Those Left Behind

I'm sat here watching land girls, from my favourite era. I have always thought that I was born at the wrong time, that I was born 80 years too late. I'm so fascinated by the friendships and bonds that were formed, as well as the fashions and styles, the way people coped with having to sit in a garden all night long, waiting to find their fate that night, with very little sleep. But I never really think about the pain, both mentally and physically that everybody went through. Children in the middle of the action, some evacuated, others kept at home. Suddenly sweets and brand new toys are rationed and hard to come by, their childhood ruined by bombs and destruction, never to be the same again. They witness the same same horrors as everybody else in their neighbourhood, only for them it was ten times scarier. They knew nothing about the things the Nazis were capable of, nothing of what had happened in the past. They had no understanding of suffering or the heartache of wondering if loved ones are still alive. They shouldn't have to deal with pain, death and suffering; they're only children!

When people think about war, they often just think about bombs, soldiers and fighting. They don't think about the people left behind. Women having to spend hours queuing only to find that there is only a few scraps or even nothing at all. To then have to go home and try to cook a desent meal with next to no ingredients for so many people; To keep homes warm and clean; To carry on as normal. But it's not normal, they still have to endure having their husbands, friends being taken off to war, having to keep a smile for them to remember home. To keep writing, even when there is no reply. To keep their families together and keep morale strong, even when their hearts are breaking, the lonliness taking over. To lose so much sleep, though bombing raids and worrying about family and friends.
The men, having to leave home, everyday life, wondering when or even if they would be coming home again. Waving goodbye on a station platform, not even knowing the destination or the return date. To keep that picture of her face in his mind, to keep him going, sometimes being the last face in the last breath. To leave pregnant wives, sometimes not evening knowing, to come home years later to a child that they have never seen. Children not knowing who this man called daddy is. The children that cling to their mothers at the sight of this frightful man. The pain and sadness written all over the man's face. Other men coming home, but not knowing where home is or with whom. No faces to recognise, welcome home just called out by strangers. Men that can't remember a life before war, as if war has been there all their life.
This is the real story of war