The Separation

  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?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Is there anything you want to add to what you have written in your statement?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There is.’

  ‘Is it going to be relevant, Mr Sawyer?’ said the chairman of the tribunal, a man I knew to be Patrick Matheson, the owner of a large insurance brokerage in Manchester.

  ‘I believe so, sir,’ Sawyer replied, facing the bench squarely.

  ‘All right, but keep it brief. We’ve a lot to get through this morning.’

  Sawyer glanced at the public gallery where I was sitting to take my notes, together with three other members of the general public, then at the press bench, where a reporter from the local newspaper was paying close attention to everything that happened.

  ‘As this is for the public record, sir,’ Sawyer said, ‘I will need to go over some of the material you have read in my statement, so that the rest of what I have to say will make sense to other people.’

  ‘Very well, but be quick.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Sawyer shifted position, trying to ease his muscular legs within the narrow confines of where he had been made to stand. ‘I have been a pacifist since 1936, when I travelled to Germany on behalf of my country and competed in the Olympic Games. Before then, I was too young to take much notice of world affairs, having been at school, then at university—’

  ‘Which university was that, Mr Sawyer?’ Mrs Agnes Kilcannon asked.

  ‘Brasenose College, Oxford, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you. Carry on.’

  ‘While I was staying in Berlin I came into contact with Chancellor Hitler and other members of the Nazi ruling party. I also saw at first hand the effects of their ruthless control over the country. My father was a conscientious objector during the last war, and what I saw made me remember what he always said, that the Treaty of Versailles was merely stoking the fires of future troubles. I saw much that alarmed me. Germany was controlled by the police and army, also by groups of armed militia who did not seem answerable to the authorities. Newspapers had been closed. Certain minority groups, like the Jews, were unable to work and were being constantly harassed by officials. Many shops owned by Jews had been burned. My friends in Berlin, with whom I was staying, were formerly a well-placed family, the man a doctor, his wife a translator, but because of the Nazis they were virtually unable to work. There were extensive laws which affected their most basic rights and freedoms. As well as that, I was shown convincing evidence that the Nazis were secretly expanding their army and had created a modern air force, in breach of the Treaty.’

  ‘If I may say so, Mr Sawyer, it is for reasons like these that most young men have taken up arms to fight Hitler.’

  ‘I know, sir, but I’m trying to show you that I’m aware of the danger Germany presents.’ Sawyer paused to look down at his own copy of his statement, which he was holding. I could see the page trembling. He cleared his throat and went on, referring to the statement but speaking from the heart. ‘I am personally convinced that war is wrong, no matter how good the cause. I am also convinced that although a war can be fought for what is believed to be an honourable reason, such as with the intention of forming a peaceful society, the war itself, by causing so much death and destruction, defeats its own object. Human suffering, pain, misery, separation and bereavement are inevitable when wars are fought. Violence, when opposed by other violence, creates a set of circumstances in which more violence will inevitably follow. Revenge, retribution and reprisal become predominant in people’s minds. They seek to hurt others because they themselves have been hurt. I know that views like mine are unpopular in wartime, sir, but they are sincerely held and openly expressed. I am applying for complete exemption under the Act and request you to register me unconditionally as a conscientious objector.’

  After a short silence the chairman said, ‘Thank you, Mr Sawyer.’

  The three tribunal members briefly consulted in whispers. The only woman on the bench, Mrs Kilcannon – later to be Lady Kilcannon but at that time the deputy chairwoman of Macclesfield Town Council – spoke up.

  ‘Do you have any evidence to show us that you have not trumped up your beliefs in the last few weeks, merely to avoid military service?’

  Strictly speaking, Sawyer was not obliged to answer such a question, but he faced her steadfastly.

  ‘I do wish to avoid military service, but I have been working actively for peace since 1936. As soon as I returned from Germany I set up home with my wife and took a job as an adviser working with homeless refugee families in Manchester. I joined the Peace Pledge Union and committed myself to housing and prison reform. I began to work more closely with Canon Sheppard of the PPU and was appointed a national organizer. I was on the paid staff until the outbreak of war. I am still an unpaid member of the PPU National Council.’

  ‘Do you have another job?’

  ‘I have been working as a trainee printer, but I am actively seeking a more useful occupation that would be in tune with my beliefs.’

  ‘Do you have any religious faith?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Sawyer looked directly at the Reverend Michael Hutchinson, the third member of the tribunal, who had fired the question at him. Again, such a question was not normally admissible, and I noticed the clerk of the tribunal turn to glance warningly up at the bench. Sawyer did not flinch, though. ‘I am an agnostic pacifist, my objection to the war being based on moral or ethical grounds, not religious ones.’

  ‘I see. So how would you distinguish between moral and religious grounds?’

  ‘I do not believe in God, sir.’

  ‘You are an atheist?’

  ‘No, I’m an agnostic. I’m full of doubts.’

  ‘Yet you have written in the preamble to your statement that you are a Quaker.’

