London, 1940. The Luftwaffe was reducing the city to rubble. Flames escaped from the windows of hollow apartment buildings. Streets were littered with shattered walls, ceilings, bricks and glass. In subway bomb shelters, the city’s population trembled to the shriek of Goering’s bombers. London’s air raid wardens, volunteers from its aging population, carried on like frontline soldiers. They helped to direct civilians to their shelters. They found then evacuated the wounded.
On September 14, 1940 Congress, anticipating our eventual involvement in the war enacted a peacetime draft. We were not yet at war, but the Department of Civilian Defense in New York City called for volunteers to become air raid wardens. Civic-minded members of the neighborhood who were beyond draft age or were unacceptable for military service volunteered. An empty store adjacent to my apartment building served as their headquarters.
The Department of Civilian Defense seemed to have a rod divining the most inappropriate characters for the job. Among the stars was Pimple Ear’s father. He was in fairly good shape because whenever we called his son Pimple Ear, he would come lumbering out of his apartment then chase us for two or three blocks. As an air raid warden, he needed a remedial class in turning on and off his flashlight. Mr. Lapin was a charitable soul. He collected annually for the Red Cross and distributed small, red Cross of Lorraine lapel pins to those who donated to the tuberculosis charity. This was a man who had the flattest feet that ever pivoted from a human ankle. Every step he took contorted his face into a hideous expression of agony. By the time he would reach an area in need of evacuation, the all-clear signal would have sounded.
The sirens wailed, the lights went out; it was an air raid drill, a blackout! I watched from my ground floor window. The air raid wardens carrying their veiled flashlights toddled towards their assigned stations. It was a scene stolen from the Keystone Kops. The warden at his station across the street, kept spotting his unveiled flashlight towards his apartment window letting them know the location of their hero. Another found an orange crate, sat down, lit a cigarette (which could be seen for miles from the air), and waited for the all-clear signal to end the slapstick. My eleven-year old’s instincts told me I would have to depend upon my own wits if there was an air raid.
The schools responded to the call for an active home front. Students were given a thin, circular, off-white, one-and-a half inch thin, plastic disc. Their name and address was inscribed in blue script. Masking tape covered the classroom windows to prevent flying shards. Gongs in cycles of three had us ushered into the halls. If the threat was imminent, we curled ourselves underneath our desks.
To aid the war effort, a plot of land in nearby Crotona Park was assigned to our school. An area, enclosed by a snow fence was to be our class’ Victory Garden. Jerome was an enthusiastic gardener. In the morning, he could be seen foraging with a large metal ladle along Boston Road collecting dung deposited by horses pulling Borden’s milk or vegetable wagons. He scooped it into a brown paper bag, and then placed the bag in our clothing closet. The odor, permeating the student’s clothing brought parents to school demanding an explanation. Ms. Sanderson retired Jerome’s ladle and called for his parent.
Sugar, gasoline and meat were rationed. Stamps for sugar and meat were distributed according to family size. Gasoline was issued on the basis of occupation. Not a soul in our neighborhood suffered from this edict. Those who complained about the shortages were greeted with, “There’s a war on, moron!”
As the war approached closure, block parties blossomed everywhere. A beautiful red, white and blue banner approximately fifty by thirty feet was connected to two opposite buildings. It was emblazoned with two-foot letters announcing, WE HONOR OUR BOYS! Blue stars represented every vet in the neighborhood and gold stars represented the boys who would never return.
The war was over. With the hope of a prosperous and peaceful future, some veterans married, some returned to their jobs, and many entered college. The Allies created the United Nations to avoid another catastrophe. Within five years we were fighting in Korea.
The complete chapter of, There’s a War On, Moron can be found in Seabury Place, A Bronx Memoir by Daniel Wolfe. danielwolfebooks@aol.com