the author Beryl Bainbridge also described unusual dreams. In a sociological study Living through the Blitz, Tom Harrisson noted long-lasting effects of traumas from bombardments in a chapter, “Psychiatric and Shock Impacts.”17 Bowen and Bainbridge used the short story and novel to render these “shock impacts.”

In the summer of 1940, attitudes slowly shifted. William Sansom worked as a fireman in London, and had ample opportunity to observe ordinary people in their bombed homes. He noted in his collection of stories The Wall (1941) that as the Blitz continued, an awareness gradually arose in each individual that the attack was not directed against an abstract government or army, or navy, it was a war against him, an average citizen, living in a residential neighborhood.

At first, it caused surprise. The experience had to be repeated for him to accept it. Sansom made this surprise one of his main subjects. He emphasized the vulnerability of ordinary people:

It was like a sandpapered ramrod down your throat, and your lungs puffing out like a pouter pigeon. Then dead, dead silence. Then, as though some time afterwards, a slow shower of bricks from everywhere . . .

A man was buried up to his shoulders. His steel hat was blown right away. Fire broke out in the debris all around him. He would have been burnt, buried there with his head sticking from the hot ground, if others had not struggled over and dragged him out. He had his pipe in his mouth all the time. Later they put forty stitches in his scalp . . . And only that morning, on such a fine April day, he remembered taking a turn in the park opposite the Kingston House Depot and strolling, at peace, by the new spring flowers.18

Extreme effects are contrasted with a moment of peace. The sense of violence is achieved by combining closely observed details with speed. The contrast at the end with the spring morning acts as counterpoint or foil.

Though it was a time of maximum violence, Sansom admitted it was difficult to put that violence into words: “The violence and its reflections may be written down—but never the core of the violent act itself. In the first place, language fails.”

Sansom often used architecture—buildings, destroyed walls and ceilings, fragmentary rooms—to give structure to events and the lives of people who were inside. In Westminster at War, Sansom recounted how a man arrived home late during a night of bombardment. It was dark, and hard to see. The man did not realize the house where he lived had been sliced in two. He returned by his habitual path, extremely tired, and made his way up the well-known stairs. As luck had it, he went to bed in the half of the bedroom that was still standing. In the morning, when he woke in broad daylight, he was so frightened by what he saw he was unable to move. He had to be brought down with a ladder.

Richard Hillary carried the surprise stressed by Sansom a step further. The focus of The Enemy Within (1943) is denial and disbelief—not only in others but in the author himself. Hillary was a pilot, in the first chapters of the book he presents himself as arrogant and immature. His Spitfire was shot down but he continued to see the war in what he called “aesthetic” terms. Like many others he was unable to conceive the serious stakes of the war, or to imagine a real German invasion.

Gradually, after many discussions with friends, a pacifist prominent among them, after crash-landings and brushes with death, lengthy hospitalization, and excruciating plastic surgery, Hillary had a realization: “With awful clarity I saw myself suddenly as I was. Great God that I could have been so arrogant!” The structure of the novel is a gradual curve that leads to an overpowering epiphany.

It is followed by two resolutions: to fight, and to write his book. The anger and fury he felt during a German bombardment of London are particularly convincing because Hillary rages against himself as well as the Germans—against his own earlier stupidity. The main part of the blame falls not on “others” but on Hillary himself. The “enemy within” of the title is his own worst instincts, his comfortable denial of the magnitude of the enemy threat.

Hillary presented disbelief as part of a process, a first step that led to the realization of a new reality. He succeeded in describing the unwillingness of an average individual to realize, truly to see, the destruction around him. It was not obvious. He dramatically evoked the sense of unreality of the times in order to stress the next step, what he called the need “to wake up.” Hillary did not survive the war—he died in January 1943—but he was unequivocal, his whole act of writing and his book were an act of communication with his readers: a call to end delusions.

Perceptive observers noted that highly placed leaders and ordinary people alike failed to assess danger. The difficulty was found at every level of society. Writers sought explanations, new concepts or metaphors to account for the failure. Denial and delusion were not harmless but part of a deeply self-destructive process. Some wrote it was a kind of “suicide.” Others spoke of arrogance, stupidity, the mind “breaking down,” paralysis, self-deception, insanity. Winston Churchill wrote intemperately of “the acme of gullibility.” It seemed that the provisional social consensus before the summer of 1940 was based on pure fantasy.19

Many non-British writers lost their sense of surprise well before their British counterparts. The Czech writer Jiri Mucha left Prague after the capitulation in 1938, fought the Germans with the Czech Fourth Legion in France, and made his way to England. He complained about his new English hosts:

Himmler, Heydrich, the Gestapo: the caveman has a free hand for the duration. The human louse sits in a gaol, dangles from the gallows, passes out in torture chambers, and the chaps in black don’t even realize that they have done harm. That’s just what people can’t understand in England, where the cave man’s soul has almost disappeared. Let them ask you. Evil? What evil?20

The passage drips with sarcasm, and is not quite fair. But it evokes the exasperation of a talented writer who had already fought the Germans earlier in continental Europe.

The difficulty in assessing danger was international. No country could claim greater foresight than others. In The Gathering Storm, Churchill complained that during the Blitz the United States stood idly by and simply “gaped,” offering no help. When it was the turn of the United States to be subject to an attack—at Pearl Harbor in December 1941—the surprise and chaos were total.21

Poland, France, Holland, Belgium, Norway, Denmark, and Britain were all victims of a military doctrine—the blitzkrieg or “lightning-fast war”—that deliberately exploited surprise. Psychological disbelief in the hostile intentions of others was not a peripheral concept: it was built into the core structure of military strategy. With troop movements concealed, an overwhelming initial attack was intended to create panic and paralysis. Surprise would forestall assessment of danger and social debate, or the decision to take up armed defense. The doctrine confirmed that effective defense required time.22 The attacks by the Soviet Union beginning on September 17, 1939 partly built on the attacks by Germany seventeen days earlier; deception was more elaborate and thorough than the preparations for the German invasions.23

A historian has written that democratic societies had an additional handicap. They “are incapable of understanding political regimes of a different character . . . They are accustomed to think in liberal, pragmatic categories. Conflicts are believed to be based on misunderstandings . . . extremism is a temporary aberration, so is irrational behavior, intolerance, cruelty.”24 Disbelief could be stubborn, realization of danger was often slow following a halting, unfolding arc of events.

Writers in all the invaded countries explored the experiences of disbelief and surprise. They gave them a variety of forms, ranging from French novels describing the exode or exodus—when millions of civilians took to the roads in panic—to the novels of the German anti-Nazi writer Theodor Plievier, and a Holocaust novel such as Elie Wiesel’s Night (“It was neither German nor Jew who ruled the ghetto—it was illusion”). But most of these works had to wait until after the war before they could be published.

In many countries, uncensored literature was completely shut out. In June 1940, Harold Nicolson saw the future in terms of colors: scarlet and black. In continental Europe it was black. A curtain fell.