  ‘No, sir. With respect, I say there that I am attracted to the moral framework of Quakerism and share many of its ideals. I have worked on several projects with the Society of Friends. However, theirs is a system of belief and mine is a system of doubt. In your terms I remain Godless.’

  Revd Hutchinson noted something on his pad of paper and indicated to the chairman with a tilt of his pencil that he had no more questions.

  ‘All right, Mr Sawyer,’ said Patrick Matheson. ‘I should like to ask you a few questions about practical matters, so we can find out the extent of your objections. As you know, we are here to decide the level of registration for which we think you are suitable. This can be subject to various conditions, or it can be unconditional. At the same time, we might decide that you should not be registered at all. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Let me ask you first, is there any kind of war to which you do not object?’

  ‘No, sir. I object to all wars.’

  ‘Can you say why?’

  ‘Because a country at war is pursuing its aims by means of violence. That must be wrong, no matter what.’

  ‘Even if its aims are to resist the violent aggression of a dictator like Hitler?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then do you propose that this country should stand idly by and let Hitler do whatever he wants?’

  ‘I don’t know what the answer is to that. I can only speak for myself.’

  ‘All right, then let me ask you this. Is there any part of the present war effort in which you might be willing to take part? Serving in the RAMC, for instance?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So you would not help a wounded man?’

  ‘Not if I were made to serve in the Royal Army Medical Corps.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because the Corps is part of the army. The people who serve in it are subject to military discipline and
are bound to obey orders. The main purpose of the army is to fight the war, which I cannot accept.’

  ‘But what would you do if you came across an injured man in the ordinary course of your life?’

  ‘I would naturally do whatever I could to help him.’

  ‘Do you oppose the activities of the Nazis?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Utterly.’

  ‘Then why will you not fight to defeat them?’

  ‘Because I believe that the system of Nazism can only be dismantled by the German people themselves.’

  ‘And if the Nazis were to invade Britain, bringing their activities with them, would you still see it as a matter for the German people alone?’

  For the first time since the interrogation began, Sawyer was lost for words. I saw him swallow hard and his hands were fretting with the piece of paper he still held. Then he said, ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Surely you must have thought about the possibility?’

  ‘Many times, sir. The fear of it haunts me every day. But the truth is that I don’t know what the answer is to your question. I told you I am full of doubts.’

  Mrs Kilcannon suddenly said, ‘If there was an air raid going on, would you use a public shelter to protect yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Then would you be prepared to take on ARP duties?’

  ‘What’s the connection, ma’am?’

  ‘If we were to register you as a conscientious objector, on condition that you worked for Air Raid Precautions, helping other people to take shelter during air raids, would you accept that?’

  Again, Sawyer appeared unable to answer. He continued to stare rigidly at his three interrogators, but I could see no clue in his expression as to what he might be thinking.

  ‘I’m not a coward, ma’am,’ he said finally. ‘I do not mind exposing myself to danger. I understand that if air raids begin, the ARP are likely to be in great peril. That would not bother me unduly. But if I felt that the ARP work was helping towards the war effort I should not be able to undertake it.’

  ‘So your answer is no.’

  ‘The answer is again that I don’t know.’

  ‘There are a lot of things you don’t know. Could it be that you are wrong in your opposition to the war effort?’

  ‘I am here because I have a conscience, ma’am, not because I have thought things out according to a plan.’

  Mrs Kilcannon appeared to approve of his answer, because I saw her make what seemed to be a tick mark on the paper in front of her.

  Patrick Matheson returned to the questioning.

  ‘Sawyer, suppose we gave you what you want, an unconditional registration, what would you do with it?’

  ‘Do I have to commit myself, sir? I’ve been trying to find a job—’

  ‘Just a general answer.’

  ‘I’d like to do humanitarian work.’

  ‘Do you have special expertise in that?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Or any qualifications?’

  ‘No, sir. I left Oxford before I completed my degree.’ Mr Matheson continued to stare bleakly at him, so Sawyer went on, ‘I thought I might look for work in a hospital or a school, or maybe on a farm. I have never been without a job before. I’m unemployed because the printing company where I was working took on war work, so I felt I should leave.’

  For a moment I saw Mr Matheson looking across the well of the courtroom at me.

  He said, ‘Have you ever thought of working for the Red Cross, Sawyer?’

  ‘Well, not so far—’

  Of course, it was not long after the tribunal hearing that J. L. Sawyer became a Red Cross official, after a dangerous spell as a paid employee of the Society. On the day I am describing there was nothing I could do to intervene on his behalf, as my presence in court was merely that of an observer, but soon afterwards I did mention this remarkable young man to our branch in Manchester, whence the first approach to him was made.

  That hearing in Macclesfield ended satisfactorily as far as Sawyer was concerned. Against my own expectations, the tribunal awarded Sawyer unconditional registration, news he greeted with an impassive nod.

