When Dad said that he happened to be in London on leave the day the Germans surrendered, I could only imagine the chaos. The city erupted in joy. People, young and old, dancing in the streets. Local girls kissing soldiers they’d never seen before and would never see again. Long kisses. Deep kisses.
For Londoners who had endured the barrage of bombings since the blitz, who had lived through terror raids, had lost loved ones in the war, as had the Americans who had arrived at the final hour to help, the relief from not having to wait for the last shoe to drop, from not having to wait for the ill-fated letter to arrive, for not having to wait to see if any men of childbearing years would be left, must have been overwhelming. For bomber boys like my father, pilot Bill Dewey, who had lived through hell in the heavens and had arrived on this day closer to or farther from a sense of God, or belief that there was sense in the world at all, the relief had to be beyond what they could handle. It meant returning home, unless they were reassigned to the Pacific Theater—there was that, after all, for Japan had yet to reach the same turning point as Germany, and Italy before that. It meant returning home--to what? To whom?
Bombardier George Collar in Stalag Luft I must have heard the news by this time. He just wanted to go home to Jackson, Michigan and visit Robert’s Bar to see the regulars. It was comforting, thinking of things just being usual. Yet when he would return, he wouldn’t recognize a soul. They were all gone, scattered to the winds, as he had been during the Kassel Mission battle.
For Bill Dewey, it meant putting the nightmare behind him, returning to normality, such as it would be.
The next day, VE Day, as he stood on the steps of St. Paul’s and watched the victory parade go by, did he revel in the moment? Did he break down his moral standards and have a toast that day? Did he read his lesson sermon that morning giving thanks to God? Did he write his parents from London about his joy, their joy as a family? Did he slap others on the back, run into guys from the base also on leave, because, after all, there had been no missions since the ones he himself briefed weeks ago as group assistant operations officer. Only a skeleton crew was needed on base anyway. Everyone had known it was the end.
Yet this was it now. Officially the end. It was over, once and for all, at least for the Londoners. The Air Force still had to finish off the Japs. But they would.
At least, they hoped so. Things were more harsh in Japan. It was a different ball of wax over there. For one thing, the planes were different. Liberator pilots finished with their first furlough were being trained to fly B-29s. That was just one thing that was different.
Yet here he was, on the steps watching this parade march--from Buckingham Palace, was it?-- toward him as he stood on the steps of St. Paul’s, drum corps thrumming, bag pipes whining, soldiers marching, shouting, yelling, none of them looking that sharp, yet so happy. Here was a car full of generals surrounded by soldiers running up, popping corks, champagne flowing, girls running into the street, kids weaving through the crowds waving small British and American flags on sticks. The streets were packed, and Bill watched it all from slightly above.
What must it have been like? I needed to be there, knew it long ago, and today, September 20, 2024, I got the chance, thanks to friend Britishers who took a double decker tour bus with me to a stop near St. Paul’s. Then I walked ahead, my phone camera recording as I approached the cathedral, imagining the music, the shouts, the crowd cheering, hardly making my way to the steps, out of the crowd.
Not today, of course. Yes, there were people there, pedestrians. Everywhere in London I’d seen pedestrians, mainly, my hosts told me, because the government now discourages auto transport into the city. High parking rates and bad traffic backups make it more feasible to park the car away from downtown and take the “Tube” in. So that’s what we did.
But back then, perhaps he had stayed at a hotel or the Red Cross Club, where officers often stayed. Perhaps he had heard that a parade was scheduled for this hour, perhaps not. But he and his friend, whoever his companion was—always another Air Force officer—had found their way out of the crush onto the steps to be able to witness this event. That much I knew.
VE Day in London on the steps of St. Pauls’ Cathedral, where so many had pled with God to save their lives, or their son’s or fiance’s or husband’s or uncle’s or father’s lives. This is where they came to pray and now, this is where they witnessed victory.
My throat began to ache. My eyes began to fill. Emotion hit hard, as it must have hit him. I could only imagine how this must have felt back then, if it was hitting me like this now. I imagine his eyes welled, too. He would go home now, see his folks again. Twenty-two. He was only twenty-two. Emotion moved him. Love hit him. He felt deeply the things that mattered to him. He was that kind of guy, that kind of man, to his dying day 17 years ago
Here’s to you, Dad, and to all those like you who celebrated that day, who had fought for ideals, for truth, justice and honor. Whether the Cause was real or not, they thought it was, and that, for them and for me, made it real, after all.
Here’s to all of you. What you must have gone through, I cannot fathom. But I thank you, here and now on this last day of Summer 2024.
