D-day: 75th Anniversary

Lord Judd Excerpts

Tuesday 4th June 2019 Lords Chamber

[Lord Judd (Lab)]

My Lords, yesterday, I was at the celebration of the life and contribution to humanity of Kofi Annan. Tomorrow, as a freeman of Portsmouth, I will be at the D-day celebration. In my view, there is a strong connection. Within two years of D-day, the great UN international conference at which the first Secretary-General was appointed was taking place across the road in Central Hall.

I was a boy during the war, growing up in south London on the edge of the North Downs. I vividly recall the outbreak of war, the unfolding saga of Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain, which could be seen from our back garden, and the Blitz; we could clearly see St Paul’s, majestically standing there amidst the smoke and flames of burning London, from our attic. I was at our local village school, barely two miles from Croydon Airport, which, as a fighter base, was constantly under attack. I can still hear the wailing sirens and the anxiously awaited all-clear in my mind. When the sirens sounded, our teachers would quickly lead us into the deep shelters. They were wonderful; they led us in singing and reciting times tables and generally distracted us from the noise of the bombardment above. Through all this, the Union Jack flew undaunted in our playground. The all-clear would come and, as I recall, we would run home for some lunch with our teachers’ stern words in our ears, saying that if another siren sounded on the way home, however short the distance, we had to go into the nearest shelter.

Around all this was the constant threat of invasion. There, in the south of England, it was a matter not of if there would be an invasion but of when the invasion would come. On our local golf course and green spaces around us, there were concrete blocks to hinder gliders. We were on the edge of the Downs and my mother—out of character, in many ways—kept an axe at the foot of the steps down to the back door. She said, “I’ll have a go if any German appears”. We all laughed after the war and found it funny that she never thought a German would have the audacity to come to the front door.

Late every night, the BBC used to play the national anthems of every occupied country in Europe. It really meant something to us all. My father had fought with the Italians in the First World War, and I remember the real joy in our family when the Italians broke with the Germans and changed sides.

Then came 1943. I remember the defiant spirit: “V for Victory” signs up everywhere. There was talk everywhere about when and where the second front would open. As we cycled around the North Downs in early 1944, we became aware of the tremendous presence—even on the North Downs—of the allied and British troops. In every copse and wood, under every gathering of trees, vehicles and equipment would be parked. The soldiers were very friendly to us and became heroes in our estimation. I remember that when the battle really started we were all terribly concerned about how many would be killed, lost or taken prisoner.

Our local mental hospital had been transformed into a military hospital and was being prepared to receive severely wounded casualties straight from the front—driven up from their point of entry in Sussex or Hampshire in converted Green Line coaches, I recall, for the attention they needed. The community used to gather outside the hospital and cheer as the coaches arrived. I can still see the nurses at the windows of the coaches waving to us.

The anticipation was intense. The relief on D-day, obviously tinged with real anxiety, was terrific. I believe those brave and courageous young men—assembling over that period and then gathered, encamped, on the beaches of Sussex and Hampshire—should be central to all our considerations in this debate and the affairs of tomorrow. Imagine their feelings, their emotions: excitement, yes, but also obviously fear, knowing that within hours thousands of them would be dead, lost or maimed. That is real courage, rooted in reality. Indeed, some of their officers—in the paratroopers, for example—had told them they had only a 50% chance of survival. We should think of them and what we owe them above all tomorrow, whatever the distractions.

There are so many other lessons, but I will mention just two. One, of course, is the need for strong, firm, courageous leadership. The other is that we always achieve more when we have a clear objective and are co-operating together selflessly in the interests of the community as a whole. That lesson came home to me clearly as a youngster and, I must admit, has done a great deal to shape my political career.

The other point that came home to me was the indispensability of international co-operation. We have heard in various speeches—there have been some very good speeches in this debate—about all the countries represented, not least the Free French but also the Poles and the rest. International co-operation was so essential. Then, after the war, we decided that we never wanted it to happen again and that we must have the institutions to make it impossible. I have never understood why we in Britain have not overwhelmingly seen the argument that, while the European Union may have had all sorts of economic and other manifestations, it was about building peace, stability and security in Europe because we did not want these things to happen. I believe it is a tragedy that we have turned our backs on that when we remember those young men assembling on the south coast.