  I continued to observe Local Tribunals throughout the remainder of 1940, but for the British Red Cross that year was a busy and stressful one …

  2

  From the holograph diary of J. L. Sawyer (Collection Britannique, Le Musée de Paix, Genève; www.museepaix.ch/croix-rouge/sawyer)

  April 10, 1940

  Yesterday, Hitler sent his armies into Denmark and Norway. I’m convinced the warmonger Churchill was ultimately behind it. Less than a week has passed since the Prime Minister put him in charge of the British war effort, as Churchill immediately claimed for himself. He made no secret of the fact that he intended to mine the Norwegian fjords. Neutral shipping, according to Churchill, was using the fjords for the delivery to Germany of iron ore. Neutral shipping, according to common sense, was also using the fjords for the delivery to Germany of medical supplies, food, clothes, essential fuel. Germany is as dependent on such things as any other country. No wonder the Germans have gone in to take control of the sea lanes. Churchill would do the same if the situation was reversed.

  I have been trying to put the vegetable patch into shape. The one thing that seems clear is that Britain will run out of food as soon as the war worsens and the U-boat blockade begins to be effective. I worked outside all afternoon with B until it started to rain, but the soil up here on the hillside is shallow and full of stones. I can’t see how anything will grow, unless it’s grass or moss. Mrs Gratton and her peculiar middle-aged son Harry live in a house along the lane from us and they seem to grow vegetables pretty well. If I see Harry I’ll ask him what I’m doing wrong.

  Last night I had another of my dreams about my brother, Jack. I dreamt that he came to visit B and me at the house, that while he was there I walked away on my own and when I returned he had gone again. I often wish that Jack and I could settle our differences, as I miss his companionship. I know the arguments would only start up again, though. I don’t judge him – why should he judge me?

  Tomorrow: more job interviews. One is for a porter’s job at a hospital in Buxton, which I think I can get. It has not been so easy finding jobs. Britain has gone over to a total war economy. All businesses, large or small, are making guns, shells, planes, engines, uniforms, boots, or any of a million smaller components or parts. There seems to be no part of British life that is not touched by war.

  April 13, 1940

  I belatedly discovered that the hospital in Buxton has set aside two wards for injured servicemen, so I had to turn down the porter job. B was furious with me when she found out. I found it so difficult to explain, even to myself. I sympathize with her sometimes.

  April 19, 1940

  Against my better judgment I wrote a letter today to the Foreign Office, asking them if they can help trace B’s parents. She believes that they must have arrived safely in Switzerland as planned, but they have been unable to let her know because of the war. I suspect the reality is much darker than that and I worry how B will react if she hears the worst. I have seen stories in the newspapers of Jewish refugees on their way to Switzerland, only to be intercepted by the SS or to be refused entry by the Swiss border guards. Of course I have never let B see these stories.

  Her parents made their first attempt to escape at the beginning of 1937, but something went wrong and they returned to Berlin. Because they had many good friends in Berlin they were able to stick it out until things took a turn for the worse last year. They made a second attempt to flee to Switzerland, but nothing has been heard of them since.

  I am concerned that writing to the British government will draw attention to B’s origins. There is such an intense anti-German mood in the country that it amounts to hysteria. Already young men of German birth who live in Britain – including many who escaped here because of the Nazis – have been rounded up and interned somewhere: out of temptation’s way
, as someone nastily put it. Now the politicians, and some elements of the press, are talking about what to do with the rest of the German nationals: older men, but also the women and children.

  April 29, 1940

  When I came in this evening, wet through from the drizzling rain, after the long bicycle ride up the hill from Macclesfield, B showed me something that had been pushed through the letterbox while she was out at the village shop. It was a large brown envelope with my name written on the front in childish capitals. Inside was a white feather.

  B had opened the envelope. She said she burst into tears when she realized what was in there.

  My father warned me that something like this was likely to happen, but what really troubles me is that it must have come from someone in the village, someone we know, perhaps even a neighbour. Few people outside the immediate vicinity of the village know anything about me. I have been trying not to dwell on the mystery of the identity of the sender, but I can’t help it. It is the first event of the war which has made me angry, made me want to do something about it.

  I went out into what we hope one day will be our vegetable garden. I kicked at some stones, felt violence rising in me like a mad drug. I was ashamed of myself afterwards.

  When it was dark I walked down the lane to the telephone box outside the shop and tried to speak to Jack at the phone number Dad had told me was the RAF station’s. The man who answered would not say where Jack was. I could imagine what that might mean.

  Afterwards, walking back along the dark lane, the drizzle settling on my hair and shoulders, I did wonder if it might have been Jack himself who had sent the feather.

  Now, while I am writing in my notebook, I feel my hatred of war rising all over again. This time the anger is against the effect war has on men’s thoughts. The effect it has on my thoughts.

  May 3, 1940

  I have a new job and that has been my main concern for the last few days. For all that time the news from the war has been almost too horrible to bear. Every night on the wireless it seems there is more bad news. There have been losses on both sides, huge losses. Ships have been sunk, aircraft have been lost, men have been killed and wounded, civilians have been uprooted from their homes. The British troops are giving up in Norway at last. It is not their fault. The blame lies with that menace Churchill, the man who was responsible for the disaster in the Dardanelles in the last war. History will go on repeating itself so long as warmongers lead us.