At eighteen I registered as a ‘Conscientious Objector’. It was a perfectly legal route to take and as a Christian, I decided it was the correct thing to do although I am sure I had not thought it through very well for myself, in fact looking back, I would say there was quite possibly a lot of ‘Brethren’ indoctrination which informed my decision. However, I accept that I must take full responsibility for my action and do so. Although I had been brought up during the second world war I am sure I did not fully understand the appalling realities of the conflict. Even today, constantly reminded by numerous news outlets of current conflicts across the world and their horrific consequences, it seems to me, it is all too easy to become so desensitized that one is hardly touched by the shear futility of it all and hence to easily focus one’s collective energies elsewhere.
I must admit to finding it hard to watch events, such as the Invictus Games, without being acutely reminded of the horrors of war. The sight of what should have been able-bodied young men and women competing but are now irreversibly disfigured or maimed for life having suffered horrendous injuries is almost unbearable. I admire their guts, determination and sheer refusal to focus on their infirmities, but I am also painfully reminded of those who are even less ‘fortunate’. To compete would be beyond their wildest dreams and, ‘Lest we forget’, those who made the ultimate sacrifice, but it does not stop there either, for behind each and everyone there lie grieving and devastated loved ones and a fractured family.
Would I make the same decision again? In the light of my current thinking as expressed above, how could I, so the answer to the question is an emphatic NO.
However:
My firm belief is that what lies behind this world and many of its systems is a ‘presence’ so diabolically evil and mystical that most of us, including myself, are entirely blind to let alone understand. Neither do I believe established religion, per se, does either. The answer, I believe, lies at a more fundamental level which is obedience to the teachings of Jesus Christ and personal acceptance of His Lordship.
Putting that on one side however, I believe there is a serious need for a rational debate, which should transcend the politics of left, right and all shades in between, of what we as a country regard as a ‘just’ conflict. It seems to me to be too serious a question to leave to the whim, persuasive argument, vested interest or delegated power of the Prime Minister of the day, regardless of who he or she may be. I express this from the belief that not all potential conflicts are equal and some of those this country has engaged in, even in recent times, could not be particularly seen as ‘just’, regardless of whether the UN consider them to be ‘legal’ or not. This raises the inevitable question as to whether I would, in all conscience, be prepared to wholeheartedly commit to some of them. To defend one’s country, culture, democracy or sovereignty is one thing, to deliberately and unilaterally interfere in another seems quite a different matter.
The decision I took met with my brother’s total opposition. He had done his National Service with the RAF, although the Second World War had ended by then. He had always been a little quick-tempered and when I announced to my family my decision, he leapt forward with the intent of getting in the first blow, but my fist got there first resulting in the drawing of blood. That was the end of that since mum quickly parted us and lectured us about ‘brothers dwelling together in unity’. I was a cadet with the local Red Cross and learned to box with them and trained with a neighbour who was an ex-Army flyweight champion. My brother, on the other hand, had spent most of his time doing his National Service playing rugby for the RAF while stationed at the Bitter Lakes, Egypt.
I still ponder this episode and frequently ask myself the question as to why I was prepared to not only defend myself against the aggression of my brother but to inflict injury, when potentially called upon to defend my country against a foreign aggressor I saw fit to avail myself of a legal right not to do so.
My father seemed ambivalent to my intentions and, bearing in mind that he had also served in the RFC / RAF as a sergeant during WW1 on the Western Front in France and at Mons, was reluctant to discuss. In the event, I failed my medical due to an apparent problem with my left eye and hence was considered unfit for service. It was some three years later that I discovered I had what was described at the time as a ‘birthmark’ on the edge of the retina.
I had been complaining about headaches which Mum put down to possible ‘eye strain’ resulting from my studies, so she insisted I consult an optician. She had experienced problems with one eye which became so badly ulcerated she was due to have an operation which would involve cauterisation of an ulcer resulting in almost certain loss of sight in that eye. In the event, she treated the eye by bathing it three or four times daily with a weak solution of what I think was boric acid. Much to the amazement of her consultant the ulcer healed. She must have prayed about this and attributed the healing to the Lord’s intervention. In my case, the optician was so alarmed by what he discovered that he recommended I see a particular consultant who was considered one of the country’s leading eye specialists.
The National Health Service was in its infancy – it was started on the 5th. July 1948 – so mum decided that I should ‘go private’. The result of the first examination of my eye proved so intriguing to the specialist that he immediately took me on, at no cost, as a non-intrusive research project and, I understand, wrote several papers for submission to various professional journals as a result. Sometime later I was paid to attend Birmingham Eye Hospital submitting myself to examination by ophthalmic students. I still have the ‘mole’, even though I have received many prayers for its removal, and a colour photograph to prove its presence was taken some years later.
