The next enemies, clamouring to take me, were the cold and the pain.
It became vital that I should somehow manage to pull myself out of the water, flip myself over the inflated wall and fall into the rubber well of the dinghy, where I might lie in comparative dryness until rescue came.
Somehow, in that freezing May night, against the huge swell of the sea, against the pain and weakness in my body, I must have done that, because my next memory is of the breaking dawn, a rubbery smell, a soft and shifting floor beneath me, a curve of bright yellow rubber against a dark blue sky, a sense that the sea was distant, that I was tossing somewhere alone, perhaps in some after-life limbo.
Yet when I hauled myself to the inflated yellow tube that was the wall of the dinghy and raised myself up with both elbows so that I could see over the edge, there was the great endless sea around me, everywhere, heaving and grey. The sun glinted low and yellow from between dark clouds on the horizon.
I felt the touch of wind.
I lay there, probably in great danger of dying but no longer in any condition to know or care, when at last my dinghy was spotted by an aircraft. I heard the engine but I was too weak to wave or set off the flares. The pilot tipped the plane’s wings, swooped down over me, turned at a distance, flew low across me again. Then the aircraft headed away. By that time it no longer mattered to me whether it was British, German or any other nationality, but it turned out that it must have been British. Two hours after the plane flew away an RAF Air-Sea Rescue launch came out and saved my life.
I was alone on that sea, the only survivor from our plane. If there was a miracle that night it was one that saved me. Of the others, Ted, Col, Lofty, Kris, JL, they were killed when the aircraft was shot down, or if they survived that then they must have drowned after the plane hit the sea.
That was the end of JL, the last I knew of him. ‘I think at least one of us will be OK,’ he had said to me in the last moments before he died.
Part Five: 1940-1941
1
Extract from Chapter 3 of The Practical Conscience - The Red Cross in The German War
by Alan J. Wetherall, published by George Allen & Unwin, London, 1958:
... it was in this way that I first encountered J. L. Sawyer, a remarkable figure of the war years. At the time I was still working as a staff Red Cross official, attached to several offices in the north-west of England. Although I was not personally involved with his exploits, my early encounter with him was memorable and in view of events is worth describing in detail. In anecdotal fashion it may provide insights into his later work.
J. L. Sawyer was at that time an obscure figure, unknown not only to the general public but also to the authorities. He lived in Rainow, a small village on the western edge of the Pennines close to the town of Macclesfield. He was married but at that time childless. His wife was a naturalized Briton who had emigrated from Germany during the 1930s.
Sawyer appeared before the Macclesfield Local Tribunal on Thursday morning, March 28, 1940. It was here that I saw him for the first time. My role at that time was to observe the proceedings on behalf of the Red Cross. Pacifism pure and simple is not a part of Red Cross policy, even though in times of war the Society is often associated with it.
In 1939 the British government had reintroduced conscription, the first call-up going to men in their early twenties, the aim being to raise the strength of the armed services to about three hundred thousand men.
Experience with conscientious objectors during the 1914-18 war forced the government of 1939 to prepare the ground carefully. Under the circumstances the authorities established an enlightened and indeed tolerant approach to the problem. It should not be forgotten that in the months leading up to the outbreak of war in September 1939, Nazi Germany was seen as a major threat to peace and stability throughout Europe. If war broke out, devastating air raids on British cities were expected. All through 1940 there were realistic fears of an invasion from across the English Channel. The fact that by March 1940 none of these had taken place was seen by most people (correctly, as events turned out) as only the calm before the storm. In this climate it took political sophistication and firmly liberal instincts to implement an official policy that gave a humane hearing to would-be objectors.
Needless to say, in the same atmosphere of war preparations it took an act of special courage for those with anti-war sentiments to present themselves for the hearings.
In 1940 a central register of conscientious objectors (COs) was created and maintained by the authorities. A man could register as a CO on one or more of the following loosely defined grounds: The first was that he objected to being registered for military service; the second that he objected to undergoing military training; the third that he objected to performing combatant duties. There was no onus on him to prove his pacifist credentials. For example, the objector did not have to belong to a recognized religion or church, nor did he have to show a past commitment to pacifism, nor did he have to come from any particular political affiliation. The rules were left deliberately vague, allowing each applicant to present his own case in the way he thought best. At the same time, it encouraged the tribunals to judge each man and his case on merit.
J. L. Sawyer appeared at the first hearing I monitored on behalf of the Red Cross in Macclesfield, although it was not the first Local Tribunal that I had monitored.
Sawyer was a young man of striking appearance: he was tall, muscular and powerful-looking, with a comfortable stance and what appeared to be a calm, self-confident manner. His name meant nothing to me when I was given a list of attenders, although when I later found out that he was an Olympic medallist it came as no surprise.
The courtroom being used for the hearings was a small but imposing room, panelled in oak, with a high bench and a deep well, the clerk’s desk being placed at a level somewhere between the two. There were no windows, only skylights. The lighting was dim, in accordance with wartime practices. For anyone walking into the room for the first time, even as an observer, the overall impression was intimidating.
Sawyer’s application was heard halfway through the morning session. The tribunal had already turned down half a dozen applicants and give only conditional registration to two others. The members of the tribunal, a businessman, a local councillor and a vicar, struck me as constitutionally intolerant towards pacifists and suspicious of the motives for being one, determined to give each of the applicants as difficult a time as possible. I was taking extensive notes because I considered the Society would interest itself in the appeals, should any be lodged.
Before Sawyer was called, the clerk handed up to each member of the tribunal a typewritten copy of his statement. They scanned it briefly, before saying that they were ready.
Sawyer entered, glanced around the courtroom with evident nervousness, then took up the position he was directed to, standing in the cramped space of the back row of seats in the well of the court.
Asked to identify himself, Sawyer said, ‘Joseph Leonard Sawyer, aged twenty-three, of Cliffe End, Rainow, Cheshire.’
‘The members of the tribunal have read your statement, Mr Sawyer,’ the clerk said. ‘You do not have to take an oath unless you wish to. Do you wish to?’