The last time I was in Kingston at my parents’ for Sunday lunch, the photos came out. One of them was of my mother’s cousin George, looking handsome in his Second World War airman’s uniform. “Everyone loved George,” said my mum, as she always does on such occasions. “He was the nicest of my cousins. He was the apple of the family’s eye. He was so handsome. He looked like a young John Wayne.” George was unfortunate to be born when he was. He was 16 when the war started, and at the age of 18 joined the Royal Air Force. He became a navigator and trained on one of the fighter-bomber Mosquito aircrafts that were developed late in the war. On his first operational mission, over South West France, he was shot down, and killed. The family was devastated. It was the first tragedy of my mother’s life. When I rang her to check my facts for this column, she had to break off the conversation to control her tears.
Virtually every family suffered such a tragedy in the Second World War: local writer David Arnold was moved by a death in his wife’s family (a month earlier than that of cousin George, in Anzio) to write the book 60 Years On, which we have taken our cover image from, and is reviewed on page 26. The book is full of personal recollections of the war, many from local people. Though of a pacifist bent at Viva Lewes, we realise The Second World War to have been a necessary one from Britain’s point of view, an act of self-defence, and unlike so many wars past and present, not an exercise in empire-building, or excessive ideology, or filling the state coffers. And we raise a glass to George, and so many forever-young men like him, who might have still been alive today but for their sacrifice. Enjoy the week.