The ‘Closed Shop’ system was very much in operation in my workplace during and after my apprenticeship. Apprentices were exempt from joining a Trade Union but upon completion of their training they were expected, like everyone else, to join. I strongly opposed this, again as a Christian, and declared my total opposition some six weeks before my twenty-first birthday which would coincide with the completion of my apprenticeship. Immediately, union forces were mobilised, I would not give way and the management seemed determined not to do so either, so for the next six weeks I spent each working day in solitary confinement. My ‘Prison’ was a small, dark, dirty, depressing, machinery storeroom. I say potentially depressing, and so it could have been, but I can honestly say that daily I experienced the presence of the Lord and joy in the Holy Spirit. I mention the Holy Spirit but in reality, I did not know much about Him as I had never been taught or discipled well, indoctrinated maybe, but not discipled. Despite this lack of apparent knowledge, I did experience brief moments of ecstatic joy praising God in my mother tongue and singing in ‘tongues’. I found this quite strange since such phenomena were well outside any Christian experience of my fellow believers, at least to my knowledge, and I think would have been frowned upon, even considered doctrinally suspect if known.
Some three weeks into my incarceration I was taken to company headquarters and ‘interrogated’ by a group of board members. I must have convinced them as to the genuineness of the stance I was taking, so much so that they decided to move me secretly to a different town some thirty miles away where union membership was not mandatory. However, looking back, I feel sure that the decision taken by the board was quite possibly motivated by some political agenda of their own rather than in consideration of my welfare. I was not made aware of their decision until the day before my twenty-first birthday when I was informed that a car would pick me up from my home early the following morning and whisk me away – all a bit cloak and dagger stuff!
At the journeys end I was ushered into the manager’s office, welcomed quite cordially, and then given the rest of the day off to find lodgings. My first potential accommodation was with a lady who had several lodgers but as it happened no available beds unless I was willing to share one with a night shift worker. He would have the bed during the day and I at night! Fortunately, my potential boarding house hostess had a friend, an elderly widow, who lived four doors away and just happened to be visiting at the time and overheard the conversation. Long story short, she considered the possible arrangement unsatisfactory and offered me a room as her sole lodger. This suggestion seemed good to me, so I gratefully accepted, moved in, and was generally treated as if I were her ‘grandson’. The Lord is good – all the time!
Although I was free to work at my new location I did so completely on my own, presumably as no one would work with me. I did have a few interesting jobs working at a local RAF station. I remember seeing Vulcan bombers taking off immediately above my head. The noise was excruciating, and I was convinced I should not have been working where I was when aircraft were operational. I was also given another job working directly above exposed live, high voltage, electrical distribution equipment without any protection. I made no complaints, just got on with the job which today would be regarded as a serious breach of Health and Safety regulations. I am still seriously opposed to many actions taken by trade unions which I consider to be politically motivated rather than for the good of the individual worker. However, I do recognise that much good has come through the movement about working conditions and worker rights, so once again I ask myself, would I make a similar decision today? I will leave that question open.
I also attended the local brethren assembly, enjoyed earning a man’s wage and cycled home every other week. My increase in wages enabled me to buy things that I had never possessed before, such as smart clothes. I eventually bought three bespoke suits each suitable for a different occasion, a tailor-made overcoat and the usual accessories. I wore stiff collars and a bowler hat; my appearance was very important. Fortunately, this phase in my life did not last long as I slowly, very slowly, realised that my true identity lay in who I was in Christ, rather than in outward appearance. I still like to look smart for special occasions, but I think this is more out of respect for the person or persons the occasion is celebrating.
I took my first driving test there too. The vehicle, a van, I was using belonged to a local baker, a friend and a member of the Brethren. I would enjoy helping at the bakery occasionally and sometimes overnight at weekends. My test was an early morning one with the van fully loaded with freshly baked and steaming hot bread. I remember my examiner asking if the load was safe and being assured that it was, he allowed the test to proceed. All went well until the ’emergency stop’ when hot loaves almost buried the two of us, result; failure!
I had learned to drive with my father while I was still at school. Dad worked at a distribution centre for a local brewery. Sometimes he would work Saturday’s bottling beer and I would love helping him and occasionally persuade him to give me the keys to a flat-bed truck so that I could drive it around the yard using empty barrels as obstacles. If he had to make an emergency call to a public house, I would go with him and on the return journey pester him so much that I got a bit of driving on the open road. These were the only driving ‘lessons’ I had.
Christmas time was a very busy time, so I got a lot of bottling, corking and labelling experience, all without payment, but since I was working with machinery, that was all that mattered. On one occasion I met the general manager, remarked to Dad about the rather fancy waistcoat he was wearing to which Dad replied that he only wore it at Christmas time and only then if he knew there were to be increases all round in wages. I also wondered why Dad doffed his cap whenever they met. This I was told was a sign of respect to a superior. I could not quite understand this and vowed that I would never do such a thing regardless of who the person was.